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The Black Cauldron

Page 27

by William Heinesen


  He suddenly recognised her. Of course, it was the waitress from Hansen’s Hotel.

  “Do you think I could have a drop of water?” he asked.

  She handed him some green liquid in a cup without a handle. He emptied it avidly. It was not water. It was liqueur.

  “Thank you, thank you so much,” he said warmly.

  She gave him a severe look. “You oughtn’t to have had it at all, really. The way you’ve been carrying on. Is there no shame in you? To come home dead drunk and start bawling like a hooligan. Luckily I was at home and got you out of the way. Yes, you’ve got me to thank for not ending in the police station. Now you’d better pull yourself together. Gutless creature that you are.”

  Martha was very angry. Her hand was trembling as she replenished the cup from a conical bottle.

  “You’d better have a drop more so you don’t go completely to pot when you leave, you little bastard. But then not a drop more. Here you are. And here are your socks and your shoes and your trousers. God knows what gutter you’ve been lying in, you filthy beast. You ought to have been in clink by now, my fine friend, that you should, but instead I’ve gone and cosseted you and dried your clothes. But it was purely and simply for Liva’s sake. Liva’s my friend. She’s a lovely person, noble and kind and beautiful. She didn’t even get mad when I told her what you’d said … about her new fiancé. She told me everything about you, so I was that bit wiser. She said ever so many nice things about you, far better than you deserve, I suspect.”

  Jens Ferdinand suddenly threw himself down on the mattress and curled up sobbing.

  “Now, pull yourself together, you cry-baby,” said Martha imperiously. “For you don’t expect me to dress you as well, do you? Stop that snivelling. Ugh, you’re really horrible… Good heavens, here he comes to take his own dead brother back home, and then he behaves in this way. First he says the most dreadful things about his poor sister-in-law … nothing but lies and nonsense. And then he buzzes off from the others and comes home dead drunk at three o’clock in the morning. If you were my brother-in-law, I’d … Right, get a move on. You’ve no time to waste.”

  Martha banged the trapdoor shut and, still grumbling and fuming, hurried down the stairs.

  Jens Ferdinand felt awake and cold; he could clearly remember the events of the previous day – to a certain point. The journey. The U-boat. Simon. His arrival. Hansen’s Hotel. Simon’s meeting with Liva. The despair that came over him. The visit to the canteen. The bottle. The air raid shelter. And then? A desperate walk in pouring rain out to the sanatorium. But he couldn’t remember how it ended. And then a crowd of singing drunks had dragged him down into a cellar with floors covered with sawdust and wood shavings, and there they had danced to some of the ancient ballads. And then somehow or other he had got back to the hotel and caused a stir and been hidden away up here in the little attic.

  And now you’ve got to get off again … back to the Cauldron. Back to that cesspit. And they’ll be slobbering and blethering over Johan’s grave … Pastor Fleisch … and, of course, Simon the baker. He could be forgiven if he signed off and left the others to get on with the whole thing themselves. Just at this moment the thought of going back seemed almost more than he could bear. It was simply impossible.

  Suddenly a scene from the previous night appeared in his memory and filled him with deep shame … : A nursing sister in a black dress and white collar … and then his own voice bawling out: “You’ve no right to keep the body hidden from me, you executioners… !”

  There was the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and a gentle knock on the door. The thought flashed through his mind: It’s Liva!

  Yes, it was Liva. She was dressed ready to leave. Drops of rain were shining like pearls in her clothes and hair.

  “Jens Ferdinand, my dear, we’ve got to leave in half an hour. Do you hear?”

  She stepped over to his bed and touched his hair, patted it gently. As though in fever, he grasped her hand and in a choking voice said: “Liva! I … I … thought you were very angry with me.”

  “God bless you,” she said soothingly. “I’ll willingly forgive you what you have said about Simon and me. I’m not at all angry with you. Let’s forget all that. Everything except the one thing necessary … hope, Jens Ferdinand … hope in Jesus Christ.”

  She withdrew her hand and in an exalted voice … a voice suddenly alien, the voice of a preacher, like that of Simon, she said: “He is the light of the world: he that followeth Him shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.”

  Jens Ferdinand got up quickly, stared at her and said hoarsely: “I don’t believe in you, Liva. I’m sorry, but I can’t stand your … double dealing. You’re a whore. Yes, I said a whore. That made you open your eyes. That’s something you didn’t expect to hear.”

  She stared at him, speechless. He couldn’t stand that look. He was already bitterly regretting what he had said, but now it was as though impossible to stop; he couldn’t control his fury, his sorrow, his hatred, his contempt. He heard himself hissing furiously: “You forgive me, you say. But I don’t forgive you. I’ll never forgive you your spiritual whoring, your spiritual incest. You’re no better to me than a tart. Understand?”

  “Jens Ferdinand,” he heard her plaintive voice. “Do pull yourself together. You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying. May Jesus Christ forgive you your words.”

  She suddenly burst into tears and turned away.

  Jens Ferdinand’s heart was bursting with compassion. “I love you, I love you,” – the words were bubbling inside him. But at the same time his voice sneered: “Jesus Christ! Yes, He can be used for many things. Even as a chaperon, obviously.”

  And as though summoning up his last strength, he screamed: “For God’s sake stop standing there blubbering. Go down to him, that sanctimonious whoring devil. Let him console you. Let him kiss you!”

  Suddenly she turned towards him, grasped his hand, crushed it between both hers and said, in a low, earnest voice: “Jens Ferdinand. You know you don’t mean what you say. You know perfectly well that for me there is no earthly love any more. There is only the love of God and Jesus Christ Our Lord.”

  He felt her breath against his forehead. And the lissom, touching scent of her face and hair. And suddenly he felt how ridiculous he was lying there in his damp underclothes under the waitress’s old blanket … like a naughty child that has got itself dirty and is exposed to the mercy of women … of motherly forgiveness and care. And full of contempt and disgust for himself he wriggled his hand free and turned to the wall with a scornful laugh: “Don’t touch me, Liva. Don’t filthy yourself on a malformed cur like me. Send me to Hell … that’s where you think I belong in any case.”

  And in dull horror he heard her whispering in a voice which was yet composed and warm: “You mustn’t be like that, do you hear? You mustn’t become callous. And you mustn’t think you can push me away. I’m not going to give you up like that. For I’m fond of you … I’m almost as fond of you as I was of your brother. I would so much like us to be able to walk together the last part of the road … to God. Do you hear? It’s only a short road, my dear, for the hour is nigh. So pull yourself together, man, and be yourself. Let me pray for you …”

  With a mixture of horror and something approaching sensual pleasure Jens Ferdinand felt that she had won over him. He could only give up before this voice which from the simplicity of its heart was praying for him, praying for grace and kindness and forgiveness for him. There was only her. There was only her in the whole world. Everything else was insignificant and unreal. Here was the meaning. Here throbbed the warm pulse of life, the maternal heart, the first thing and the last. He felt that something had been brought to perfection within him, that a longing had been satisfied, an urge had finally been effaced … as when a great river is swallowed by the ocean.

  Then began the journey home.

  It was cold, with blustery showers. Jens Ferdinand had found himself a
place in the stern, behind the wheelhouse; he sat staring apathetically out across the sea where momentary ridges of white were rising here and there among the blue-grey waves.

  “Aren’t you cold?” – It was Kristian the Beachman’s voice. “You look pale. Wouldn’t you rather come into the cabin? We’ve got the heater on.”

  “I’d rather stay here.”

  Kristian returned with an overcoat, an old, stiff oilskin coat smelling of whale oil. Jens Ferdinand pushed the coat and the helping hand away: “No, I don’t need it. I’m not cold.” But smiling stubbornly, Kristian spread the coat over his knees and stuffed its sleeves down behind his thighs so that it could not blow away.

  Liva was sitting leaning against the lee side of the poop, wrapped in her travelling rug. Four soldiers sat silently below the wheelhouse. One of them was wearing an officer’s insignia – a very thin man, almost shadowy thin. He took out a large pair of binoculars and scanned the sea. Liva was battling with sleep, sometimes losing herself entirely … it was a blissful feeling. But then she was awakened again by the movement of the boat and shivered with cold. Before them lay a dazzling rampart of sea and sunshine, gradually coming nearer … and just as she was again on the point of dozing off the boat glided into the torrent of sunshine; the light was reflected off the wet coffin on the cargo hatch with a brilliance that hurt her eyes; half asleep she heard a whispering voice singing: Death, where is thy sting? And for a moment she sensed a glow of ecstasy that was almost more than she could stand: Death … death is no more, it has been vanquished, trodden underfoot by the victorious Lord of Life. It went dark before her eyes; she felt that as a human being she was too frail to bear this mighty grace, this happiness transcending all understanding. Her lips moved in a sleepy smile.

  “She’s asleep now,” whispered Simon to Kristian. “She must be worn out, you know. She’s had a difficult time, poor thing.”

  “I think it would be better if she went down into the cabin,” said Kristian. “There’s a shower on the way, and there’s going to be a good deal of spray once we’re south of the point.”

  “Isn’t it terribly stuffy and overcrowded down there?”

  “No, there’s no one but Pastor Fleisch. So one bench’s free.” Kristian gave a broad smile. “Yes, the pastor’s been there since early this morning … he came to make sure of a bench to lie down on, he said. He’d taken some travel tablets and needed to lie down …”

  The two men carefully led the girl down into the cabin and wrapped the rug around her. It was pretty hot down there, and the two inner rings on the stove were glowing red.

  “Good morning,” Pastor Fleisch greeted them amiably from his bench. “Oh, it looks as though some poor creature’s seasick. Aye, seasickness is a miserable thing. I myself have … oh, but it’s Liva Berghammer. Yes, good Lord, yes, … I have heard … yes, it was a terrible blow … and so soon after her brother… ! Unfortunately, it was some time before I was told … for otherwise I would have been along to see her…”

  “Sshh,” said Simon. “She’s asleep.”

  “Oh, it’s you, Simonsen,” breathed the pastor. “Have you been to the capital as well?”

  Simon made no reply. He had taken out his New Testament and settled down to read by the sparse light seeping in through the opening in the poop.

  “Oh well, oh well,” sighed Pastor Fleisch. “It’ll be a good job when the journey’s over.”

  A heavy, icy cold shower struck the boat. Jens Ferdinand ducked his head down and plunged his hands into the sleeves of the coat. He heard Kristian’s voice: “You can’t stay here, you’ll be soaked, the sea’s getting up. Wouldn’t you rather come up to Napoleon in the wheelhouse?”

  “No, I’m all right here.”

  “Then get properly into that coat,” advised Kristian, and Jens Ferdinand complied.

  The shower passed. An enormous rush of wind and sun streaked across the empty ocean. Then it went dark again. White crests appeared here and there. The boat began to pitch. Jens Ferdinand got up with difficulty; he was trembling all over. Everything went black before his eyes, and in the blackness he saw great stars and sparks. He caught a glimpse of the back of Napoleon’s unsuspecting neck up in the wheelhouse …

  A shower of hailstones whipped across the deck. The boat pitched violently. Pastor Fleisch noted with amazement that his travel tablets actually worked. He allowed himself to be rocked up and down. It was almost pleasurable, and he had a tickling sensation all down his spine, just as he did when he was sitting in his little swing as a child.

  Simon the baker was reading his Bible.

  “If,” thought Pastor Fleisch. “If I were numbered among the arrogant clerics, for instance like Pastor Simmelhag, I would simply have shrugged my shoulders at these sectarians and lay preachers. Or perhaps let myself be provoked by them. But I’ve never been like that. Not that I deserve any praise for that. For it’s not something I’ve actually achieved by my own efforts. I’m a countryman. I’m not from a well-established degenerate clerical family. I don’t suffer from gastric catarrh or obsessions. I’m engaged in real life. I understand these islanders as well as I understand my own folk from Jutland. I can talk to them in their own terms, and I can take part in their everyday lives, and now and then I give them a helping hand insofar as I’m able. Instead of sitting in my closet cracking theological nuts. And, to be honest, I’m probably not bright enough for that in any case. But at least I have enough brains to know that Jesus was no friend of the scribes and Pharisees. Oh well, let’s not be bitter. But if it were Pastor Simmelhag lying here instead of me, and he saw the mad baker with his Bible … well.”

  Pastor Fleisch’s thoughts drifted back to the day when Ivar Berghammer was buried. That curious harangue from the baker. Yes, they were the words of an untrained, ignorant man. But what a memory he had. But then that was what Simmelhag would have called glossolalia. Or: the razor of the word in the hand of a drunken man. And yet some of the things he had said were true and weighty. It was a good thing sometimes to see things from the desperate angle, indeed it was. The Apocalypse was the word of God, too. And fundamentally the whole ceremony ended in peace and harmony, when they sang that hymn … “Now take we all our leave.”

  Pastor Fleisch folded his hands and quite quietly hummed the lovely hymn tune to himself. Simon’s glum, stern profile was outlined against the half light under the poop. Pastor Fleisch really felt a certain liking for this lay preacher, this baker, this raw human material who had been fired by the Word and felt himself to be a preacher, an apostle, a prophet. None of the Apostles was a baker, of course, but otherwise they were certainly ordinary men, fishers and artisans. Indeed, the Saviour Himself was the son of a carpenter.

  “Fundamentally,” said the pastor suddenly, having cleared his throat: “Yes, forgive me for disturbing you, Simonsen, but what was it I wanted to say: Fundamentally …. oh, this boat is rocking.”

  He felt himself being lifted up, and for a moment he hovered almost freely in the air, as though the law of gravity had been overcome. But seasick? No.

  The sound of a sigh and heavy breathing came from the other bench, where the young woman was lying. The baker quickly got up and went across to her. Seasick? No. She shook her head: “But it’s so hot in here.”

  “Yes, it really is hot,” the pastor confirmed, noting that he was sweating profusely. Not all that surprising, really, considering he was lying there in his coat and leather waistcoat and long rubber boots. Once more he was lifted up … hey-ho – almost right up to the ceiling. And then he was drawn down again … oh! But seasick? Not in the least. Miraculously.

  “Where’s Jens Ferdinand?” asked Liva.

  “In the stern. He’s not very well,” the baker told her.

  Pastor Fleisch started humming to himself again. He suddenly realised what he was doing, and stopped. Perhaps it was not quite the thing to be doing here on a boat filled with sadness and death. He uttered a long, demonstrative sigh. Aye, aye. He thought: Unf
ortunately that’s what we elder pastors are like, a bit hardened to sad events. When you’ve been engaged in it for a generation … indeed, indeed, you can hardly avoid being like that. When you hear of a death, you are first and foremost affected by it in a professional sense. You concentrate your thoughts on what you are going to say at the graveside, and you put personal feelings aside at first … you save up your reaction for the actual funeral, for the moment when you are in the midst of it all. Perhaps it’s not right, God help us, but that’s what it’s like, and there’s no point in trying to make it look better than it is.

  But now it would be quite fitting, as I’m lying here with nothing to do and without being seasick, to prepare the graveside sermon which in any case I’m going to have to preach for the poor chap lying dead up there on deck. A sorry fate. A strapping young man, a gifted sailor who defied danger and unlike certain other people I could name didn’t stay behind on dry land when sailing became really dangerous. And then he was shipwrecked. But he was saved as though by a miracle. Then only to be struck by another and perhaps worse fate. For our paths are fraught with danger.

  But then, what of the danger: Pastor Simmelhag had yesterday specifically declared that he could not understand how he – Fleisch – dared undertake this journey to the capital and back over a stretch of sea that was notoriously treacherous in more senses than one. Even if it was not really a long journey, it still took them through the danger zone, indeed right across the theatre of war. And to this his only reply had been: “Oh well” – he didn’t want to make a great fuss about it. This was the only reasonable reaction … he wasn’t one for attitudinising. It wasn’t in his nature really to be afraid. It was not for nothing that throughout a whole life he had built up a trust in Providence, a trust which had never ever been disappointed.

  Strictly speaking, this journey had not been necessary. He could have let his merchant friend Lillevig go himself and negotiate on the ship that was for sale. But despite his many other good qualities, Lillevig was a little unpredictable, easy to fill with enthusiasm and easy to persuade; that had always been his weak point, and that was why things had gone badly for him in the past. He would probably have let himself be persuaded to buy the Lord Nelson for 75,000 kroner, whereas Fleisch had made a few discreet enquiries and discovered the true situation. And said no thank you. And at the same time he had found some better cards to play. And he asked for a little while to think it over.

 

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