His voice trembled slightly, and his mouth betrayed emotion: “You … you are the most entrancing sight on earth, Liva. Yes, I’m calling things by their proper name, because I’ve had just a drop too much to drink this evening. You’re the sort of person who deserves to be worshipped, yes, by God you do … every man must worship a girl like you. But … why have you joined the bun sect, Liva? I was terribly sorry to hear you’d started going there. What do you want with those stupid people, Liva? They mean you no good, believe me, they’re simply out to get their hands on you. They’re a self-indulgent bunch, that’s what they are, but they go about it in such an underhand way … they love each other in Jesus … cunning, isn’t it … revolting. No, don’t be angry, Liva. Oh, all right, go on. You just get mad with me because I’ve had a drop too much and I’m saying what I think. I won’t say another word now, Liva. I didn’t intend to upset you.”
“I’m not angry with you, Jens Ferdinand,” said Liva. “And you mustn’t think I bother about what you say. You should come and hear Simon yourself … I think that would give you something else to think about.”
Jens Ferdinand nodded. “Liva,” he said warmly. “I know I’m only a worthless wretch at the side of you.”
He stretched out his hand to her again. “Well, I’ll be off now, off on my lonely way. My life is wasted and unblest … yes, it is; I best know that myself … the world’s a miserable hole in general, a stinking slaughter-house. And then in the midst of it all I come across a creature like you … ! What the hell am I to make of it, then? What am I to say? Perhaps life’s not so bad after all? So we ought to be content.”
Jens Ferdinand heaved a deep sigh, and tears came to his eyes. “Yes, I’m drunk, Liva, that’s why I’m talking like this, you must forgive me … Well, that sounds like Sigrun coming … so I’ll be off. Goodbye, Liva, goodbye, goodbye.”
Liva gave a wan smile and shook her head. But suddenly he felt her hand on his head and heard her whisper: “May Jesus Christ keep thee, my poor dear.”
He gave her a contrite look.
There was the sound of quick footsteps on the gravel outside. It was Sigrun coming home. She had a brief altercation with her brother in the hall; Liva heard her call him a weakling and a disgrace to the family.
“Good evening, Liva,” she said cheerfully as she entered the kitchen. “You should just know what I’ve been through this evening. Lord! Well, as I was coming home from the telephone exchange two drunken sailors went for me and tore my dress. Just look … what do you think! The collar’s loose, two buttons missing, the breast pocket torn half off, my belt split. It was only two young lads, but they were both after me … me, a woman of thirty-three. I’m going straight down to Captain Gilgud tomorrow morning to complain and demand compensation for my dress. You’ll see, Liva!”
Sigrun sat down, quite out of breath. She sat staring into space; her eyes were dry, and Liva noticed the tiny warm wrinkles beneath them. She went on: “God in heaven, they were a brazen pair, the fools, Liva. I can’t tell you how they carried on. Luckily I couldn’t understand what they were saying. A couple of greenhorns, they were. Oh, but sit down, Liva, and have a bite of food if you’re hungry. How are you getting on, by the way? Do they leave you in peace? And what about Opperman? He’s a smart little man, isn’t he?”
Sigrun took a couple of steps across the floor, imitating Opperman’s mincing gait. It was very lifelike, and she managed to copy Opperman’s loose neck and mawkish arm movements.
“And the girls fall even for him,” fumed Sigrun. “And he isn’t even in uniform. But he’s foreign, and that’s the most important thing.”
She went on as she laid plates on the table: “Now there’s going to be a wedding again, a double wedding. Old Mathiasen the teacher. His two daughters are getting married – they’ve landed a sergeant each. I can’t see why they bother. Anna from the slipway office is already a widow… Yes, her husband was killed in Italy. She’s just been told. And Rita, the girl who sold tickets in the cinema, she’s been widowed, too. And by the way, remember fat Astrid? Well, she’s really fat now, there’s no mistaking that – and it’s with an old NCO – he’s already a grandfather and heaven knows what else besides. They’ve managed that one all right, haven’t they. And her with a father as has stood preaching in Capernaum chapel for generations, warning young people not to give in to temptation – what am I saying, God forgive me. But they don’t do things in small measures these days, you must admit … war and air raids, death and misfortune – nothing makes any difference. Do sit down, Liva. And now your sister Magdalena’s come home, I hear. With three children. And she wasn’t even married for a full three years. And they’re all going to live up in your house. Good heavens. Aye, as long as Ivar’s at sea, it’ll be all right. But what if he gets himself killed, Liva? Then you’ve got problems. Oh, do sit down, my dear, and have a bite to eat.”
“No, thank you, I’ve had supper,” said Liva.
Sigrun had put a little food on the table and poured herself a cup of tea. She sat at the little drop-leaf table and began to eat.
“Magdalena was always such a nice girl,” she said. “But she was ever so irresponsible. One man one day, another the next, and she was engaged at least twice before she married Oluf. And they do say that the eldest daughter isn’t his.”
Liva closed her eyes tight. She knew this old story. But it wasn’t fair of Sigrun to bring it up again now that Magadelena had come home a widow.
Sigrun ate with a will and washed down her food with scalding, strong tea. A brooch bearing the emblem of the Christian Youth Association could be seen shining on her blouse.
“By the way, we’ve got an amazing case in the Association,” she said, lowering her voice to a confiding tone. “A dreadful case. It doesn’t matter if I tell you, Liva, ’cause unfortunately it’s all over the village. Perhaps you’ve already heard it? Yes, it’s Consul Tarnowius’ daughter Borghild. Yes, what do you think? She’s got herself into trouble, and she doesn’t even know who the father is, for she only knows his first name, and the wretch has buzzed off – and besides, she’s probably had more than one… !”
Sigrun’s mouth tightened, and she shook her head as she poured out a fresh cup of tea. “And we’d been preaching to her and doing our best to keep a hold on her. That’s why her father sent her to us, you know. And he gave the Association five hundred kroner so that we’d do our very best. But it was no use; the girl was impossible; she went straight from our meetings into sin, out into the slough. But she’s got it from Tarnowius himself, for he was an old rake before he got married. It’s inherited Liva. Original sin. The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children.”
Sigrun went on as she ate: “Hey, your brother Ivar was gloriously drunk this evening. I just caught a glimpse of him together with Frederik – they were on their way up to Marselius’ dance hall. Of course! They must have their dance, even if the world is falling apart! They’ve got to dance and drink and – whore, yes, why not use the right word?”
Sigrun savoured the nasty little word for a moment, and the warm wrinkles appeared again under her eyes. Then she took on a serious air. “If only Ivar can keep his temper and not get into a fight, as he so often does. And if only he doesn’t get my poor brother mixed up in the trouble he causes. Because Jens Ferdinand has started slipping … you saw him yourself, didn’t you? He still looks all right, of course, but he’s not been to the printing works today at all, and if he gets into bad company, he can go on like this for weeks. And that’s more than his bad heart can stand. And he suffers something dreadful afterwards.”
Suddenly, Sigrun took hold of Liva’s hand; her voice became sad and reproachful. “And what about you, Liva? I don’t understand why you’ve started going along with Simon and that rabble. I really can’t forgive you for it. You ought to consider yourself too good for that, my girl. He’s so self-righteous, so censorious, he thinks he’s the only possessor of eternal truth, yes, by God that’s what h
e thinks. You can’t be saved nowadays except in his lousy little baker’s shop. But it’ll not last for long, you’ll see, because he doesn’t do anything these days, he’s not working as a baker any longer. So you’ll see, he’ll end on the parish or in clink or in the loony bin.”
“You do go on,” said Liva suddenly, drawing back her hand. “You’re like an automatic tooth-pick, you pick at everything.”
Sigrun looked up in surprise.
“Well, I mean … I actually came with bad news this evening,” said Liva.
Sigrun put down her knife and fork and laid her head on one side. “Is it … Johan?”
Liva took out the letter, but quickly returned it to her bosom.
“He’s going to have an operation,” she said. “When he’s got up enough strength for it.”
“God help us.” Sigrun came to a standstill and left her cup untouched. “An operation’s one of the last things they try.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Liva. She quickly turned round and left without saying goodbye.
“Liva,” shouted Sigrun after her. “Oh, my God, Liva…”
Liva followed the coastal road towards the village; she was biting her lip as she went, and had a salt taste in her mouth. A pungent smell of fermenting seaweed swept in from the shore; she breathed in its scent, which reminded her of the time which was even now almost of the distant past, when the house was being built and she used to go down there together with Johan, full of plans for the future.
From the village she could hear the usual confusion of noises, a woven tapestry of song and surging dissonance in which the steady tramp from Marselius’ dance hall as it were established the basic pattern.
She drifted slowly in towards the village and passed Capernaum, the free church meeting house. The big building stood dark and bulky in the damp evening, apparently deserted, but inside full of light and resounding to the music of the harmonium. She stopped for a moment and listened. Then she hurried on. It was getting on for nine o’clock, and from almost all the houses along the road she could hear the dull tones of London’s Big Ben. Then they came to an end, to be followed by the news. From out of the darkness came the sound of hammer blows and the hiss of machinery from Solomon Olsen’s slipway, and from one of the ships singing and the jolly tones of a harmonica could be heard. From the barracks, too, came the sound of singing and shouting to the accompanying drone of the bagpipes. It was Friday evening, payday and drinking day for the soldiers and for the seamen the evening for dancing. And issuing from the depths of all this confused din could be heard the steady tramp of feet dancing the traditional ring dance in Marselius’ dance hall.
She turned up the main road; the ballad sounded closer at hand now; they were dancing to the ancient ballad of the Battle of Roncevalles, so it was presumably Ivar leading it, for it was his favourite, and he was one of the best ballad leaders in the Serpent Fjord.
But now the ballad was suddenly drowned by a different kind of song – the high-pitched, entreating sound of a hymn, to violin accompaniment. She recognised Simon’s voice; it was he and his followers, they had taken up position on the tiny square in front of the entrance to the dance hall. She crossed over to them and joined the little group, and suddenly she felt how everything was falling into place. This was where she belonged; she felt secure as though on an island in a tumultuous sea. When the hymn came to an end Simon stepped forward and began to preach. She could not concentrate her thoughts on his words, but his voice made her feel happy and safe.
There was a throng of people in the dance hall. When the blackout curtain at the door was pushed aside the dancing assembly could be glimpsed slowly moving forwards through the dusty, smoke-filled room. The crowds of people outside were in constant motion, and scarcely anyone cared to stop to listen to the baker’s message. Here and there faces could briefly be glimpsed in the light from pocket torches: seamen, soldiers and girls. There were two very dark-skinned merchant sailors among them, their faces were the colour of tarnished metal – they must have been Indians or Arabs. Suddenly she saw her sister Magdalena’s face illuminated in a brief flash. Magdalena down here in the village – already this evening? She was confused and felt a slight pain in her breast. She closed her eyes and made an effort to concentrate on Simon’s words.
They were stern words, words that hurt, words about the punishment which we bring down on our own heads through our sinful acts and thoughtless behaviour, and about the great hour that is approaching when the Lord shall reveal Himself in the clouds and strike the nations with terror and divide the sheep from the goats. We must follow the example of the wise virgins and have our lamps ready.
“My lamp is ready,” called a voice from the darkness, and a powerful beam of light was turned on the baker’s face. Simon stared straight into the light, calm and unconcerned; his sharp profile stood out in the darkness like a paper cutting, only suddenly to disappear again, but his voice continued to sound in the darkness, mildly admonitory in tone, but fundamentally inexorable.
7
Ivar was leading the dance. He was one of the few to be entirely at home in the rambling ballad; the verses poured from his mouth as from an inexhaustible well; his weather-beaten and weary face shone with sweat, and he was plagued by a heavy thirst. When they finally reached the end of the ballad he broke out of the chain and made his way in to the bar. Here, too, there was a crush; the long benches around the grubby table were packed tight with beer-drinking seamen and soldiers, but they willingly made room for Ivar, and a generous hand filled his glass with beer and snaps.
“Just listen to Jens Ferdinand, he’s making a political speech,” someone nudged him.
Ivar turned round and saw Jens Ferdinand, the hunch-backed typographer, standing on a bench, brandishing a long, grey hand in the smoke-filled air. His eyes stood out black in his ashen face. Jens Ferdinand was having one of his big evenings; it had been happening pretty often just recently, but otherwise he was usually a quiet, shy man. But then, suddenly this came over him; he got drunk and intoned mighty speeches to the people. Now he was standing there, his mouth flowing over with fine words of the sort you see in print; they confused his ordinary listeners like a wad of foreign banknotes, but in general people understood what he was getting at; a few nodded and agreed with him, others laughed and found the eager little man amusing, while others again were angry, threatened him and told him to go to Hell. Jens Ferdinand spoke with the zeal of a missionary, but the contents of his speech were not exactly pious.
It was the war he was going on about this time … the war, the only aim of which was to exploit and sacrifice innocent people so that a handful of millionaires in the different countries concerned could extend their influence even more … gamblers, armament makers, factory owners and speculators. “It’s for their sakes that people are being slaughtered in their millions,” he cried. “We’re not fighting for our native land. They cry native land just to entice ignorant people into their trap. And it’s not a scrap different here in the Faroe Islands; no, it’s just the same, for here, too, it’s a tiny clique of rich speculators, a mere handful of influential men seeking to grow yet more influential on the basis of other people’s danger and death! That’s who we’re dying for … in the name of our native land… !”
“Well, at least, no one’s going to think of killing you, Jens Ferdinand,” someone countered. “You’re all right, you little worm.”
“Aye, did you ever hear the like?” someone else shouted. “Just listen to that bolshevik running down our best folk.”
The voice was that of a tall young man in a chequered sports suit and wearing heavy horn-rimmed spectacles. It was Bergthor Ørnberg, known to some as “the bard”. Bergthor was Solomon Olsen’s book-keeper and chairman of the youth movement known as “Forward”.
“Lickspittle”, snarled the typographer scornfully.
“Do you mean me, you … you … !”
Bergthor turned threateningly towards him.
�
��No, no!” wailed old Marselius, the publican. He was standing fidgeting nervously. “Jens Ferdinand’s drunk and doesn’t know what he’s saying. Let’s have no trouble, be good, honest men! Who’s bothered about a nonentity like him?”
The little typographer was dragged down from the bench; the man sitting beside him pushed a brimming glass in front of him: “Here, now get this drunk, and shut up.”
He went on in a protective tone and addressed himself to the whole gathering: “Jens Ferdinand’s bloody well the brightest chap in this place, he’d outweigh any five school-teachers put together.”
Jens Ferdinand emptied his glass in a single draught. “That’s right,” shouted Marselius gaily, rubbing his thin goatee beard. “That’s right. Let’s all enjoy ourselves together.”
But it was not long before things again went wrong between the typographer and the bard. They were having a furious row when Bergthor suddenly pointed a finger at the hunchback and shouted: “They say you’re a spy. Do you know? Who the hell are you spying for, you’d better tell us straight away.”
But now Ivar got up and shook Bergthor vigorously by the shoulder: “Who the bloody Hell says he’s a spy? Except you, you bum-sucker! You watch out, and remember you’re not surrounded by the girls in Solomon Olsen’s office now!”
Bergthor uttered a sound somewhere between a laugh and a roar: “Just listen to him, the Count of Acacia Cottage! Has it gone to your head now you’ve been put in command of Opperman’s rotten little tub?”
Ivar clenched his teeth. He turned half away and said quietly, but distinctly: “If you want to say anything else, come outside for a moment, and if you daren’t, then sit down and shut up.”
Bergthor lit a cigarette and blew out the smoke scornfully.
“Who the devil do you think you are?” he said. “Go back to Acacia Cottage and play Mussolini there, you’ll have a better audience there.”
The Black Cauldron Page 5