He wasn’t at all sure what happened next. He was aroused now. Felt how he penetrated her, and then it was all over almost before it had started.
It all happened so quickly, he was rather confused. She pulled him up off the bed, gave him a tissue to wipe himself with, and urged him to take care when he went down the stairs.
‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘Be careful.’
Then she vanished into the room where the radio was on.
Joel pulled up his trousers and stumbled out onto the staircase.
Once he was out in the street again, he asked himself what had happened. It was nothing like he’d imagined it would be.
Even so, he knew exactly what he was going to write in his logbook.
Amsterdam.
Done it at last.
August 24, 1959. 10.10 p.m.
He went back to the railway station and found the right platform. Shortly before midnight he found himself walking up the gangway again.
Frans was standing by the rail, smoking.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘How did it go?’
‘Good,’ said Joel. ‘Bloody good.’
Then he went to his cabin before Frans had time to ask any more questions. But he could hear Frans chuckling to himself by the ship’s rail.
The days passed. Joel was still waiting for a message: next destination, Liberia. But it was still Narvik and Bristol and Ghent. In the middle of September they also undertook a voyage from Narvik to Luleå. It took fourteen days. Joel began to lose faith. By the end of November he began to wonder if he ought to sign off this ship and try one from another shipping line. One that didn’t only fill its holds with iron ore.
All this time Joel had only received one letter from Samuel. It had arrived at the end of October. Samuel wrote that all was well, but not much more than that. Joel had a suspicion that things weren’t as good as Samuel claimed. How was he managing on his own? Who was cooking for him? Had he remembered to put cold water in the dirty porridge pan?
What worried Joel most of all was if Samuel was drinking heavily. Who was keeping an eye on him when Joel wasn’t around?
Joel had almost made up his mind to sign off. But then came the message he’d been waiting for: the next voyage would be to Liberia. They would be there for Christmas. Joel didn’t hesitate for a moment. This was what he’d been waiting for. Once he’d been to Africa, he would sign off and pay a visit to Samuel.
He wrote to both Samuel and Jenny. She had written him several letters, but she’d never referred to Joel’s request that the photograph of Samuel should go back up on the wall. Or that the man with the close-cropped hair should be taken down.
Joel had never referred to that again. Soon enough he would be able to see with his own eyes what had happened, if anything.
He wrote about the forthcoming voyage.
The journey to Liberia.
The journey to the end of the world.
Joel arrived in Africa the day before Christmas Eve, 1959. The African coast could be seen like an enticing mirage on the port side of the ship. Every morning when Joel woke up, it was warmer than the day before. And the sea changed colour. It became lighter. The blue gradually turned into green. He saw dolphins and flying fish. Every evening he stood at the stern of the ship and looked up at the starry sky.
On December 20 he wrote in his logbook:
I sometimes think about that dog. The one I thought I saw that time. On its way to a star. But I was only a child then. I didn’t know any better. Here everything is just as bright and sparkling as it is at home in mid-winter. December 20. Just south of the Cape Verde Islands. 10.22 p.m.
They stayed in Liberia for four days.
Joel went ashore whenever he was free. He wandered around in the teeming mass of people, breathed in all the unusual smells, and was fascinated by the beautiful women carrying extremely heavy burdens on their heads. He bought some shells for his little sisters, a colourful loincloth for Jenny and a drum for Samuel. On Christmas Eve he wrote in his logbook:
Liberia.
I know now that I’ve done the right thing. A sailor is what I’m going to be. On my next ship I’ll be a deck hand. One day I might start to study in order to become a bosun. After Christmas, I’ll go home and collect Samuel. He’s forgotten what it was like. I shall remind him. December 24, 1959.
While they were berthed in Liberia, Joel also fell in love.
Every time he went ashore, a young girl came up to him and asked if he needed anybody to wash his clothes. He said no. But she was persistent and came back every day. Her name was Milena. And she was sixteen years old.
They used to speak on the quay. Always the same thing. But Joel thought she reminded him of Sonja Mattsson, despite the fact that she was very black.
The day before New Year’s Eve they weighed anchor and headed north. Milena stood on the quay, waving. Joel had given her some money as he’d realised she was very poor.
Pirinen was standing beside him at the rail, smoking.
‘When will we be coming back here?’ Joel asked.
Pirinen grinned. He’d seen Joel waving, and Milena waving back.
‘Never,’ said Pirinen. ‘Forget her.’
But Joel had no intention of forgetting Milena. And he knew that what Pirinen had said wasn’t true. Pirinen could be annoying at times. But Joel had learnt how to deal with that.
Their next port of call after Liberia was Narvik. Joel had decided to sign off at the end of January. By then he would have saved nearly a thousand kronor. It was time to pay Samuel a visit.
But when they got to Narvik, and the heat of Africa had become a distant memory, he found a letter waiting for him. The telegraphist gave it to Joel just after he’d finished washing up after breakfast. It was from Samuel. Joel recognised the spidery handwriting.
He went to his cabin, lay down on his bed and opened the letter.
It was very short. Not many words. But Joel would never forget them.
Joel,
I hope all is going well for you on the Alta. I hope the trip to Africa was a great experience. I think it would be best if you came home now. You’ll remember that I had stomach pains last summer. They’ve become worse now. It’s not possible to say what will happen. So perhaps it would be best if you came home.
Joel felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.
So Samuel was ill.
He recalled what he’d thought at the hotel, when Samuel came back from the hospital.
Samuel might die.
He started to panic. He would have to go to Samuel straight away. He couldn’t put it off. But he couldn’t just abandon ship and leave his work just like that. There were rules about how much notice you had to give before handing in your discharge book and asking to sign off.
I need to speak to somebody, he thought. Pirinen? He wouldn’t understand. The telegraphist? He wouldn’t be able to do anything.
Joel got up from his bunk. He would speak to the captain. Captain Håkansson.
He was often gruff and angry, but that couldn’t be helped. Joel left his bunk and walked up the stairs to the bridge. If the captain wasn’t ashore, he’d be bound to be in his cabin.
Joel knocked on the door.
‘Come in.’
Joel opened the door. Captain Håkansson was sitting at a desk, writing. He frowned.