The Ship

by Stefan Mani

  Who?

  The moment Methúsalem Sigurðsson closes the cupboard door his own face appears in the mirror, and he quickly averts his eyes – but not quickly enough.

  He saw the gleam in his eyes and he saw the abyss beyond the flickering gleam.

  But he pretends to have seen neither the dream nor the bottomless dark. He leaves the bathroom, glass in hand; he heads for the couch expressionless and he sits on the couch without so much as a glance towards the flask.

  He acts as if he has no idea what he’s about to do and even pretends to whistle a little tune to increase his self-deception.

  So? Can’t a man whistle?

  He watches his hands do what they’re doing, just as if he has no power over them and doesn’t, in fact, have any idea what they’re up to.

  Hey, how about that! They’re pouring cognac in a glass! For me!

  He could just as well stand in front of a mirror and watch the rifle barrel disappear into the mouth of his reflection and the mirrored forefinger pull the trigger, as if he were at home in his living room, watching a thriller on the TV.

  Then he laughs at such a childish comparison.

  And that laugh is so mirthless as to be almost terrifying.

  It is terrifying.

  ‘Laughter lengthens life,’ says Methúsalem Sigurðsson, lifting his glass as he laughs at his own joke. ‘I’ll drink to that!’

  Cheers!

  Who said cheers?

  ‘Did you say cheers?’ Methúsalem says, putting down his glass and licking his wet lips. ‘Who are you? Eh?’

  He rocks back and forth and stares at the glass, which is empty except for a copper-coloured drop that runs down the inside then spreads out and somehow disappears on the bottom.

  What!

  ‘Who drank from that glass?’ asks Methúsalem, savouring the sweet aftertaste of the cognac. ‘Did I drink the glass? Are you joking? Who’s joking? Eh?’

  What’s going on? Is he going crazy? Or is he drunk from one sip?

  ‘You’re not going crazy at all,’ Methúsalem says quietly and sniffs carelessly as he pours another glass.

  Just the wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Wrong man – that is, not the right man, I mean! Nothing wrong with me! Maybe a bit of a fool sometimes, like stupid, but not a fool like crazy or anything, eh?

  ‘Stupid? Me? I think not!’

  Methúsalem coughs. Is he getting a sore throat? That won’t do. Cognac kills germs, that’s been proven over and over.

  I’d better …

  ‘Hey!’ says Methúsalem, leaning forward and examining the glass.

  Empty! It’s empty again! There’s something eerie in this bloody cabin. Is somebody drinking my stuff here?

  ‘Do you know what one rabbit said to the other rabbit?’ Methúsalem says as he fills the glass a third time.

  No. I don’t know.

  ‘You don’t know?’ says Methúsalem with a crooked smile.

  Who doesn’t know? The rabbit?

  ‘Are you feeling as eerie as I am?’ says Methúsalem. He tosses back the contents of the glass.

  Then it’s as if he catches on to the joke. The cognac stops halfway down and splutters out his nose.

  ‘Ha, ha, ha!’

  Feeling eerie! Like with big ears! Rabbit’s ears, see! Ay, me!

  ‘This is some bad party!’ says Methúsalem, wiping snot and saliva off his face with the back of his hand.

  And speaking of bad parties ... there’s the bolt from his rifle!

  ‘You’re quite the mischief-maker,’ Methúsalem says as he reaches for the bolt, which is folded in a clean handkerchief.

  He unfolds the cloth and picks up the bolt, which is heavy and cold but still as good as new.

  ‘You just need to be rubbed with a bit of oil,’ Methúsalem coos as he turns the bolt every which way and rubs dried salt off it with the cloth.

  Methúsalem puts down the bolt, stands up and walks on unsteady legs across to the wardrobe.

  ‘Bloody waves.’

  He steadies himself on the right side of the wardrobe as he opens the left.

  He takes out the rifle, a box of shells and a little jar of gun oil, closes the wardrobe, then shuffles back across the damp towels and the soaking rug to sit on the couch again.

  What do you know? Somebody’s filled the glass!

  He wets a corner of the handkerchief with oil and carefully rubs the part of the bolt that goes in the breech of the rifle. Then he slides the bolt into place, moves it back and forth and finally loads the rifle, shell by shell.

  The first mate’s movements are slow, methodical and focused. His fingers handle the shells with the gentle deftness of a magician; his pupils widen like the aperture of a camera and don’t move even a fraction of a millimetre, his mouth half gapes open and the tip of his tongue lies still on his lower lip.

  But the minute the final shell is in place, this bizarre look of concentration disappears from the face of Methúsalem Sigurðsson; it is a look that contains both the willpower of an evil-doer and the true simplicity of someone dim-witted.

  There!

  Methúsalem grins and handles the weapon like a proud soldier before he puts it down on the couch.

  You need more than a single clown with a shotgun to disarm a real man.

  I’ll drink to that!

  No! Hello! Knock it off!

  ‘Am I maybe losing my mind?’ Methúsalem says, picking up the glass in his right hand and the nearly empty bottle in his left.

  He drinks a drop or two and then shakes the bottle.

  What’s going on? Two drinks? Three? Has he finished the bottle?

  ‘Well, it wasn’t full,’ he mutters and pours half of what’s left into his glass.

  It was about half full, just a bit over. The Old Man’s been hitting the bottle, all right! Smuggling liquor on board the ship. Finished half a flask in just a few days.

  ‘Here’s to the Old Man!’ Methúsalem lifts his glass, exchanges looks with nothing and nods to his invisible drinking companion before he throws back the cognac.

  Cheers to you!

  Cheers!

  No. Why should he be drinking to the fucking old bully? The Old Man? He’s a dinosaur! A weakling! A boss-lover! Says he’s going to resign in support of the crew. Yeah, sure!

  ‘I’ll leave the ship.’ Blah, blah, blah.

  You just go to hell, liar! Ha!

  ‘Just a fucking liar,’ Methúsalem says, pouring the rest of the cognac.

  He leans back on the couch and breathes out as he sinks into the damp leather.

  His eyes no longer glitter. And they stare at nothing, they’re like empty sockets.

  What?

  ‘Nothing.’

  Wouldn’t it be the thing to sabotage the main engine and shake up the lot of them and create proper chaos, then shoot the captain in the head, throw his body overboard and take command of the leaderless ship?

  ‘What?’

  Nothing.

  What’s in the glass? There’s nothing in the glass! Who drank from the glass?

  Was it you?

  ‘It was me.’

  The flask lies open on the table. It’s empty. It’s full of nothing. Methúsalem lies on the couch. His eyes are open but he’s not awake.

  He sees black, he thinks black, he is black.

  Blackout, man!

  ‘EH?’

  And he’s grinning like a skull.

  It’s eleven minutes after six on a Saturday afternoon when Ási, Big John, Rúnar and Sæli meet in the mess to exchange information and go over the situation.

  ‘I spoke to that Satan before you took him up to the forecastle,’ says Sæli, holding onto the rack above the cooker. ‘The shipping company didn’t send him here, that’s for sure. He has nothing to gain and that’s why I don’t think it’s likely he did the damage to the ship. Why should he do that if he gains nothing from it?’

  ‘Hard to say,’ says Rúnar, who is standin
g in the doorway to make sure nobody eavesdrops. ‘But quite apart from who this guy is or what he’s doing here, there are at least two things I don’t understand. If he isn’t Jónas’s brother-in-law, why did Jónas keep quiet about it? And if he isn’t Jónas’s brother-in-law, where is his brother-in-law?’

  ‘Good point,’ says Ási, leaning up against the fridge and moving his match from one corner of his mouth to the other. ‘I think Jónas has something to hide. There’s something strange about that accident. Something about his story that doesn’t fit.’

  ‘Jónas does have something to hide,’ says John, grabbing hold of the table as the ship pitches. ‘But what it can be I can’t imagine. If this Satan isn’t the saboteur, then who cut the wires up on the roof? Jónas?’

  ‘I can’t quite see that,’ says Rúnar.

  ‘Somebody did it,’ says Sæli. ‘Anybody could have cut the wires, but why that person did it is another matter entirely.’

  ‘Methúsalem maintains that the shipping company’s behind it,’ says Ási. ‘He says the company’s the only party that gains something from the ship being out of touch. While they can’t hear from us, we can’t be protesting.’

  ‘Speaking of Methúsalem,’ says Rúnar with a look at John, ‘what was he thinking at that meeting earlier?’

  ‘Dunno,’ mutters John and shakes his head. ‘I knocked on his door just now, but he didn’t answer.’

  ‘What did he do?’ asks Sæli.

  ‘He kind of went blank. It was as if he lost all connection to his surroundings.’

  ‘Maybe somebody cut his wires,’ says Ási with a grin.

  ‘Then he just went,’ says Rúnar. ‘He just stood up, declared his full support for the captain and left!’

  ‘There was something weird about it,’ John says. ‘That he should just suddenly stand up and declare his support for the Old Man, after everything that went before. I didn’t find it convincing, to tell you the truth.’

  ‘It was as if he was drunk,’ Rúnar adds.

  ‘Yeah, I know,’ says John, looking at Rúnar. ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking – “Is the fucker drunk?”’

  ‘Was he drunk?’ asks Sæli.

  ‘No,’ says Rúnar. ‘But, still, there was something not right about him.’

  ‘Who can a guy trust?’ says Sæli.

  Silence.

  ‘I suggest we put our trust in the Old Man,’ says John with a cough. ‘As things stand now I think that’s the wisest thing for us to do.’

  ‘But the lay-offs?’ asks Sæli.

  ‘As I said,’ says John, ‘I think we need to trust the Old Man. I don’t want to take part in any more mutiny, that’s for sure.’

  ‘You and me both,’ says Rúnar. ‘I agree with John. We drop this foolishness and trust the Old Man.’

  ‘All right,’ says Sæli with a sniff.

  ‘Ási?’ says John, looking at the cook.

  ‘I’ve always trusted Guðmundur,’ says Ási, biting on his match. ‘It’s the shipping company I don’t like.’

  ‘Then that’s decided,’ says John with a nod. ‘Now we stand by the Old Man and concentrate on getting this ship to harbour in one piece.’

  The chief engineer’s words get the agreement of a serious silence.

  ‘I wish we were already in Suriname,’ says Rúnar.

  ‘We can agree with that, every one of us,’ says John.

  ‘I wish we’d never set off on this tour,’ Sæli adds.

  Silence.

  ‘Don’t you remember what he said?’ says Sæli, looking sideways at his companions. ‘The drunk guy in the bar?’

  ‘The one who was scrounging change?’ asks Ási.

  ‘Yeah, that one,’ says Sæli, nodding.

  ‘He didn’t say anything,’ says Rúnar with a scowl. ‘Nothing sensible, at least!’

  ‘He looked at us and said, “Five dead men”!’ says Sæli, wide eyed. ‘“Five dead men on a ship”, that’s what he said.’

  ‘Did he?’ says Ási.

  ‘No,’ says Rúnar with a shake of his head. ‘He said nothing of the sort!’

  ‘Yes, he did too say that!’ says Sæli, looking at the bosun with tear-filled eyes. ‘And then we saw him again … we drove past him in Mosfellsbær. We should’ve given him a lift or something. Maybe he put a curse on us? Maybe he was a gypsy or something? We should’ve —’

  ‘Don’t think like that, Sæli, lad,’ says Ási. ‘You never know how things’ll turn out, eh? Broken mirrors and black cats don’t alter the movements of the stars, my boy.’

  ‘He was just some drunk,’ says Rúnar, clapping Sæli on the back.

  ‘Maybe.’ Sæli gulps air as if to smother a sob. ‘But if I never see my boy again, I …’

  Silence.

  From the seamen’s mess comes the sound of the final song on Strange Days, playing low, Jim Morrison singing about the music being over and turning out the lights.

  ‘Well!’ says Ási, clapping his hands before opening the fridge and taking out ground beef, eggs, butter, milk, tomato puree and a few onions. ‘Now I have to ask you to leave this battleground, because I have to mix up some meatloaf. Able seamen, officers, traitors, liars, saboteurs and stowaways – they all have to eat, my friends!’

  Methúsalem is walking up the stairs that lead from E-deck to the bridge. He has black Ray-Ban sunglasses on his face, drops of cold sweat on his forehead and dried toothpaste in the corners of his mouth. His head is full of imaginary applesauce and the applesauce is full of a hot buzzing that overpowers all thought.

  His ultra-sensitive fingertips touch the cold railing and his heavy feet step carefully from one step to the next. The first mate is empty and fragile, a floating glass bubble full of darkness, smoke and nausea. His half-open mouth pulls in air like the dirty-air intake of an old engine and his nose is as hot as an exhaust pipe, full of dust, soot and the smell of rust.

  Smell of rust! What does rust smell like?

  ‘Jesus …’

  He is never going to drink again, never again.

  Never!

  Not cognac, at any rate,

  ‘What a fuck-up,’ Methúsalem tells himself, forcing an uneasy smile on his deathly pale face.

  A smile that changes to a grimace as the nausea gushes up in his stomach, like milk on the verge of boiling over.

  ‘Don’t think about warm milk!’

  Methúsalem stretches out a ghostly hand and opens the door to the bridge.

  The lock clicks and that metallic click echoes like a shot inside the creaking shell of his head.

  ‘I wish I was dead,’ he murmurs and closes his eyes behind the lenses.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just said good evening,’ says Methúsalem, taking a deep breath as he straightens his back and walks slowly and confidently into the dim bridge.

  ‘You’re late,’ says Guðmundur and glances at his watch as he turns around in his chair. ‘You’re very late! It’s four minutes to eleven.’

  ‘Isn’t Sæli with you?’

  ‘No. I let him off until three. Why?’

  ‘Just … nothing.’ Methúsalem gasps as the ship pitches so suddenly that it’s as if the floor had been pulled out from under him.

  ‘What’s up with you, man?’ Guðmundur says, getting down from the chair. ‘Are you wearing sunglasses in the dark?’

  ‘Yeah, I …’ Methúsalem cautiously clearing his throat. ‘I’ve got something in my eyes. An infection or something. They feel like they’re full of sand.’

  ‘So maybe you can’t relieve me?.

  ‘It’s all right.’ Methúsalem feels his way forwards in the bridge. ‘The sunglasses help, and Rúnar is coming later on, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s on at midnight,’ says Guðmundur, surreptitiously studying Methúsalem. ‘Yeah, well, so, I’ll just leave you then, eh?’

  ‘Yeah, sure, I’m fine,’ says Methúsalem, getting into the captain’s chair. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘Right, goodnight t
hen,’ says Guðmundur and opens the door.

  ‘Goodnight.’ Methúsalem leans back in the soft chair and closes his eyes behind the black lenses.

  So get the hell going, Old Man!

  The door closes, the ship hits a wave, and the blow pulses back along the hull of the ship.

  Boom, boom, boom …

  Coffee.

  He should maybe have got himself some coffee.

  Methúsalem Sigurðsson opens his eyes but sees only black. He takes off his sunglasses and looks out the window for a few minutes, motionless.

  Over the weather deck floats a yellow haze.

  His eyelids sink down, Methúsalem twitches and starts out of his catnap.

  ‘Coffee,’ he says with a sigh. He has to have some coffee if he doesn’t want to fall asleep on watch.

  He gets down from the chair and crosses to the port side, where some two-hour-old coffee is thickening in a glass pot standing on a warm hotplate.

  ‘Fucking disgusting.’

  Methúsalem pours coffee into a clean mug.

  The smell is more than enough. He can’t drink this! It’s like diluted tar, this shit!

  Methúsalem pours the coffee into the sink, then he has to breathe deeply and slowly to keep his nausea down.

  Should he drink some water? No, water just gets warm in your stomach and increases the discomfort.

  Coke.

  He’d give everything he owns for a can of cold Coke.

  ‘I’m not asking much,’ says Methúsalem as he gets to his knees and opens the little fridge.

  UHT-milk, UHT-milk, UHT-milk, an apple, an orange, UHT-milk, UHT-milk, more UHT-milk, and then something cold and hard at the back of the top shelf.

  It’s a can!

  ‘Be Coke, be Coke!’ Methúsalem whispers, tasting the sour slime in his dry mouth as he feels with his fingers and gets a hold on the ice-cold can.

  There. It’s coming, it’s coming!

  ‘Coke, Coke, dear, dear Coke.’

  Methúsalem pulls the can into the bluish light in the doorway of the fridge.

  But the can isn’t red – it is not red but green – fucking green! Is it Sprite? Don’t be Sprite – no, it isn’t Sprite and it isn’t Fresca either …

  ‘Heineken,’ murmurs Methúsalem, staring at the frosty can rolling back and forth in his trembling hand.