‘Have you ever heard anything like it?’ says Rúnar, softly beating the table with his clenched fist.
‘We’re a dying breed, boys,’ responds Big John, finishing his whiskey. ‘The dodo birds of Icelandic sailors.’
‘It would serve them right if…’ says Sæli, sighing.
‘We should stick together and refuse to sail tonight!’ declares Ási, violently crushing his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘Make those pen-pushers sit up and take notice!’
‘Hear, hear!’ says Sæli.
‘No. That’s just what they want,’ says Big John, ever the stoic. ‘That would give them a reason to sack the lot of us and save the expense of our severance pay. Besides, all our rights would be called into question.’
‘What do you suggest?’ asks Ási, who starts chewing on a match.
‘Why did you call us together?’ Sæli says. ‘And how come only us?’
‘I don’t trust the other four,’ says Big John, leaning forward. ‘Simple as that.’
‘John, Rúnar and me had already got together,’ says Methúsalem, ‘and we felt we could count on your support.’
‘I’d have thought that Jónas could be trusted,’ says Ási of the second mate.
‘That’s what I’d have thought, too,’ Sæli says, nodding.
‘I’m not taking any chances. Jónas isn’t entirely trustworthy, in my opinion. And don’t forget that the new deckhand is his brother-in-law,’ says Big John. ‘We don’t know a thing about him!’
‘That’s true,’ mutters Sæli.
‘As far as I remember,’ says Methúsalem, ‘Jónas has pretty much stood by those penny-pinchers over the years, like that time they decided to cut the crew by four. Have you forgotten that?’
‘No,’ Sæli and Ási respond quietly.
‘He’s always sucked up to the Old Man and done everything he’s told. And the Old Man is just the shipping company’s mouthpiece,’ says Big John. ‘Whether those two have been told what’s happening and been promised other jobs, I don’t know. But this I do know: the Old Man knows everything the office knows, so he’s going to try to have a majority of the crew on his side, in case word gets out about the management’s capitalistic plot.’
‘No politics!’ says Methúsalem, waving an imperious finger.
‘Unless it suits you conservatives, is that it?’ says Big John, his bearded face going as red as the old Soviet flag. ‘Goddamn fascist bullshit all the time!’
‘What did we agree on?’ says the bosun, slamming the table. ‘No bloody bickering. United we stand!’
‘What about Stoker?’ asks Ási, chewing on his match and casting a sideways glance at Big John. The man they call Stoker is named Óli Johnsen. He works under Big John.
‘Stoker shovels coal for the Devil himself and no one else,’ Big John answers with a faint grin, earning a laugh from his mates. ‘But while I’m chief engineer is doesn’t matter what the assistant engineer says or does, as long as he does what I tell him to do.’
‘Hear, hear,’ says Ási and he crunches his match between rotting molars.
‘There’s five of us, like the fingers on a clenched fist,’ says Sæli. ‘That’s the majority in a nine-man crew.’
‘Exactly,’ says Big John with a faint smile. ‘This is their payback for cutting the crew.’
‘By fair means or foul,’ says Rúnar, who clears his throat and nudges Methúsalem.
‘Take it easy,’ Methúsalem mutters, surreptitiously clasping his bag.
‘What do you think we should do?’ Ási asks Big John.
‘Speak up, man!’ says Sæli with an anxious look. ‘The clock’s ticking and I want to know everything about possible actions or protests before we cast off.’
‘We’re vulnerable on land,’ says Big John, clasping his huge hands on the table. ‘If we speak our minds before the ship sails they’ll simply put us ashore and give our jobs to other guys. There are plenty of unemployed seamen on this island, that’s for sure. But at sea we hold the reins. The engine and the wheel, in other words. After one week’s sailing we’ll be halfway between here and our destination. Then it’ll be too late for the Old Man to turn around or send for help. That’s when I suggest we make a move.’
‘What do you want us to do?’ murmurs Sæli. ‘I’m not taking part in any mutiny – just so I make that clear.’
‘Not exactly a mutiny,’ says Big John and he takes a deep breath. ‘But the engine could maybe fail.’
‘And then what?’ says Ási.
‘We could make the Old Man understand that the only thing that could get the engine going again would be a fax from the management of the shipping company making it clear that they had abandoned all plans to cancel the contract and lay off the crew,’ says Big John. ‘Signed by every member of the board and the director.’
‘So that’s it,’ Ási says, spitting out what’s left of the match.
‘That’s nothing but mutiny, John,’ says Sæli with a sigh. ‘And I just—’
‘It is and it isn’t,’ Big John says, lighting a cigar. ‘But what the company’s planning to do is nothing but the misuse of power, ruthlessness and an attack on the Icelandic sailor.’
‘Hear, hear!’ says Rúnar. ‘I’m in. There’s nothing wrong with this, guys!’
‘Do you think it’ll work?’ asks Ási.
‘I’m telling you,’ says Rúnar, ‘they’ll do anything to get the ship back on schedule. The last thing they want to do is to disappoint that aluminium giant. If the bauxite doesn’t arrive when it’s supposed to be smelted, they’ll lose their contract.’
‘Exactly,’ says Big John, puffing on his cigar.
‘It’s a simple question of independence,’ says Methúsalem. ‘A question of our right as individuals to—’
‘Work together for the good of the whole,’ Big John finishes for him with a deep laugh.
‘You guys are terrible,’ Sæli says somewhat darkly. ‘You can hardly imagine what it’ll be like up in the bridge if this actually happens. Methúsalem?’
‘The bridge is my problem,’ Methúsalem answers calmly, running his fingers through his fair, well-cut hair. ‘You think about your part, I’ll think about mine. That’s how we’ll come out on top.’
‘We don’t have any other choice, do we?’ says Sæli, looking at his companions one by one. ‘I don’t know about you, but this is not the best time for me to lose my job. But I’ve got to finish this trip and—’
‘We have to decide right here and now,’ Big John interjects, laying down his cigar. ‘On behalf of the engine room, I endorse this plan.’
‘The kitchen’s in if Rúnar’s in,’ says Ási, looking at the bosun.
‘The bosun guarantees the deckhands,’ says Rúnar, most senior of the ordinary seamen, foreman on board and contact person between the bridge and the rest of the crew. ‘We’re in.’
‘All right then,’ mutters Sæli.
‘That leaves just the bridge,’ Big John says, looking towards Methúsalem.
‘Independence above all!’ says the chief mate, straightening his long back. ‘It’s not my style to turn my back on my mates.’
‘Good for you!’ says Rúnar and slaps him on the back.
‘Fine,’ says Big John, smiling faintly. ‘Then we won’t talk about this any more for the time being, but we’ll try to find the chance to get together after we’ve sailed.’
‘Agreed,’ says Rúnar, polishing off his beer. ‘So, shall we order a taxi and get our arses to the ship’s berth?’
‘Yeah, let’s go,’ says Methúsalem, then takes out his mobile phone and rings for a taxi.
‘Last call!’ cries the bartender and he rings the old copper bell three times, filling the smoky bar with its clamour.
A few minutes later the five men load themselves and their duffel bags into a seven-passenger taxi outside the bar, which is in a side street in the middle of Reykjavík.