Stefán Máni - The Ship

Going by the book, the experienced and reliable Methúsalem Sigurðsson should long ago have been given his own command, but the years have passed and most, if not all, of his old mates have been promoted – all except Methúsalem, and this uncomfortable fact is becoming pretty embarrassing, both for Methúsalem and those who sail with him. But there is simply something wrong with Methúsalem Sigurðsson – something people can feel but maybe can’t put their finger on – and it’s this something that prevents him from being trusted to take on the demanding job of a captain. He’s been divorced twice; he is either on his way to treatment for alcoholism or freshly out of it; he is bankrupt; he’s a bloody fascist, and then there’s something odd about him. Nobody who knows Methúsalem would maintain that he’s crazy exactly, yet his fellow crew members all agree that there’s something crazy about Methúsalem.

‘Well, lads, now it’s the real thing,’ says Methúsalem, gesturing to Big John and Rúnar to follow him over to the bed. From underneath he pulls out his suitcase and lays it flat on the neatly made bed. From the suitcase he takes a heavy oblong bundle, something wound in canvas and tied round with twine. Methúsalem closes the suitcase and puts it back under the bed, then he places the bundle lengthways on the bed, loosens the twine and carefully unwinds the canvas. They can hear the soft clinks of metal touching metal, metal touching wood and wood touching wood.

‘So how do you like that?’ the chief mate asks, taking a step backwards. Big John and Rúnar take a step forward, the chief engineer on Methúsalem’s right and the bosun on his left.

All of them stare in awe at the darkish artefacts lying side by side on the canvas, smelling of soot and oil. Three dismantled guns: one .22 calibre bolt-action Savage rifle and two double-barrelled shotguns, one an old Remington side-by-side with one trigger, the other a double-triggered over/under Ruger.

‘These are my children,’ Methúsalem announces.

‘I’m not so sure this is a good idea,’ sighs Big John.

‘No revolution without weapons, my dear Che,’ says Methúsalem, clapping the chief engineer on his broad back.

‘It kind of gives you the creeps, I won’t deny it,’ says Rúnar.

‘The Old Man is armed, don’t forget that!’ Methúsalem says, picking up the barrel of the rifle and carefully blowing off some invisible thing.

‘Well, that’s just a condition of the insurance company,’ says Big John. ‘Some international requirement because of piracy.’

‘Besides, the gun belongs to the ship, not to the captain personally,’ says Rúnar, then shrugs. ‘Some shotgun provided by the company.’

On board the ship the freight company Polar Ships is never called anything but ‘the company’.

‘Exactly! A shotgun provided by the company!’ says Methúsalem with a chilly laugh. ‘A gun that is nothing but a tool for separating the few who are in control from the many who control nothing. A tool that only one man has access to, and that’s the captain, of course, who – nota bene – is, in fact, the only representative of the company on board. Think about it! The rest of us are his subordinates, and the captain is the only one that bows to the will of the bosses.’

‘You’ve started talking like a noxious leftie,’ John says, smiling crookedly. ‘Like a nationalistic left-winger – that is to say, a national socialist.’

‘That’s right, though.’ Rúnar sighs. ‘What he’s saying about the company.’

‘Of course it’s right!’ says Methúsalem, putting the rifle barrel back on the canvas. ‘It’s not as if I only started thinking about this yesterday.’

‘There’s one thing I totally agree with,’ says Big John, chomping on his cigar. ‘Guns are tools. And, as with all tools, everything depends on who’s using them. What matters isn’t whether you’re armed or not, but what you do with the weapon you may be holding. D’you understand?’

‘Of course,’ mutters Methúsalem indifferently.

‘The way I understood this, the idea was that if men knew we had weapons, then they wouldn’t use their own,’ says Rúnar, getting out cigarettes and a lighter. ‘That one weapon would cancel out another, so that it wouldn’t really come to weapons. A sort of ceasefire. Wasn’t that it?’

‘Why are you saying “men” and “they” when we’re only talking about one man?’ Methúsalem says as he takes hold of the bosun’s right arm. ‘There is one gun in the hands of the enemy, and that enemy is our captain. Don’t smoke in here.’

‘Let’s not be talking about enemies,’ says John, scratching his beard. ‘And I agree with Rúnar. The idea behind these weapons was to strengthen our position and even up the odds. In an even game, neither adversary can oppress the other. That way we should solve this dispute quickly and effectively.’

‘The captain isn’t alone,’ Rúnar says, putting away his smokes and lighter. ‘People have a tendency to back up the person in power.’

‘Now you’re talking sense!’ Methúsalem claps the bosun on the back. ‘And these guns ensure our control over those who consider themselves above the three of us and everyone else.’

‘But we keep the guns out of it for as long as we possibly can,’ says Big John decisively. ‘Showing these weapons is a last resort and nothing else. I remind you that the mere presence of these murderous tools aboard the ship can have serious consequences. Not to mention if men start threatening with them.’

‘Yeah, I think we ought to keep the guns hidden,’ Rúnar adds. ‘Just knowing they’re here will make us feel more confident, which is useful in itself.’

‘These guns,’ says Methúsalem calmly, looking over the dismantled guns like a pastor over his flock, ‘these guns are meant to ensure that our forthcoming revolt will not just peter out and blacken our honour and reputations forever. These guns will distinguish between the victors and the defeated. They may not be the lamp that lights our way, but they will show the way and get rid of all obstructions.’

‘Amen,’ Rúnar says, giving the short, nervous laugh of a man who wants to win but fears the victory will be sour rather than sweet.

‘Just remember, lads, that this kind of dust-up can end badly,’ says John, looking at his companions.

‘We could end up in jail, for fuck’s sake,’ says Rúnar, scratching his head.

‘I don’t know about you, comrades,’ Methúsalem says, crossing his arms, ‘but I’m not about to go on the dole.’

‘No, nobody’s about to do that,’ mutters Big John.

‘Let’s finish this, comrades,’ says Rúnar with a deep breath. ‘I’ve gotta have a smoke, for Chrissake!’

‘That makes two of us,’ says Big John, spitting out wet tobacco. ‘Who’s taking which piece?’

‘I’d better have the rifle, because there’s an art to assembling it,’ Methúsalem says as he waves his hands over the pieces of guns. ‘Shotguns you can just slide together.’

‘I’ll take this one.’ Rúnar grasps the over/under shotgun.

‘Here’s its back end.’ Methúsalem hands Rúnar a magazine attached to a lacquered wooden stock.

‘Then I’ll take this one,’ says Big John, picking up the other shotgun, which is both older and more worn.

‘Meeting closed,’ says Methúsalem, winding the canvas sheet around the rifle. ‘Now go hide the guns in your cabins, either under the beds or in the cupboard. I’ll go straight up to the bridge.’

‘What about shells?’ ask Rúnar.

‘I’ll get them to you when I have a chance,’ says Methúsalem, gesturing them to leave. ‘It’s not a good idea to be wandering about with both hands full of guns and shells.’