The Black Cauldron

by William Heinesen

  Maja simply burst into tears when she heard of Opperman’s plan.

  “And then people are so nasty to you,” she said, holding his hand tight.

  “What you mean nasty?” asked Opperman smiling.

  “No one’s nasty to Opperman,” her husband corrected her.

  “No,” agreed Opperman. “Almost everyone is so kind. But, Editor, perhaps you will write a little about it so it can be organised and the appeal be started, yes? You need not mention my name.”

  “You’ll not be able to avoid that, at least,” laughed the editor. “And why should you, in any case?”

  “My hat, Maja,” said Mr. Skælling to his wife when they were on their own again. “That’s what I call a gesture. And the touching thing about it is that he’s doing it to honour and sustain the memory of his wife. He must have been terribly fond of her, after all.”

  Maja nodded and dried her eyes.

  “There is simply no denying that that sort of thing comes from the bottom of the heart,” Mr. Skælling went on. “Where the Devil should it come from otherwise? Oh, sorry, that was an unfortunate way of putting it, but quite honestly, I’m just a little exhausted as well. He knows how to give, that Opperman. We must do something for him. He must be honoured. He’s the one who ought to get a knighthood, not Solomon Olsen, for what has Solomon ever done for the public good? He’s looked after his own interests, that’s what he’s done, and he’s a master at it. But I will certainly drop a hint to the Governor when the occasion arises.”

  The look in Mr. Skælling’s eyes became scornful, almost cruel, and in a tone of profound contempt he said: “And then what about our little cynical friend the doctor with all his malicious quibbles about religious clichés and worms being chopped to pieces. He suddenly seems strangely insignificant, doesn’t he, Maja?”

  Mr. Skælling fumbled for his cigar box and his hand was trembling as he lit a cigar. “My word, Opperman shall not only have the back page tomorrow, but the front page, too. It’s a pity we haven’t got a block with his photograph. Or his wife’s, eh? Or the house … that lovely old home of theirs, which now … By God, I think I’ll write that front page now straight away. At last there’s something pleasant to write about … something other than war and murder and shipwrecks and tragedies, but, the Devil take me, something great and cheerful. Almost like in the old days.”

  Mr. Skælling, the editor, took out his writing pad. He put down his cigar and, without thinking, whistled a bit of the Luxembourg Waltz.

  4

  Rather hesitantly, the weather had turned mild. Late, veiled sunrises gradually evolved into an indeterminate haze of smoke and evening twilight without any real daytime transition.

  Due to circumstances, Mrs. Lundegaard had closed her boarding house, and Myklebust and Thygesen were now homeless. Well, homeless and homeless … In reality they could perfectly well lodge at Marselius’s hostelry, The Welcome Hotel, but it was a confused, semi-military place. In that case the Gokstad Ship was better; there they found peace and quiet to play the guitar and live their lives undisturbed. And then they could go out for a short sail before the wind or drift about at will, or they could tie up their ship in some lonely bay along the shore of the fjord. And fry a piece of steak. What a splendid way of living. Beer never tastes better than with a good piece of steak, and snaps never tastes better than with a good steak and a beer. And never do steak, beer and snaps taste as good as when consumed on an overcast evening in a forgotten little inlet to the sound of lapping water.

  Occasionally they would go ashore and do their shopping, buying food, tobacco, blankets, jerseys, everything the heart could desire, and Myklebust had as much money as a basilisk has scales. The military canteen provided them with drink. As one of the allies, Myklebust was of course friends with the entire military establishment, including Captain Gilgud.

  The cabin was too cramped, but they managed to extend it and build in new cupboards and roomy bunks with spring mattresses. Nothing is more delightful than thus lying hidden and forgotten and sipping a dark brown scalding toddy, as spicy as tobacco juice, while the night rain patters on the deck like mice on the table when the cat’s away. Or when the wind is strong and the waves are splashing up like glass around the hull, an innocent, chaste sound that reminds one of the dawn of time.

  Sometimes it would suddenly turn as bright as day in the cabin; they would look at their watches then, swear gently and think it was the end of the world, but it would only be the beam from one of the army’s two searchlights, ha, ha. Occasionally, too, there would be the rumbling of guns in the depth of the night, but that was of no significance either; it was only to make sure that people didn’t forget they were being watched over, at no expense to them, by a considerable military potential and its expensive equipment.

  One night the air raid sirens sounded, but it was only a young lady who in a super-playful mood had fiddled with the switch. But another night they sounded again, and Myklebust, who was lying reading Rauschning’s “The Revolution of Nihilism” heard that the darkness was filled with the chaotic sound of engines and the rumbling of metal, the ploughshare of death. The locust swarm of destruction had finally come, then, the swarm that hungers only to kill and to suffer death itself. It had often been envisaged and even predicted that the Cauldron, excellent wartime harbour as it was, would be destroyed by fire. But the danger passed again. Early one morning, even before the sirens had time to crow, a single bomb was dropped into the harbour from a great height. It failed to explode. Thus it is that people grope their way forward through suffering and danger and sleep and food and disgust and hope until the great moment when …

  If, that is, it ever dawns. But hope maketh not ashamed.

  One day Myklebust received a letter, not one of those insignificant Red Cross letters formulated like a telegram, but a real, tangible letter. But he could see straight away that it was from his eldest son, who was a collaborator, and he only opened it to have the signature confirm this. Then he sat down with his face twisted in pain, put the letter and envelope on the hot stove and watched the paper turn first brown and then black and finally disappear in a sooty little flame.

  No bitter comments. He was a father, but first and foremost he was a patriot. The odd word from the long, well-printed letter had teased its way into his retinae as he was looking for the signature; now they germinated like evil seed in his mind: blood bonds … illness … fallen. Was that the clock that had fallen off the wall, or was it the collaborator brother who had fallen on the eastern front? Fallen … fallen … But the letter had been burned, and a good job, too. Patriots didn’t read letters from collaborators.

  That same day Myklebust was informed that Odd, his youngest son, was among the survivors from the minesweeper H.M.S. Hawthorne, that had been sunk by enemy action, but that he was lying wounded in hospital.

  The following day – a quite unique copper-red day – the two earnest, grey-haired men, without previous agreement, made an extra big purchase of food and clothes, seamen’s equipment, lifebelts, provisions for a long voyage.

  “It’s so as not to be bothering you all the time,” said Thygesen to Masa Hansen, to whose delighted sales assistant the now analine-red sun-rise-and-set sky had imparted an extra shade of red.

  “Hey, just look at this, Thyge,” said Myklebust as they left with their load. He pointed to Masa Hansen’s shop window.

  “Oh,” said Thygesen. “Heavens, has that ended up there after all?”

  They were looking sadly at poor Jens Ferdinand Hermansen’s roundabout. The cardboard ship was lying fully laden at the quayside, and jumping jacks were happily waving their arms about. But the proscenium had gone, and the inscription The Black Cauldron had been erased. It had been replaced with some rather clumsily written words:

  THE SHIP IS LADEN WITH:

  below which there was a movable panel in which Masa Hansen at any time could blazon the goods she wanted to advertise. Smart English leather seamen’s jackets with z
ip fasteners. And beneath it all: Remember that goods from Masa Hansen are not only the first, but the best.

  “Well, shall we tear ourselves away,” said Myklebust. “Or are you perhaps waiting to see the ship blow up?”

  “There was something about a button,” said Thygesen. “A button that he pressed.”

  “Yes, I remember that,” nodded Myklebust. “I’ve been looking for that button myself, but it’s not there. They must have amputated that part of the works.”

  On board the “Gok” there was now a remarkable amount of activity. No question of drinking that day. Everything had to be put in its right place. The cargo had to be stowed silently and efficiently, as though under the supervision of a mate. Sails and equipment checked. Telescope. Rifle. Rockets. And there was even a chart.

  Finally, after the task was successfully completed, they took a single innocent Vat 69, the colour of mahogany, almost black in the earth-brown afternoon light. A slight breeze was blowing. The barometer was rising.

  “On such an evening as this,” remarked Myklebust. “On such an evening as this, you know. Broad sails across the North Sea. No, I mean we could sail out to the mouth of the fjord and back. We’ll have a side wind in both directions.”

  “I really think you mean it, Mykle,” exclaimed Thygesen, betraying signs of hysterical fear. “As far as that! But what if we get stranded on an underwater rock?”

  His voice became ever weaker and thinner: “Or we might catch our death of cold.”

  “No, but we’re going to raise anchor now,” said Myklebust seriously. He got up with a prolonged sigh, a sigh betokening relief and calm decision.

  Soon afterwards the shield-lined ship was on its way out towards the mouth of the fjord. It was greeted with waves and shouts from the battery on the promontory: “Good-bye, Gok. Remember us to them over in Jamaica. Good luck.” And the two seafarers gave a melancholy wave back and avoided smiling or looking at each other.

  Out on the fjord there was a fair breeze. The Gok was on the alert and pricked its ears like a dog sensing a commotion. They passed a corvette on its way in, and more waves and shouts were exchanged.

  “What’s that they say?” asked Thygesen. “What’s been observed four miles from land, Mykle?”

  “A plaice,” said Myklebust. “A plaice. Four miles south east of the mouth of the fjord. Heavily camouflaged.”

  “Keep aport, sir,” came the shout. “The sunset might explode at any moment.”

  Myklebust, who was sitting at the rudder, bent deep and turned his face away so as to be on his own. Thygesen helped himself to a private Vat. He knew that Mykle could not tolerate the sight of young sailors. He was sitting and becoming sentimental.

  He must be entertained. That Saul!

  Thygesen let the drink take hold a little, then he took out his guitar and burst forth into a subdued and deeply felt song:

  There once lived a man demonic and grey,

  – diddledy-diddledy-dee –

  But harmless he was, so all did say,

  – diddledy-diddledy-dee –

  But sometimes his eyes would flash so bad,

  – Friends, believe my words –

  That people would say that he was mad.

  – Diddledy-diddledy-dee –

  “Oh, you’re wonderful,” said Myklebust looking away with a misty eye. “Let’s have some more. Have you made it up yourself?”

  “No, it’s taken from the collected works of Henrik Ibsen. Slightly adapted by Georg Brandes.” Thygesen continued:

  I’ve seen him myself but a single time,

  – diddledy-diddledy-dee –

  White-haired he was, with laugh sublime.

  – diddledy-diddledy-dee –

  Hear now, I’ll tell you all a tale,

  – Friends, believe my words –

  And if at times it seems too pale,

  – Then diddledy-diddledy-dee –

  One moonlight night with on-shore breeze,

  – diddledy-diddledy-dee –

  An English yacht the land did seize.

  – diddledy-diddledy-dee –

  Come help us, Terje, in our distress.

  – Friends, believe my words –

  Now help was nigh, I do profess.

  – diddledy-diddledy-dee –

  Terje leant ’gainst the towering mast,

  – diddledy-diddledy-dee –

  His eyes were shining all aghast,

  – diddledy-diddledy-dee –

  The wealthy lady was fair like spring,

  – Friends, believe my words –

  His fulsome praises she did sing.

  – diddledy-diddledy-dee –

  The waters shone, the wind did blow,

  – diddledy-diddledy-dee –

  And Terje stood there all aglow,

  – diddledy-diddledy-dee –

  White-haired he was, his laugh sublime,

  – Friends, believe my words –

  He seemed to stand outside of time.

  – diddledy-diddledy-dee –

  “More,” demanded Myklebust.

  “All right, but I can’t remember it all just like that,” said Thygesen. “Then they got married, and he became a lord and at last an admiral, bright lad he was. And then at the very end you see him kiss the lady for a terribly long time and magnified 88 times.”

  “Well, that’s what you can call a modernised version of Terje Vigen,” said Myklebust. “Not a trace of romanticism left in it.”

  “No, it was functionalistic,” Thygesen confirmed.

  “Tell me … why was the Victorian age so clammy in so many ways?” said Myklebust. He stared out across the ocean. “But on the other hand, it wasn’t so evil.”

  “Methinks your eyes are flashing bad,” said Thygesen.

  “Yes, but mainly at winter and rough weather,” Myklebust trotted out the quotation. “But sing, Thyge, sing, man. What about something really old and motheaten?”

  They were approaching the mouth of the fjord. It was still blowing, a gentle, friendly breeze. The sea lay before them deadly serious like a solemn cellar floor dotted with a few spots of spilt burgundy. Out on the western horizon the odd cigar glow could still be seen smouldering. But in the south-east the moon was rising. Familiar and homely, the faithful old night-light shone and filled the air with a deep melancholy scent of clean sheets and soap and evening prayer.

  Thygesen tuned his guitar and struck a couple of languorous chords:

  The moon hath raised her lamp above …

  Myklebust set course towards the moon. There was a good breeze out here, and the Gok was making fine speed.

  “Let’s have something to eat now,” said Thygesen when he had finished his song. “Steak or stew, or would you rather have something else, Captain?”

  “No, Thyge. Time is standing quite still now. It’s almost like being young again. ’The moon hath raised her lamp above!’ Stew or steak? Steak, Thyge, steak. Big, juicy, with lashings of onions.”

  Soon the moonlight was spiced with the smell of onions from Thyge’s frying pan.

  The two men ate in ecstatic silence as the water lapped energetically and delectably around the boat. They took turns at the rudder. After the steak they served coffee with cognac and cigars. The boat was dancing madly towards the moon like a moth towards a lighted candle.

  “Well, we’ll finish this cigar,” said Myklebust, moving energetically. “But then, we’ll have to pull ourselves together. Aye, we’ll bloody well have to pull ourselves together. We’ll have to make ourselves as hard as …”

  “As the dentist’s drill?” suggested Thygesen.

  “Aye, for we’re not going back. Is that agreed, Thyge? We’re not going back to the Cauldron. Not at any price. That’s as daft an idea as … as …”

  “As a drunk on the first day of Creation!”

  “Right. Oh well, cheers to that thought. Long live the free private life on the ocean. I mean pirate’s life, damn it.”

  M
yklebust got up and raised a threatening fist towards the moon. “And if anyone tries to stop us, he’ll get what’s coming to him. We won’t surrender at any price. Now I’ve said it.”

  The two men exchanged terrible glances and looked down in delight, like conspirators who suddenly realise that the dreadful deed they have planned is about to be fulfilled.

  5

  The next day, too, was a cold and red day with a sky of burnished copper. It was Opperman’s day. His name in huge letters adorned the front page of The News, and old Ole the Post nodded as he recognised the round O being outlined on everyone’s lips and in their sensation-rounded eyes. “Op-op-Opperman,” he chanted good-naturedly, and as he went on his newspaper round he turned it into a little verse:

  Op, op, Opperman,

  Now he really, really can.

  But it was not only Opperman who could. They all could: Solomon Olsen, Consul Tarnowius, Mrs. J. F. Schibbye, Olivarius Tunstein, Masa Hansen and now, finally, Pontus the watchmaker. They were all building and extending. Olivarius’s little shoeshop down by the river had been jacked up and furnished with both a tower and a spire and central heating, a bomb-proof shelter and a refuse chute, and his wife was displaying herself in a fur coat and dyed hair. And up on the hillside behind Solomon Olsen’s broad and solid row of gables on the other side of the inlet a palace of concrete and glass was rising, built by the gifted and much-sought-after young architect Rafael Heimdal. This was where Spurgeon Olsen was to move in together with some Icelandic beauty. Yes, whooshssh, there he was, just whizzing past with his dark-eyed film star in the car. And there came Opperman’s enormous, well-covered van rumbling along, filled with silk pyjamas and other expensive frippery in its secretive interior. It was as big as an ordinary smallholder’s cottage, filling the entire width of the street, and if you wanted to save your life you had quickly to stand back against the wall of the nearest house and hold your stomach in, or, like a well-trained monkey dart up a flight of steps, if there was one nearby.