The White Voyage

by John Christopher

  ‘You are going to be a little Dutch girl, you know. Will you like that?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why couldn’t we have stayed at home?’

  ‘Things were difficult.’

  ‘What was difficult?’

  ‘You couldn’t understand if I told you.’

  ‘Tell me. I will understand.’

  ‘You will later – when you’re grown up.’

  Annabel pressed her head deeper into the pillow. ‘If I’m going to be a little Dutch girl, then I shall grow up into a Dutch woman. Shan’t I?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose you will.’

  ‘I would rather be like you.’

  ‘I shall be a Dutch woman, too.’

  ‘I don’t want you to be.’

  ‘Think of all the fun there’ll be,’ Mary said. ‘Skating along the canals in the winter – sailing on them in summer. And in the spring going out into the tulip fields. We’ll have a great time.’

  ‘Better than in Phoenix Park?’

  ‘Much better. And I shan’t be out working during the day. I’ll be with you all the time, except when you’re at school. Won’t you like that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Annabel said. ‘I’ll like that.’

  ‘Turn over now, and go to sleep. I’m just going downstairs to the place where we had supper. I’ll leave this little light on, and if you’re frightened or you want anything, you only have to press the little button beside it. Will you go to sleep now?’

  ‘Yes, Mamma.’

  Mouritzen welcomed her into the lounge, where the extension half of the dining-table had been closed up and the kitchen serving hatch had become a bar.

  ‘What will you have to drink?’ he asked her.

  ‘An orange juice, please.’

  ‘With a little gin? If you are going to Holland, you must learn to drink gin.’

  She smiled. ‘No thank you. Just orange.’

  Thorsen was behind the bar. Mouritzen called to him:

  ‘Jorgen! An orange juice and another Tuborg.’

  The lounge was roughly oval in shape, one end being lined with bench seats. The Simanyis were there, and so was the Chief Engineer, Bernard Møller. He was a raw-boned, red-haired man, generally taciturn but occasionally given to outbursts of articulation. Tonight he was sitting opposite Nadya, and expressing himself more in looks than words. Nadya, for her part, was in a withdrawn, apparently sullen mood. She paid little attention to Møller, none to Mouritzen and Mary.

  Captain Olsen came in about ten minutes later. Mr and Mrs Jones came with him; he held open the door for them to enter. The three of them sat together at one of the small tables. Jones asked:

  ‘What will you drink, Captain?’

  ‘Milk,’ said Olsen.

  ‘Milk?’

  ‘I always drink milk. Perhaps I will grow, hm?’

  Josef Simanyi called to him: ‘I do not think you have grown much since we last sailed with you, Captain.’

  Olsen shrugged. ‘Maybe I don’t want to.’ He stretched out his feet and showed that he was wearing slippers. ‘When I need shoes I go into the children’s part of the shop – good shoes and cheaper. I can get my clothes there, too. I save a lot of money since I am small.’

  Stefan Simanyi got to his feet, made some excuses and went out.

  ‘He is always sick,’ Josef said. ‘Even when all is calm, like this.’

  ‘Then he should travel by aeroplane,’ said Olsen.

  ‘Too expensive. And what of the bear?’

  ‘He could go by himself.’

  ‘No,’ Josef said. ‘We go together. We always go together. He would be more unhappy by himself than with being sick.’

  Jones said: ‘You’re very generous, Captain – recommending a rival form of transport.’

  ‘Eight passengers or none,’ Olsen said, ‘my pay is the same. I would travel by aeroplane myself, you know, if I were to travel. It is quicker, more efficient.’

  ‘Mr Jones, Mrs Jones,’ Josef said, ‘did you see the bear at her walks this morning?’

  Sheila said: ‘No. We missed it. We were sorry we did. We would have liked to take some photographs.’

  Josef nodded, smiling. ‘There is tomorrow morning.’

  ‘No,’ Olsen said. ‘Not tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Why not? Katerina must have air.’

  ‘She can wait till we berth in Dieppe. Not a stroke of work was done on the ship while she was out this morning. Tomorrow she stays in, till we dock.’

  ‘You are cruel, Captain,’ Nadya said. She seemed to wake suddenly out of her apathy. She laughed, showing her teeth, strong and white with a single gold tooth at the side. ‘Will the ship sink if poor Katerina strolls on deck?’

  Olsen laughed, too. ‘I will make sure of that!’

  ‘I guard her well while she takes her walk.’

  ‘We see it. So do the crew. There is more than the bear to look at.’

  She grinned and stood up; she was at her most attractive, Mouritzen thought, when she looked like this – a coquette who might break a man’s arm almost without thinking.

  ‘I will go and tell Katerina what you say, Captain,’ she said. ‘Maybe she will come and eat you.’

  She was wearing a full, silky, red dress and she went out of the lounge with a flare of skirt.

  Jones said: ‘I was looking at the plaque upstairs, Captain. So this is the second Kreya.’

  Olsen shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘But it spoke of the first Kreya being sunk during the war.’

  ‘That was the second Kreya. She was torpedoed by the Germans, twenty years ago, and sank with all hands. Eighteen years before that, the first Kreya was sunk in a storm, in the Irish Sea – she too went down with all hands.’

  Sheila said: ‘That sounds ominous, doesn’t it? What’s going to happen to the third Kreya?’

  ‘You wish to know?’ Olsen produced a pipe and began to fill it. ‘I will tell you. I personally will conduct her to the breaker’s yards in another twenty years.’

  Jones said: ‘That’s encouraging.’

  ‘That is a fact, Mr Jones. Leave me your address, and I will send you an invitation for this event.’

  Sheila looked at him. He said:

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t be certain what my address will be in twenty years’ time.’

  ‘In any case,’ Mouritzen said, ‘the company will probably sell her off, somewhere in South America, maybe.’

  ‘But she will not sink,’ Olsen said. ‘Not while I am in command. This you may rely on.’

  ‘We rely on it,’ Simanyi said. ‘A strong ship, a strong captain.’

  Olsen smiled. ‘And you, Mr Simanyi – how was the fishing in Ireland?’

  ‘Plenty of trout, some roach and carp – a conger once.’

  ‘Salmon?’

  Josef shook his head. ‘No salmon.’

  ‘You fish in Ireland, and catch no salmon? What kind of fishing is that?’

  ‘It was a bad year for salmon. Everywhere they told us that. I had one on the line once, but he got away.’

  ‘It takes skill to play salmon,’ Olsen said. ‘Next time I will go with you, and we will catch salmon together.’

  ‘Will you be going back to Ireland?’ Mouritzen asked.

  ‘Maybe. I think so. One must go where one can. In so much of Europe now there is no time for the circus. In Germany, the circus is dead. The circus is for children, and there are no children in Germany.’

  Mouritzen felt a slight draught and looked round. The door had opened noiselessly and Nadya had crept in. She had a bear skin thrown over her. She made her way without a sound to the table where Olsen was sitting and suddenly thrust the muzzle against his knee, at the same time emitting a throaty roar.

  Without looking down at her, Olsen said casually:

  ‘Mr Møller, I give you the responsibility to put this animal back in her cage. See to it.’

  Nadya rose to her feet and leaned over Olsen, embracing him and laughing. He bore with it with no loss of
composure. She sat down at last, the bear skin across her knees. Josef came over and picked it up.

  ‘You have not seen this, I think,’ he said. ‘This was Alexander. We had him before Katerina.’

  ‘He died?’ Jones asked.

  Josef grinned. ‘Yes, he died. One day, when he was five years old, he became nasty – he turned on Stefan when Stefan was cleaning out his cage. Stefan called, and I was near with a small rifle.’ He brushed back the fur that covered the head. ‘You see there? Just above the eyes. With one shot.’

  ‘A good one,’ Jones agreed.

  ‘I tell you something else,’ Josef said. ‘So we had the body. It is something, burying a full grown bear – you must dig a big hole. Instead we skinned him; and then we ate him. What we could not eat at once we put in salt. All winter we ate Alexander.’

  ‘Was he good?’ Olsen asked with interest.

  ‘I have never tasted such fine meat. When people called, we would say they should stay for supper and they would ask, do you eat your bear? When we said yes, they would say no, shaking their heads. But when they had tried one little morsel, they were ready to eat their bellies full.’

  ‘It is what the bear eats,’ Mrs Simanyi explained. ‘Fruit and nuts and honey – carrots and things like that. That is how they have sweet flesh.’

  ‘And Katerina?’ Mouritzen asked. ‘Will you one day eat Katerina?’

  ‘Ah, no!’ Mrs Simanyi said.

  ‘She is a wonderful bear,’ Josef said. ‘She is like a daughter. One would not eat a daughter.’

  ‘I give you a riddle,’ Olsen said suddenly. ‘It is black. It has eight wheels. But it is no vehicle. What is it?’

  His penetrating, slightly protuberant eyes surveyed them as they shook their heads.

  ‘What is it?’ he repeated.

  ‘We shall not find that,’ Josef said.

  Olsen gave a short laugh. ‘A priest, on roller skates. I give you another riddle. It is greater than the universe. It is less than a grain of sand. The dead eat it. If we eat it, we too shall be dead. What is it?’

  ‘We shall not guess that, either,’ Josef said.

  ‘We give up,’ Sheila said.

  ‘Greater than the universe,’ Olsen said. ‘Smaller than a grain of sand. The dead eat it. If we eat it, we die also. What is it?’

  ‘You will have to tell us again, I’m afraid,’ Jones said.

  ‘No. Think of it. If you cannot guess I will tell you another night. But now you can think.’

  Mouritzen heard Mary draw a deep, almost gasping breath. He turned to her.

  ‘You are all right?’

  ‘It’s only that it’s a little stuffy in here.’

  ‘Let me take you to some fresh air.’ She looked at him for a moment, and then nodded. ‘There is a little deck, right at the top. It is fresh up there. But cold also – you will need your coat.’

  ‘All right. I can see if Annabel’s sleeping, on the way.’

  * * *

  They had to go through the wheelhouse to get to the deck. The helmsman nodded respectfully to Mary; when he was out of her line of vision he gave Mouritzen a quick grin.

  There was a stiff breeze blowing up here, but the night was clear. Above their heads the radar scanner half-circled to and fro against the stars. There was no moon. They stood together by the rail, their arms not quite touching.

  ‘Fresh here,’ Mouritzen said.

  ‘Yes.’

  Mary drew her coat more tightly round her.

  ‘Is it, perhaps, too cold?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I like the wind.’

  ‘I, too. Annabel – is she asleep?’

  ‘Yes. She was very tired. The sea air, I suppose.’

  ‘She is a beautiful child. You must be very proud of her, Mrs Cleary.’ He paused. ‘May I say Mary?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘And you will call me Niels?’

  ‘If you like.’ She paused. ‘You lead a very – social life, as an officer on a ship like this, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Meeting new people all the time – getting to know them very quickly. Not very well, though, I should think.’

  ‘Whom does one know well?’ Mouritzen asked. ‘Parents, children, a wife? It is best to take people as they seem to be, I think.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘You do not agree?’

  ‘As long as one doesn’t have any illusions, I suppose it’s all right.’

  ‘What illusions?’

  ‘That what they are has anything to do with what they seem to be.’

  ‘You are bitter, I think,’ Mouritzen said. ‘That is a mistake, always. Most people, for the most part, are pleasant. It does not help to look all the time for the unpleasant people, or for the unpleasant parts of the pleasant ones.’

  ‘Different philosophies,’ she said, ‘suit different people. I should think yours works well for you.’

  ‘But yours,’ he said, ‘– does that work well for you?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  She shivered slightly. Mouritzen put his arm on her shoulders. She suffered it to remain there for a moment, and then drew away.

  ‘This journey to Amsterdam,’ she said. ‘It has a purpose. I am going there to be married.’

  The disappointment was something more than was to be expected from the fact of an attractive woman making such a remark at such a time. Mouritzen said:

  ‘My congratulations. Then your fiancé is already in Holland?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He is working there? Has he been there long?’

  ‘All his life,’ she said. ‘He is Dutch.’

  ‘And he came to Ireland on a visit, and met the beautiful colleen, and now draws her across the sea to the dull and heavy Netherlands as a wife? That is not much like a Dutchman. He is exceptional.’

  She did not answer. Mouritzen went on:

  ‘Is that how it was? Have I guessed rightly?’

  ‘Something like that,’ she said.

  ‘And his profession? Might I know that?’

  ‘You are very curious.’

  He jerked his head. ‘It does no harm. Does it?’

  ‘He’s a shopkeeper. Hardware. He has stores in Amsterdam and Rotterdam.’

  ‘That is interesting. Then it is unlikely that he went to Ireland on business. On holiday, perhaps? That is still unusual. Not many Hollanders go to Ireland except on business or to visit friends.’

  Mary said, after a short silence: ‘He hasn’t been to Ireland. In fact, we haven’t met. I advertised in a newspaper, saying that I wanted to meet a man that I might marry. It was an English newspaper. He saw it because he was thinking of marrying an English wife. He wrote to me.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  With some defiance, she said: ‘Forty-three.’

  ‘That is a waste,’ Mouritzen said.

  ‘Waste?’

  ‘For a young and beautiful woman to become the wife of a Dutchman twenty years older than she. Even though he has hardware shops in Amsterdam and Rotterdam.’

  She said coldly: ‘Are you criticizing me?’

  ‘No. Nor your Dutchman, either. If I criticize anything, it is life that permits such things to happen.’

  She was still angry. ‘I suppose in an ideal world, all young women would remain free and available for the pleasure of young bachelors?’

  ‘No. Only the young and beautiful ones.’ He took her arm, but in an entirely friendly manner, and she did not pull away. ‘I have no right to talk like this about your life and what you wish to do with it. I am sorry, Mary. The world is hard on women.’

  ‘With men like you about, it is.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘You had a romance with the Simanyi girl last April, didn’t you? And you would have started one with me, if I’d allowed you to.’

  ‘Is there much harm in that? We are all free to choose what we do.’

  ‘It’s all fun for you, isn’
t it?’

  ‘No. Not all fun. There is frustration also.’

  With heavy irony, she said: ‘I’m sorry that you should be frustrated occasionally.’

  Mouritzen took his hand from her arm, and grasped the rail. He said:

  ‘When I first asked you about your husband-to-be, you told me a lie – only a little one, but a lie. And then a little later you told me the truth. You did not need to do this. Why did you do it?’

  ‘It wasn’t a lie. You suggested something, and I said: “Something like that.”’

  ‘Not a lie, then. But a deception? Yet afterwards you told me the truth.’

  She said: ‘I don’t like deceiving people, even when it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘That is what I thought,’ Mouritzen said. ‘A man does not often meet a woman like you. That is the frustration – to find her already married, or promised in marriage.’

  ‘I think I’ll go down now.’ She stopped; Mouritzen stood by waiting for her. ‘Go back to Nadya. You don’t like waste, and you are wasting your time.’

  ‘Must you talk like that?’

  ‘I don’t mind charm,’ she said. ‘It’s the pretence of sincerity I don’t like.’

  ‘It is not a pretence.’

  ‘I don’t want to argue. We aren’t going to convince each other, you know.’

  ‘If there were time,’ Mouritzen said, ‘I would convince you.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  Chapter Four

  The Kreya followed the winding Arques into the heart of Dieppe, and tied up at an inner wharf soon after two in the afternoon. Meeting Captain Olsen as he came down from the bridge, Jones said:

  ‘Do we stay here long?’

  ‘We sail at midnight. But you cannot go ashore yet. We must wait for the Customs Officer to come.’

  ‘We may not go ashore.’

  Olsen nodded indifferently. ‘Inform the steward if you are staying on board, so that he can make arrangements for dinner tonight.’

  He gave Jones a quick mechanical smile and went on. On the deck, by the forward hatch, Josef Simanyi was setting up a fishing rod. Olsen came up behind and tapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘What are you doing, do you think?’

  Josef glanced over his shoulder. ‘Fishing.’

  ‘Forbidden,’ Olsen said. ‘Three thousand francs’ fine for any who fish within the harbour.’