The Journey to the End of the World

12

In Luleå Joel bought a notebook with a black cover.

That same day he started his logbook. His first entry was dated June 17.

He’d made up his mind to write something every day. It didn’t need to be much. But there would have to be at least one word, a date and a time.

He also posted two letters in Luleå.

The first was to Samuel. He explained how he’d collected his discharge book and the very same day signed on with his first ship. He described the vessel, how it was 20,000 tons, and that he was currently in Luleå.

He hoped that Samuel’s journey home had gone well.

He promised to write from his next port of call, and included the unused half of his train ticket in the envelope.

If Samuel wanted to write back, he knew what he needed to do. The letter should be addressed to the shipping line.

The other letter was to Jenny Rydén.

That was more difficult to write. He tore up several attempts. In the end he didn’t have the strength to write any more, and so his latest effort would just have to do.

He asked her to hang the photograph of Samuel up again. Assuming he was right in thinking she’d taken it down. If she didn’t do that, he would never visit her again.

But he gave her an alternative. If she didn’t want to have Samuel on her wall, instead she could remove the picture of the man with the close-cropped hair. Then there would be two marks on the wallpaper.

He wondered how she would react. She might be angry? Perhaps she wouldn’t want to see him ever again? Well, he’d just have to take that risk.

And so Joel’s life at sea got under way.

The ship sailed from Luleå to Middlesbrough. They docked at first light. Joel was standing on deck, gazing at this foreign country swathed in mist. It was the first time he’d ever been outside Swedish territory. They’d had fine weather all the way. The North Sea had been dead calm.

That evening, Joel went ashore with a deck hand by the name of Frans, who was from Gotland. Frans had been a sailor for two years already, and had been to Middlesbrough before. He knew the dock land district. Joel drank two pints of beer in a pub, and got a splitting headache. By the time they had to go back to their ship, Joel had fallen asleep over the table. The following day, when he was woken up at six o’clock, he was sick.

He’d got used to the work by now. The days were humdrum. First of all he had his own breakfast. Then he set the tables and served 24 covers in the mess where the ordinary sailors used to eat. There were two other messes. But the one where the captain, the mate and the chief engineer ate was called the wardroom, and the steward there was called a wardroom steward. After breakfast, Joel’s work was to wash up and then clean out the cabins. He had a few hours’ free time in the afternoons, and then worked again until eight in the evening.

He had a cabin of his own. That had surprised him. In the days when he’d dreamt about becoming a sailor, he thought everybody slept together in a big dormitory. He realised that a lot of what Samuel used to talk about no longer applied in modern times.

His cabin wasn’t very big. It had a bunk fixed to the wall, a washbasin, a wardrobe and a chair. And a porthole.

It seemed to him that he’d never had better living quarters in the whole of his life. The engines throbbing away deep down inside the ship rocked him to sleep.

They stayed in Middlesbrough for a whole week. On Saturday Joel accompanied several of the other crew members to a nearby city called Sunderland, where they watched a football match.

Every day was different.

Something new was happening all the time.

They left Middlesbrough and headed for Narvik. Northwards again. But Joel had decided to be patient. This was his first ship after all. An iron ore trader. He would begin by getting used to life at sea. Then he would apply for work on other types of boat. He had plenty of time.

The second night on the North Sea, Joel was woken up by being tossed around in his bunk. A wind had blown up. He could feel his stomach reacting already. But he forced himself to go back to sleep. It would have blown over by morning.

But in fact it was gale force winds when he woke up. When he staggered out of bed, he had to cling on to the wardrobe door so as not to fall over.

The rest of the day was a nightmare. Joel alternated work with throwing up, had to watch plates of food falling onto the floor and sliding around, and he began to wonder why on earth he’d ever wanted to go to sea. Samuel had talked about being seasick. But this was something far worse than he’d ever imagined. He spoke to the cook, whose name was Axelsson and who was holding on to the stove to remain upright while he was frying the potatoes, and asked how long it was going to go on like this.

‘Oh, it’ll last all the way to Narvik. But it’ll blow over eventually.’

Joel stared at the potatoes sizzling away in the fat — and only just managed to get to the nearest toilet before throwing up again.

That evening he was so tired that he collapsed into bed without even bothering to get undressed. He was dreading the next morning.

Joel was seasick until they were well into the fjord at Narvik. Then, at long last, he could feel it ebbing away.

He was never seasick again.

He was one of the lucky ones who had the ability to get used to it. But Frans had stories about a bosun he knew who’d suffered from seasickness for over forty years.

The weeks passed by.

Joel found himself in Narvik four times. And then Bristol, Middlesbrough again, Ghent, and eventually Holland. A port close to Amsterdam.

Frans had been to Amsterdam before. One evening he told Joel a series of stories that Joel suspected were made up. About women sitting in windows and offering themselves for sale. A whole district full of women sitting in windows. Joel refused to believe that it was true.

‘You go there and see for yourself,’ Frans said.

Joel made up his mind to do just that. When they came to Holland, Pirinen gave Joel a day off. So he went to the telegraphist’s office and cashed in 200 kronor of his wages. This was the first time he’d taken out money. He’d never had so much money in his hand before.

The intention had been that Frans would go with him to Amsterdam. But Frans wasn’t allowed shore leave as there was some essential work to be done that needed his presence. So Joel had to travel alone.

He’d decided that now was when it was going to happen.

He’d written in his logbook:

Joel took the train.

Frans had told him that the women who sat in the windows were in a district close to the Amsterdam central railway station.

When he got there, he consulted a timetable in order to establish when the last train left for the harbour where his ship was berthed.

Then he stepped out into Amsterdam. He was nervous. He didn’t know what was in store. Frans had tried to explain it to him. He ought to walk around, have a good look at all the windows, and choose a woman he fancied. Then they’d let him into a room at the back of the house. He’d have to pay first. Frans had kept stressing how important that was, over and over again. First the money. Otherwise he might find himself confronted by some frightening character who’d been sitting in another back room, listening to the radio.

First the money, Joel thought. He had it in his pocket. The telegraphist had paid him in Dutch guilders.

Joel hadn’t a clue about what would happen next. He was worried that he wouldn’t be able to cope. And he wasn’t at all sure what it was that he’d be expected to cope with. She might throw him out if he did it wrong.

But obviously, he hadn’t mentioned to Frans that this would be his first time. Or that he was worried.

He had a suspicion that it would be easier if he’d had something to drink. Not too much. Just enough to banish his nerves. So he went to a bar next to the station. He had a beer. Only one. His body felt warmer already. When he left the bar, he found his way to the red light district. There were a lot of people in the streets. Lots of sailors, just like him.

And then there were all the women.

Frans hadn’t exaggerated.

They were sitting on chairs in brightly lit windows, with fixed expressions on their faces. Just like tailors’ dummies.

Joel felt both nervous and sexually excited. He hardly dared look at the women. Most of them were half naked and heavily made up. Some were smoking. Joel paused at a window where lots of other men were already standing, and took a good look. He could hide in the background there.

Then he went to a bar and ordered a whisky. Frans drank whisky. Nothing else. Joel forced it down him.

Samuel would have swallowed it in a single gulp, Joel thought. No doubt Samuel has also been to this very same place.

Who would he have chosen?

Joel decided to drink another whisky. That would have to be enough.

He paid and left. Now he felt bold enough to stand in front of a window all by himself.

But how would he be able to choose?

He wished there had been a girl who looked like Sonja Mattsson. But he couldn’t see one. He moved on. The lit-up windows came to an end. He was just going to retrace his steps when somebody spoke to him from out of the shadows. He couldn’t see who it was at first. Then a woman appeared in front of him. She hadn’t come from one of the brightly lit windows, but Joel had no doubt she was one of the same type. For sale. She spoke English. Said how much it cost, and pointed into the shadows. Joel could just make out the outline of a door.

She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. Like Sonja Mattsson. She had brown hair and wasn’t as heavily made up as the women Joel had seen in the windows.

She took hold of his arm.

Joel thought he ought to make a run for it.

But instead he accompanied her into the shadows.

There was a steep staircase behind the door. She ushered him up it, in front of her.

What the hell am I doing in here? Joel thought.

They came to a room where there was a bed with a red cover. A radio could be heard in a neighbouring room.

She sat down on the bed and stretched out her hand.

He gave her the money she’d asked for.

Then she started to unbutton his trousers.

Then she took off her own green trousers. Joel just had time to see that she was wearing nothing underneath before she pulled him down on top of her on the bed. She hadn’t removed the cover.

He wasn’t at all sure what happened next. He was aroused now. Felt how he penetrated her, and then it was all over almost before it had started.

It all happened so quickly, he was rather confused. She pulled him up off the bed, gave him a tissue to wipe himself with, and urged him to take care when he went down the stairs.

‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘Be careful.’

Then she vanished into the room where the radio was on.

Joel pulled up his trousers and stumbled out onto the staircase.

Once he was out in the street again, he asked himself what had happened. It was nothing like he’d imagined it would be.

Even so, he knew exactly what he was going to write in his logbook.

He went back to the railway station and found the right platform. Shortly before midnight he found himself walking up the gangway again.

Frans was standing by the rail, smoking.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘How did it go?’

‘Good,’ said Joel. ‘Bloody good.’

Then he went to his cabin before Frans had time to ask any more questions. But he could hear Frans chuckling to himself by the ship’s rail.

The days passed. Joel was still waiting for a message: next destination, Liberia. But it was still Narvik and Bristol and Ghent. In the middle of September they also undertook a voyage from Narvik to Luleå. It took fourteen days. Joel began to lose faith. By the end of November he began to wonder if he ought to sign off this ship and try one from another shipping line. One that didn’t only fill its holds with iron ore.

All this time Joel had only received one letter from Samuel. It had arrived at the end of October. Samuel wrote that all was well, but not much more than that. Joel had a suspicion that things weren’t as good as Samuel claimed. How was he managing on his own? Who was cooking for him? Had he remembered to put cold water in the dirty porridge pan?

What worried Joel most of all was if Samuel was drinking heavily. Who was keeping an eye on him when Joel wasn’t around?

Joel had almost made up his mind to sign off. But then came the message he’d been waiting for: the next voyage would be to Liberia. They would be there for Christmas. Joel didn’t hesitate for a moment. This was what he’d been waiting for. Once he’d been to Africa, he would sign off and pay a visit to Samuel.

He wrote to both Samuel and Jenny. She had written him several letters, but she’d never referred to Joel’s request that the photograph of Samuel should go back up on the wall. Or that the man with the close-cropped hair should be taken down.

Joel had never referred to that again. Soon enough he would be able to see with his own eyes what had happened, if anything.

He wrote about the forthcoming voyage.

The journey to Liberia.

The journey to the end of the world.

Joel arrived in Africa the day before Christmas Eve, 1959. The African coast could be seen like an enticing mirage on the port side of the ship. Every morning when Joel woke up, it was warmer than the day before. And the sea changed colour. It became lighter. The blue gradually turned into green. He saw dolphins and flying fish. Every evening he stood at the stern of the ship and looked up at the starry sky.

On December 20 he wrote in his logbook:

They stayed in Liberia for four days.

Joel went ashore whenever he was free. He wandered around in the teeming mass of people, breathed in all the unusual smells, and was fascinated by the beautiful women carrying extremely heavy burdens on their heads. He bought some shells for his little sisters, a colourful loincloth for Jenny and a drum for Samuel. On Christmas Eve he wrote in his logbook:

While they were berthed in Liberia, Joel also fell in love.

Every time he went ashore, a young girl came up to him and asked if he needed anybody to wash his clothes. He said no. But she was persistent and came back every day. Her name was Milena. And she was sixteen years old.

They used to speak on the quay. Always the same thing. But Joel thought she reminded him of Sonja Mattsson, despite the fact that she was very black.

The day before New Year’s Eve they weighed anchor and headed north. Milena stood on the quay, waving. Joel had given her some money as he’d realised she was very poor.

Pirinen was standing beside him at the rail, smoking.

‘When will we be coming back here?’ Joel asked.

Pirinen grinned. He’d seen Joel waving, and Milena waving back.

‘Never,’ said Pirinen. ‘Forget her.’

But Joel had no intention of forgetting Milena. And he knew that what Pirinen had said wasn’t true. Pirinen could be annoying at times. But Joel had learnt how to deal with that.

Their next port of call after Liberia was Narvik. Joel had decided to sign off at the end of January. By then he would have saved nearly a thousand kronor. It was time to pay Samuel a visit.

But when they got to Narvik, and the heat of Africa had become a distant memory, he found a letter waiting for him. The telegraphist gave it to Joel just after he’d finished washing up after breakfast. It was from Samuel. Joel recognised the spidery handwriting.

He went to his cabin, lay down on his bed and opened the letter.

It was very short. Not many words. But Joel would never forget them.

Joel felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach.

So Samuel was ill.

He recalled what he’d thought at the hotel, when Samuel came back from the hospital.

Samuel might die.

He started to panic. He would have to go to Samuel straight away. He couldn’t put it off. But he couldn’t just abandon ship and leave his work just like that. There were rules about how much notice you had to give before handing in your discharge book and asking to sign off.

I need to speak to somebody, he thought. Pirinen? He wouldn’t understand. The telegraphist? He wouldn’t be able to do anything.

Joel got up from his bunk. He would speak to the captain. Captain Håkansson.

He was often gruff and angry, but that couldn’t be helped. Joel left his bunk and walked up the stairs to the bridge. If the captain wasn’t ashore, he’d be bound to be in his cabin.

Joel knocked on the door.

‘Come in.’

Joel opened the door. Captain Håkansson was sitting at a desk, writing. He frowned.

‘I’m busy,’ he said.

Joel could feel that he was in danger of bursting into tears.

‘It’s my father,’ he said. ‘He’s very ill.’

Joel held out the letter. Captain Håkansson beckoned to him.

Then he stared hard at Joel, who could feel the tears in his eyes.

‘I don’t want to read a private letter you have received,’ said the captain, ‘but I can see from your face that it’s true.’

‘I have to go home,’ said Joel.

The captain nodded.

‘I’ll fix it,’ he said curtly.

He stood up.

‘I’ll have a word with the chief steward and the telegraphist. Prepare to leave by this evening.’

‘Thank you,’ said Joel.

‘I’ve had good reports about you,’ said the captain. ‘You do your job well. Never any problems.’

He nodded towards the door. The conversation was over.

That same evening Joel boarded the night train to Sweden.