Stefán Máni - The Ship

They brought guns aboard so they wouldn’t have to talk. They were aiming for action, not words.

Weren’t they?

But their actions had turned to dust, more or less. They had gone too fast, too far, and maybe given up too easily when they met resistance. By placing a ‘bad apple’ on the ship the owners had managed to create an atmosphere of suspicion and confusion, weakening the solidarity of the crew.

All the energy of the mutineering faction had been spent on finding and then restraining that dangerous foreign body, which had also meant the plans of the gang of five had been revealed sooner than they’d wanted.

While that terrorist was on the loose the mutineering faction couldn’t concentrate on the interests of the crew, and once the terrorist had been overpowered those interests were overshadowed by the fact that there were mutineers.

Their adversaries had manoeuvred them into the position of ending on fool’s mate, whatever they did or didn’t do. They’re a piece of work, those fucking owners, that’s for sure!

Secrecy had been their trump card and now it had been knocked out of their hands. Once they lost the mask of the anonymous rebel, men were embarrassed when faced with the authority they had meant to overthrow.

An awed respect for the captain runs in seamen’s blood.

John refuses to kill the engines and Rúnar, Sæli and Ási have gone soft.

The mutiny was stillborn. The company has won. The lay-offs are coming.

Aren’t they?

‘Come in!’

Methúsalem opens the door, breathes in through flared nostrils and walks, with spine erect, into the cabin.

He intends to listen with an open mind to what the captain has to say but he is also determined not to be steamrollered.

It’s one thing to lose, another to be humiliated in front of witnesses.

‘Have a seat,’ says the captain to the first mate, pointing to the couch, where John and Rúnar are sitting, near the wall.

‘What’s happened to your face, man?’ says Rúnar when he sees the bloodstained bandage on Methúsalem’s right cheek.

‘It’s nothing,’ Methúsalem mutters, taking a seat on the couch closer to the door. ‘I just cut myself.’

‘That looks bad,’ says John, who’s sitting in the middle to Rúnar’s right and Methúsalem’s left.

‘It’ll mend before I marry.’ Methúsalem offers the old saying as he touches the hardening bandage with his right fingertips. His swollen face twitches.

‘Comrades,’ says Guðmundur Berndsen with a slight cough. He stands, balancing, in front of the table, his hands locked together behind his back. Skuggi sits behind him, his head on one side.

The three men go silent and watch the captain, who lifts his chin and stares intently at the wall above their heads while he speaks, as if he’s addressing a huge crowd – or no one at all.

‘All I’m asking is that we work in peace until we get to Suriname,’ he says and leans forward some thirty degrees to compensate for the ship’s movement. ‘The minute we dock I will phone home and speak to the company director. I will ask him about the alleged lay-offs and if they are, in fact, planned I will demand that he reconsider that decision.’

Guðmundur lowers his chin and looks at each of the three men in turn, as if emphasising his words by means of personal contact and authoritative silence.

Is he telling the truth? Yes. He is going to phone home and attempt to have the decision to lay off the whole crew reversed, or at least postponed.

Does he expect to succeed? No. He has himself already resigned from the company, so his word and opinion no longer have any influence.

At best they would listen to him for the sake of courtesy; at worst they would take revenge for his meddling by breaking his termination contract or putting off his pension payments for a few years.

He is simply buying himself peace – possibly at a high price.

‘What if they refuse?’ asks Methúsalem.

‘Then I refuse to load the ship,’ Guðmundur replies immediately.

‘But what if they threaten to fire you too?’ says Methúsalem, leaning back into the couch. He can feel something hard behind the cushion.

‘Then I resign on the spot,’ says Guðmundur firmly.

‘And abandon the ship?’ Methúsalem shoves his right hand behind the cushion to find out what’s poking into his back.

‘Yes,’ says Guðmundur with a nod. He has now told so many lies that his face is red and his temples damp with sweat.

‘And us at the same time, then?’ asks Methúsalem, his face splitting into a grin because he has made the captain talk himself into a corner. But his humourless grin changes suddenly to a look of fear when his reaching fingers feel rounded glass behind the cushion.

‘What?’ says Guðmundur, blinking. Damn it! He’d been over this conversation in his head time after time, forwards and backwards, and practised answers to every conceivable and inconceivable question, yet he had allowed that fucker Methúsalem to trick him like that.

Silence.

Methúsalem can’t think clearly. He feels the flask with his right hand and listens to the liquid gurgling inside the thick glass, or inside his head – he’s not sure. He sees double, smells the alcohol and moves his swollen tongue around his dry mouth.

‘Methúsalem?’ says Big John, gently nudging the first mate.

‘Yes?’ Methúsalem presses his back even tighter against the cushions, jamming the flask and his hand against the back of the couch.

‘You asked whether he would abandon us, the crew,’ says John as he watches Methúsalem turn alternately red and pale.

Silence.

‘It won’t come to that,’ says Guðmundur, clearing his throat.

‘How can you be sure?’ asks Rúnar.

Guðmundur says something; Methúsalem sees his lips moving, but he can’t hear what he’s saying.

The only thing he can hear is his own heartbeat, echoing like drum beats inside his empty head.

Boom, boom, boom…

He pulls the flask out from under the cushion and slides it under his waistband at the back. Then he untucks his shirt and hides the flask with the shirt.

Is it vodka? Rum? Gin? Whiskey? Cognac?

Cognac. He’s certain it’s cognac.

‘Methúsalem?’

Silence.

‘I just want to say one thing before I leave this company,’ says Methúsalem, standing up from the couch. ‘I’m satisfied with what’s been said here. Guðmundur is a good man and I trust his word absolutely. That’s all I have to say.’

Methúsalem has hardly finished speaking when the ship is hit by a heavy breaker. Guðmundur loses his balance and ends up flat on the floor, and John and Rúnar are lifted from the couch, their thighs hitting the edge of the table, then they thump down hard on their bottoms to the floor between the couch and the table.

Methúsalem, on the other hand, doesn’t move. He stands steady on both legs, his back to the door, and watches his crewmates get tossed around the cabin. He’s wearing a foolish, puzzled expression, as if he can’t understand why they’re acting like that.

You’d think the first officer was suspended in some kind of vacuum beyond the natural laws of our world.

After the meeting in his cabin, Ási takes Guðmundur a message that Jónas wants to see him. The captain asks Rúnar to assume his watch in the bridge while he quickly goes down to see the second officer in the infirmary.

‘How’re you feeling?’ asks Guðmundur, taking a seat on a stool by the bed of his second mate, who looks and acts totally miserable.

‘Well, I’m in agony. The drugs have some effect on the pain, but—’