Peter Rabe - The Box

In a way, thought the captain, this Arab is taking a lot from the clerk.

“There were remarkable arrangements for a long journey,” said Remal. “A great number of water canisters strapped to the side of the coffin…”

“Can’t you say box?”

“Of course, Whitfield. And a double wall filled with small packets of this food, this compressed food the American soldiers used to carry.”

“You think he’s an American?” asked the captain.

“Of course. Didn’t you load him in New York?”

The captain put his glass down on the floor and when he sat up again he looked angry.

“I got papers which say so and I got a box which looks like it. That’s all I know. The way it turns out, the damnable thing did not go through customs, my crew didn’t see the damnable thing coming on…”

“Didn’t they load it?”

“Crew doesn’t load. Longshoremen do the loading.”

“Ah. And port of origin and destination, I’m told, they are both the same. Americans do things like that, don’t they, Whitfield?” asked the mayor. “Perhaps a stunt.”

“A Christian-fanatic stunt,” said the clerk. He took water into his hands and dribbled it over his head. “I name thee Whitfield,” he murmured.

“As fanatics,” said Remal, “we would be more consequential.”

“Bathe in the blood of the lamb, not water.”

“I beg your pardon?”

I’ll get drunk too, thought the captain. That might be the best thing. But his glass was empty and he did not want to get up and squeak the bed.

“Yes,” Remal continued. “In the coffin, there were also those pills, to make the fanaticism more bearable.”

“The doctor analyzed them?”

“That will be a while,” said Remal. “I gave one or two, I forget how many, to my servant, and he became extremely sleepy.”

“Your scientific curiosity is almost Western,” said the clerk. He waited for something polite from the mayor, something polite with bite in it, but the mayor ignored the remark and quite unexpectedly came to the point. It was so unexpected that the captain did not catch on for a while.

“This person,” said the mayor and smoothed his shirt, “is your passenger, captain. I don’t quite see the situation.”

“Eh?” said the captain.

“I hardly see how he can stay.”

“You don’t see?” said the captain. He himself saw nothing at all. “Well, right now he’s in the hospital,” he said. It sounded like the first simple, sane thing to him in a long time.

“Yes. You put him there, captain.”

“I know. Just exactly…”

“Why don’t you take him out?”

“Take him out? But I’m leaving this evening.”

“Take him with you.”

“But he’s sick!”

“He’s alive. And your passenger.”

The captain made an exasperated swing with both arms, which caused the bed to creak and the glass to fall over.

“Whitfield,” he said, “what in hell-what-”

“He wants you to take the man from the box along with you,” said the clerk. Then he took water into his mouth and made a stream come out, like a fountain.

“I will not! ”

“Your passenger…”

“And stop calling him my passenger!” yelled the captain. “He’s a stowaway and there’s no law on land or sea which tells me, the captain, that I must transport a stowaway!”

Next came a silence, which was bad enough, but then the mayor put his teacup down and shrugged slightly. This made the captain feel gross and useless.

“Dear captain,” said Remal and looked at his fingernails, “you are leaving tonight, you say?” Then he looked up. “I could hold your ship here for any number of reasons. Mayor in Okar, I think, means more than mayor in Oslo, for instance. You may find I combine several functions and powers under this one simple title.”

“Just a minute!” His own voice shocked the captain, but then he didn’t care any more. “I’m not taking him. I’m not even taking the time to show you the regulations. I’m not even taking the time to ask why in the damn hell you’re so interested in getting the man out of here.”

“My interest is very simple,” said Remal. “I would like to avoid the official complications of having a man land in my town, a man without known origin, without papers, arriving here in an insane way.”

“You are worried about something?” said the captain with venom.

Remal began a smile, a comer of his mouth curving. Then suddenly he turned to the clerk. “He landed on your company’s pier, Whitfield. The responsibility…”

“It-is-not!”

“You interrupt, Whitfield.”

“I know what comes next. I should persuade the captain to get the paperless lunatic out of the country.”

Remal waited but this turned out to be of no help.

“Head office of my shipping firm is in London. I can’t telegraph for instructions and get an answer before the captain leaves. I can’t ask him to stay-his ship isn’t a company vessel. My company leases both pier and depot from your state; it’s a small shipping point only, which is why I am executive clerk on this station.” The clerk sat up, feeling ridiculous with the pomp of his speech. He therefore put his arms on the rim of the tub, sat straight, and imagined he was sitting like this on a throne.

“Whitfield,” said the mayor, “how can you refuse all responsibility for a sick man who lands on your pier?”

“Oh, that,” and the clerk let himself slide back into the water. He looked up at the ceiling and said, “Of course I will visit him in the hospital.”

There was more talk, polite talk guided by Remal, but it was clearly tapering-off talk. It showed how flexible Remal was. It showed, perhaps, that the mayor was thinking of another way.

“Perhaps it will all be very simple,” he said and got up.

“Perhaps the man will die?”

“Of course not, Whitfield.” Remal smoothed his tunic and took a deep breath. This showed how large his chest was. “He will wake up, talk, and explain everything.” And Remal walked out.

The man from the box did not talk for several days.

At first they thought that he was in a coma. He was extremely unresponsive, and of course there had been the blows on the head with the axe handle.

They washed him and shaved his face and put him to bed.

Then they thought of it as a deep sleep, due to extreme exhaustion. But for that diagnosis he slept too long. Catatonic stupor was suggested, but that did not fit either. When they sat him up he collapsed again.

They let him lie in bed and attached various tubes.

“Same?”

“Same.”

They were French nurses and the older one was in his room because she had to switch glucose bottles. The younger one always came in a few times each day to see how the man was doing.

“Look at him,” said the younger one. “How he looks.”

“You look at him, Marie. I know how he looks.”

“A baby-”

“Marie,” said the older one, “he does not look like a baby. With that face.”

“He’s just thin.”

“You talk about babies a great deal, Marie.”

“Don’t you think he looks gentle?”

“Well, he’s asleep.”

“I think he looks gentle. I think that he probably is.”

They watched how he tried to turn in his sleep…

He tried to turn in his chair but the man behind him cut the heel of his hand into the side of Quinn’s face, not hard, but mean nonetheless, and effective. I’m not going to make more of this than it is, Quinn thought, this is just meant to be one more of his talks. With trimming this time, but just a talk.

Quinn kept his head straight, as he was supposed to do, and looked at Ryder behind the leather-inlaid desk. How a fat bastard with a sloppy mouth can be so hard, thought Quinn. How? I’ve got to find out. I must find this out.