He walked on cautiously, gun in hand. If they were to meet, it would be them or him. He knew that.
The footsteps continued.
Yes, they were definitely approaching, but he couldn't decide which direction they were coming from. He might just as easily be walking toward them as away from them.
He'd been going for a while when he spotted them. They were standing still, just three or four meters in front of him, as if they'd been waiting. He stopped at once. One of them called out.
The cry was drowned out by a deafening explosion. Herman looked around to determine the origin of the blast and saw the revolver in his hand. He must have fired it.
He had no idea if he'd hit anyone. He started running. No shots or footsteps rang out behind him. At one point he was tempted to stop and look back, but the pulse of his blood gave his flight a momentum he couldn't fight. His head felt completely clear. But his legs pounded like pistons; they seemed to have a will of their own.
He rounded a corner and kept going until finally he regained control of his muscles: stopping, he pressed himself against a wall and listened to the night. At first he heard nothing. Then, far away, he made out the sound of running feet, coming first from one direction and then another. A shot was fired, then several more in quick succession, drowned out by the long stutter of a machine gun. He heard orders being shouted and the stomping of boots, as if a whole army had started marching. Somewhere a car engine revved.
Firing the gun had broken the silence, and now it sounded as if his shot had detonated a mine, and that mine, now exploding, was the entire town.
He was surrounded by darkness and the noise of salvos. One moment an intense fusillade, the next a loaded silence. Who was shooting whom? Was the army firing on the strikers, and were they responding? Was it just a chaos of feral predators lurking in the dark, hissing and lashing out with their claws before withdrawing again into the shadows? Was this what revolution meant? Guns rebelling and overpowering their owners under cover of darkness, wooing men's blood, and luring it out to flood the streets?
Were they shooting at each other to celebrate that there was no longer good or evil, order or disorder, only untamed life, a town of stones splashed red with life's essence?
He started running again. His breathing was laborious, but he didn't stop; his heavy body stampeded like a raging rhinoceros through the lanes. At some point he was fired at: he heard the bullet slam into the wall behind him. Later he surprised two men hiding in a gateway. He shot at them and resumed his manic race. Who were they? Had he hit them?
He didn't care.
He spotted a division of soldiers marching toward him and found a doorway to crouch in. They'd barely gone past when he emerged, turning in mid-run to fire a shot in their direction.
Someone had built a barricade across the street, and he saw shadows moving behind it. The dark was too intense to make out what was going on, but he knew instinctively that this was revolution: the clash of guns, here to drain blood. There was a brotherhood between rebels and soldiers. They were united by a common urge to kill.
They called to him, and he answered in a sailor's broken Spanish. They invited him to join them on the barricade, and when they saw his revolver, they slapped him on the shoulder and called him compañero, a word he well understood, a gesture based on an assumption as naive as they were. He didn't care about their cause. They needed an excuse to shoot their guns. He didn't.
Shots were fired at the barricade, and they fired back into the darkness. He saw the flames at the muzzles of the revolvers and felt something warm on his cheek. Had he been hit? The man next to him slumped against his shoulder, his head resting there for a moment as if he'd fallen asleep. Then he slid gradually to the ground, his shirtsleeve soaked in blood.
The shooting intensified, the flames from the gun muzzles at the end of the street erupted into fireworks. The din was deafening. He felt a wild, dry heat burst through his skin as if his heart were on fire. He was alive!
The firing was coming closer: the soldiers had launched their attack. The men around him abandoned the barricade. As their footsteps retreated into darkness, he set off afresh, in a wild sprint. He heard a man's laugh, then realized it was his own. A prostrate body lay in front of him in the street. He leapt over it. Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him into a side street and under an archway. Together they scaled one wall, then another. Herman muttered gracias, though he felt indifferent. His whole body screamed with the ecstasy of immortality. He still had the gun in his hand.
It felt as if he'd been in this darkened town forever, as if all that had gone before had faded to insignificance. He felt it suddenly: tonight he was liberated. Here in the dark, where the only streetlights were flames from the mouths of guns and the gutters flowed red, he could exist without feeling incomplete. He was simply blood, body, instincts, and reflexes. He was his revolver, and through it, he belonged with all those like him, who moved through the night, armed. He was at one with all men, with life and death.
From the hills behind the town the huge red ball of the sun came rolling down the boulevard toward him, and all around the colors lit up, weak at first, then vivid. He met the dawn with a mixture of disappointment and relief. The sunlight seemed to tidy up the chaos of the night, and within the space of an instant, it put the houses and their inhabitants back in their rightful places.
He looked down and saw that his shirt was bloodstained. He ripped it off and hurled it into the street. He felt the heft of the revolver in his hand. He hesitated for a moment. Then he let it drop and walked on.
He reached a large square, where upturned chairs and tables lay scattered about and men in uniform were carrying bodies away. Soon the tiles would be washed clean of blood. Day had returned.
As he crossed the square, a soldier called out to him and came up, followed by two others. They looked him up and down. He stood there, bare-chested and smelling pungently of sweat, the face beneath his short blond hair reddened by wind, drink, and sun. What was he? A sailor who'd forgotten time, place, and curfew in the excitement of the moment?
He stank—but they assumed it was from bed linen and women: he could see it in their faces. He grinned at them, and they grinned back. The tallest of the soldiers pointed to his cheek. Herman touched it and felt a scab where a bullet had brushed him.
"Mujer," he said. Woman.
"Mujer." They laughed. One of them made a cat's paw of his hand, with its claws out.
He'd shot at them in the night and they'd shot back at him. Shadows firing at shadows. Now they were simply men in the first light of dawn. They let him go.
He went down to the harbor and found the boat. He loosened the mooring and began rowing slowly back to the Kristina.
THE NEXT DAY Herman was quiet. The crew shot him furtive glances. They'd noticed his absence, but no one said anything. From time to time he'd smile an odd smile that seemed to be directed at no one in particular. They exchanged warning looks. What would follow this calm? Ivar gazed thoughtfully at Herman's massive back. Only Bager seemed not to notice anything.
Herman was aware of their glances. What were they thinking about him? What did they think he'd been up to during the curfew in Setúbal? If they thought all he'd been doing was whoring, why didn't they just say so? Were they afraid of the answer?
With the strike broken, the Kristina could dock. A couple of barges arrived and the dockers began unloading the salt cod. Bager had gone into town to buy provisions, taking Miss Kristina with him. She came back in a state of excitement and told them that the chandler had invited them to lunch: they'd eaten fish with fried olives.
"But imagine, all the windows in the restaurant had been smashed. I wonder if there was fighting last night?"
Herman smiled but said nothing. He watched the dockers working in the hull and on the wharf; he watched the fishermen rowing out to sea with empty vessels and returning with full nets; he watched the soldiers standing with their bayonets at the ready; he watche
d the people of Setúbal. His gaze took in the whole world. Time stood still, and in its silence he solved all the riddles of the earth.
Was that the moment he was struck by the fatal certainty that Miss Kristina would be his?
The Kristina was readied, and they left Setúbal. For the first two days a southerly wind was behind them. Then calm set in. They lay-to with the fore staysail and topsail; the helm looked after itself. The sea was still heaving with lingering swells, and the water rose all the way up to the bulwark. High overhead the midday sun leached the color from sea and sky until everything melted into a white mist of heat. The Kristina heaved and dipped with the slow breathing of the sea. Their world had fallen into a deep slumber. They wandered around the deck like sleepwalkers and breathed in the rhythm of the waves.
Miss Kristina sat on the deck, embroidering. No one spoke. Bager sat next to his daughter with the Book of Sermons. They didn't converse, and they looked as if their closeness didn't require it. He turned a page, then looked absent-mindedly across the sea before returning to his book. She concentrated on her embroidery. Her skin had tanned, and she let her hair hang loose. Helmer served the coffee.
These were the last warm days before they approached the Bay of Biscay.
The calm continued through the following afternoon. Then at around seven in the evening a brisk wind set up, and Ivar and Knud Erik climbed up to set the sails. During the night the wind freshened. When Miss Kristina appeared on deck the next morning, a wave hit her in the face. She wiped the salt water off and laughed at Ivar, who was at the helm, then threw an expert glance at the sails. The gaffs had been reefed during the night, and of the squares, only the foresail and the lower topsail were left. The flying jib was taut and would soon be taken in.
"The canvas is taking a beating," she said, still laughing and wiping her wet face.
She had put on her father's wooden clogs and an oilskin jacket that was far too big for her. She had tied a scarf around her hair, and now it was soaked. She wrung it out and stuffed it in her pocket, leaving her thick brown curls exposed to the gale.
We passed two small fishing boats heading south. Miss Kristina positioned herself next to Ivar and watched them as they dipped violently and vanished into the trough of one wave, only to reappear a moment later riding on the next. Her eyes followed them as if searching for a fixed point. Then a strained look came over her, and she suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth and ran to the rail. Ivar looked away discreetly.
She returned to him. "I think I'll go to the cabin," she said.
He nodded.
At noon the wind turned. Wind and current were now working in opposite directions, and the Kristina plunged hard in the waves, her bow repeatedly disappearing into the swell.
Herman was at the helm.
"We need to take in the flying jib," he said to Ivar.
Ivar stared at him. "Are you telling me to climb out on the bowsprit?"
"Are you thick in the head or something?"
"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?" Ivar was openly defying him now.
"I can see that the flying jib needs to be taken in."
"I can see that the bowsprit's underwater half the time."
"Scared of getting wet?" Herman made no effort to hide his contempt.
"Unless you run her into the wind and slow her down, I'm not's going out there."
They glared at each other.
"Are you giving me orders?"
"You're the first mate, and I'm an able seaman. I'm simply urging you to do what anyone with the faintest knowledge of sailing would do. Or the flying jib can stay where it is."
Herman looked away. He knew that Ivar was right. It would be irresponsible to send a man out on the bowsprit with the bow plunging so deep. He eased his grip on the wheel, and the ship ran into the wind. At that moment Miss Kristina came up from the cabin. She was clasping her mouth again, as if preparing another sacrifice to the sea. But the two men facing off caught her attention. She looked from one to the other, her hand still covering her mouth.
Ivar crossed the deck. The ship had stopped plunging, and the flying jib was flapping in the wind. The dripping bowsprit pointed up at the slate-colored sky. Ivar climbed out on the bowsprit and started rolling up the sail.
Herman watched his tall straight figure, which held itself so confidently out there on the smooth bowsprit, poised over the raging deep below.
Time contracted and stood still.
It wasn't just a man's strength that made him strong. It was also his knowledge of others' weaknesses. Herman had despised Ivar from the moment he met him, but with a strange unfocused contempt that had had nothing firm to fix on. Did Ivar have an Achilles' heel? Could he perform under pressure?
Gripping the wheel, Herman felt the pull and strain of the eternal arm wrestle between helmsman and sea: he had to shift it continually to keep up the steering speed. He slackened, just for a moment—and with an explosive boom, the wind instantly refilled the sails. The bow shot skyward on the rolling crest of a wave, and the whole ship plunged and kept plunging, plummeting through the air before hitting the surface of the water and sending fountains of spray flying to both sides. The Kristina cut through the spume like a knife, and her entire stem dove down, as if heading for the seabed.
Time slowed, as though the sun had shifted to an invisible point in the galaxy. And yet the whole thing had happened so quickly that no one had time to react; Miss Kristina was still clasping her mouth, her eyes wide open. Then the ship rose slowly once again, and the water raced sternward across the deck. The bowsprit pointed triumphantly toward the sky. And there was Ivar, clinging like a baby monkey, white-faced.
Even in this brief instant, Herman could see that Ivar was frozen. He'd have to fling himself onto the fo'c'sle right away: if he didn't and the ship plunged again, he'd never make it. This was as decisive a moment for Ivar as the one Herman had in Setúbal.
But Ivar clung on, his brain and body paralyzed. His fingertips dug in, as though his terror had turned him into an animal that could sink its claws into the hard wood. On impulse, Herman cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted out to him. "Jump, sailor, jump, damn you!"
He didn't know himself whether he intended to snap Ivar out of his trance or just taunt him. Then the ship dipped again. When she came back up, Ivar was gone. The bare bowsprit pointed briefly at the clouds, as if that was where he'd disappeared to, rather than down into the foam around the bow. Herman turned the wheel and let the ship run into the wind, halting the upward movement of the stem.
At this point everything happened very quickly. Miss Kristina ran up to him. "You bastard," she choked. "I saw what you—" Suddenly overcome with nausea, she vomited in a stream that hit him in the middle of the chest. She buckled from stomach cramps; this time the stream hit the deck. When she straightened up, gasping, a half-digested yellow-white substance dripped from her chin. She stared wide-eyed, her face distorted. "You swine, you monster, you disgusting ... you, you..." She collapsed in convulsive sobbing.
She'd seen what had happened, and as a skipper's daughter, Miss Kristina understood what it meant. She'd seen Herman change course. And she knew what that entailed, when there was a crewman on the bowsprit.
And it was true. He couldn't deny what he'd done. Yet he'd always claim she was mistaken. It wasn't he who'd taken Ivar's life. It was the sea. The sea had claimed Ivar because he'd failed at the crucial moment. The sea took him because he didn't belong on it. Herman had just been its tool.
There was a second witness: Helmer. The galley boy had been ready and waiting by the downhauler while Ivar took in the flying jib. But he understood nothing of what he'd seen, and even if he'd formed the opinion that something was wrong, Herman had the means to's shut him up. He couldn't be accused of anything, and for a very good reason. He hadn't done anything.
"Man overboard!" he yelled.
At once Miss Kristina stopped screaming and regained her senses.
She tore the life buoy
from its housing and flung it into the sea to mark the spot where Ivar had disappeared. Knud Erik and Vilhjelm appeared from the fo'c'sle.
"Who? Who?" they yelled anxiously.
"Ivar," Helmer screamed, with panic in his voice.
Herman ordered him up the rigging to be on the lookout for Ivar in case he resurfaced. Then he gave the order to brace aback. Miss Kristina was standing by the rail, vomiting again. From shock this time, he thought.
Bager came rushing up from his cabin and Herman gave him a brief report. He made his voice deliberately calm and matter-of-fact. "Ivar went overboard from the bowsprit. He'd gone out to take in the flying jib."
"How could that happen? Didn't you sail into the wind?"
"Of course. But suddenly he wasn't there." Herman shrugged, a gesture that suggested the accident was Ivar's own fault.
Knud Erik and Vilhjelm were busy lowering the lifeboat into the water. Bager ran over and took command, jumping in himself. Herman watched as Miss Kristina too climbed up on the rail, then pushed off and disappeared over the side.
A moment later the boat appeared. Miss Kristina was standing at the stem, her hair whipping madly. Strings of vomit were still visible on her chin, but she kept her balance with ease. Bager sat slumped on the thwart. Knud Erik and Vilhjelm rowed. Herman stayed at the Kristina's helm. It gave him a soaring feeling to be in charge of the ship.
They rowed around in circles, not knowing what else to do. One moment they were on the crest of a wave, the next they'd disappeared behind one. The Kristina drifted in the wind, and so did the life buoy. Where exactly was it that Ivar had disappeared? There were no signposts on the sea. They drifted farther and farther away until the lifeboat was nothing but a white-painted nutshell in the middle of the changing landscape of turbulent waves, which eternally reared and ran themselves out, tired from chasing the distant horizon.