When the boat begins to glide slowly into Nybroviken Harbor, sounding its whistle at an errant ferry that is in the way, he leans out over the railing of the upper deck to take hold of a small sandbag Paul is feeding up to him from a porthole on the lower deck. The sandbag is attached to a long, thin rope, and that rope to the rough hawser astern. The idea is that he will throw the thin line to shore as quickly as possible so that the heavy hawser can be pulled to the quay and fastened to the iron mooring ring. Every Sunday he is filled with dread when it comes time to perform this duty, because one Sunday he threw the sandbag too early, and it didn’t reach the quay. They had to hoist the rope up out of the muck of the harbor and their stern rammed right into another boat, The Ljusterö. But today he is full of confidence because there’s a cabin awaiting him with a willing woman. True enough, she’s nothing to write home about, but the cabin’s not bad. As they draw near the quay he grips the sandbag tightly in his fist like a weapon.
The usual crowd of relatives stands waiting on the quay with handkerchiefs and forced smiles at the ready, but among the rest Sune notices two unusual figures — one short and slender, the other tall and heavy-set — both wearing fully buttoned trench coats even though it’s summer. The heavy man is smoking a cigar and the smaller one stands with his hands brought together at the small of his back. Sune throws the sandbag with such force that it hits an older gentleman in the back of the crowd right in the chest before it tumbles to a halt near a blue car parked alongside the quay with its door wide open. The heavy man in the trench coat collects the sandbag and begins to haul in the stern line with his fat cigar projecting up out of the middle of his mouth like a canon. The smaller man, meanwhile, walks over to the gangplank with his hands still clasped at his back and then inspects each and every person as they disembark. The older man who was just hit in the chest begins to scold Sune for casting the sandbag the way he did, but Sune tells him that’s the only way to do it. The man then scolds him for his impertinence, but Sune is already busy by then double-checking that the gangplank is securely fastened to the upper deck before he darts down it himself, remembering all of a sudden that a girl has asked him to mail a letter for her in town. The whole time he’s off searching for a mailbox he’s nervous that the boat might depart without him before he makes it back there, and this thought is so distracting that he doesn’t spot a mailbox until he is as far away as Stureplan.
By the time he makes it back, the quay is crowded with people, but the boat is empty and waiting. Alfhild has already cleaned the dining salon and is emptying dustpans filled with ash and paper into the harbor. As he approaches the gangplank Sune notices something peculiar and disquieting. Paul and the drunken first mate and several others are just standing around on the foredeck, idly waiting for something. And now the door swings open and out steps the small, slender man in the trench coat. He turns and holds the door for Greta, as the large heavy-set man with the cigar clenched between his teeth walks directly behind her with a small, shabby suitcase in his right hand. In single file they walk up the foredeck gangplank and suddenly Greta spots him there. She looks up at him hastily, and later he will think back on that look many times — something impossible to forget.
“Bon soir,” she says and almost drops her handbag. “Bon soir.” And that’s when he notices she is crying.
Then everything breaks up, the whole scene. The waiting car starts up and pulls away, and no one but Sune looks after it for very long. The skipper, who has been pacing impatiently back and forth on the bridge, rings the bell and the upper deck gangplank is rolled away amid a great deal of clatter, the hawsers are loosened from their rings as iron clangs against stone, and the foredeck gangplank is thrown down on deck. The skipper rings the bell a second time and as the engine starts a throbbing beat begins to pulse belowdecks. The bell rings on the engine order telegraph, and a small, eager boy loosens the bow line and throws it aboard. The bow slowly glides out from the quay. Nothing is lit, and everything is blue: the tall trees in front of Berns Hotel, the cars cruising up toward the wicked club The Atlantic, the residences of Strandvägen standing like great Diebold safes. Slowly the boat comes round in the harbor until the bow lines up with the Admiralty Shipyard. Several boats with high shining lights enter the harbor, listing appreciably from all the passengers congregating aport.
As Sune opens the door to the inner middle deck, he steps right into the news report. Paul is standing there in front of the bell with his legs spread wide and the palms of his hands pressed flat against the overhead deck. Surrounding him is a small cluster of crew, including Alfhild, the ship’s engineer, the rummy first mate, one of the old salts, the restaurant manager, the cook, and Barbro.
“According to the police,” he explains, pausing to push his hands still harder against the overhead deck. “They said she’s been spreading it around again. Some poor sons of bitches picked it up from her last time in town. Dumb bastards.”
Barbro looks over the shoulder of the restaurant manager and winks at Paul. It isn’t long before the gathering breaks up and then all head their own separate ways in the large, empty vessel, which still seems to echo from the laughter and voices and footsteps of recent passengers. But Sune goes into the men’s head and carefully locks the door behind him. Locked securely inside, he slides down the small window and looks out. They are just passing a large, white steam cruiser, whose passengers cluster at the railing above in dark bunches, looking down at this boat, probably thinking “Hmm, look at that little rust bucket …” The lights have come on in the old folks home at Danvik and a short brightly lit train is making its way over the London viaduct. But before he is able to take in more of the unswept view, the landscape folds in on itself like a map before his eyes as his skinny body doubles over almost to the point of breaking and he begins to vomit.
The next time he looks out the window, they are passing the mill. He can just glimpse the flashing shapes of seagulls through his tear-blinded eyes as they sketch white lines across the dour facade of the great mill. Further along the shoreline, a lone scow lies at anchor alongside a quay, and paper and garbage swirl up out of the vessel’s belly as a gust of wind suddenly sweeps in. Even further along the shore, a small group of girls in light-colored dresses stand at the water’s edge, pointing to the boats, while a man stands nearby folding up a flag in the twilight. Someone yanks impatiently on the locked door, and as Sune slides the window up again he can hear two voices from the middle deck. The first is Alfhild’s and the other voice is Barbro’s. Then the door to the foredeck slams shut behind Barbro, and she doesn’t come back.
“Just how filthy does the whole thing have to be?” he wonders, and flushes the toilet.