Before the ship passed through the narrow opening, the captain took me to task, abandoning his usual terse style. On the bridge, in the presence of several stakeholders (as they were known in the language of the hierarchy), he reminded me that as Expedition Leader I was expected to set an example, if I take a wrong turn so does the entire ship, my highest priority is the security of the passengers, a man my age ought to be able to control himself, one cigarette isn’t going to incinerate the entire Antarctic continent, I had endangered the collaboration with the Chilean station, damaged the reputation of the cruise line, at that point I stopped listening, who is the captain to be judging my fit of rage. It’s true that the following day I felt a sense of disgrace, but I also still felt I was in the right, the soldier had violated the agreement allowing us to be in the Antarctic in the first place. My only regret was not having made a more forceful impression on him. I stared past the captain’s head through the curved window and out over the sea toward the icy horizon to see the soldier flicking his cigarette into the middle of the penguins, the butt landing on the thick mass of feathers, singeing the shimmery blue-black, it’s not the first cigarette, either, the penguins are in the middle of an enormous ashtray that’s never been emptied, even though they cannot fly they spread their stumpy wings, trying to escape. When I come back to Earth I hear the captain informing me he is going to report that I am poorly suited for the post of Expedition Leader, unfortunately he finds himself compelled to reexamine my continued employment as a lecturer, and this may require a psychological evaluation. Then without any transition or words of regret he immediately moves on to Dan Quentin’s SOS project, which since seems to have garnered both his approval and his appreciation. That’s nothing but a lot of ballyhoo, I say, the captain’s tongue-lashing having freed me from any diplomatic constraints. He tells me to make sure everything comes off smoothly, so that I can have an honorable departure.
“And what exactly do you expect to gain from it?” I ask. “Are you gunning to get invited onto a talk show?”
“That kind of effrontery doesn’t become you.”
“It’s not effrontery, it’s just being upfront. Setting up an SOS like that without cause is ridiculous. You’re letting yourself be used as his stooge.”
The captain tells me to stop acting so self-important and see to it that this work of art happens, nobody attaches any importance to my outlandish opinions. I tell him that this work of art can’t possibly succeed unless there’s a genuine emergency, unless the SOS formed by the passengers is for real, now that would be a success, can you imagine how well the photos would sell then? He tells me to stick my outburst somewhere else and take care of my job, one preparedness maneuver, one hour, one photo, a high point at the end of a beautiful trip, that’s not all that difficult, and afterwards we’ll take everybody home and that will be the end of it. The captain has nothing more to say to me, the stakeholders’ stare at me like I’m a freak in a carnival sideshow.
The pianist has been watching me as well, but he doesn’t speak his mind in front of the others, certainly not in front of the woman from New Zealand who is traveling with her aged mother and who longs to be noticed on her own, sans parent. Ever since the previous evening he’s been eager to oblige, perhaps a bit too hastily, but the New Zealander doesn’t seem like someone bold enough to insist on the proper tempo. She asks me if it’s true we can send postcards from Port Lockroy, which I confirm, and immediately take the opportunity to tell her a little about this British outpost, an old whaling station later retooled for purposes of espionage, because the British were afraid German ships might hide in the many natural harbors along the Antarctic peninsula. The plan was called Operation Tabarin, a scheme so secret even Churchill didn’t find out until it was already in progress, the seamen sent to guard the Bransfield Strait waited and watched and waited and watched for days, weeks, years, but the Germans never showed, they’d probably forgotten all about the Antarctic, being otherwise engaged, so the soldiers manning the post had nothing else to do for the rest of the war except chow down on duff pudding and lick Lyle’s Golden Syrup off their spoons. So the enterprise was entirely in vain, the New Zealand mother asks somewhat simplistically. Not entirely, they did manage to remove the Argentine flag from Deception Island. The pianist interrupts to say that as always, whenever his esteemed friend the Expedition Leader explains something, he only tells half the story, what he failed to mention was that in 1939 the Nazis had flown seaplanes over the Antarctic and dropped flags rigged on metal spikes in an effort to reclaim part of Queen Maud Land for Germany. And when they had staked the area with their swastikas they renamed it New Swabia. The woman from New Zealand seems delighted, either by the twists of history or the studied charm of the piano player, she smiles demurely and repeats New Swabia as if it were a punch line. Meanwhile, behind me at the bar others are waxing witty and inflicting their humor on Erman, listen you’ll love this one, my first name is John and my last name is Walker, so it’s John Walker and what do you think they call me, Johnnie, right! So go ahead and pour old Johnnie Walker a Johnnie Walker and I guess that means it has to be a double, there’s no two ways about it. Why did it get so gloomy today around noon, a different voice asks, from up by the bow it looked like we were sailing into the land of the dead, then another voice breaks in, ahoy, ahoy, we’re the Pirates of the Antarctic, followed by hoots and hollers, I turn to see the faces flushing red with laughter, the constant hullabaloo through which Erman’s calm voice passes like a silver thread, Black Label, sir? Naturally, keep it coming, fill up the old skull … and crossbones please snorts Mr. John Walker, Erman makes a face, presumably in reaction to the spittle, just wait, you’ll stop hooting soon enough, the New Zealand mother — daughter leaves, the bar pirates grab their glasses and stumble out. Now the pianist can say what’s on his mind. He hadn’t expected that of me, what childishness, picking a fight with an armed soldier over a cigarette, I better start using my head and learn to pick my battles. He absolutely understands my aversion to cigarettes, for his part he has a hard time summoning sympathy for the passengers, what’s there to like about Mr. Johnnie Walker? The cigarette was yesterday, tomorrow we have Dan Quentin, that’s even worse, despite what happened the captain still wants me to organize this SOS business. Well as the only certified doomsayer on board I have no choice but to accept my fate, there’s little he could contribute unless we need some musical underscoring. He gets up and moves to his keyboard, titti tatta tam, titti tatta tam, titti tatta tatta tam, a memorable synthesizer intro for someone who was married to Helene longer than the band ABBA existed. His choice is dead on, too — the Johnnie Walkers of pop music. Fits Quentin like a glove. But SOS stands for another song, can I guess, he plays the first notes, I recognize it right away, hello darkness my old friend, come on, sing along, he plays the whole first verse. You know what I was haranguing the captain about? I told him there’d have to be a genuine emergency to make the whole thing believable. That’s the spirit, how about a hijacking? The scenic cruise goes Crusoe. He laughs, and his laughter is clear and refreshing, like a spot of sorbet between heavy courses, then it morphs into an improvised variation on the refrain from “The Sound of Silence.” He tossed out the idea so casually, just like that, a tiny nugget in the quarry of mindless remarks that make up our conversations. A hijacking? A red SOS on the ice? The moment when art becomes reality. The idea takes hold of me and doesn’t let go. Even the most casual utterance can be taken seriously. What starts as a hairline fracture widens into a crack and finishes as shattered glass.