Her change of heart occurred after she saw me give the ship’s cook (or ‘chef’, as he’s called) the big cod, which he then prepared and served according to my instructions. Today at lunchtime a soup was made from the head and bones, the chopped-up cheeks floating in stock with carrots, bay leaves, peppercorns and onion, and yet there was still more than enough left over to make a fish stew for tonight’s supper.
Anyway, the purser’s lady friend seemed to regard this contribution of mine to our little community on board the MS Elizabet Jung-Olsen as a criticism of her boyfriend’s job. And of course she was right that my actions were motivated by more than a mere appetite for seafood: I felt that on the maiden voyage of this new vessel of the Kronos line it would have done the purser credit to have been guided by Jung-Olsen and his son’s ideals when it came to buying in provisions — and he himself certainly took the hint and swallowed it without rancour. If anything, I would have expected his lady friend to be grateful to me for eking out their stores, thus enabling them to profit still further from the illicit trade in which they and the cook were engaged.
Last night I started awake at the sound of voices in the saloon. Although they were trying to be quiet, I overheard a business transaction that would not have tolerated the light of day: strange voices were haggling over the price of tinned ham but the purser’s lady friend wasn’t budging an inch. Apparently the problem is rife among the prosperous Danish shipping lines whose pursers and cooks make a killing by selling off provisions on the side; many of them even have regular customers in foreign ports. I don’t know what the woman would do if she knew I had overheard the couple’s secret commerce.
As luck would have it, three Norwegian police officers turned up here at coffee time to take statements from those of us who were on deck when the accident occurred at the factory. I voluntarily engaged the eldest in conversation, going so far as to appoint myself his escort while the visit lasted, thereby using an old ploy to alert the law to my presence on board the MS Elizabet Jung-Olsen. He was a man of about fifty, powerfully built and keen-eyed, with prematurely white hair, small ears and the familiar-sounding moniker of Knud Hamsun:
‘With a “d”…’ he said, explaining that he was no relation to the great writer.
I invited him to inspect my quarters and take my statement there, adding that I would like to offer him some Irish whiskey from a flask that the owner of Café Sommerfugl had given me as a parting gift when I set out on this voyage. As we went below I noticed that the constable had a limp and observed to him that it didn’t really matter once you were on board ship; it merely looked as if he were riding the swell and no one would notice that he was different from the rest of us.
The taking of my statement was performed with a civility that did the Norwegian constabulary credit. I gave Knud Hamsun a thorough description of all I had seen and heard, stressing, as was true, that Raguel Bastesen’s reaction had been far from admirable; the injured man owed his life to his workmate, who had been forced to knock the director unconscious before he could use the car that would carry them most speedily to hospital.
‘Yes, I’m not afraid to say it, though I’m no friend of the Communists and have played a personal part in the struggle against them!’
The constable finished noting down my statement in shorthand in his leather-bound pocket book, which he then closed, snapping on a red elastic band and pushing the pencil stub underneath:
‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that the worker Vidar Røyrvik died from his injuries this morning at the Kristiansand District Hospital.’
‘Oh…’
‘Yes…’
Finishing his whiskey, Knud Hamsun continued:
‘There’s always a danger of unrest among the ranks of the dead man’s fellow workers following incidents like this, so we’ve arrested the men who drove him to hospital and announced that they are being held in custody until the investigation into the theft of the car is complete. There is nothing to prevent the factory from returning to work now, so there should be no further delay to your business here in Mold Bay.’
On this positive note he concluded the taking of my statement, and we returned to the saloon where the purser’s lady friend, ignoring me, offered Constable Hamsun coffee and pancakes. I nudged him and made sure she was in earshot when I said:
‘Hark, hark, the hen crows louder than the cock…’
By this means I made sure that he would be aware of the bad blood between the woman and me. Should anything happen to me before we continued on our voyage he was bound to recall this little incident. And my odd choice of words might even arouse his suspicions that the woman’s generosity was designed to cover up some criminal activity. This didn’t escape her, cunning creature that she was, and I felt we were now even.
I struck my brow lightly:
‘Oh, I forgot! Would you excuse me? There’s something I have to finish before evening…’
I parted from Knud Hamsun with a handshake and returned to my cabin. Now he would have a chance to get properly acquainted with the woman, untroubled by my presence. Or would he? Perhaps it hadn’t been so clever to leave him with her after all? I realised all of a sudden how much the purser’s lady friend resembled the temptresses of Lemnos described to us by Mate Caeneus in his evening yarns. And it dawned on me that her erratic behaviour might indicate a breach in her relationship with the purser. Far from protecting him, as I had originally thought, she was on the hunt for a new man; someone who had more going for him than her unfortunate boyfriend — a man who could be her meal ticket to a better life.
So the bad feeling wasn’t connected to the cod at all but had in fact begun when she brought me the snack with my coffee the day before yesterday. She had been very friendly at the time and opened her heart to me. Perhaps she was under the impression, since I’m staying in a two-room cabin suite that’s almost the twin of Captain Alfredson’s, that I must be a wealthy man. Could the purpose of her sob story have been to kindle pity in my aged breast? And afterwards might she have intended to press her advantage and win both my love and my money? As soon as she made enquiries into my situation she would of course have discovered that I am only a poor Icelandic pensioner, a widower who has enough trouble supporting himself and lives alone in a poky rented flat in Copenhagen, and not in the best part of town either. At that point she must have felt she had put herself at a disadvantage by making a play for me, resulting in a feeling of resentment, even animosity, towards me.
As I shut my cabin door I saw the purser’s lady friend showing my ally Knud Hamsun to a seat at a table laid for coffee on the other side of the saloon. I only hoped his long experience in the police force would enable him to withstand her womanly wiles.
This evening it was at long last Mate Caeneus’s turn to take the watch and Captain Alfredson and I had agreed that after supper I would hold a lecture for the crew on fish and culture. The reason for this was twofold:
a) It was thanks to my publication of a journal on this subject that I was present on board as a special guest of the crew’s ultimate superior, the shipping magnate Magnus Jung-Olsen.
b) It was thanks to my efforts at fishing that we were enjoying nutritious cod for our third meal in a row.