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Authors: Bill Johnston Witold Gombrowicz

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BOOK: Bacacay
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At that moment I heard, behind me and somewhat to the left, the distinct sound of a juicy kiss.
I looked around, thinking it was a sail flapping—no one was there—but a moment later the same sound reached me with even greater clarity.
A kiss?
A kiss on the ship?
How on earth could that be, since there were no women?
I cleared my throat and walked slowly windward, that is, toward the bows.
Here I once again heard the same most unseemly sound, distinctly, as if it were just by my left ear.
I decided to return to my cabin right away.
Since there were no women, there could also be no kisses—and therefore I ought not to have heard something that did not exist.
If, on the other hand, there really was a conspiracy, retreat was the appropriate course of action.—“I don’t want to get mixed up in anything.
Let them be by themselves and ...”
Nevertheless, right by the cabin door I stopped, hearing behind the foremast, no more than three paces away, the tender, high-pitched voice of the ship’s boy.
“Tommy, Tommy—give me a scarf and I’ll go to the circus with you.”
“Thompson,” I called, “Thompson!
What are you up to?
Dear God, Thompson, think what you’re doing!”
“What?”
barked Thompson, not letting go of the ship’s boy, who was clinging to him.
“Thompson, he’s not a woman!
Here’s a pound sterling, Thompson, a pound sterling!
I beg you!”
“But I resemble a woman,” squeaked the ship’s boy.
“I have a high-pitched voice like a woman”—and all of a sudden Thompson insolently poked his thumb directly at my eyes—and they stopped paying any attention to me.
I pretended I’d forgotten my handkerchief and I quickly left.
But by the forward hatch, in the dark of night I suddenly caught sight of two other sailors walking along arm in arm.
So I turned around—and again I saw two other sailors, near the galley, whispering to one another.—“It’s not nice,” I murmured, “that from now on I won’t be able to look without embarrassment at two sailors, or even at one sailor.
I’ll have to turn my head away.
In any case it would be a good idea to wake the captain.
They’re whispering and conniving together.”
But Clarke was not asleep.
I was surprised to spot the will-o’-the-wisp of his little pipe on the bridge.
He had evidently decided to watch over the brig in the night.
He stood staring intently at the tip of his bent finger.
A good captain, I thought beseechingly, a noble captain, somewhat eccentric on the surface, but conscientious and experienced, a stalwart captain.
He won’t let it happen!
He won’t allow it!
I went up and mentioned briefly in passing—that kisses had appeared on the ship, and that the crew was swarming about the deck and tossing and turning on the hard bedding of the fo’c’sle.
In addition, the sailors were walking together—and saying things to one another—leaning toward each other and embracing.
“What?
The crew is mutinying?”
cried the captain, awaking from his revery.
“Mr.
Smith, have them bring my storm helmet!
A
mutiny needs to be punished by all the maritime and nautical statutes.
The culprits will be sewn into sacks, then I’ll read them the prescribed passage from the New Testament, after which they’ll be thrown into the sea with stones around their necks.
The only difficult part is catching them in the sacks.
You have to put bait at the bottom of the sack.”
(What foolishness!
At such a moment!
Why was it that foolishness wouldn’t leave me alone for even a second?
A terrible weariness flowed over me like olive oil.)
“If the ship is sailing to Valparaiso then I, as captain of the ship, should see to it that it reaches Valparaiso.
I have to maintain cleanliness and order.
Is that not so?
Mr.
Zantman—is that a misguided line of reasoning?”
He looked at me with unutterable pride and puffed himself up till his eyes bulged, and he turned so horribly crimson and scarlet that I took a step back and involuntarily covered my ears out of fear that he would burst—and suddenly he rose up from the ground, flew a few feet through the air and dropped back down.
What was that?
For all the world like a flying fish.
Why on earth had I mentioned it to him then?
It’s clear that speaking is a bad idea, since the reach of words is unpredictable, and the borders of dreams become blurred....
“It’s afraid!”
he wheezed triumphantly as he descended.
“It’s afraid!—f .
.
.
ing nature!
In the throat!
In the throat!
Forward!
Onward!
Hurrah!”—he seemed to have lost his mind.—“Look here, Mr.
Zantman”—he showed me the middle finger and index finger of his right hand—“What do you see?
A tiny little spider.
“Just imagine,” he went on, swelling up again automatically
and shouting into my ear, since the wind was growing stronger, heavy clouds were gathering to the north, and his pipe had gone out.
“I found him a moment ago here on the bridge.
I saw a huge she-spider that this tiny little spider was crawling towards.
Blast it!
Two steps away from me.
You had to see how black and motionless she was, sitting there astraddle and waiting hypnotically.
Like Mene, Tekel, Peres; and how he begged her not to devour him.
He whimpered, I tell you!
What do you say to that?
I swear to God—you were right that hereabouts everything is having fun any way it wishes, and it’s only foolish me ...
Foolish me!
What do you say to that?—what do you say to the spider?”
“What’s worse,” I whispered, looking to the side and trembling, “is that snakes behave in exactly the same way with tiny little birds.
My mind is weak.
My mind is weak.
Because of this there’s a blurring of the difference between things, and also between good and evil.”
The captain stared open-mouthed.
“What?
Mr.
Zantman!
That’s right!
Little birds—snakes—it never occurred to me.
It really gives me gooseflesh.
A fine bunch of scoundrels!
Everything’s scheming, everything’s pairing off with one another, spiders, birds with snakes, sailors, everything’s having fun—while I ...
Even here on the ship, under my nose, while I ...
Bah, after all there are fish in the sea, there are damn fish—there are hermaphrodites!”
—he roared—“I never thought of that!
By all the sulfurous fires of hell!
Have you ever considered the fact that a hermaphrodite fish, having everything it needs—that it
really
must have fun?!
And I alone have to stand here—I have to stick out like a peg?”
“It’s a marriage,” I said cautiously, since all the hairs on my head were standing on end and I was afraid of offending one of them.
“It must be a marriage—in each fish there’s a man and a woman, and a tiny priest.”—Why wake sleeping dogs?
Why so loud all of a sudden?
“Now then, captain,” I added, leaning on the rail, “there on the deck there are not a few but a great number of sailors—it seems even that all the sailors are together; they’re whispering, embracing one another and heading this way—excuse me, I think I’ll go back to my cabin.”
“Aha,” said the captain, rubbing his hands, “Aha!
They’re heading this way?
Very good.
Mr.
Smith, come here on the double.
Summon the second officer.
Hurry now.
They’re heading this way?
Right, now we’ll have a dance.”—And before I could shout out, with a gesture profoundly offensive to public decency he pulled a noiseless bluish Browning out of his pocket.
With a hurried step I returned to my cabin, where I lay on my bunk and fell asleep at once.
But my dreams were troubled—I dreamed that everyone had gathered on deck very close together, that there arose a mingling, embraces, vulgar rolling about, subdued whispers, groans, hideous curses and imprecations.
Something began squeezing together in the vicinity of the bridge, after which it surged to the rear of the ship, but I wasn’t certain if this was a mutiny, since I heard no shots.
It also seemed to me that in my sleep I heard my own name being spoken several times, to the accompaniment of raucous laughter, screams, derision, and handrubbing —“Zantman, Zantman”—as if I had funded it.
As if all this were paid for out of my money.
The ship swayed and was hoisted slowly upward and I heard
someone explaining loathsomely that this was happening because the momentum of the ship had encountered an adverse wind—owing to which both the momentum and the wind were escalating, and the ship was being hoisted into the air to a great height.
I tried to cry out but I couldn’t make a sound, since I was asleep, and in the meantime someone touched the wheel with his finger, a turn was made, and the
Banbury
suddenly moved side on to the wind so abruptly that I fell from my bunk onto the floor.
4
Around midnight the sea wind turned into a storm.
The brig pitched like a child’s swing, creaking as it hurtled forward; and in a short time the momentum had increased so much that I could not tear myself away from the back wall of the cabin.
The
Banbury
held out valiantly, meeting the wind with a sharp starboard tack.
After twenty-six hours the pitching ceased, but I preferred not to go out on deck.
For there most certainly had been a mutiny, and if not a mutiny then in any case something like it—so I thought I was better advised to stay on my own till I knew for certain what I would find outside.
I locked my door and blocked it with a cupboard; in the corner I had a packet of sponge biscuits and eleven bottles of beer.
In the morning I peered warily out of the window, but I withdrew my head at once and pulled down the blind, and even covered the window with my overcoat.
What I had seen confirmed me even more in my decision not to leave the cabin until they came themselves and broke down the door.
My position was extremely disadvantageous, since I could run out of sponge biscuits.
What
was more, despite the fact that I put a blanket on top of the overcoat, light was seeping in through the chinks—a most unseemly light, replete somehow and dazzling—and the walls of the cabin had split and warped because of the storm, forming numerous fissures and cracks, all of which were contorted.
These fissures were quite needlessly of a know-it-all, cerebral character and quite needlessly all of them were contorted and ended spikily.
This too inclined me toward caution.
However, I do not know whether they had forgotten about me, whether they thought a wave had swept me overboard during the storm, or whether they perhaps had other things to do—in any case, in the course of three days no one gave any signs of life.
It was becoming swelteringly hot.
I looked out the window once again, but I retreated quickly to the far corner of the cabin; for I had seen some very garish willow-green colors, and it appeared at first glance that the garish willow-green colors could be worse than dark and gloomy nights.
Furthermore, a tiny, overly garish hummingbird had come and perched on the railing, and the horizon shimmered with the splendor of all the colors of the rainbow, something I am not fond of; quite the reverse, a satiety of light, richness of decoration, and sumptuousness of colors disposes me unfavorably—I prefer a drab autumn dusk, or just as well a misty dawn—I dislike ostentation—I would rather have a quiet, modest spot where I always know how things will end.
And now this is the fourth day I’ve not moved from the corner, despite the fact that the biscuits are almost gone.
The ship, it appears, is sailing ever more rapidly, but without the slightest rocking, evenly, like a boat on a pond—and the light that creeps
through the chinks is constantly growing in clarity.
There must already be great painful condors—and strange, raucous parrots—and goldfish as in an aquarium—and perhaps in the distance baobabs, palm trees, and waterfalls....
Yes, yes....
For there is no question that the mutineers, taking advantage of the force of the wind, have steered the
Banbury
toward unknown tropical waters—but I would rather not guess which willow-green colors the ship is passing through and what fantastical archipelagoes it is headed for as it moves along, borne by an underwater current.
And I would rather not hear the savage, licentious cries with which the crew greet these hummingbirds, parrots and other signs on earth and in the heavens, proclaiming (to speak plainly) some rapid and magnificent merrymaking.
BOOK: Bacacay
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