Hey, how about that! They’re pouring cognac in a glass! For me!
He could just as well stand in front of a mirror and watch the rifle barrel disappear into the mouth of his reflection and the mirrored forefinger pull the trigger, as if he were at home in his living room, watching a thriller on the TV.
Then he laughs at such a childish comparison.
And that laugh is so mirthless as to be almost terrifying.
It is terrifying.
‘Laughter lengthens life,’ says Methúsalem Sigurðsson, lifting his glass as he laughs at his own joke. ‘I’ll drink to that!’
Cheers!
Who said cheers?
‘Did you say cheers?’ Methúsalem says, putting down his glass and licking his wet lips. ‘Who are you? Eh?’
He rocks back and forth and stares at the glass, which is empty except for a copper-coloured drop that runs down the inside then spreads out and somehow disappears on the bottom.
What!
‘Who drank from that glass?’ asks Methúsalem, savouring the sweet aftertaste of the cognac. ‘Did I drink the glass? Are you joking? Who’s joking? Eh?’
What’s going on? Is he going crazy? Or is he drunk from one sip?
‘You’re not going crazy at all,’ Methúsalem says quietly and sniffs carelessly as he pours another glass.
Just the wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Wrong man – that is, not the right man, I mean! Nothing wrong with me! Maybe a bit of a fool sometimes, like stupid, but not a fool like crazy or anything, eh?
‘Stupid? Me? I think not!’
Methúsalem coughs. Is he getting a sore throat? That won’t do. Cognac kills germs, that’s been proven over and over.
I’d better…
‘Hey!’ says Methúsalem, leaning forward and examining the glass.
Empty! It’s empty again! There’s something eerie in this bloody cabin. Is somebody drinking my stuff here?
‘Do you know what one rabbit said to the other rabbit?’ Methúsalem says as he fills the glass a third time.
No. I don’t know.
‘You don’t know?’ says Methúsalem with a crooked smile.
Who doesn’t know? The rabbit?
‘Are you feeling as eerie as I am?’ says Methúsalem. He tosses back the contents of the glass.
Then it’s as if he catches on to the joke. The cognac stops halfway down and splutters out his nose.
‘Ha, ha, ha!’
Feeling eerie! Like with big ears! Rabbit’s ears, see! Ay, me!
‘This is some bad party!’ says Methúsalem, wiping snot and saliva off his face with the back of his hand.
And speaking of bad parties… there’s the bolt from his rifle!
‘You’re quite the mischief-maker,’ Methúsalem says as he reaches for the bolt, which is folded in a clean handkerchief.
He unfolds the cloth and picks up the bolt, which is heavy and cold but still as good as new.
‘You just need to be rubbed with a bit of oil,’ Methúsalem coos as he turns the bolt every which way and rubs dried salt off it with the cloth.
Methúsalem puts down the bolt, stands up and walks on unsteady legs across to the wardrobe.
‘Bloody waves.’
He steadies himself on the right side of the wardrobe as he opens the left.
He takes out the rifle, a box of shells and a little jar of gun oil, closes the wardrobe, then shuffles back across the damp towels and the soaking rug to sit on the couch again.
What do you know? Somebody’s filled the glass!
He wets a corner of the handkerchief with oil and carefully rubs the part of the bolt that goes in the breech of the rifle. Then he slides the bolt into place, moves it back and forth and finally loads the rifle, shell by shell.
The first mate’s movements are slow, methodical and focused. His fingers handle the shells with the gentle deftness of a magician; his pupils widen like the aperture of a camera and don’t move even a fraction of a millimetre, his mouth half gapes open and the tip of his tongue lies still on his lower lip.
But the minute the final shell is in place, this bizarre look of concentration disappears from the face of Methúsalem Sigurðsson; it is a look that contains both the willpower of an evil-doer and the true simplicity of someone dim-witted.
There!
Methúsalem grins and handles the weapon like a proud soldier before he puts it down on the couch.
You need more than a single clown with a shotgun to disarm a real man.
I’ll drink to that!
No! Hello! Knock it off!
‘Am I maybe losing my mind?’ Methúsalem says, picking up the glass in his right hand and the nearly empty bottle in his left.
He drinks a drop or two and then shakes the bottle.
What’s going on? Two drinks? Three? Has he finished the bottle?
‘Well, it wasn’t full,’ he mutters and pours half of what’s left into his glass.
It was about half full, just a bit over. The Old Man’s been hitting the bottle, all right! Smuggling liquor on board the ship. Finished half a flask in just a few days.
‘Here’s to the Old Man!’ Methúsalem lifts his glass, exchanges looks with nothing and nods to his invisible drinking companion before he throws back the cognac.
Cheers to you!
Cheers!
No. Why should he be drinking to the fucking old bully? The Old Man? He’s a dinosaur! A weakling! A boss-lover! Says he’s going to resign in support of the crew. Yeah, sure!
‘I’ll leave the ship.’ Blah, blah, blah.
You just go to hell, liar! Ha!
‘Just a fucking liar,’ Methúsalem says, pouring the rest of the cognac.
He leans back on the couch and breathes out as he sinks into the damp leather.
His eyes no longer glitter. And they stare at nothing, they’re like empty sockets.
What?
‘Nothing.’
Wouldn’t it be the thing to sabotage the main engine and shake up the lot of them and create proper chaos, then shoot the captain in the head, throw his body overboard and take command of the leaderless ship?
‘What?’
Nothing.
What’s in the glass? There’s nothing in the glass! Who drank from the glass?
Was it you?
‘It was me.’
The flask lies open on the table. It’s empty. It’s full of nothing. Methúsalem lies on the couch. His eyes are open but he’s not awake.
He sees black, he thinks black, he is black.
Blackout, man!
‘EH?’
And he’s grinning like a skull.
It’s eleven minutes after six on a Saturday afternoon when Ási, Big John, Rúnar and Sæli meet in the mess to exchange information and go over the situation.
‘I spoke to that Satan before you took him up to the forecastle,’ says Sæli, holding onto the rack above the cooker. ‘The shipping company didn’t send him here, that’s for sure. He has nothing to gain and that’s why I don’t think it’s likely he did the damage to the ship. Why should he do that if he gains nothing from it?’
‘Hard to say,’ says Rúnar, who is standing in the doorway to make sure nobody eavesdrops. ‘But quite apart from who this guy is or what he’s doing here, there are at least two things I don’t understand. If he isn’t Jónas’s brother-in-law, why did Jónas keep quiet about it? And if he isn’t Jónas’s brother-in-law, where is his brother-in-law?’