Now that the festivities seem to have ended, a uniform murmur reaches me from the bow: some people are praying, maybe because it’s Sunday, maybe because they’re lonely, maybe because they’re afraid. I don’t pray, not even from here, from bed, I don’t know why, but today I can’t, my voice doesn’t work, not even that quiet inner voice people use for praying.
I’ve just climbed into my bunk and see that Polski, standing next to his, is preparing one of those towels they supply us with before we set sail, the ones with a blue anchor printed on them, I suppose to remind us that we’re in the Navy. Today is bath day, though around here bathing is just a figure of speech, an expression whose meaning is quite different from what it means to outsiders. Here water is conserved, you have to use it sparingly, the distillers don’t work right: they use a lot of energy and, besides, they make a terrible racket. Polski’s towel is new, just like the others; new means waterproof, with a layer of sizing, or paraffin, or I don’t know what, in any case something that will keep it from absorbing a single drop of water—at least for a good, long time. Polski starts to undress beside his bunk, tugging at his sneakers to take them off, a pair of sporty sneakers that he bought himself to keep from making noise when he walks; then he takes off his left sock and, after dropping it on top of one sneaker, he pulls off the right one and drops it on top of the other sneaker. Next, his pants, standard-issue navy blue cloth—first one leg, then the other—now turned a kind of dark, grayish black, with all sorts of stains, like the pants and overalls of the rest of the crew. Then the blue shirt, which he rolls up into a ball, leaving it on the bunk, and the undershirt, the “elastic,” as it’s called around here, with a double layer of flannel at chest level; he wraps the towel around his waist and slips off his undershorts beneath, maybe his first change of underwear in several days, of those shorts provided by the Navy, the “regulation” ones, stiff with sizing or elastic, hard like the towel, capable of causing the most uncomfortable irritation you can imagine. He makes a knot in the towel, and then holds it closed with his hand, just in case some joker—and there’s no lack of those—should yank it off, leaving him buck naked. With his free hand he picks up some soap, a brush, and toothpaste and proceeds toward the petty officers’ head. The red, night navigation lights flash on, and for a second it reminds me of a cheesy nightclub, the scene makes me laugh, and I turn over to get ready to sleep. Right under the head door is the air conditioning equipment; if Polski has to wait because someone is in there, he’ll freeze his ass off. Then he’ll go inside, of course, shivering a little, or a lot, he’ll close the door because if he doesn’t he won’t be able to shower, since the shower is right behind the door and in front of the metal toilet full of handles and levers that serve to eject toward the tank whatever gets dumped in there. But Polski isn’t really going to shower, there’s not enough water for every man to take a shower, and so once he’s inside the head, he’ll leave the door half-open, undo the knot in his towel, and—sticking his hand through the narrow opening he’s left—he’ll hang the towel from the low-pressure air manifold out in the passageway, to avoid putting it down in the limited head space that so many others have already used today (there’s no room in there for a towel that never dries); then he’ll close the door and turn to the left in order to face the sink—stuck right in there—with its stainless steel mirror that barely allows him to recognize himself in it, partly because it’s all scratched, partly because of the beard he’s been growing, and maybe because after a while you stop recognizing yourself and don’t even want to see your reflection. Standing in front of the sink, he’ll press down on the valve and put his cupped, hollowed palms underneath to catch the water that comes out, and right after that he’ll wash his face, to refresh himself and also to rinse off a little of the routine or discouragement or sleepiness or fear, depending on whichever happens to apply to the “bather.” Then he’ll repeat the routine, the steps necessary to use another little bit of water, and he’ll wash his arms, his armpits, with soap. Once more he’ll maneuver to catch the water in his hands, and he’ll splash it over himself to rinse off, and again fill his hands to aim straight for his dick, and then his asshole, and then his feet, raising one, then the other, gathering water, dampening himself, soaping, gathering water, rinsing, lots of patience, lots of skill, lots of maneuvers, lots of balance. Then he’ll half open the door, stick out his hand, and grope for the towel from the manifold to dry himself with, or in any case to distribute the water up and down his whole body, still slightly damp, slip back to his bunk, the undryable towel rolled around his waist, to put on new underwear, clean and white, tugging on it a little to force it over his too-damp skin. And after Polski, someone else will go in to “bathe,” and another, and another; and that’s how it’ll go all night and all day. Somebody asks, no doubt peeking into the galley, what’s for dinner today? Pizza and steak with tomatoes, the cook’s voice replies, and for dessert, torta Balcarce with meringue. I stay where I am, all curled up with my back to the passageway, not eating, not bathing, and still unable to catch a wink of sleep.