The Story of My Wife (6 page)

At any rate, one of my officers knocked on my door and reported:

"Captain, we are on fire."

"What are you saying?"

But he didn't have to repeat it. I knew right away what was up, at such moments I always do. It's scary how fast I can act in a crisis.

"Let her heat up, let her sweat," I gave the order quickly. I knew from experience that cotton and wool and other such material will turn white-hot, like charcoal, before starting to burn, they absorb their own heat. If we can only trap that heat, we've gained precious time.

"And don't wake up the men if you can help it," I called after him, and also reached for my robe—it was a cold night.

Try as I might, I don't think I could really describe that night. The little motor pump was hissing away, otherwise there was eerie silence; only occasional footfalls could be heard on deck. And there was this great brightness, as if all the lights had been turned on for some non-existent guests. For ghosts.

Slowly, quite peacefully, the bow of the boat began to smoke; it gently curled through the cracks at first, then rose swiftly, as we were still going full steam.

It wasn't the first time I found myself in such a fix; it happened twice before, in fact. Once, on a short run between China and Japan—the boat was a Dutch three-master, as I recall—we ran aground. The vessel was loaded with rice. For two days straight we kept dumping the world's finest rice into the ocean, still we couldn't break loose, though after a time we were so light, we nearly tipped over—we were hit broadside, to boot. ... I had contended with fire too, just outside Trieste. But we managed to steam into harbor in the nick of time. It was so hot on board, our bones were about to melt. In short, I'd been in sticky situations before and sweated out each one, but nothing like this night.

I was helpless, especially at first—that was the main problem. As though my ill fortune had made me lose my senses, preventing me from thinking straight. I just didn't know what to do. Went up on the bridge, raced down to the fire, issued the most contradictory orders. Told them, for instance, to let out the throttle, increase speed, and immediately thereafter demanded to know why they hadn't flooded the hold with steam. I ranted and raved, though I knew full well, as does everyone, that if I wanted to pick up speed, I needed engines operating at full blast. Still, I was half-insane with rage and about to attack the engineer. My first officer just stood there, staring.

And that irritated me, too, his look did. So I vented my anger on him as well, blaming him, absurdly, for everything.

Luckily, we had no trouble with the passengers, not with those in steerage, that is (we had plenty of them aboard, we were that kind of ship). With their sorry belongings, they proceeded to the upper decks, pale and frightened, like so many prisoners, but in perfect order and without a murmur. Yes,
they
could do it. I must say that this orderliness—the solemn composure of the poor— moved me. They've grown accustomed to misery, and danger, the things other people consider indignities not meant for them. I do like the poor so much better . . . But let's not get into that just now.

I had some of the clogged-up vents cleared, in the hope that something would flare up and we could locate the source of the fire. But all we got was more billowing smoke, it assailed us like some dark beast. You couldn't see a thing: below deck all the lights went out, and even lanterns were useless. But my men grimly stood their ground, exerting themselves to the breaking point. Only when overcome by the smoke did they wheeze and cough and grope for fresh air. Out in the open things were dripping wet; down below the fire raged on.

All I wanted to do was quickly get to the storage area and close off the entrance. Whatever lay in the way had to be tossed overboard. I always know exactly what kind of cargo I am carrying, even its shape, its size, the way it's placed in the hold, since my main concern is keeping the proper balance and making sure nothing slides or tilts—that's why I never skimp on rope and packing material. ... So I did make myself useful, after all. What is more, my head began to clear up by then. What else? Soon, more steam than smoke was coming from below, and that, too, was something to be cheerful about.

But by then some of the first-class passengers began to appear.

"What is it, captain, what happened? Why is it so hot?" Such questions they put to me. As if they'd gone batty and couldn't see what was happening.

"There is a fire, damn it," someone in the foredeck yelled, and even gave a jerk on the bell.

By then I was myself again: I rounded up these gentlemen and hustled them into the first-class lounge. Even turned on the gramophone for them, let them enjoy themselves. And I ordered a few sailors to stand at the door and not allow anyone to leave that room.

I had a schoolmate at the Academy, a boy from Friesland by the name of Ebertsman-Leiningen, who once invited me to his house for winter recess. He'd checked with his parents first, but curiously enough, when we arrived no one was there except the gardener. The master and missus had gone off to the Riviera, we were told.

My friend was furious. "But I told them I'd be bringing a friend," he said indignantly. "But wait . . ." and there was a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Sure enough, when it got dark he broke open the larder. Of course I helped him too, gladly. We set a splendid table; the damask tablecloth gleamed like a field of ice under the bright chandelier. And our raid yielded the very best: beautiful pieces of ham, mouth-watering sausages—we created regular still-lives with the red and brown meats. Later, though, things soured. For one thing, we broke open a cupboard—my friend wanted to get his hand on some money, too. And then, another unpleasant memory: we were trying to distill brandy on the kitchen table when a young girl walked in, a maid apparently . .
',
When it was all over, she started crying, and kept it up, there was no consoling her.

Adolescents are awful creatures. The beast in them has not yet been tamed. We didn't make much of the incident with the girl, though the next morning we couldn't look each other in the face, my friend and I. He wrote a brief note to his mother, thanking her for their hospitality, put it on her desk, and we left.

But I couldn't get the crying girl out of my mind. For a long time afterwards I kept hearing her sobs, even her quickening heartbeat, as if she was secretly taking me to task, making me pay.

And now this boat.

Again I felt like a wastrel, a scapegrace, who's got corruption in his blood, who is sure to come to a bad end.

And then the tormenting questions, the self-reproaches. How could I let this happen? How will it all end? Why was I entrusted with this beauty. . . ? Because it
was
a splendid boat. And so well maintained. We were encouraged to be on the lookout even for minor defects. At home port the inspector came around regularly, and we had to report the slightest damage, even scratches on the woodwork. And now all that painted and varnished woodwork was sizzling, the whole goddamn handcrafted frame.

Well, Kodor, you picked out a winner, I said to myself. (He was the one who recommended me to the post. Why on earth did he do it?) The boat began to smell like burning wooden play dishes, freshly painted toys, Christmas boxes—a sickeningly sweetish smell, it almost made me sick. To this day I get nauseous when I see such wooden dishes. But that's the way we old-timers are; we get very attached to the boat we serve on. Keeping things intact somehow means more to us. A broken cup, a lost key causes us grief, let alone something as big as this. Ah, it's a terrible heartache, enough to drive you mad.

"And the passengers' lives meant nothing to you?" someone asked me after the accident. Sure they did. Even my life is worth
something.
So at half past three I decided to give the distress signal. But let's face it, this was a mistake, too. I did it late, much too late. What was this with me: just a lapse, a sudden paralysis, temporary insanity? God only knows. It must have been around one thirty when my navigator first came over and saluting me stiffly, asked:

"Hadn't we better signal for help?" Just at that moment I was staring at the barometer and then at the sky.

"Let's wait; I have a feeling it's going to rain."

"If we delay, the entire deck is going to burn through."

"It will not. In any case, it's the captain of the ship who must take the responsibility, not the officers. In case you didn't know."

He withdrew.

But half hour later he came up to me again.

"Do I have your permission?"

"No."

I have some explaining to do. Again. Where do I start? For one thing, I was always taught to be ambitious and self-reliant, which gave rise to such an inflated sense of responsibility, such vanity ... It was madness, I know. The man was right. And still. There's always that urge to prove you can do it, on your own, without help. Just then we were getting close to the seat of the fire. I was there, I saw it—deep inside, a gentle little flame, a mere flicker, hardly more than the light of a candle. Could that be all?

Well, God be praised, I said to myself, like a man obsessed.

The sky was overcast, there was a sluggish breeze, the barometer kept falling, and I felt like saying, hold on, hold on, it'll soon rain, very soon, in a few minutes, I'd stake my life on it. And I left it at that, I wouldn't budge.

There
is
something strange about me in this respect. I can never really believe in danger, that something can be final, fatal.

So there we were; at 2:30 p.m. the upper deck did give way, and we began burning in earnest. Imagine our little ship, if you will, as it kept burning and still pushing ahead in the pitch-black night. And the engine still working, doggedly, faithfully, like the heart of a dying man, holding out to the bitter end. Ah, what a splendid little engine it was, what a fine boat.... I thought I should cry or try saving it with my bare hand, or plunge into the flames and howl and rave until it's over.

"Now he can tap away," I heard the first officer say to someone, after I finally relented and relayed a series of distress signals, and gave orders to sound the alarm.

He wasn't a disrespectful chap, my officer, but he was tired— the poor man staggered about like a drunkard. I myself was hardly conscious of fatigue, though God knows, I must have been tired, too—as tired as if I had caroused for three days nonstop. But as I say, I didn't feel it, only my eyes burned and my throat filled up with bitter smoke. I drank glass after glass of lemon squash in my cabin where I escaped, to do some desperate figuring. According to my calculations, if we held out for four more hours, or even three, I could sail into a harbor safely, as I had into Trieste years ago, aboard the Guidetta.

We are sixty miles off the Alexandria coast, I kept fretting, there have to be boats around. But no, there was nothing. Just before it got dark, we did spot a Czech steamer heading in the same direction we were, but then we lost her.. . . There we were, close to the desolate coast, with no island, no rescue station, nothing to pin our hopes on.

At that moment I swore on the Virgin Mary that I would never again take charge of a fancy ship like this (provided we come out of it alive). It just wasn't for me. I'll go back to my old ships, my old routes—to hell with what my wife will say.

Oh, how I hated her then . . .

At 3:00 a.m. a morbid-looking Spanish passenger, a certain Don Pepe, shot himself in his cabin. Luckily, no one besides me found out. His younger brother, Don Julio, a freeloader, if there ever was one, came over and asked me to support his claim that as next of kin he was entitled to all his brother's worldly possessions. Sure, I said; why not?

And that's when treacherous gusts began to rock the boat. I was desperate again. Should I stop the engines? I knew full well that only speed could save us. I walked into the lounge and told the passengers to start boarding the lifeboats. I didn't get very far. They were ready to tear me to pieces.

"What kind of ship is this? What kind of captain?" I heard from all sides. "Why didn't you radio for help earlier?" a hulking, wild-eyed young man demanded. Clutching a pale-faced wisp of a girl under his arm like a pitiful bundle, he came menacingly close. "We can all croak for all you care," he barked, his lips quivering with rage.

I had no choice; I took out my pistol.

And immediately had second thoughts. They quieted down all right, but remained hostile, ready to pounce. I took advantage of the tension, and for once seized the right psychological moment. I threw away the pistol and addressed the crowd:

"Listen, everyone: A trap door just cut my arm, I am covered with blood. My jacket burned through and with it pieces of my flesh. So you can see, I am doing my best. But you must help, too. If you go haywire, you put
me
in a foul mood, and that won't do you any good, believe me. Without me you don't have a ghost of a chance. But if you stick by me, I will save you even if it kills me.. . . Look at me, people: Do I look like the kind of man who doesn't keep his word?" And more of the same. I am too embarrassed to repeat all of it, it was such rubbish. But the effect was stunning. The mood changed; it swung to the other extreme. People began pleading, imploring; someone picked up the revolver I flung away, and the way he handed it back, I felt he was offering up his heart. After a while this, too, became insufferable.

Some Armenian pilgrims began to torment me with their love; they caressed my coat, and droned on and on, obsequiously but unintelligibly. They spoke very little French; five of them tried putting together one decent sentence but couldn't—it was horrible. And just then their priest held his cross over me and amidst much wailing and moaning held an impromptu mass. The resulting commotion got to be too much; so as not to make a further spectacle of myself, and fools of them, I got up and left. But a young English girl threw herself at my feet and wouldn't let me go through the door.

"I adore you, can't you see?" she cried, and smiled at me with a strange, seductive smile. She then hugged me and tried to clasp my neck. She was a beautiful girl, actually, but right now she was too busy shrieking: "Don't go away, pleeease . . ." And then: "I had my eyes on you the whole way, you didn't notice. . . ? It's all right, it's all right, I can say it," she explained to everyone around. "He is my true love, my ideal." Her mind apparently became unhinged in the crisis. Her parents, a tiny old couple with idiotic smiles of their own, just stood there, seemingly in total sympathy with their raving daughter, though their eyes were imploring me to save their child, for God's sake.