The Journey to the End of the World

13

It was late when Joel got off the train that winter evening.

And it was very cold. The thermometer hanging on the station wall showed minus 31 degrees Celsius. Joel pulled his scarf over his mouth and nose. He was the only one to leave the train. The stationmaster waved his flag and withdrew to the warmth of the staff rooms.

Joel was all alone. He had bought a sailor’s kitbag in Narvik. Inside it were his clothes and the presents he’d bought in Liberia.

He set off walking. He took the old road by the river.

He didn’t know how many times he’d walked or cycled along that road. But now it felt like the first time ever.

He was in a hurry. During the long journey from Narvik he had felt his unease growing all the way. He must have read the letter from Samuel at least a hundred times. In order to grasp what it meant. He’d tried to convince himself that Samuel was drunk when he wrote the letter. Drunk and lonely, in a kitchen full of burnt saucepans. Joel had to go home now in order to clean up and wash the dishes.

But Samuel would never write a letter after being out drinking. So Joel tried to convince himself his father was exaggerating. That might be a possibility. Samuel sometimes imagined that he was more ill than he really was.

But deep down, Joel knew. He’d known even in the hotel in Stockholm, the moment Samuel came in through the door.

Samuel was so ill that he might die.

Joel walked as fast as he could. The cold air was scratching at his lungs.

He suddenly stopped in his tracks.

What if Samuel was dead already? Or was in hospital?

He set off again even more quickly. He was on the hill now. He’d soon be able to see the house. See if there was a light on in the kitchen.

The road was deserted. Snow was piled high on both sides.

There was nobody else about.

Another twenty metres and he’d be able to see the house. He increased speed even more, despite the fact that he really wanted to stop.

But now he could see the house. And there was a light on in the kitchen.

So Samuel wasn’t dead. And he wasn’t in hospital.

He was at home.

Joel slowed down. He needed to prepare himself now. What was in store for him? What would Samuel say when Joel suddenly appeared in the doorway, stamping the snow off his boots? Joel hadn’t been able to inform Samuel that he’d be arriving that very evening.

He went through the gate and into the garden. Past where he’d slept in an old bed one night a year ago. When he’d resolved to live to be a hundred, and had started to toughen himself up. He shook his head. He’d never do anything like that again. He opened the door and listened. As he did so it occurred to him that he ought to have knocked. Samuel wasn’t expecting visitors. He might think it was a burglar.

He went into the kitchen. The door of Samuel’s room was half open. The radio was silent. But the light was on.

He put his kitbag on the floor. The sink was empty, he noticed. No sign of any burnt saucepans. Or empty bottles.

He took off his woolly hat and mittens, and approached the door.

Samuel was in bed.

He was awake, and looked at Joel.

He smiled.

‘So you’ve come?’ he said. ‘I thought you would. But I didn’t know when.’

‘I came as soon as I got your letter,’ said Joel.

There were bottles of medicine on the bedside table. And Samuel was pale. Unshaven and pale. Although he was under the bedclothes, Joel could see that his dad had lost weight. He hasn’t been eating enough, Joel thought. Perhaps he hasn’t been eating properly since he got back home.

Pools of water started to form round Joel’s boots.

‘I’ll just take my boots off,’ he said, and went to the kitchen. He pulled out his usual chair. It scraped against the floor. He recognised the sound.

When he’d taken off his boots and jacket he went back to Samuel’s room. He sat down on the edge of the bed.

‘You’re growing bigger and bigger,’ said Samuel.

‘I’m five foot eleven now,’ said Joel.

‘That’s taller than I am.’

Silence.

‘I got your letter,’ said Joel.

Samuel pulled a face.

‘I had to write it,’ he said. ‘But we don’t need to discuss that now. How long do you intend staying?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘We can talk about that tomorrow.’

He always wants to put everything off, Joel thought. Samuel Gustafson has never come straight to the point. The whole of his life has been an elaborate detour.

‘I’m not really sure if there’s any food in,’ said Samuel apologetically. ‘In case you’re hungry.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘You can take a look in the pantry.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘But I’ve made your bed. As I knew you’d come to see me.’

That was an important piece of information, Joel thought.

It means he’s not so ill that he can’t stand on his own two legs.

‘I got your letter,’ he said again.

‘I had to write it.’

We can sit here like this all night, Joel thought, saying the same things over and over again. I ask and he answers, and we get nowhere.

‘We can wait until tomorrow,’ said Samuel. ‘You must be tired.’

‘We can’t wait until tomorrow at all. I want to know how you are.’

Samuel nodded.

Joel waited.

‘You remember last summer,’ Samuel began.

‘I remember.’

‘At the hotel. How I had stomach pains. And the nall that hospital business.’

‘They were going to send you a letter.’

Samuel paused again.

Joel was so frightened that he was trembling.

They were nearly there now. The reason why Samuel had written that letter.

‘They sent me a letter,’ he said slowly, as if every word was the result of a big effort.

‘What did it say?’

‘That things weren’t all that good. The tests they’d done. They said I should go to the hospital here and show them the letter. So I did. I showed it to one of the top doctors. He said I had cancer. In my liver. And that it was incurable.’

There was a thudding in Joel’s head. Samuel was dying.

He wasn’t trembling any more. He was completely calm.

‘It was incurable,’ Samuel said again. ‘So now I’m here in bed. I can’t go to work. I just lie here.’

Joel didn’t know what to say.

‘Who does your food shopping for you?’ he asked in the end.

‘Sara’s arranged for somebody to buy me the basic necessities. And a nurse comes to see me every other day. But I’ll probably have to go into hospital soon.’

‘Are you in pain?’

‘Not much. Not like it was in Stockholm.’

He produced one of his skinny hands from under the covers and pointed at all the tubes and bottles.

‘They’ve given me some excellent medicine. That sorts everything out.’

‘But you said it was incurable?’

‘I mean it deals with the pain.’

‘What else did they say?’

‘There wasn’t much more they could say. If it’s incurable, that’s that.’

‘Are you going to die?’

Joel wished he could have eaten his words.

But strangely enough, Samuel only laughed.

‘I’m not going to die,’ he said. ‘Not while you’re here at home, at least. You can still go on living even if you’ve got something incurable. I actually think I’ve been feeling better these last few days. It might go away, even if it is incurable.’

‘Yes,’ said Joel.

‘For God’s sake,’ said Samuel. ‘People go on living even if they have no arms or legs. It would be a poor show if I couldn’t go on living without a liver. Don’t you think?’

Was that a real question? Or was Samuel convinced that he was right? Joel didn’t know.

And so he merely nodded.

He agreed. With whatever it was that Samuel thought.

Samuel was trying to raise himself into a sitting position.

‘There must be something to eat,’ he said.

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘But you must want a cup of coffee, eh? And then I want to hear all about what you’ve been doing.’

‘That can wait until tomorrow.’

Samuel sank back into the pillows.

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘That can wait. I’m a bit tired.’

‘Can I get you anything?’

Samuel looked at his glass.

‘A drop of water. That’s all.’

Joel took the glass to the kitchen. Perhaps it’s possible to live without a liver. Joel didn’t understand why you needed a liver. And where was it? In the stomach somewhere?

When he’d given Samuel his glass of water, he went back to the kitchen and unpacked the drum. It was quite small. The skin was brown, and the drum was a hollowed out piece of tree trunk.

Samuel put on his glasses and examined it carefully.

‘It’s terrific,’ he said.

He tentatively tapped his fingers on the skin.

‘Sounds good,’ he said. ‘A real drum.’

Joel wondered why he’d bought it. Why on earth had he bought Samuel a drum? Couldn’t he have thought of something better?

‘Perhaps I can learn to play it,’ said Samuel. ‘Become a drummer in my old age.’

‘I’d thought of buying you a monkey skin,’ said Joel. ‘But I didn’t get much time on shore leave.’

‘A drum’s fine,’ said Samuel. ‘I’ve always wanted a real African drum.’

Joel knew that wasn’t true. It was just Samuel’s way of saying thank you.

Joel put the drum on the floor.

‘I want to know everything tomorrow,’ said Samuel. ‘But I think I’d better go to sleep now. All this medicine makes me sleepy.’

‘We’ll talk tomorrow,’ said Joel.

‘I lie here thinking,’ said Samuel. ‘When I can’t sleep, it’s as if the house were a ship. And I can hear the anchor being lifted, and the house sails out of the harbour.’

He shook his head.

‘Funny how childish you can get sometimes.’

Joel stood up.

‘I hope you can get some sleep.’

‘I’m glad you’ve come. We can talk more tomorrow.’

‘Yes, we can talk tomorrow.’

Joel went to his room.

Everything was still there. The bed, the table, the chair, the alarm clock, the roller blind. Just the same as when he’d left it. It felt as if that was a long time ago. He lay down on top of the bed. There was a creaking and knocking in the wall beside his head. The cold was singing in the wooden beams behind the wallpaper.

Joel tried to understand the situation. Samuel was incurably ill. But he thought he might be able to go on living even so. He didn’t seem to be afraid. If you’re going to die, surely that must instil fear? Joel couldn’t imagine any other possibility.

He listened for Samuel’s snores. But everything was totally silent.

So Samuel has had the same dream as I had, Joel thought. He’s dreamt that the house was a ship. That casts off and floats down the river towards the sea. This flat is the bridge. Captain Samuel Gustafson. First Mate Joel Gustafson. A father and son who can steer the ship through the worst hurricanes imaginable.

That was a remarkable thought for Joel. That he and Samuel had experienced the same dreams. They’d both transformed this ramshackle, rickety old house into a ship.

Joel got up and tiptoed into the kitchen. Samuel had switched off the light. The door was ajar, just as Joel had left it. Samuel still hadn’t started snoring. But Joel could hear that he was asleep. His breathing in the darkness of his room was deep and heavy.

Joel crept up onto the window seat. It was barely big enough to hold him now. A streetlight illuminated the deserted road. It was minus 32 degrees now. Midwinter. Joel shuddered. And thought about Liberia. And the girl who had waved to him.

Before he knew where he was, he had fallen asleep. When he was woken up by cramp in his leg, he had no idea where he was. Then the penny dropped. And he could hear Samuel snoring.

I must find out if you can go on living with a liver that’s incurably damaged, Joel thought. That’s the very first thing I need to do.

Joel woke up the next morning and heard Samuel clattering away in the kitchen. He investigated and found Samuel making porridge. But he hadn’t got dressed. He was wearing his old dressing gown over his pyjamas.

‘Cold water in the pan,’ he said with a smile.

Joel couldn’t believe that Samuel had a life-threatening illness. Perhaps it was incurable. But was it life-threatening?

When they’d finished breakfast Samuel wanted to talk about what Joel had experienced during his first months as a sailor.

‘I’ll tell you all about that later,’ said Joel. ‘I have a few things I must see to first.’

It was still very cold when he left the house. He set off up the hill to the hospital. There were several people about now. But he didn’t see them. He burrowed his chin down into his jacket, and walked as fast as he could. But after a while, he paused. Why was he going to the hospital? There were easier ways of finding out what a liver was. He turned round and started retracing his steps.

He didn’t stop until he’d come to the slaughterhouse, on the very edge of the town. He’d worked there as an errand boy the previous summer. He knew the boss and several of the slaughtermen. He stamped his feet to shake off the snow and went into the office. The boss was called Herbert Lundgren, and had a freckled face despite the fact that he was nearly sixty. He was wearing a white coat and a peaked cap.

‘Joel?’ he said. ‘I heard you’d gone to sea?’

‘So I have. I’m just visiting.’

Lundgren frowned.

‘I heard that Samuel was ill. How is he?’

‘He’s fine. But that’s why I’ve come. I want to know what a liver is.’

‘A liver?’

‘Yes. Where it is, and what it does.’

‘Why do you want to know that?’

‘Samuel’s liver is damaged beyond repair.’

Lundgren said nothing.

‘But Samuel thinks he can carry on living even so.’

‘Maybe he can,’ said Lundgren slowly. ‘I’m not a doctor. I don’t really know about such things.’

‘Where is your liver?’

Lundgren pointed to the side of his stomach.

‘That’s all I wanted to know.’

Joel put his woolly hat back on, and started wrapping his scarf round his face.

‘There’s one thing you ought to be clear about,’ said Lundgren.

Joel looked at him.

‘What’s that?’

‘Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.’

Joel left the slaughterhouse. It was getting light now. The sun was just beginning to rise above the fir-covered hills that surrounded the little town. He wondered what Herbert Lundgren had been going to say. But Samuel will no doubt pull through, he thought. It takes more than this to knock out an old sailor like Samuel Gustafson.

He went to Ehnström’s grocery store and bought a few things. It was Mrs Ehnström who served him.

‘Joel,’ she said. ‘I thought you were at sea?’

‘I’m just visiting. Samuel is ill.’

‘So we heard. Poor man.’

‘He’ll be all right. It’s just something about his liver that’s not as it should be.’

‘No doubt he’s drunk too much over the years. That’s how it goes.’

Joel could feel himself getting angry. Samuel’s drinking habits had nothing to do with Mrs Ehnström.

‘It affects the liver.’

‘Samuel feels better now,’ said Joel angrily. ‘Potatoes, please. And jam.’

His anger lasted all the way home. But when he got as far as the kitchen door, he heard some mysterious noises coming from inside. At first he couldn’t understand what it was.

Then he realised.

Samuel was playing the drum. He was tapping his fingertips on the brown skin.

He’s not going to die, Joel thought. A man who gets out of bed in the middle of winter in order to play an African drum can’t possibly be so ill that he’s going to die.

Joel coughed and stamped his feet to dislodge the snow. The noises from the kitchen ceased abruptly. Joel waited for a few seconds before opening the door.

Samuel was sitting in his usual place at the table.

He’d shaved. And he was smiling.

‘I’m so glad you’ve come home,’ he said. ‘We’ve a lot to talk about. I feel much better already.’

That evening they took out the old sea charts again.

Joel had made the dinner and then done the washing up. Samuel didn’t eat much. But he said he thought the food was very good.

They finished off the meal with a cup of coffee. And Joel talked about his travels. He said nothing about that evening in Amsterdam. But he did tell his dad about the girl who wanted to wash his clothes in Liberia.

At no time during the evening did Samuel ask about Jenny. Nor did Joel mention her. If Samuel didn’t want to know, that was up to him.

It started to get late.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Samuel. ‘I think it’s time now. For me as well.’

Joel couldn’t believe his ears. Had Samuel really made up his mind? Did he really have to be struck down by an incurable illness before realising that it was high time he put away his saws and axes?

‘Are you serious?’

‘I’ve never been more serious in all my life. As soon as I feel a bit better, I’ll sign on again.’

‘Maybe we can both work on the same ship?’

‘Then it won’t be long before we go ashore on Pitcairn Island.’

‘How long will it take? Before you’re better?’

‘Not very long.’

‘A month?’

‘At most.’

‘What about the incurable illness?’

‘It doesn’t show.’

Joel could still scarcely believe that it was true. It was as if he could hear a distant foghorn sounding inside his head. A foghorn warning all ships enveloped by the mist.

That feeling he’d had at the Raven Hotel. And the letter.

Samuel is so ill that he’s going to die.

But Joel banished the thought.

Samuel really did seem to be better now than he’d been the night before.

It was turned midnight when Samuel went to bed. Joel stayed up a bit longer at the kitchen table, poring over the sea charts.

Then he went to bed as well.

The next day he’d start writing to other shipping lines.

A few hours later he was dragged out of his slumbers by an unfamiliar noise. He opened his eyes in the darkness and wondered what it was.

Then he froze stiff.

It was Samuel.

He was sitting in the kitchen, crying.