Stefán Máni - The Ship

‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Yes,’ says Jónas, closing his eyes and lying back on the sweaty pillow. ‘I’m worried about the situation on board.’

‘You’re not the only one. But I just had a good meeting with the crew, and the way things stand now—’

‘I want you to stake out the ship,’ Jónas interrupts, opening his eyes again. ‘I want you to put a man down to guard the engine room and another out here in the corridor. I’m afraid that—’

‘But haven’t they already captured the saboteur?’ says the captain with a scowl.

‘Yeah. Maybe. But you never know. I don’t trust anyone, Guðmundur. Except you, of course. And I certainly don’t trust Methúsalem Sigurðsson, to tell you the truth.’

‘It’s exactly these suspicions that I’m trying to get rid of.’ Guðmundur takes a deep breath to calm the anger boiling inside him. ‘We simply can’t have all this friction, and men plotting behind closed doors.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Who am I supposed to put on guard, if nobody’s to be trusted?’ asks the captain, raising his voice. ‘And who’s supposed to steer the ship if everyone’s on guard all over the place?’

‘I’m just afraid of more trouble, that’s all,’ Jónas says softly, his voice trembling. ‘You could let Sæli and Rúnar off their normal duties and get them to guard the engine. Then we’d be sure that—’

‘I’m not listening to this rubbish!’ Guðmundur stands up. ‘Why should I put a guard on the engine?’

‘Methúsalem is capable of anything,’ says Jónas, closing his eyes again. ‘I know what he’s like. He hasn’t given up, believe me.’

‘I’ll take care of Methúsalem. You just look after yourself,’ says the captain and he leaves the infirmary.

Why not?

On the table in Methúsalem’s cabin stands a flask of cognac that glitters like gold, like spiritual honey; a shining vessel full of bodily warmth and dreamlike light! This flask is the only good thing in the whole fucking ship – in the whole world, if it comes to that. Methúsalem sits on a folded towel on the damp couch and stares at the flask. He squeezes out some saliva, sticks out a slimy tongue and tries to wet his parched lips.

There are towels on the windowsill, towels on the floor, soaking-wet towels everywhere , and everything is wet and damp and the cabin smells musty, and it’s only a matter of time before this dump becomes uninhabitable due to mould, germs and other horrors.

From the broken window hangs the soaking-wet bedspread like dead flesh keeping the light out but letting the wind in . Everything is as miserable as can be and Methúsalem’s face aches, he’s shivering with cold, he’s hungry, he’s tired, and he feels awful .

In the face of all this horror stands the flask, like the Holy Grail, like a delicate candle flame in a world of darkness, cold and whirlwinds.

A guiding light? An hallucination?

Methúsalem Sigurðsson isn’t certain what he should do, but he knows what he has to do. He has to have one swig of cognac, if only to get some warmth round his heart and dull his headache, reduce the pain a little. He already feels better just thinking about it, so there’s nothing for it but to take a swig to make the thought a reality, not let it vanish like some fucking figment of his imagination.

Why should he lose out on feeling better when his only prospect is discomfort? Discomfort is an exception to the natural condition while comfort is the natural condition.

‘I need a glass,’ murmurs Methúsalem as he stands up from the couch.

‘ I need a glass! ’ What was the question?

He has neither decided to have a drink nor deny himself one, but he needs a glass because he knows that he will have a drink, without really being conscious of knowing it.

The first officer goes into the bathroom, where a glass in a copper stand on the wall by the sink holds a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste.

He puts the toothbrush and tube in the sink and washes the glass with hot water, then rinses it with cold.

The glass is clear, middle sized, with a heavy bottom.

He dries the glass with a clean towel but stops rubbing the smooth glass with the white cotton when he suddenly remembers the psychiatric drugs he washes down twice a day with a sip of cold water from this same glass.

Damn it! Did he take a pill this morning? Or last night? When did he last take a pill? Was it yesterday morning? Or the day before yesterday? Or the day before that? Has he stopped taking the drugs? Is he so forgetful? Or is his short-term memory letting him down? Is he taking the drugs without remembering?

Methúsalem puts down the glass, opens the cupboard above the sink and takes out the package of pills.

Lithium citrate – a drug for bipolar disorder, 500 mg, take one twice a day, five aluminium sheets in a pack, twenty pills per sheet, a total of 100 pills.

Eight pills are gone from the first sheet but the other four are untouched.

Eight pills, four days. When did he begin on this package – two days before they left? Four?

Lithium citrate is a strong psychiatric drug which is meant to prevent extreme wave action in your head, a sort of chemical Jesus that calms the storm of thoughts, evens out the difference between hyperactivity and depression and, thus, creates a kind of calm in the oceans of the mind.

This spiritual calm takes its toll, however. Common side effects are nausea, diarrhoea, frequent urination, thirst and endless fucking tiredness, not to mention the humiliation of having to take psychiatric drugs like some nutcase or madman.

‘Fucking poison!’

Methúsalem quickly washes the pills down the drain, one after another, and then places the empty package back in the cupboard, as if to cover up his ‘crime’ or deceive someone.

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.