Sjon - The Whispering Muse

As luck would have it, three Norwegian police officers turned up here at coffee time to take statements from those of us who were on deck when the accident occurred at the factory. I voluntarily engaged the eldest in conversation, going so far as to appoint myself his escort while the visit lasted, thereby using an old ploy to alert the law to my presence on board the MS Elizabet Jung-Olsen. He was a man of about fifty, powerfully built and keen-eyed, with prematurely white hair, small ears and the familiar-sounding moniker of Knud Hamsun:

‘With a “d”…’ he said, explaining that he was no relation to the great writer.

I invited him to inspect my quarters and take my statement there, adding that I would like to offer him some Irish whiskey from a flask that the owner of Café Sommerfugl had given me as a parting gift when I set out on this voyage. As we went below I noticed that the constable had a limp and observed to him that it didn’t really matter once you were on board ship; it merely looked as if he were riding the swell and no one would notice that he was different from the rest of us.

The taking of my statement was performed with a civility that did the Norwegian constabulary credit. I gave Knud Hamsun a thorough description of all I had seen and heard, stressing, as was true, that Raguel Bastesen’s reaction had been far from admirable; the injured man owed his life to his workmate, who had been forced to knock the director unconscious before he could use the car that would carry them most speedily to hospital.

‘Yes, I’m not afraid to say it, though I’m no friend of the Communists and have played a personal part in the struggle against them!’

The constable finished noting down my statement in shorthand in his leather-bound pocket book, which he then closed, snapping on a red elastic band and pushing the pencil stub underneath:

‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that the worker Vidar Røyrvik died from his injuries this morning at the Kristiansand District Hospital.’

‘Oh…’

‘Yes…’

Finishing his whiskey, Knud Hamsun continued:

‘There’s always a danger of unrest among the ranks of the dead man’s fellow workers following incidents like this, so we’ve arrested the men who drove him to hospital and announced that they are being held in custody until the investigation into the theft of the car is complete. There is nothing to prevent the factory from returning to work now, so there should be no further delay to your business here in Mold Bay.’

On this positive note he concluded the taking of my statement, and we returned to the saloon where the purser’s lady friend, ignoring me, offered Constable Hamsun coffee and pancakes. I nudged him and made sure she was in earshot when I said:

‘Hark, hark, the hen crows louder than the cock…’

By this means I made sure that he would be aware of the bad blood between the woman and me. Should anything happen to me before we continued on our voyage he was bound to recall this little incident. And my odd choice of words might even arouse his suspicions that the woman’s generosity was designed to cover up some criminal activity. This didn’t escape her, cunning creature that she was, and I felt we were now even.

I struck my brow lightly:

‘Oh, I forgot! Would you excuse me? There’s something I have to finish before evening…’

I parted from Knud Hamsun with a handshake and returned to my cabin. Now he would have a chance to get properly acquainted with the woman, untroubled by my presence. Or would he? Perhaps it hadn’t been so clever to leave him with her after all? I realised all of a sudden how much the purser’s lady friend resembled the temptresses of Lemnos described to us by Mate Caeneus in his evening yarns. And it dawned on me that her erratic behaviour might indicate a breach in her relationship with the purser. Far from protecting him, as I had originally thought, she was on the hunt for a new man; someone who had more going for him than her unfortunate boyfriend — a man who could be her meal ticket to a better life.

So the bad feeling wasn’t connected to the cod at all but had in fact begun when she brought me the snack with my coffee the day before yesterday. She had been very friendly at the time and opened her heart to me. Perhaps she was under the impression, since I’m staying in a two-room cabin suite that’s almost the twin of Captain Alfredson’s, that I must be a wealthy man. Could the purpose of her sob story have been to kindle pity in my aged breast? And afterwards might she have intended to press her advantage and win both my love and my money? As soon as she made enquiries into my situation she would of course have discovered that I am only a poor Icelandic pensioner, a widower who has enough trouble supporting himself and lives alone in a poky rented flat in Copenhagen, and not in the best part of town either. At that point she must have felt she had put herself at a disadvantage by making a play for me, resulting in a feeling of resentment, even animosity, towards me.

As I shut my cabin door I saw the purser’s lady friend showing my ally Knud Hamsun to a seat at a table laid for coffee on the other side of the saloon. I only hoped his long experience in the police force would enable him to withstand her womanly wiles.

This evening it was at long last Mate Caeneus’s turn to take the watch and Captain Alfredson and I had agreed that after supper I would hold a lecture for the crew on fish and culture. The reason for this was twofold:

a) It was thanks to my publication of a journal on this subject that I was present on board as a special guest of the crew’s ultimate superior, the shipping magnate Magnus Jung-Olsen.

b) It was thanks to my efforts at fishing that we were enjoying nutritious cod for our third meal in a row.

I declined the starter — egg mayonnaise with grated vegetables on a lettuce leaf — taking the opportunity to go over the opening of my speech instead. Although I can, without recourse to notes, deliver lengthy impromptu lectures on the relationship between fish consumption and culture, this evening’s effort had to be rather better than that. After all, this was not my usual audience — the regulars at the Café Sommerfugl — no, this time my lecture was to be delivered on board the flagship of the Kronos fleet, the MS Elizabet Jung-Olsen, a ship named after the grandmother of my young friend, the late Hermann. Born and brought up in a fishing station on the west coast of Jutland, a fisherman’s wife to the end, daughter of Dogger Bank, Madame Elizabet had raised her son Magnus on a diet of nothing but seafood and Hermann had often remembered her with warmth and respect in his letters to the journal.

But to my consternation, the mate was sitting over his dinner at the high table when I arrived, his wooden muse lying on the napkin in his lap. Apparently my fellow passengers could not bear to be deprived of his ridiculous ‘anecdotes’. When he became aware of me the captain stood up, bowed briefly and silently motioned me to sit at his side, but the rest were so absorbed in the story that they paid me no more attention than a puff of wind. Mate Caeneus did admittedly break off for a moment as I took my seat (this evening we were colleagues) but his silence might just as well have indicated a dramatic pause at a climactic moment of the story as the intention to show me any respect. I was rather hurt by this but as I had encountered a similar reception in the months immediately after the war, I preserved an impassive demeanour, clasped my hands on my stomach and listened out of one ear. I kept the other tuned to the galley door as it would soon be time for the fish stew.