‘Yeah, yeah, my fucking friend. You can go on talking as long as that pipe is lit.’ Jón Karl takes the pipe again. The smoke coils and twists in his lungs like a spring and turns into snakes, dragons of disorder and endless galaxies… that coil above the flame, merge with Stoker’s incoherent stories, change their shapes and dance with their own shadows in the air of the cabin…
‘…Which is a story that starts in the darkness of the human soul, winds through valleys of shadow and ends in the continent of eternal winter, where death has reigned for more than forty million years and the awesome mountains are like abandoned castles in the ghostly light of dawn…’
‘Don’t talk any more…’ Jón Karl says, putting the pipe down on the edge of the table. His head is full of hot darkness and his limp body melts into the couch. The smoke runs like glowing syrup into his blood, which is heavy as lead and brown as melted chocolate… and nightmarish, chaotic images of his wife and daughter plague his mind like mosquitoes in the feverish heat of the East… rotten flesh and putrid blood and infected eyes that weep metal splinters…
‘…But their day will come. That will be the day when the gates open and the dreadful truth will become clear to condemned mankind. The short-sighted man will wake to the nightmare that the ship they thought they were sailing towards progress and a bright future has been going in circles for thousands of years. It is a ship of fools, steered by fools who look to the stars and ignore the currents in the sea of eternity… And not until then will they fetch new helmsmen in the insane asylums and in the dungeons of the big cities, but by then it will be too late!’
‘Ha… What ship?’ Jón Karl half opens his eyes.
‘They are there, always… forever,’ whispers Stoker, giggling through his beard. ‘And Kutulu calls!’
‘I hate this ship,’ mutters Jón Karl, closing his eyes again.
‘There is a curse on this ship!’ declares Stoker, his voice rising. ‘Originally it was named Noon and under that name it was infamous after a police investigation of two murders and three suicides that were committed on board over a two-year period.’
Silence.
‘Originally it belonged to Jews, but now it belongs to Muslims.’
Silence.
‘The fourteenth letter of the Hebrew alphabet is N or Nun, pronounced “Noon”. Nun is the thirteenth tarot trump card, because the first trump is a zero. In the Kabbalah teachings “Nun” means the single fish that swims in the great sea and has all creatures in its stomach, and trump number thirteen is death.’
‘I’ve got to go,’ says Jón Karl, sitting up. ‘Got to lie down. Nauseous… Haven’t eaten for…’
‘The ship itself may not be evil, per se,’ says Stoker with a grin. ‘But it is pregnant with evil!’
‘Christ, you’re boring company.’ Jón Karl checks his watch. He sees that it’s three minutes to two. Then he slides out to the end of the couch and stands up.
But he has to grab the edge of the table to keep from falling as the ship pitches violently.
Boom, boom, boom…
‘Listening to you talk makes me want a cold shower,’ says Jón Karl and he steadies himself like a drunken man against the table and walls as he lurches towards the door.
‘Hey, pal!’ says Stoker, catching hold of the pipe as it slides off the table. ‘I still haven’t asked you your name.’
‘You’ve said my name three times this evening,’ says Jón Karl after a moment’s thought. ‘So you must be able to work it out for yourself.’
‘Eh? What?’ says Stoker, scratching his tousled head. ‘What name?’
His only answer is the click of the cabin door closing behind Jón Karl.
XV
04:10
Second mate Jónas’s face is pale, almost blue, and he looks around with eyes that have stayed open so long they’ve stopped moving in their sockets.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ Jónas asks hoarsely when Jón Karl finally makes his appearance up in the bridge. ‘It’s ten past four! You were supposed to be here for your watch at precisely three o’clock. Methúsalem was furious! He talked about cutting your pay.’
‘Relax, man,’ says Jón Karl, feeling his way in the dim light, red eyed and unsteady on his feet. ‘I just took a little nap. Did we hit an iceberg in the meantime?’
‘It’s no joke! Around here men are expected—’
‘Is there anything to eat here?’ asks Jón Karl, grabbing hold of the handles on one of the instruments in the middle of the bridge.
‘You stink of hash, man,’ says Jónas, throwing up his hands. ‘Have you been with Stoker?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Jón Karl with a crooked smile. ‘Or in hell. I’m not sure.’
‘Which means he’s pretty fried down in the engine room.’ Jónas sighs.
‘Are we allowed to smoke hash here?’ Jón Karl says, surprised.
‘This ship belongs to Arabs. They allow hash but alcohol is completely forbidden.’ Jónas shrugs to show he can’t fathom the Arabs’ attitude. ‘But that doesn’t mean men can be stoned on their watch.’
‘Go, Muslims!’ says Jón Karl with a low laugh.
‘There’s coffee and biscuits over there,’ Jónas says, nodding towards the dim alcove near the back of the bridge. ‘See if you can’t shape up a bit.’
‘Can’t we turn on the lights in here?’ says Jón Karl and steadies himself on the wall as he heads for the bridge’s port wing, which is about the size of a studio apartment.
‘No,’ says Jónas as he takes a seat in the captain’s chair. ‘Then we couldn’t see out.’
There’s a red light shining on the coffee maker, which is attached to the wall beside a small sink, and the glass jug is full of hot coffee.
‘Great,’ says Jón Karl under his breath. He half fills a clean mug with steaming coffee, which he sweetens with ten sugar cubes and fills up with milk from the little fridge under the table. Then he takes out a whole packet of digestive biscuits from the cupboard above the sink.
On a long counter opposite the coffee corner there are two dimmed screens, two keyboards, two printers, three powerful transceivers, a long-wave radio and a sort of telephone which, like the screens and transceivers, is built into a specially designed console of varnished wood.
‘Is that a regular phone?’ Jón Karl nods towards the black receiver as he holds his balance with the coffee mug in one hand and the packet of biscuits in the other.
‘Satellite phone and telex,’ says Jónas, blinking dry eyes. ‘We’ve also got an NMT-phone, but it doesn’t always work.’
‘Remind me to phone home later on.’ Jón Karl puts the mug and biscuits down on the portside windowsill, which has a view over the lit-up weather deck and the bow, which sinks down, breaks the waves and tosses the foam high in the air.
Boom, boom, boom…
And the salt-filled spray rains over the ship, from bow to stern.
‘Listen,’ says Jónas slowly, stepping out of the chair and pulling a chequebook out of his shirt pocket. ‘I wrote you a cheque.’
‘A cheque?’ says Jón Karl as he sits down in a chair by the window.
On the windowsill there’s a little dashboard Jesus on a glued-down spring. It wobbles back and forth with outspread arms, palms forward, and stares through the glass with its black-painted plastic eyes.
‘Yes,’ says Jónas, tearing out the cheque. ‘It’s for those five million you wanted. Or were you just joking?’
‘No,’ says Jón Karl, accepting the cheque, looking at it and folding it once before sliding it into his right-hand trouser pocket. ‘But cheques aren’t all that dependable a currency. You understand?’