Stefán Máni - The Ship

‘Hello?’ Methúsalem says, making a feeble effort to clear his throat. He is hoarse and tries to wet his parched lips with his swollen tongue.

No answer. Who should answer him? Is his head empty? Nobody home?

Shut up!

He means to open his eyes but nothing happens. He can’t open his eyes.

They are glued shut.

‘What the hell,’ he says and feels his closed eyes with the fingers of his right hand. On his eyelashes he finds some kind of crust or something congealed that can be picked at and pulled off his slimy lashes and crumbled like bits of cake between his fingers.

His eyes are burning, he is nauseated and his nose is stuffed.

‘Goddammit,’ mutters Methúsalem and stops picking at the crust that glues his eyes closed.

He’s come down with some fucking bug.

A virus.

There was no way he could have been so hung over!

Better sleep a bit longer. Restore his energy. Get better. It’s hardly all that late.

What did he do yesterday? Who? Did he do anything yesterday? What?

The engine!

Did he go down to the engine room? Or didn’t he?

Methúsalem puts the palm of his right hand on the bed frame. Through the wood and steel the tips of his fingers sense the slow beat of the engine.

So, had he not gone down to the engine room?

He sighs deeply and tries to fall asleep again, but he feels lousy and it’s hard to relax when your thoughts wander across the border between dreaming and being awake, while your stomach is heaving like a bubbling mud pot.

His fingers meet a white cube…

Suddenly he remembers something. He makes his right hand crawl like a large spider into the pocket of his trousers, and when his trembling fingers finally find a hard cube his heart skips a beat, and then starts pounding in his chest like a rabbit fucking.

A lump of sugar!

The darkness buzzes like a huge bluebottle fly, the veins in his eyelids light up like the wires in a light bulb and the heat in the cabin seems to rise about twenty degrees.

‘Shit!’ Methúsalem tries to swallow, his mouth is bone dry.

This can’t be right!

Guðmundur Berndsen sits at the table in his cabin and stares in disbelief at the chart laid out in front of him, where two lines intersect like a cross far from their intended route:

33° W 7° N

He could accept thirty-three degrees west, which is the longitudinal coordinate. Guðmundur was hoping the ship was closer to thirty-seven degrees west, though drifting about four degrees east was of itself not impossible, though it is much more than all the models project.

But seven degrees north? That’s simply not possible.

By normal standards the ship should be east-south-east of Newfoundland, somewhere nearer forty-four degrees north latitude. But according to his calculation the ship was positioned north-north-east of Brazil.

Seven degrees north of the equator.

South of the Tropic of Cancer.

The ship is right over the curved Atlantic Ridge, as if it had skimmed along it at three times its top speed.

‘This can’t be right,’ Guðmundur mutters to himself.

But what if it is right? Can it be right? No, this simply can not be right!

Or can it?

If these coordinates are right he needs to change course and sail west to Suriname, which is only three days away if these figures are to be believed.

If the figures are sheer bullshit, though, and he accepts them and sails to the west, he could end up in New York after three days instead of continuing on to South America.

And then there is a third possibility: the co-ordinates are correct and he chooses not to believe his own calculations and continues to sail south, which means that he would not reach land until the ship ran into Antarctica ice after two weeks.

It would have been better not to use the sextant under these conditions. An hour ago he knew little, but now he knows absolutely nothing.

‘Hell and damnation!’

Guðmundur rolls up the chart, pushes the sextant to the side and turns off the calculator.

What should he do?

The captain snaps the rubber band off his deck of cards and lays a solitaire to calm his nerves and ease his mind.

But it doesn’t do the trick.

After losing track of the game, forgetting what he’s doing and getting mixed up seven times in a row, the game is just an incoherent pattern of cards. So Guðmundur pulls the cards together into total chaos, shuffles them and puts the rubber band back in place.

Maybe he should unpack his suitcase?

Guðmundur Berndsen stands up, pulls out his suitcase and lays it flat on his made-up bed. The minute he opens the case and sees the ironed, folded clothes he thinks instinctively of Hrafnhildur.

What might she be doing now?

Is she still wondering whether she should fly to meet her husband? Has she maybe already started to pack? Started the flight in her thoughts?

Or has she thrown the ticket away in the garbage?

‘If I just…’ Guðmundur draws his fingertips over the stiff shirts and the soft flannel pants.

If he just what ?

If only he’d pulled himself together and asked her straight out whether she really was interested in saving the marriage, instead of forcing her into a corner like that and leaving her there. If only he’d told her that he had resigned, and then maybe talked with her about her grief, the black dress and the singing at funerals. If he had just let her have the plane ticket a day sooner so she could sleep on it all, think it over and then give him an answer before he went to sea for the last time.

If he had just sat down with her sometime and asked her whether she was ready to turn her back on shadows of the past and walk with him into the light again, instead of remaining silent like a brute the whole time he was on shore and letting four precious weeks burn up to nothing.

What then?

Then there wouldn’t be this damned uncertainty gnawing at the roots of his heart like a worm that eats the fruit from within.

Personal relations have never been one of Guðmundur Berndsen’s strengths, though; he’s always preferred being at the helm of a ship to being near sensitive souls. He’s a ship’s captain and what ship’s captains do is find the most sensible path between two points; they sail around dangers, avoid collisions, and think only about getting the ship safely over the sea and into a safe port, together with its cargo and crew.

That’s just how it is; that’s how it’s always been…

Guðmundur Berndsen heaves a sigh and continues to unpack the case.

He hangs the shirts and trousers on hangers in the clothes locker, arranges his underwear on one shelf and socks on another.

‘Well…’

Guðmundur clears his throat loudly before continuing to unpack his case, sort his luggage and put it away.

He wipes away a tear from the corner of his right eye with the back of his rough, veined hand and then takes out several short-sleeved T-shirts, lays four silk ties on the bed and hangs up a light jacket and light-coloured trousers. There is nothing left in the case except something folded in brown wax paper that covers the bottom.

Hrafnhildur has never put wax paper around his clothes. Is this a gift? No, hardly. He’ll be home long before Christmas and his birthday isn’t until May.

This couldn’t be…

Guðmundur feels a cold stab in his stomach and his neck stiffens as if he’s about to suffocate.

For thirty years a dark brown velvet suit has hung in the clothes cupboard in their bedroom. This is the suit that Guðmundur Berndsen wore on their wedding day. It hasn’t fit him for nearly twenty-five years but he is very fond of it, so Hrafnhildur has never been able to get him to throw it away despite pleading with him tearfully every single time she arranges the clothes in the crowded wardrobe.