Once María had ended up in bed with strange men two weekends in a row without being bothered by it; however, doubt began to gnaw at Jónas. He was, of course, not as attractive to women as María was to men. And his disquiet over María’s adventures meant that he couldn’t concentrate on his own urges which were, little by little, repressed; this made him irritated and frustrated.
When he came home from a tour María always welcomed him, but behind the warm smile and sparkling eyes was the shattered self-image of a woman who had become addicted to the attention and lust of men who fucked her once or twice and then disappeared forever. She had become a sex addict who used the internet and personal columns to find men who would meet her at lunchtime or in the evening, in a car on the edge of town, in a clean public toilet or a cheap hotel room. These countless assignations were hot and exciting, but essentially all the same. Afterwards there would be a period of regret and depression, a time of darkness of the soul that María would get herself through with the help of tranquilisers and alcohol.
He and María had tried to make love earlier that evening, before Jónas went to sea again. His mother had taken the kids – as she so often did – so they could say goodbye in peace. María had tried to calm him down, had massaged and caressed him, whispered words of love and sucked his member slowly and sweetly. But all for nothing. He couldn’t get it up. He was too tense, too confused, too worried by the situation. He had pushed María away, gone out to the living room and turned on the television. When he had come back to the bedroom two hours later she was lying in bed, naked. She had washed down who knows how many pills with vodka. She was so fast asleep that there was no way Jónas could wake her up. Then he had gone to the garage and fetched the hammer. He hadn’t quite known why. It was just something he’d felt he had to do. One blow and she was dead. One blow and his life was over.
Jónas breathes and his heart beats, but he is as lifeless as poor María, who lies in a frigid tomb. He is cold and empty, an abandoned house of flesh and bone, possessed by some kind of ghost, kept going by the shreds of the human being who once existed within him.
The ship rises and falls, the wave breaks and the blow pulses back along the ship.
Jónas sits on the side of the bed in his cabin on E-deck, staring at nothing while he rocks automatically in time with the slow, almost graceful movement of the ship; heavy, rhythmic movements that he knows as if the ship were an old dancing partner.
In his right hand he holds a rosary with a crucifix, and he squeezes the black beads until his nails dig into his palms and his knuckles whiten, while the cross hangs between his legs and swings like a pendulum, silently counting the seconds.
His swollen, broken nose is covered with gauze and brown tape. His nostrils are filled with clots of blood; the pain in his head rises and falls in time to his heartbeat; his stomach churns with nausea, and his mouth is dry and sour because he’s been breathing through it all day.
On the table in his cabin are three gas lighters, two boxes of matches and an out-of-fuel Zippo, but he hasn’t been able to find even one cigarette anywhere. To hell with a change of clothes, toiletries and reading material – how in the world is he supposed to survive the trip without tobacco?
‘Shit!’
He’s been awake for over seventy hours and hardly knows any more whether he’s thinking or dreaming, awake or asleep, dead or alive.
When he sits or lies down his mind chases around in circles through the lands of dark horror, bloody fury and fast-forwarded nightmares; but if he tries to walk around and rid himself of hellish thoughts, it’s as if his legs turn into an invisible mustang that gallops uncontrollably beneath him, while he floats giddily as if outside his own body, holding desperately onto the reins of common sense and mental health so he won’t fall off.
‘The Lord is my shepherd.’
God has sent a stranger aboard the ship. Whether the stranger is meant to show him the way back to the light, or Jónas is supposed to instruct the stranger and be rewarded with forgiveness in the arms of the Creator, isn’t clear to him. But God will show him the way.
He is the light that will show the way.
‘He is the light.’
However, why he should send that particular individual, of all men, is a mystery to Jónas. God certainly moves in mysterious ways.
‘The ways of the Lord.’
According to the laws of society, Jónas is guilty of a crime. It’s a crime that God has condemned, as the story of Moses and the tablets eternally witnesses.
Thou shalt not kill.
‘Not kill.’
How far he has gone astray! Is there a sheep in the Creator’s fold who is more lost than that sheep who has taken the life of his wife, the mother of his children?
‘I am a lost sheep.’
Jónas is guilty and the guilt is about to destroy him. Jónas is sinful and the sin is drawing him into the deep as if it’s a black stone tied round his neck.
He has, though, neither confessed nor given himself in. Rather, he has fled from the crime scene and attempted to hide the trail of evil.
He is following in the footsteps of Cain, the archetype of all who murder in a passion. He has shown criminal intent; he has destroyed evidence and perverted the course of justice; he has dishonoured the corpse of the dead.
But God forgave Cain! God was reconciled with him! God put a mark on Cain to protect him!
In the book of Genesis it says:
And the Lord said unto him, Therefore whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold. And the Lord set a mark upon Cain, lest any finding him should kill him.
Jónas is Cain and God loves Cain!
And what does that mean? Is Jónas going to take responsibility for his actions, step up and admit his guilt, lay down this heavy burden?
‘The Lord is my shepherd!’
No! How would it change anything if he gave himself in and admitted his guilt? María would be just as dead as ever. The only thing Jónas would get out of that would be an arrest and custody, endless interrogations whose only purpose would be to cast a light on a crime that the murderer himself can’t understand and, finally, a long trial and heavy prison sentence.
What for? So he wouldn’t commit the crime again? As a warning to others? To salve the conscience of society? To provide dramatic entertainment for the citizens?
María is definitely dead. But she is also free. Free from the yoke of sin. Now she will rest until she rises up from the dead, washed white from sin, on the last day.
‘On the last day!’
Then they will meet again; then they will be joined again before God.
Jónas has no reason to go to the prison of men. He is a lost sheep in the flock of God almighty, maker of heaven and earth. A sheep who wants to return home and commit his soul to Him who first placed it in transient flesh in a transient world.
God alone can decide whether this wretched flame will get a lamp to live in and burn forever or whether it will be blown out and the ultimate darkness made to swallow its foul smoke.
‘God alone!’
The God who put him on board this ship and far out to sea, the God who sent him a stranger to accompany him, the God that wants him to…
‘Quiet!’
Jónas puts his hands over his ears and walks around in circles in his cabin, so bewildered, confused and disoriented that he borders on total insanity.
He has to talk to that man before someone else does. Before that man talks to someone in the crew.
He has to know what that man is doing on board the ship.