‘What a weirdo,’ mutters Ási, taking a last drag before he puts out his cigarette, sticks the clippers in his apron pocket and makes his way back to the kitchen.
Ási turns the fillets over in the pan, then scrapes freshly made remoulade from the mixer bowl into two smaller ones. He takes the saucepan off the fire and pours the water off the potatoes. Then he turns off the gas, opens the oven and takes out an oven tray full of fried fish that he’s been keeping hot while he fries the last fillets on the pan, because he has to fry four full pans of fish to feed the crew.
‘Right, lads!’ Ási says when the first faces appear in the doorway. The clock strikes twelve and everything’s ready: the fish, the potatoes, the onion-butter and the remoulade. The crew line up and each serves himself while Ási runs cold water into jugs and gets out two cartons of milk.
‘Smells good, Ási,’ says Big John, who is first in line. He takes four fillets, a few potatoes, a good spoonful of onion-butter and then drowns the whole lot in tepid remoulade.
Next is Sæli, then Rúnar, Captain Guðmundur is behind him and last in line is Methúsalem. Stoker is down in the engine room and will stay there until John relieves him for half an hour, and Jónas is sitting up in the bridge, because he offered to take the wheel while the chief mate had his lunch. Jón Karl has still not come down.
‘There’s plenty here, lads,’ says Ási, sticking a toothpick in his mouth.
Sæli and Rúnar sit opposite each other in the seamen’s mess, where the Doors tape is circling in the old tape recorder, while Big John, Guðmundur and Methúsalem sit in the officers’ mess, John and Methúsalem side by side with their backs to the south, the captain at the end with his back to the door.
‘Wouldn’t he say anything?’ Sæli murmurs as he takes a drink of water.
‘No,’ says Rúnar, mashing his fish, potatoes, onions and remoulade together. ‘He said he couldn’t tell us whether they were going to lay us off or not. Said he wasn’t allowed to say.’
‘Shit, man,’ says Sæli, pushing a piece of fish around with his fork. ‘But what about the sabotage?’
‘The Old Man is kind of in denial,’ says Rúnar as he divides his mash into even-sized bites. ‘But Methúsalem suspects the new guy.’
‘Jónas’s brother-in-law?’ Sæli takes a small bit of fish and samples it like it’s a foul medicine.
‘Yeah, it’s not nice to back the relative of a crew member into a corner,’ says Rúnar, shrugging. ‘But he’s the only one we don’t know.’
‘Do you think he’s some kind of swindler or something?’ Sæli chases his fish with cold water. ‘Do you think Jónas knows something about him that we don’t?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what I should think. But the man isn’t exactly charming, if you know what I mean.’
‘Wasn’t it just some lunatic?’ asks Sæli, putting down his knife and fork. His stomach is in a knot and he doesn’t have much of an appetite.
‘Yeah, probably.’ Rúnar shrugs. He puts his knife aside and starts shovelling the mash into his mouth.
‘And the Old Man won’t say anything,’ sighs Sæli. ‘Which means we will be laid off, doesn’t it?’
‘S’pose so,’ murmurs Rúnar, pulling a face with his mouth full of food.
‘But what about stopping the engines? Is that still on?’
‘Prob’ly not.’
‘I wish I could phone home.’
‘That makes two of us.’
‘I can’t stand this!’ Sæli hides his face in his hands.
‘Could you pass me the salt please, Methúsalem?’ says Guðmundur as he feeds a potato to Skuggi, who is sitting under the table.
‘Of course,’ says Methúsalem, handing him the salt.
‘What’s the situation with that storm?’ asks Big John, smacking his lips.
‘I don’t see how we can avoid it,’ says Guðmundur.
‘Well, we can’t keep retreating to the east, can we?’
‘I’d suggest we try to avoid the storm. It’s better to take a small detour than to go through sudden gusts, undercurrents and breakers.’
‘This is no storm,’ mutters Methúsalem. ‘Just a shower.’
‘There’s no need to take chances,’ says John, putting a whole potato in his mouth.
‘Prudence is the mother of all virtues,’ says Guðmundur and starts eating.
‘This is fucking ridiculous!’ says Methúsalem with a sneer. ‘Here we sit discussing the weather instead of talking about what we’re really thinking about, all three of us. The crew is going to be laid off and there’s a felon loose in this ship.’
‘Right,’ says Big John, then he shovels more food down his gullet, using his left hand to wipe remoulade from the corners of his mouth.
‘A storm in a teacup has never sunk a ship,’ says Guðmundur with a cough. ‘And I’m referring to these supposed lay-offs. But sabotage will not, of course, be tolerated – that goes without saying.’
‘Denial and equivocation,’ says Methúsalem, white with fury. ‘Jónas and I had a short talk just now and it seemed to me he was afraid of this brother-in-law of his. Doesn’t want to talk about him and is evasive if you ask about him! I suggest we visit this guy and ask him the questions we need answered.’
‘There’s a time and a place for everything,’ says Guðmundur, taking a deep breath.
‘Rubbish!’ says Methúsalem, spluttering fish over the table. ‘I’m convinced he’s a spy for the company, and that you know it.’
‘What are you implying?’ asks Guðmundur, giving his chief mate an angry look.
‘You know something we don’t.’ Methúsalem no longer holds the captain’s eyes. ‘That much I’m sure of.’
‘I think we should go back to discussing the weather,’ says Guðmundur, clenching his fists round his knife and fork as he continues eating.
‘This storm will die down like any other storm,’ says Big John, still shovelling his food.
‘If it was up to me this hooligan…’ says Methúsalem and he is about to slam his fist on the table when Jón Karl appears in the mess, in one hand a dished piled high with food, in the other a glass of water.
‘What hooligan?’ says Jón Karl, sitting down opposite the first engineer, while Methúsalem is so astonished at this sudden presence of the deckhand that he’s unable to speak.
The same could be said for Guðmundur and John, who look at each other and then at Jón Karl, who pretends not to notice.
‘Were you maybe talking about me?’ Jón Karl says, grinning like a hyena in the face of the chief mate. Methúsalem blinks his watery blue eyes and is about to look away when he suddenly notices his gold watch right in front of his eyes, on the muscular wrist of the seaman.
‘My watch!’ Methúsalem attempts to grab Jón Karl, who moves a good deal more quickly, leaving Methúsalem empty handed.
‘What are you talking about, man?’ says Jón Karl, calmly salting his food. ‘If you owned a watch you’d be wearing it, wouldn’t you? This is my watch, obviously, ’cause I’m wearing it, see?’
‘That is my watch!’ says Methúsalem and he looks at Guðmundur as if he expects the captain to take his side.
‘It’s no good looking at him,’ says Jón Karl, smiling at the captain. ‘Is he maybe your daddy? Should Daddy take the watch off the bad boy and give it to you?’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asks Methúsalem, pounding his fist on the table. ‘You must have found that watch somewhere. That is my watch and I want it back this instant!’
‘Methúsalem,’ says Guðmundur, giving the chief mate a paternal glance. ‘Try to keep calm.’
‘Aren’t you lost?’ says Big John, licking his chops. ‘This is the officers’ mess.’
‘Are you tired of life?’ asks Jón Karl, grinning at the chief engineer. ‘The scar after your heart operation has hardly healed, man, and you’re wolfing down remoulade as if it were yoghurt or something.’