Sjon - The Whispering Muse

I was standing in an armoury. There were rows of halberds and daggers, bows and quivers, maces and axes, spears and swords. Beside the armour stood a shield the size of a wagon wheel, propped up against the wall so that it gleamed in the moonlight. An etching in flaming silver screamed from the centre of the shield; the head of the Gorgon with her swine’s tushes, venomous eyes and hissing snakes.

I fled out of the bathroom, through the fore cabin and into the saloon, slamming the door behind me. Yes, there was no mistaking it, this was the door to the quarters I’d had the use of for the last seven days and nights; no other fitted the description. I looked from the cabin door over to the captain’s table. There was no one there. I shouted his name:

‘Captain Alfredson, Captain Alfredson!’

No answer. I hurried across the empty saloon and looked to see if there was anyone in the galley. No one there. I stuck my head into the lounge, the radio room, the bridge. I went along the deckhands’ corridor, banging on all the doors: I knocked on the doors of both mates, of the engineers, of Alfredson himself. But there was not a soul to be seen anywhere. This was quite an ordeal for an elderly man and I frequently had to stop and catch my breath.

It was not until my third circuit of the ship that I noticed the door down to the engine room was open a crack. It hadn’t occurred to me to go down there as I was wearing my best suit, which I was unwilling to dirty since it looked as if it would be my only outfit for the homeward journey.

I opened the door and called:

‘Hello! Is there anybody there?’

No answer.

I was no more than halfway down the companion-way when I saw that the whole crew was assembled there, including the purser’s lady friend. They were all dressed in white coats and stood around a black platform in the middle of the engine room. The platform was about four feet high and at a guess twenty-four feet in diameter. An imposing four-sided prism jutted up from the centre, revolving with infinite slowness, while from inside the platform came a heavy ticking, a slow, deep pulse. This was the only sound that could be described as an engine noise — there was nothing else resembling an engine to be seen.

Next I heard the sound of effortful groans and the onlookers stepped aside for the first engineer who came walking backwards, guiding four deckhands who struggled over to the platform under the weight of a man-high key for winding a clock, all of them clad in white coats. Here they dispersed, one climbing on to the platform to receive the key, the other three lifting it. Then these three climbed on to the platform too and together the four of them lugged the key to the prism. The engineer signalled to them to hoist the key and they held it suspended over the prism while the engineer guided it into place, then they lowered it. The engineer and deckhands jumped down from the platform. The captain nodded:

‘Good work, lads…’

At this point Caeneus appeared. He took up position by the platform and the purser’s lady friend helped him out of his white coat. Caeneus was now wearing nothing but a loincloth. He stepped up on to the platform, walked once anticlockwise around the key, then stopped and flexed his muscles like a wrestler. He stroked quickly but firmly over his biceps and thighs, spat on his palms, then set to work on the key.

As the second mate turned the key in a clockwise direction, his pliant body gleamed in the dim light of the engine room.

I yelled:

‘What about my cabin?’

Captain Alfredson was the only one who looked round. He seemed to have been expecting me and called back:

‘Don’t be alarmed, Mr Haraldsson, everything will be fine.’

He turned to the ship’s steward and jerked his thumb over his shoulder at me:

‘Make up a bed for him in Caeneus’s cabin…’

And he added so that everyone could hear:

‘The old man can sleep there tonight. It’ll take Caeneus till noon to wind up the ship…’

MY NEIGHBOURS SAY I have changed since I came home from my voyage. And I respond with the following question:

‘What is the point of travelling if not to broaden your mind?’

They like this answer and we chat a little about our travels, past and present, for most of us who live here are getting on in years. One sign that I am an altered man is that I have changed the topic of my conversation at the Café Sommerfugl. I haven’t entirely given up discussing the influence of seafood on the Nordic race but I spend less time discoursing on this and more on the fittings on board the MS Elizabet Jung-Olsen. Everyone is amazed at how well I was treated. ‘Is that right?’ and ‘You don’t say!’ are the most common reactions to my tales, and I am often asked to describe my quarters or explain certain events in more detail. In particular, they are interested in the fact that I witnessed a possible crime, and I have often been called on to repeat the story of my dealings with Chief Constable Knud Hamsun.

Sometimes a disgruntled voice will pipe up:

‘I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t it heard with my own ears that a fascist like Magnus Jung-Olsen had it in his stinking bones to be kind to an old addle-pate like you…’

But only one man speaks like that; the owner of Café Sommerfugl. He lost an ear in a German penal camp and has been bitter ever since; he can’t bear people to talk about anything other than that ear of his. We discussed it for the first year and a half after he came home — and from time to time after that — but have long since tired of this topic. When he starts on his ear, we regulars say:

‘Everyone prefers what’s there to what’s not.’

Another thing that has changed is my attitude to Widow Lauritzen. Before I went on my travels I thought her foolish and tiresome, and neglectful of her garden. I am still of the opinion that she could take better care of her apple trees and currant bushes, and I am not alone in that. She is the only one of us who has the chance to do any gardening since the other flats do not come with plots of their own. But I don’t find her tiresome any more.

Shortly after my return to Copenhagen the lady turned to me in the queue at the fishmonger’s and said archly:

‘Oh, so the Viking has returned?’

For everyone here knows that I am an Icelander.

The waves and the hull were clashing,

the surf on the rails was splashing,

the winds in the sails were lashing;

the ocean my ship was smashing.

I recited by way of reply. She laughed, saying she always loved hearing Icelandic spoken even though she couldn’t understand a word. And one thing led to another until we had become the best of friends.

Now we dine together twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays, and the meal is held at my flat because I like to be host. We contribute to the spread jointly, and if Madame Lauritzen wishes to eat meat I have decided not to object. She brings it herself as her grandson is a butcher and often slips nice treats to his grandmother, while I have a herring salad or buy myself a deep-fried plaice from the sandwich shop in the next street. In this manner we avoid conflict and the evening passes in cosy chat about life and everything.

The widow is well-informed about all kinds of current affairs as her husband was some sort of poet, so she can tell me news from the world of theatre, music and literature. She does this in her frank and cheerful manner, and her accounts are always diverting, though the subject matter is undeniably often lightweight. I myself speak of international affairs and the most topical issues in contemporary science, chiefly dietetics, the importance of which has greatly increased as a result of all the reconstruction following the war.