First he has to figure out the will of God, who sent him that angel from hell.
Is the man in hiding? Or is he going to give the captain some kind of report or an explanation for his presence on board?
He mustn’t come forward! That would threaten… everything. Like a stone falling into a quiet pool, his crewmates’ sudden knowledge of who the deckhand really was would send ripples in all directions and call for unnecessary attention and questions and reactions and…
‘I have to talk to him,’ Jónas says to himself, beating his thigh with clenched fists as he walks in circles, counterclockwise, in the darkened cabin. ‘He mustn’t come forward.’
Jónas means to get all the way to South America without the crew finding out about the crime he committed just hours before he boarded the ship.
There he means to disappear. Once there he will look for signs and wait patiently for the guidance of higher powers. There he will walk in the way of God, penniless and humble, until he either dies or finds the light anew.
He means to end his days there or be reborn for the second time to eternal life in the merciful arms of God almighty, God the son and God the Holy Ghost. Amen.
‘Amen.’
Jónas stops walking and takes a deep breath. Then he opens the cabin door and walks, straight backed and looking confident, down to D-deck, where he knocks on the cabin door of the deckhand.
‘The Lord is my shepherd, my strength, my light,’ Jónas says softly, standing in front of the door.
No answer.
He knocks again:
Knock, knock, knock…
Jónas lets his arms fall and clasps his hands around the rosary. He bows his head, closes his eyes and intones the simple prayer again and again while he waits for an answer to his knock, waits for the door to be opened.
The Lord is my shepherd, my strength, my…
‘Come in!’
XI
Jónas puts his hand on the doorknob, opens the door and, putting on a look of authority, enters the cabin of the deckhand, who sits naked on the sofa behind the coffee table, studying his visitor with the cold eyes of a man who trusts nobody and is ready for anything.
‘How do you do, deckhand,’ says Jónas clearing his throat. ‘My name is Jónas Bjarni Jónasson and I am chief mate on this ship. As your senior officer I bid you welcome aboard.’
Your senior officer?
‘You got a light?’ asks the deckhand calmly as he waggles a cigarette between the fingers of his right hand, taking the measure of the second mate, who stands shifting his feet, his tired eyes flitting about the cabin.
‘Yes… of course!’ says Jónas, patting his pockets and finding a matchbook in his left hip pocket.
‘Thanks,’ says Jón Karl, taking the matches.
‘May I?’ asks Jónas, pointing to an open pack of Princes on the table.
‘Sure,’ says Jón Karl. He lights his cigarette, leans back on the couch, closes his eyes and pulls smoke into his lungs till the ember crackles.
‘I forgot to bring smokes,’ Jónas says, the cigarette hanging between his lips. He tears a match from the book, strikes it on the sulphur strip, shields the flame in the palm of his left hand and lifts it very carefully to the end of the cigarette, his rosary rattling between his trembling fingers.
What Jón Karl sees is an undernourished, insomniac, nerve-wracked, broken-nosed man with a three-day beard, smelling of sour sweat and clutching a Catholic rosary as if his life depended on it.
Fucking loser!
‘Whaddaya want?’ demands the deckhand.
‘What do I want?’ Jónas repeats in surprise, coughing as he shakes the match until the flame dies.
‘How many mates are there on a ship like this?’ asks Jón Karl, blowing smoke through his nostrils and lifting his arm to lay it carefully along the back of the couch.
‘How many? There are two,’ replies Jónas, taking a drag and shrugging. ‘Why?’
‘Who’s the second mate?’ asks Jón Karl, who knows that the same rules apply in conversations as in fights: the one who gives the first blow gets the advantage and is in control of the conflict from then on.
‘Second mate?’ Jónas coughs nervously. ‘Nobody. Or… Technically I’m second mate, but since the next highest ranking in the bridge is called chief mate, then…’
‘Take a seat!’ says Jón Karl, pointing to the still-unmade bed, which is covered with large and small bloodstains.
‘Yeah… thanks,’ mutters Jónas. He removes the extra safety rail before sitting cautiously on the edge of the blue-striped mattress. ‘But, look,’ he tries again, ‘as one of the officers from the bridge I’ve come to—’
‘Try to shut up for a moment, man!’ says Jón Karl, tapping his ash onto the floor without losing eye contact with Jónas, who goes bright red and blinks rapidly like a parrot.
‘Shut…’
‘One more word, my friend,’ Jón Karl snarls, snapping his fingers in front of the mate’s broken nose, ‘and I’ll twist your head so far that you’ll have to walk backwards all the way to hell dragging that stupid rosary behind you like a tail.’
‘I have never…’ Jónas stops in the middle of his sentence when he sees evil awake like a blind dragon in the eyes of the man who the underworld’s gang leaders and messenger boys fear more than death itself.
‘First,’ says Jón Karl, holding the middle finger of his left hand up from his tight fist, ‘what am I doing on this ship?’
‘They think you’re my brother-in-law,’ Jónas says, drawing on the cigarette. ‘But it’s not as if you… I mean, nobody asked you to…’
‘Second!’ Jón Karl inhales deeply from his cigarette. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘Three days,’ replies Jónas. ‘Or, rather, it’ll be three whole days tonight at—’
‘Fuck! And third…’ says Jón Karl, the smoke coming out of his nostrils as he lights a new cigarette from the old one, ‘where are we headed?’
‘To Suriname.’ Jónas allows himself a tentative, crooked smile as he sees the stranger’s face become one big question mark.
‘Suri-what?’ Jón Karl stubs out his old cigarette on the edge of the table.
‘We sail to South America every month to bring back eight thousand tonnes of bauxite. Suriname is bordered by Brazil, Guyana and French Guiana. It has the largest bauxite mines in the world, I think.’
‘Bauxite?’
‘Yeah, or aluminium oxide,’ says Jónas, inhaling smoke. And, when he sees that the deckhand is still at a loss: ‘It’s just a kind of white sand that the aluminium plant at Grundartangi melts down with electrodes to make pure aluminium.’
‘How long do we have to sail to get to… there?’ asks Jón Karl with a sigh.
‘Two weeks each way, including port time,’ says Jónas, shrugging. ‘When everything goes well, that is. We sail inland up a river and it depends on—’
‘No fucking way!’ Jón Karl blows out smoke through his nose. ‘I’ve got to get ashore. Can’t I get someone to fetch me or something? Couldn’t we order a speedboat or a helicopter? Or stop at the next port?’
‘In the first place, we’ve already travelled almost 2000 kilometres, so we’re in international waters,’ says Jónas, inwardly smirking. ‘In the second place, we neither ask for help nor sail to the nearest port except in an emergency: engine failure, illness and suchlike. And in the third place, you are the deckhand and have duties to carry out.’
‘You’re not putting my back against a wall!’ Jón Karl barks, pointing at Jónas with his lit cigarette. ‘If I say I have to get ashore, then I get ashore, whether you like it or not. Understood?’