The Whispering Muse (8 page)

‘The sea is the mainspring of the Nordic nations!’

Lecture delivered to the crew of the
MS Elizabet Jung-Olsen, 13 April 1949

more life on the ocean wave

NOTHING STIRS
; there is not a soul to be seen above deck, on ship or wharf. Even the wagons, hanging at regular intervals as far as the eye can see, to the very top of the mountain, rock noiselessly on their cable. Today is a day of no work for today marks the beginning of the Easter holiday and the locals’ rules on holidays are non-negotiable. A Norwegian who works on an important religious festival will go straight to parboil in hell. So much was to be gathered from the words of Raguel Bastesen’s deputy, who this morning made radio contact from Stavanger with the news that the loading would not be completed until the evening of the Tuesday after Easter. Unfortunately, in all the commotion following the accident they had neglected to inform Captain Alfredson of this fact. It was to be understood from the man’s words that we should not be taking it for granted that he should even pass on this bad news to us on a Shrove Tuesday, since, strictly speaking, all such radio communications counted as work and his future place in heaven was now in grave jeopardy.

We had to resign ourselves to this state of affairs, though some felt it put rather a damper on things to be forced to twiddle their fingers in this dreary spot for another five whole days. The Norwegian tried to console us by pointing out the beauty of the scenery just over the mountains. He suggested we do some sightseeing, go on a few excursions, join the cargo steamer that went at regular intervals to the small towns further up the fjord, from where one could take scheduled buses up the valleys and there go skiing and amuse ourselves in the evenings with dancing and singing; there was really no excuse to be bored. Although it was some comfort for the crew to hear this from such a well-informed local, it was little consolation for me, as I had planned to spend my vacation in the Mediterranean and Black Sea, not Norway’s Vest-Agder.

It was reported that Director Bastesen had arrived in Oslo accompanied by a nurse, and that from there he had booked a cruise to the West Indies to recuperate from the blow to his head – all at the expense of the paper mill.

The cruise ship was due to leave that evening.

And the man called himself a social democrat!

After lunch I ran into Captain Alfredson on deck and remarked in a jocular tone:

‘So the Great Cham is exiled from Fedafjord ...’

He asked me in return if I would like to accompany him, the first mate, the purser and his lady friend to the nearest town. It was an approximately two-hour journey, partly by motor boat, partly by automobile. I thanked him kindly for the invitation but said I would wait to hear how they got on.

When the party returned at dinnertime the purser told me that the landscape they travelled through had been very picturesque but the ‘town’ itself was small and everything had been closed, so it wasn’t really much of an outing. However, they had taken part in a Norwegian holiday luncheon at a ski hut. Apparently it had been first-rate fare, mostly meat but they had also been offered the princess of the seas: herring, no less.

The purser’s lady friend on the other hand had found their trip a hair-raising experience and had apparently been scared out of her wits for most of the way. I overheard her complaining to the cook, describing how the first mate had driven at breakneck speed along precipitous mountain roads with the sea a thousand feet below, and claiming that she never wanted to set foot on Norwegian soil again. After this the woman sighed, rested her hand on the cook’s shoulder and laid her head on his breast.

Oho, I thought as I watched them unobserved from the galley door that stood open into the saloon. But the cook laid his hand between the woman’s shoulder blades, simultaneously moving backwards, while she took what looked like a clumsy dance step past him to the kitchen sink where she proceeded to throw up into the potato pan, which was sitting there waiting to be washed up by the galley hand.

From the ship one can glimpse a road clinging to the mountain on the other side of the fjord. It runs diagonally up the slope and for a long stretch appears to be little more than a ledge on the sheer rock wall, so it seemed only natural to me that the woman should have been car sick after being driven along it at break-neck speed.

But still I thought:

‘Oho ...’

‘Looks like it’s only the two of you this evening.’

With a deft swivel of the wrist the steward placed the dish containing the entrée on the table and began to serve up on to our plates.

‘The first mate is on watch. The others are fagged out after their trip and say they’re still stuffed with Norwegian food. You two could stay here till the early hours and enjoy the same meal three times over ...’

He laughed at his own joke, as young men will. Although I did not join in, I indicated by my response that I found his cheeriness far from unwelcome. It was the first sign of life in the saloon that Shrove Tuesday evening in Mold Bay. We two – Mate Caeneus and I – had been sitting there waiting for the others without saying a single word beyond the conventional greetings. He was, in fact, as taciturn as the day we met on deck (though I have to admit that his clean, pressed uniform lent the occasion a silent dignity).

However, I felt the steward’s fooling had gone far enough so I raised my brows and gestured to the centre of the table:

‘In that case, would it not be more appropriate for us to sit there?’

The steward and mate looked at me enquiringly. I moved my hand slightly to the left, just enough to indicate the empty seat at my side:

‘In Captain Alfredson’s absence.’

‘Oh, that’s what you’re driving at!’

‘Yes, he is our host, is he not?’

‘Well, of course ...’

I need hardly explain that this exchange was with the steward since my dining companion remained persistently mute. I lost my temper with the young man:

‘You have still not deigned to inform us why the commanding officer’s seat is unoccupied this evening.’

‘Oh, I, er, he was ...’

‘That is no concern of ours!’

I gave the table a sharp rap with my index finger. The steward flinched from the blow as if I had struck him.

‘You cannot evade your duties by gossiping about your superior officer!’

The steward rolled his eyes like a negro, stammering something incomprehensible in his Fynen dialect. At this point Mate Caeneus spoke up:

‘What Mr Haraldsson means – with respect, sir – is that it’s not at all clear who has the role of host this evening. Isn’t that so, Mr Haraldsson?’

I nodded to the mate who looked the boy straight in the eye, his expression stern:

‘You should of course have begun by bidding me good evening first and then Mr Haraldsson. That would have made it clear from the start that in the absence of Captain Alfredson and the first mate, I stand in the place of host.’

The tip of the steward’s tongue protruded from between his dry lips:

‘Thank you, Caeneus, sir, thank you, second mate. I shall remember that next time, thank you, thank you ...’

He approached the table, gabbling his thanks and fumbling with a shaking hand for the crystal carafe, presumably with a view to pouring our wine. But Mate Caeneus was quicker off the mark. He hastily removed the stopper from the carafe and, softening his voice a little, said to the boy:

‘That’ll do for the time being. Go into the galley and take a look at the book of etiquette. Then you’ll do better with the main course.’

To me he said politely:

‘May I offer you a glass of bitter-sweet Alsace wine with your ham, Mr Haraldsson?’

I accepted his offer. By establishing our respective roles at the Shrove Tuesday dinner, I had succeeded in breaking the ice between Mate Caeneus and myself. He poured my wine with a more cosmopolitan air than one would expect of a seaman, filling only a third of the glass. Then he poured one for himself and invited me please to start.

I waited until the galley door had closed behind the steward, then whispered to my new host:

‘Mark my words, there’ll be something other than potatoes with tonight’s main course ...’

‘Is that so ...?’ he replied.

I said no more.

The evening passed swiftly – without any further gaffes by the boy – in amicable chat about the events of the past few days, and before I knew it we had reached the brandy, and the cigars, which I still could not accept. Ordinarily Mate Caeneus would embark on his tale at this stage, but as I couldn’t bear the thought of having to listen to him relating the next chapter for me alone, then listening to him repeat it all to the other crew members the following day, I had the brainwave of asking him about something which intrigued me, and was moreover connected to his story:

‘I should be fascinated, Mr Mate, to hear you relate the story of the prop, if I may call it that, which you use for your storytelling.’

Thus I gave the appearance of taking an interest in my obsessive dining companion, who by virtue of his role as host was the highest ranking officer on board the MS Elizabet Jung-Olsen that evening.

‘Ah, that ...’ he said, obviously pleased that I had provided him with an opportunity to discourse at length about himself. He reached into the inside pocket of his uniform jacket and took out the piece of wood:

‘This is a splinter from the bow timber of the Argo.’

He balanced the splinter on his palm carefully, as if the slightest draught could blow it away, and held it up to the candlelight to give me a better view. The stick looked like nothing so much as a piece of rotten driftwood of the type that used to wash up on the shore in my youth: bored by worms, gnawed by insects, polished by wind and water, hammered by rocks. I leant forward and sniffed the wood: nothing. Or was there? Yes, there was a faint tang of salt mingled with the odour of damp soil. And to my astonishment I became aware of a once familiar stirring in a certain part of my anatomy, in the nether regions, so to speak:

Good gracious me! I thought, dropping the napkin over my lap and straightening up in my chair: