by Stefan Mani
‘Methúsalem!’ says Big John, laying his great paw on the chief mate’s right shoulder. ‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘The meeting is adjourned,’ says Guðmundur, giving the chief mate a dirty look before turning his chair forwards again. ‘Return to work.’
Then he adds, in a softer voice, ‘And God be with you.’
Guðmundur’s subordinates leave the bridge but the captain remains in his chair, scowling out the window. The storm is still on its way, though his battle with it has been postponed.
11:50
In the kitchen on B-deck Ási, the ship’s cook, is dipping the last of the haddock fillets in egg and then golden breadcrumbs before placing them in a frying pan that’s wedged in a metal frame on an impressive gas cooker. The fillets swim around in a bubbling mixture of margarine and cooking oil; in a pot beside the frying pan peeled potatoes are boiling, and in a saucepan on the back burner five chopped onions are browning in a butter-and-oil bath.
Ási rinses the utensils he’s been using and places them in the dishwasher, wipes the egg off his fingers on his apron, ties a knot on the bag of garbage and walks out to where four big garbage bins are fastened together with a long chain and padlock. He opens the first bin and throws in the bag, then lights himself a cigarette and checks on the weather. But just as he places his hand on the portside railing his right foot hits something. It’s a large set of wire-cutters with yellow handles.
‘What are you doing here?’ murmurs Ási, who knows that all tools are kept down in the engine room. He takes his cigarette out of his mouth with his left hand, bends down and picks up the cold, wet cutters in his right.
He studies the tool and shrugs, but then it occurs to him to stick his head out and look up, in case he might see someone who could have dropped the cutters.
And what do you know – there’s another head looking down from D- or E-deck, but it’s neither of the engineers. It’s someone Ási doesn’t recognise. That would be the new guy, Jónas’s brother-in-law.
‘WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU?’ shouts the new guy, who seems to be hanging around the large lifeboat, which means he’s up on D-deck.
‘COME GET YOURSELF SOME FISH ON A DISH, FRIEND!’ Ási shouts back, smiling at the newcomer before disappearing.
‘What a weirdo,’ mutters Ási, taking a last drag before he puts out his cigarette, sticks the clippers in his apron pocket and makes his way back to the kitchen.
Ási turns the fillets over in the pan, then scrapes freshly made remoulade from the mixer bowl into two smaller ones. He takes the saucepan off the fire and pours the water off the potatoes. Then he turns off the gas, opens the oven and takes out an oven tray full of fried fish that he’s been keeping hot while he fries the last fillets on the pan, because he has to fry four full pans of fish to feed the crew.
‘Right, lads!’ Ási says when the first faces appear in the doorway. The clock strikes twelve and everything’s ready: the fish, the potatoes, the onion-butter and the remoulade. The crew line up and each serves himself while Ási runs cold water into jugs and gets out two cartons of milk.
‘Smells good, Ási,’ says Big John, who is first in line. He takes four fillets, a few potatoes, a good spoonful of onion-butter and then drowns the whole lot in tepid remoulade.
Next is Sæli, then Rúnar, Captain Guðmundur is behind him and last in line is Methúsalem. Stoker is down in the engine room and will stay there until John relieves him for half an hour, and Jónas is sitting up in the bridge, because he offered to take the wheel while the chief mate had his lunch. Jón Karl has still not come down.
‘There’s plenty here, lads,’ says Ási, sticking a toothpick in his mouth.
Sæli and Rúnar sit opposite each other in the seamen’s mess, where the Doors tape is circling in the old tape recorder, while Big John, Guðmundur and Methúsalem sit in the officers’ mess, John and Methúsalem side by side with their backs to the south, the captain at the end with his back to the door.
‘Wouldn’t he say anything?’ Sæli murmurs as he takes a drink of water.
‘No,’ says Rúnar, mashing his fish, potatoes, onions and remoulade together. ‘He said he couldn’t tell us whether they were going to lay us off or not. Said he wasn’t allowed to say.’
‘Shit, man,’ says Sæli, pushing a piece of fish around with his fork. ‘But what about the sabotage?’
‘The Old Man is kind of in denial,’ says Rúnar as he divides his mash into even-sized bites. ‘But Methúsalem suspects the new guy.’
‘Jónas’s brother-in-law?’ Sæli takes a small bit of fish and samples it like it’s a foul medicine.
‘Yeah, it’s not nice to back the relative of a crew member into a corner,’ says Rúnar, shrugging. ‘But he’s the only one we don’t know.’
‘Do you think he’s some kind of swindler or something?’ Sæli chases his fish with cold water. ‘Do you think Jónas knows something about him that we don’t?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I should think. But the man isn’t exactly charming, if you know what I mean.’
‘Wasn’t it just some lunatic?’ asks Sæli, putting down his knife and fork. His stomach is in a knot and he doesn’t have much of an appetite.
‘Yeah, probably.’ Rúnar shrugs. He puts his knife aside and starts shovelling the mash into his mouth.
‘And the Old Man won’t say anything,’ sighs Sæli. ‘Which means we will be laid off, doesn’t it?’
‘S’pose so,’ murmurs Rúnar, pulling a face with his mouth full of food.
‘But what about stopping the engines? Is that still on?’
‘Prob’ly not.’
‘I wish I could phone home.’
‘That makes two of us.’
‘I can’t stand this!’ Sæli hides his face in his hands.
‘Could you pass me the salt please, Methúsalem?’ says Guðmundur as he feeds a potato to Skuggi, who is sitting under the table.
‘Of course,’ says Methúsalem, handing him the salt.
‘What’s the situation with that storm?’ asks Big John, smacking his lips.
‘I don’t see how we can avoid it,’ says Guðmundur.
‘Well, we can’t keep retreating to the east, can we?’
‘I’d suggest we try to avoid the storm. It’s better to take a small detour than to go through sudden gusts, undercurrents and breakers.’
‘This is no storm,’ mutters Methúsalem. ‘Just a shower.’
‘There’s no need to take chances,’ says John, putting a whole potato in his mouth.
‘Prudence is the mother of all virtues,’ says Guðmundur and starts eating.
‘This is fucking ridiculous!’ says Methúsalem with a sneer. ‘Here we sit discussing the weather instead of talking about what we’re really thinking about, all three of us. The crew is going to be laid off and there’s a felon loose in this ship.’
‘Right,’ says Big John, then he shovels more food down his gullet, using his left hand to wipe remoulade from the corners of his mouth.
‘A storm in a teacup has never sunk a ship,’ says Guðmundur with a cough. ‘And I’m referring to these supposed lay-offs. But sabotage will not, of course, be tolerated – that goes without saying.’
‘Denial and equivocation,’ says Methúsalem, white with fury. ‘Jónas and I had a short talk just now and it seemed to me he was afraid of this brother-in-law of his. Doesn’t want to talk about him and is evasive if you ask about him! I suggest we visit this guy and ask him the questions we need answered.’
‘There’s a time and a place for everything,’ says Guðmundur, taking a deep breath.
‘Rubbish!’ says Methúsalem, spluttering fish over the table. ‘I’m convinced he’s a spy for the company, and that you know it.’
‘What are you implying?’ asks Guðmundur, giving his chief mate an angry look.
‘You know something we don’t.’ Methúsalem no longer holds the captain’s eyes. ‘That much I’m sure of.’
‘I
think we should go back to discussing the weather,’ says Guðmundur, clenching his fists round his knife and fork as he continues eating.
‘This storm will die down like any other storm,’ says Big John, still shovelling his food.
‘If it was up to me this hooligan …’ says Methúsalem and he is about to slam his fist on the table when Jón Karl appears in the mess, in one hand a dished piled high with food, in the other a glass of water.
‘What hooligan?’ says Jón Karl, sitting down opposite the first engineer, while Methúsalem is so astonished at this sudden presence of the deckhand that he’s unable to speak.
The same could be said for Guðmundur and John, who look at each other and then at Jón Karl, who pretends not to notice.
‘Were you maybe talking about me?’ Jón Karl says, grinning like a hyena in the face of the chief mate. Methúsalem blinks his watery blue eyes and is about to look away when he suddenly notices his gold watch right in front of his eyes, on the muscular wrist of the seaman.
‘My watch!’ Methúsalem attempts to grab Jón Karl, who moves a good deal more quickly, leaving Methúsalem empty handed.
‘What are you talking about, man?’ says Jón Karl, calmly salting his food. ‘If you owned a watch you’d be wearing it, wouldn’t you? This is my watch, obviously, ’cause I’m wearing it, see?’
‘That is my watch!’ says Methúsalem and he looks at Guðmundur as if he expects the captain to take his side.
‘It’s no good looking at him,’ says Jón Karl, smiling at the captain. ‘Is he maybe your daddy? Should Daddy take the watch off the bad boy and give it to you?’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asks Methúsalem, pounding his fist on the table. ‘You must have found that watch somewhere. That is my watch and I want it back this instant!’
‘Methúsalem,’ says Guðmundur, giving the chief mate a paternal glance. ‘Try to keep calm.’
‘Aren’t you lost?’ says Big John, licking his chops. ‘This is the officers’ mess.’
‘Are you tired of life?’ asks Jón Karl, grinning at the chief engineer. ‘The scar after your heart operation has hardly healed, man, and you’re wolfing down remoulade as if it were yoghurt or something.’
‘I don’t see that’s any of your …’ John stops and coughs.
‘Give me the watch!’ Methúsalem tries again, giving the deckhand an icy look. Jón Karl just smiles back at him and eats his fish.
‘Is that a freemason’s ring?’ asks Jón Karl without looking at the heavy, loose-fitting ring on the chief mate’s ring finger. ‘Are you a freemason?’
‘None of your business!’ says Methúsalem.
‘You’re no freemason. That ring doesn’t even fit you,’ says Jón Karl, continuing to eat. ‘You’ve just found it somewhere and are pretending to be a freemason so people will think you’re more important than you actually are. You’d have had the ring tightened if you weren’t afraid of being discovered. The goldsmith might be a freemason, see? Or the ring might be on record as having been stolen. Highly unlikely, of course, but a guilty man’s imagination can overpower his reason.’
‘You’re crazy,’ mutters Methúsalem, attempting a sneer, but his mouth just goes crooked and his eyes blink rapidly.
‘You do know this is the officers’ mess, don’t you?’ says Guðmundur, completely calm.
‘I couldn’t care less,’ says Jón Karl, shrugging. ‘But I can’t say I’m enjoying the company, so maybe I’ll try eating with the plebs next time. They just all looked so gloomy, the guys next door.’
‘On board a ship the men can’t choose where to sit,’ says Big John, clenching his right paw round his glass of water. ‘You aren’t welcome here, so you should move to the starboard side.’
‘Tell me, captain,’ says Jón Karl, taking a big bite of fish and visibly savouring it while he continues speaking. ‘Is it true you’re armed with a shotgun?’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ says Guðmundur. ‘But it would be truer to say there’s a weapon on board, though it is in my keeping. It’s one of the conditions set by international insurers —’
‘And is that the only gun on board?’ Jón Karl glances quickly at Methúsalem and John, who go pale and stiff in their seats.
‘Yes. Why do you ask?’ Guðmundur says, pushing his plate away.
‘Just asking. I thought I saw some guys carrying guns last night, but it could easily just have been a dream, you know?’
‘Carrying arms is forbidden on a ship,’ says Guðmundur with a frown. ‘If you know of any weapons other than the gun I am in charge of, I order you to make that knowledge public.’
‘As I said,’ says Jón Karl, sipping his water, ‘it was just a dream or something, I think.’
‘Young man,’ says Guðmundur, leaning forward onto his elbows, ‘I don’t know what Jónas was thinking when he recommended you as a deckhand on this ship, but I do know that if you don’t stop this insubordination and disorderly behaviour then I will make certain that —’
‘Ask him about the sabotage!’ Methúsalem breaks in, giving the table a smack. ‘Ask him where he was when —’
‘Methúsalem!’ barks Guðmundur, black eyed with fury. He points at the chief mate with a trembling finger and is about to speak again when the deckhand interrupts him by striking his empty glass three times and standing up.
Kling, kling, kling!
Jón Karl wins complete silence and the undivided attention of the three men.
‘We’d better get a few things straight here, gentlemen,’ he says, leaning his fingertips against the table edge. ‘This Jónas is not my brother-in-law. I have never seen him before. I am neither a deckhand nor a saboteur. I’m a criminal, just so you know. I hurt people for pay, I deal in drugs and I stab anyone in the back who is stupid enough to turn it towards me. My name is Jón Karl Esrason, also known as Satan.’
12.29
Satan leaves the officers’ mess and ambles up to D-deck with a full mug of hot coffee in one hand and a smoking cigarette in the other, a hidden revolver by his right ankle and a hidden hunting knife by his left.
XXI
The engine room.
They stand together in a tight little group up on the shuddering metal floor above and behind the ship’s main engine: Big John, Rúnar, Sæli and Methúsalem, shouting to be heard in the unholy din and hot, oil-filled air. Ási has still not arrived for this secret emergency meeting of the ‘gang of five’, the first one since they met in the bar the night before they sailed.
Rúnar: ‘What are you saying? He’s not Jónas’s brother-in-law?’
John: ‘No!’
Rúnar: ‘Who is he, then?’
Methúsalem: ‘He said he’s known as Satan.’
Rúnar: ‘Did you say “Satan”?’
John: ‘He said “Satan”!’
Sæli: ‘Satan! Are you sure? Satan?’
Methúsalem: ‘Yes!’
Sæli: ‘I can’t believe it! He’s followed me here. What does he want from me, anyway?’
John: ‘What do you mean?’
Methúsalem: ‘Do you know this guy?’
Sæli: ‘Yes! No! I don’t know! Surely not. I’m just talking rubbish. I don’t know …’
Methúsalem: ‘He’s a spy from the shipping company, that’s all I know.’
Rúnar: ‘ARE YOU SURE?’
Methúsalem: ‘Of course I’m sure. The man walks around as if he owned the ship and needn’t work. As if he has nothing to fear! Because he doesn’t have anything to fear. They sent him on board, those fucking despots!’
Rúnar: ‘To do what?’
Methúsalem: ‘To cut our communications. To ruin things for us. To back up the captain if needed. To bear witness against us if it comes to a fight.’
Sæli: ‘Shit, man!’
Rúnar: ‘What are we going to do?’
Methúsalem: ‘I’ll tell you exactly what we’re going to do!’
They close in even tighter to hear what Methúsalem has to
say. Behind the main engine Stoker is rambling around with ear protectors on his head, a dirty rag in one hand and a grease gun in the other. He’s greasing the dynamo but at the same time wondering what the four of them are discussing on the floor above him.
Methúsalem: ‘John and I are going to relieve Stoker and Jónas and send them for their dinner. Stoker goes back on watch but Ási keeps Jónas chatting in the officers’ mess. Where is Ási?’
Rúnar: ‘He’s on his way.’
Methúsalem: ‘Rúnar, you fetch John’s shotgun up on deck and take it down to your cabin on D-deck. then you fetch my rifle up on E-deck and take it to your cabin as well.’
Rúnar: ‘Methúsalem, are you sure we —’
Methúsalem: ‘We don’t have a choice any more.’
Sæli: ‘What guns are you talking about?’
Rúnar: ‘I’ll tell you later. Let Methúsalem finish!’
Methúsalem: ‘Sæli, you’ll be up on D-deck keeping an eye on Satan’s cabin. We don’t want to lose sight of him.’
Stoker sticks his nose in and takes off his ear protectors.
Stoker: ‘Who’s Satan?’
John: ‘Go to hell, you nuisance! Can’t you see we’re talking here?’
Stoker: ‘I’ll just go to dinner, then.’
John: ‘Yeah, just go!’
Methúsalem: ‘When Stoker comes back down, you come up to me on the bridge, John. Then we’ll go down to D-deck together and Sæli can go up to the bridge and be on duty till I come back.’
Rúnar: ‘And then what?’
Methúsalem: ‘The three of us’ll be armed and we’ll arrest that guy Satan and lock him in the forecastle.’
Rúnar: ‘Christ!’
Sæli: ‘What about the captain?’
Methúsalem: ‘He said he was going to take a nap.’
Sæli: ‘I mean, what do you think he’ll –’
Methúsalem: ‘He’s a bastard turncoat! We really ought to lock him in the forecastle too.’
John: ‘I don’t know about this. We should have some better evidence. Something tangible.’
Ási comes down and joins the group. He takes the wire-cutters out of his apron pocket and hands them to John.