The albatross followed, circling in the darkness, a white form like a ghost in the night.
“I don’t like the looks of that bird,” he allowed.
“Tekeli-li!” came the call of the albatross.
Apart from that, he was still enjoying doing the skipper thing: shouting orders, bellowing his displeasure, slurping coffee, spitting it over the side and complaining.
“Bilge water! Brew me up something potable!”
“Aye, Cap’n! You’d like, maybe cappuccino?”
“Just espresso.”
“How about a pastry to go with that, sir?”
“You have cannoli?”
“Plain or chocolate?”
“By “plain’ I hope you mean vanilla.”
“Yes, sir, I mean vanilla, sir.”
“With the dark chocolate chips, right?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Just the chips, none of the candied fruit nonsense.”
“Sir, I would say that these are your purist’s cannoli, sir.”
“Fine, bring me one. After dinner.”
“What will you be eating for dinner, sir?”
“What d’you have?”
“Milk-fed veal, sir.”
“Well, wring some out and bring me a glass.”
“That’s not very original, sir.”
“I’m still waiting for that coffee, Telly! The longer I wait, the fouler the weather to come!”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
Telly left the bridge and the skipper to his thoughts.
He had none. He couldn’t think, he could only go through this dumb show, this pretense, this playacting … this —?
Yes, what the hell was it? Where was he? Why couldn’t he remember anything? He was tired of all this.
Perhaps he was starting to remember.
He scanned the sky. That remark about bad weather had been prescient. He saw flashes, then heard far-off thunder.
“Storm off the starboard beam!”
“Tekeli-li!” the albatross cried.
The storm-blast came and whipped the sea to a frenzy. Whitecaps rose like ice-cream cones and white foam curdled and clotted across the face of the deep. The ship rocked in its cradle of the ocean. Mist gathered and snow fell, and it grew wondrous cold. Icebergs, mast-high, floated by.
Saint Elmo’s fire blazed on the masthead and about the rigging.
“Nice touch.”
“Coffee, sir!”
He took the coffee. “Well, it’s about time. Pretty storm, eh? What’s it all about, Telly?”
“What are storms usually about, skipper?”
“Oh, I dunno. About nature, the elements. Life. About man and woman, birth, death and infinity. And like that. Did you put Sweet ’N Low in this?”
“Sir, our sugar stores are way down.”
“We just put out!”
“Sorry, everything’s wet down in the galley. We’re shipping water.”
“Well, next time send it Federal Express. God, this is awful. I hate diet soda, too. Leaves an aftertaste. Know what I mean?”
“I do, sir, but I have a weight problem.”
“Are you kidding? Why you’re as svelte as a mackerel. Look at this gut.”
“Tekeli-li!”the albatross screamed as it wheeled in the stormy sky.
“I wish that frigging bird would shut up.”
“It’s an omen, sir.”
“Omen of what?”
“Can be a good omen, sir; can be a bad omen.”
“Well, what species is that critter?”
“I’d say pretty bad, sir.”
“Tekeli-li!”
“I’ll give you “Tekeli-li,” you mangy bird. Telly, fetch my Hawken. 50 caliber from the ordnance locker.”
“Sir, but —!”
“No buts. Tout de suite.”[25]
Telemachus fetched it tout de suite.
“Hey, he’s gonna shoot the albatross!”
Telly’s announcement was met by wailing and moaning among the crew.
“Forbear, Cap’n! Don’t do it!”
“Oh, why not,” the skipper chided. “It’s just a damned bit of wildfowl.”
“I fear thee, Ancient Mariner!”
He took aim and fired. A puff of feathers bloomed in the dark sky.
Presently, something thudded against the deck. And there it lay on the glistening boards, still and bloodied.
“That’s no albatross! You! What’s-your-name!”
“Morry, sir.”
“Morry, take a look at that thing.”
“I’m looking at it, sir.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a chicken.”
“A goddamned chicken?”
“Yes, sir.”
He turned to Telly. “So, what the hell is this?”
“I don’t know, sir. You shouldn’t have shot it.”
“What the hell’s a chicken doing out here?”
“Er … chicken of the sea?”
He raised the rifle. “That’s two.”
Telly ran from the bridge.
The skipper noticed that the ship had grown a bit bigger; it was now, in fact, a three-masted schooner.
“Or perhaps a salmon packet,” he mused.
Anyway, the Perilous was now a full-fledged sailing vessel, and he speculated that this transformation was meant to appease him in some way. Perhaps his complaints had been heard.
Didn’t make a damn bit of difference. He was fairly sure he didn’t want any part of this.
The wind blew out of the clouds, and the clouds — noctilucent, almost ectoplasmic — raced by like spirits. Rain pelted the deck and beat against the sails while the wind whipped them about.
“And I’m really getting tired of the footnotes, too!” he shouted.[26]
The storm was putting on quite a show. Too good a show, in fact. The ship bobbed liked a cork.
He lashed himself to the helm. Then he lashed himself to the mast. When none of that worked, he lashed Telly.
“Hey, what the hell are you lashing me for, Cap’n?”
“You’re handy.”
“Put down that lash!”
“Sorry I flared. Look, this has got to stop.”
“What’s got to stop?”
“This sham, this entire bamboozle.”
“Are you insinuating that this is all some sort of put-on?”
“That is exactly what I am insinuating. Look.”
He raised his hands against the storm.
In an instant, the sea calmed, the wind subsided, and part of the backdrop fell over to reveal a brick wall.
“See?”
“Aw, you’re no fun.”
“Now, what kind of afterlife d’you call that?”
Telly raised his hands apologetically. “It’s the best we can do.”
“Well, it’s not good enough. I’m jumping ship.”
“What? You can’t do that.”
“Why not? I refuse to go through with this nonsense.”
“But, you must. You’re dead, and you have to have an afterlife.”
“I may be dead, but I’ll be damned if I’ll have an afterlife. I mean, what’s the point? Is there an afterlife after the afterlife?”
“No.”
“Why not? Seems to me you could just go on and on. Pointless. Why not let it end? Give it a rest. When it’s over it’s over.”
“But you don’t understand.”
“Oh, I think I do. By the way, I remember my name.”
“Oh, that’s nice. What is it?”
“I’m Ed McMahon. You may already be a winner.”[27]
“Seriously …”
“I’m serious! I’m checking out.”
“You can’t.”
“I’m cashing in my chips. I’m vacating the premises. I’m history. I am one with Nineveh and Tyre.”
“I take it you mean this.”
He went to the rail, climbed up on it and stood regarding the “deep.” It was more or less a swimming pool backed by a lighted cyclorama, as in a TV or film studio.
26
This is a self-referential textual allusion, a device much favored by “postmodernist” writers. This is by far the cleverest touch in the book; but it is by no means original.
27
If Ed McMahon has written any poetry, it is to date unpublished, although rumors abound that there exists a holograph manuscript of something called