‘And might I ask who you are?’ Jónas asks, feeling a bit more confident but still fearful in the presence of this naked madman.
‘Jón Karl Esrason,’ replies Jón Karl dramatically.
‘Better known as… Satan,’ says Jónas, unwillingly cringing a bit, as if expecting an attack.
‘That’s right,’ says Jón Karl, smiling mirthlessly and raising his eyebrows.
‘I saw a picture of you in—’
‘Is there anyone else on board that knows who I am?’ Jón Karl asks as he leans back in the couch.
‘No, and I—’
‘And you don’t want them to know,’ says Jón Karl with a careless sniff.
‘It would be awkward for me, since I’m the one who found the new crew member.’ Jónas briefly looks in the eyes of the dark prince of the Icelandic underworld. ‘But it would be even worse for you if the crew found out the truth.’
‘Oh?’ Jón Karl smirks.
‘It’s bad enough being stuck with a guy who hasn’t been legally registered as a crew member,’ says Jónas, putting out his cigarette by stubbing it up under the table. ‘A lot worse if that same guy is a renowned criminal.’
‘It’s not as if I’ve been accused of anything, or wanted by the police,’ says Jón Karl, blowing smoke in Jónas’s face.
‘You’d get your wish,’ says Jónas, straightening up. ‘They would phone for help or sail to the nearest port, which would probably be Newfoundland. For your sake, I hope you are ready with a good reason for being aboard this ship, along with a credit card or some dollars, proof of identity and a passport.’
‘Are you wanted by the police?’ asks Jón Karl with a cold smile.
‘Me… Why would…?’
‘You board the ship without cigarettes for a two-week voyage,’ says Jón Karl, also putting his cigarette out on the table. ‘And judging by the way you look, you didn’t bring clothes or toiletries either. You must have been in quite a hurry. And where is this blessed brother-in-law of yours? Did you get into some drunken argument? Did you kill him, maybe? Oh, no! What have I done? And now you want me to pretend to be him so nobody will suspect anything.’
‘Whatever you say,’ Jónas says as he stands up. ‘But that doesn’t alter your situation. You are deckhand aboard this ship and I suggest you take that role seriously.’
‘Nobody tells me what to do.’
‘There’s eight of us against one of you, an injured man,’ says Jónas, pocketing his matchbook. ‘And the captain is armed with a shotgun.’
‘Good for him.’ Jón Karl leans forward onto the table, which makes him grimace with pain. ‘Do you mind if I keep the matches?’
‘If I get a pack of smokes,’ replies Jónas, digging the matches back out of his hip pocket.
‘Okay,’ says Jón Karl, throwing him the open pack.
‘I want a fresh pack.’
‘No way,’ says Jón Karl, holding out a trembling hand for the matches.
‘We’re on watch together tonight, up in the bridge,’ says Jónas as he passes the matchbook to Jón Karl. ‘You turn up at three to relieve Rúnar and you’re on watch with Methúsalem till four. Then I relieve Methúsalem.’
‘Is there a phone in the bridge?’ asks Jón Karl, opening a fresh pack of cigarettes.
‘Yeah.’
‘Where do I get something to eat?’ Jón Karl knocks a few cigarettes from the pack.
‘Down in the kitchen,’ says Jónas and sticks his pack in his shirt pocket. ‘Dinner is at six. You eat in the seamen’s mess on the starboard side.’
‘Eight to one is nothing. Send sixteen seamen against me and then maybe I’ll take the trouble to tie my shoes.’
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ says Jónas as he walks to the door. ‘Think carefully before you do something you’ll regret. You’re not on your home turf here.’
‘I’ll be your brother-in-law for five million,’ says Jón Karl, sticking a cigarette in his mouth. ‘That’s about how much I’ll lose during this month.’
‘We can talk tonight.’ Jónas opens the door.
‘Precisely.’ Jón Karl grins as he lights his cigarette with the third-last match in the creased matchbook, then he winces, muffles a cry and drops the flaming match onto the rug when his broken collarbone sends waves of crippling pain across his chest, down his arm and up and down his back.
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ says Jónas with a furtive grin.
‘Bother with what?’ asks Jón Karl in a hoarse voice, stamping out the match with his bare foot.
‘Tying your shoes.’ Jónas gives a dry and humourless laugh. ‘There’s only eight of us against you alone.’
XII
Friday, 14 September 2001
‘Come in!’
Rúnar turns the handle, opens the door and walks into the cabin of the chief mate, who gives him an imperious nod and gestures to him to close the door.
‘And put on the catch,’ says Methúsalem softly. The catch is a hinged metal plate screwed onto the door, which can be hooked onto a peg in the doorframe, so the door can’t open more than a few centimetres if an unwelcome guest wants to come in.
‘Is all well up in the bridge?’ says Methúsalem.
‘Yeah,’ Rúnar replies, looking at his watch. He sees that it’s twenty past midnight. ‘We’ve got just under fifteen minutes until the dead man’s bell goes off.’
Methúsalem Sigurðsson and Rúnar Hallgrímsson have the same watch in the bridge, which is unattended while this secret meeting is taking place. The dead man’s bell is an automatic system that lets the captain know with a warning light and bell if the men on watch don’t clock in every fifteen minutes. People have fainted and died in ships’ engine rooms due to poison gases; dead man’s bells were first used to prevent such accidents and were named for the danger that is ever present for engineers on big ships.
Both Methúsalem and Rúnar started their watch at midnight, but Rúnar will get off an hour earlier, at three o’clock, when the deckhand relieves him. The first and second mates have regular night shifts: Methúsalem from midnight to four and Jónas from four to eight. Big John Pétursson, chief engineer, who has just got off his regular six-to-midnight evening shift, is already in the chief mate’s cabin, chomping on an unlit cigar.
The chief mate’s cabin is a reflection of its occupant. Everything is clean and tidy; there is no mess of any kind; everything in its carefully organised place, whether clothes, books or toiletries. There is nothing missing and nothing that isn’t needed. On the table are his diary and a ballpoint pen – nothing else. And the bathroom looks as if it has never been used.
Methúsalem is just under two metres tall, fair haired and slim, yet also big boned and sturdy. He is considered to be an honest fellow and a loyal friend to the few friends he has, but neither entertaining nor exactly boring. The worst you can say about him is that he’s a fascist, but the tradition at sea is to disregard another’s extreme opinions or, at most, make fun of them to cheer things up a bit; after all, people who are forced to be in each other’s company aren’t much interested in experiencing the unpleasantness that comes with seriously and hotly arguing about beliefs and sexual orientation.
A ship is essentially a closed world, a kind of microcosm in some part reflecting the wider world; but because it is small, specialised and thinly populated, it is free of serious environ-mental problems, political landscapes, wars and international disputes.
Methúsalem is one of those individuals who are one person in their private lives and a totally different one at work. At sea Methúsalem is quiet and remote, and takes his role as chief mate very seriously; he neither looks down on the hoi polloi nor kowtows to the ‘king’. He simply has his mind on his job, day and night, for the whole tour; he doesn’t allow himself to relax or lighten up while the ship is sailing; he is burdened with responsibilities and worries. But once ashore Methúsalem Sigurðsson becomes totally reckless and doesn’t leave his crew mates in peace – he tries to get them to come drink with him at any time of the day or night, any time of year.