The Journey to the End of the World

14

That night Samuel told Joel the full facts.

He would never be able to sign up on a ship again. The illness he was suffering from would never go away. Nor could he count on it getting any better. When Joel appeared in the doorway with his sailor’s kitbag, Samuel had felt that despite everything, things could go back to normal. But when he woke up in the night, he couldn’t indulge in make-believe any longer. He would never sail to Pitcairn Island. The only journey he would make in the rest of his life would be to the hospital.

Joel didn’t feel afraid. He had gone along with Samuel’s dream of everything turning out all right because that was easier than facing the difficult realities. Now he felt relieved. Knowing the facts.

Samuel was going to die. No matter how odd that seemed.

Joel felt helpless. And angry. It was unfair that Samuel had fallen ill. Why couldn’t it have been somebody else instead? Everybody had a liver. Why should it be Samuel’s that had gone wrong?

There was an invisible word that was never mentioned that night. Death. Neither of them wanted to say it. But they both knew what they were talking about even so.

‘I try not to think about it,’ said Samuel. ‘So as not to be frightened. It’s true that I always make a mess of shaving, and I’ve done some silly things in my life. But nobody will be able to say that I’m afraid.’

During the night they also spoke about Jenny.

It happened out of the blue.

‘I don’t regret what I said to her. But there again, I’d like you to know that I can understand her. She was never suited to life up here in the forests. She was never suited to life with me. She thought I was different from the way I am. And the same applied to the person I thought she was. I know I’m not easy to live with. What with all my peculiar habits.’

Joel had made some more coffee. He gave Samuel a refill.

‘But you know all about that, of course,’ said Samuel. ‘That I’m not so easy to live with.’

Joel said nothing. He had nothing to say.

‘I think that you and Jenny can be good friends,’ said Samuel. ‘And nothing makes me more pleased than that.’

Samuel lifted his cup of coffee, but as he did so the pain came back. He grimaced with pain.

‘I think I’d better go and lie down,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to help me. I’ll manage. And you need to get some sleep as well.’

Joel remained in the kitchen. He didn’t even go to sit on the window seat. His head was empty. Various images were hopping around. Totally without context.

After a while he got up and trudged back to bed.

I’ll never be able to sleep again for the rest of my life, he thought.

Then he fell asleep. With the covers over his head.

When he came to look back, Joel would recall Samuel’s last days as the most remarkable he had ever spent with him.

Samuel was cheerful, even exhilarated. He talked about his life in a way he’d never done before.

Joel knew that adults were often odd, but it had never occurred to him that they could also be odd when they were going to die.

Samuel practised playing the drum every day. Morning and evening. And they spent hours poring over sea charts. Samuel told stories about all the ships he’d sailed in. And about all the ports he’d visited.

Joel did the shopping and the cooking. And the cleaning. He went to see Sara at the bar where she worked, and told her that nobody needed to go to help Samuel now that he was at home. She had tears in her eyes, but Joel hurried away before she started crying.

The only person he wanted to speak to was Gertrud.

But he didn’t even go to visit her. It was as if he wanted to be in peace with Samuel.

After a few weeks Samuel became so ill that he had to go into hospital. Neither he nor Joel had expected it to go as quickly as this. Now Samuel was in a room with four beds. His pains came and went like breakers on a beach. They had taken the sea charts with them to the hospital, and continued their make-believe voyages.

They laughed often and a lot, sometimes so loudly that a nurse came to see what was going on.

But sometimes they were serious as well.

‘You can ask Göransson to help you,’ Samuel kept saying. ‘When it comes to sorting out the flat and its contents.’

Göransson worked for the logging company. He was Samuel’s boss. He sometimes came to visit Samuel in hospital. And Sara visited him as well. Even Ehnström came. Ehnström and his wife. But Joel always left the room when they were there. He hadn’t forgotten what she’d said that time in the shop.

It was forbidden to consume strong drink in hospital, but Göransson had brought Samuel a bottle of cognac that he took a sip from now and then. It didn’t worry Joel. He thought he would almost miss never again having to drag Samuel home when he was drunk.

Joel was alone in the house by the river. Every evening he left the hospital once Samuel had fallen asleep. It was still very cold. It sometimes seemed to Joel that the house was like a sailing ship with all its sails in tatters. Now it was going to be chopped up. Nothing would be left of it.

When he wasn’t visiting Samuel, Joel wrote letters to various shipping lines. And all the time he tried to avoid thinking about what was going to happen.

One morning, while he was having breakfast, there was a knock on the door. It was Göransson. Joel offered him coffee. Göransson was a man who didn’t beat about the bush.

‘I’m sure you know your dad’s going downhill. He’s not got much longer to live. You’re a sensible lad, and I’ve no doubt you are aware of the situation.’

Joel nodded. There was nothing he could say.

‘I’ve promised Samuel that I’ll help you. But first I have to know if you want to carry on living in this flat. I’ve spoken to the owner of the house, and you can stay on if you want to. For the same rent.’

Joel didn’t answer.

But he had a question:

‘Was Samuel a good lumberjack?’

Göransson looked at him in surprise.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Of course he was. One of the very best.’

‘That’s all I wanted to know. And I’m not intending to stay on here.’

‘What have you thought of doing with the furniture?’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘You ought to think about if there’s anything you’d like to keep. Then I’ll help you to sell what’s sellable: we’ll have to throw away the rest.’

Göransson stayed for nearly an hour. Joel didn’t really want to talk about all the things that were going to happen. But at the same time, he was grateful to Göransson for helping him.

When Göransson had left, Joel worked his way through the flat, picking out what he wanted to save.

The sea charts. The photographs of Samuel. And some old letters.

Samuel’s discharge book. And the old alarm clock that had always stood by his bed.

But nothing else.

A few days later a letter arrived.

Joel was informed that he could sign on for a ship called the Rio de Janeiro. It was on its way from Argentina and was going to a shipyard in Gothenburg where it would undergo repairs. If Joel was interested, they wanted him to sign on at the beginning of March.

Joel was pleased. But he didn’t know if he’d be able to.

Nevertheless, he wrote a reply. He spelled out the truth. He wanted to, but he didn’t know if he’d be able to.

That same afternoon he told Samuel about the letter.

‘That’s a good shipping line,’ Samuel said. ‘And it sounds like a good boat. Good boats must have a good name. Rio de Janeiro. Names don’t come any better than that. When do they want you to sign on?’

Joel tried to avoid answering. But Samuel persisted. He wanted to know.

‘Of course they told you that. You can’t fool me.’

‘The beginning of March,’ Joel mumbled.

Samuel lay for a while without speaking.

‘The beginning of March,’ he said eventually. ‘And it’s the beginning of February already.’

The last evening of Samuel’s life, he’d got it into his head that he wanted to play cards. Joel had brought him a pack of cards. Samuel was in an unusually good mood, and wasn’t in pain.

They played poker. For fantasy money.

Samuel bet a million. And Joel bet a million as well. But neither of them could work out who’d won.

In the end, a nurse came and told Joel it was time for him to go home.

‘We’ll continue tomorrow,’ said Samuel. ‘Then I’ll win back all the money I’ve lost.’

‘But you were the winner!’

‘Well, we’ll see if you can beat me next time, then.’

Joel was still sitting on the chair at the side of the bed.

‘I used to play cards with Jenny,’ Samuel said. ‘And we used to have lots of fun. Believe you me. When things were good, they were very, very good. I’ve never regretted that she was the person who was your mother. It’s important for you to know that.’

Joel stood up and put on his jacket.

‘The cold isn’t going to go away,’ said Samuel. ‘But it’s warm in Brazil. There’s no such place as the end of the world. But there is a place called Brazil.’

Samuel died during the night. After Joel had left he fell asleep and never woke up.

Joel was told when he arrived at the hospital the next day.

He started crying. But he didn’t cry for long.

Instead he thought about the last words Samuel had spoken to him.

There’s no such place as the end of the world. But there is a place called Brazil.

It seemed that there might be a secret message hidden in those words. That the end of the world is only a dream. A place that doesn’t have a name. That doesn’t exist on any map. But Brazil does. You can go there.

They asked Joel if he wanted to see his father.

But Joel said no.

He knew what Samuel looked like. He didn’t need to see somebody who no longer existed.

Joel went home. Despite the cold he walked slowly. The first thing he did was to write a letter to the shipping line.

Then Sara turned up. And Göransson. And Ehnström. And some of Samuel’s old workmates. Some old men that Samuel used to go out drinking with also came, but Sara threw them out without more ado.

Both Göransson and Sara suggested that Joel should go and stay with them. But Joel said no. He didn’t want to.

That evening Joel crossed over the bridge on his way to Gertrud’s house. She must have seen him coming. Or possibly heard him. As he went through the gate she came out to meet him.

‘Samuel’s dead,’ said Joel.

‘I know.’

Joel ought to have known that it wouldn’t be news to her. Although Gertrud seldom went out, she knew about everything that happened.

They sat in her kitchen.

He found it difficult to look at her. If he did, he’d start crying. And he didn’t want to do that.

They sat in silence. Joel knew nobody as easy to be silent with as Gertrud.

After a while Gertrud asked him to tell her what it was like, being a sailor. Joel told her.

She asked about Jenny.

He had no idea how Gertrud could have known that he’d found his long-lost mother.

Last of all she asked what he was going to do now.

‘I’ve got a ship waiting for me in Gothenburg,’ he said. ‘Then I don’t know.’

‘You’ll come back here, surely?’

‘Why should I do that? When Samuel no longer exists?’

‘I exist.’

Joel didn’t answer. She was right. She was still there. And there were other people he knew and liked.

‘You grew up here,’ she said. ‘All your memories are here. I’m sure you’ll come back.’

It was long past midnight when Joel went home.

The house felt empty and spooky. Joel had closed the door of Samuel’s room. What he’d have really liked to do was to lock it and throw away the key.

He went to bed. Thought about what Göransson had said regarding the funeral. He wondered if he ought to phone or write to Jenny. But he didn’t want to talk to her. So it would be a letter.

Joel sat up in bed.

He’d have to put a death notice in the local newspaper. He’d almost forgotten that.

But what should it say?

Those were not appropriate words. Not for Samuel.

Joel got up and went to sit at the kitchen table. He took out a piece of paper and a pencil. Thought about various possibilities. Then eventually made up his mind.

But when he went to the newspaper office the following day Mr Horn, the editor, frowned when he saw the text Joel wanted to insert.

‘I don’t know if we can print that,’ he said.

‘Why not? It’s my dad who’s dead.’

‘The text isn’t really appropriate.’

‘Why not?’

‘Mr Horn shook his head.

‘I don’t know if it’s suitable.’

‘But that’s what Samuel thought death was. A journey to the end of the world.’

Mr Horn continued to shake his head.

‘Have you spoken to the others about this?’

‘What others?’

‘The other mourners? The rest of the family?’

‘There is nobody else. Only me.’

Mr Horn was starting to melt.

‘I’ve never published anything like this before in the deaths’ column. That’s for sure.’

‘But this is precisely what I want it to say.’

Mr Horn looked hard at Joel. Eyed him seriously for a long time. Then he nodded.

‘I’ll get a lot of flak,’ he said. ‘But if that’s what you want, that’s what you’ll get.’

When Joel left, he thought that Samuel would have been pleased. He’d never had much time for God. But the end of the world was something else again.

Something that existed, and yet didn’t exist.

That’s the journey Samuel had undertaken.

The funeral took place a week later.

Joel was dreading it. But Sara and Göransson had been on hand for him all the time.

A few days before the funeral the local vicar, Boman, had asked Joel to come and see him.

Joel put on his best clothes and went to the vicarage. He’d never met Rev. Boman before. He was a new, young clergyman who’d only arrived in his new parish a couple of months ago.

Boman asked Joel to sit down, and expressed his condolences. Joel mumbled something inaudible in response.

‘I saw the death notice in the newspaper,’ Boman said. ‘And I understand that you were the one who wrote it. I must say the text was most unusual. He’s journeyed to the end of the world.’

‘Samuel was unusual,’ said Joel. ‘That’s the way he wanted it.’

‘How was he unusual?’

‘He thought the house we lived in was a ship. And that our flat was the bridge. And he was a good lumberjack. Göransson says so.’

‘An unusual man,’ said Boman. ‘Is that how you’d like me to describe him at the funeral?’

Joel could feel a lump in his throat. He was close to tears, but braced himself.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Samuel was unusual.’

And that is what Boman said at the funeral.

There weren’t many people in the church. Joel was in the front row, between Sara and Göransson. The coffin was brown. Joel avoided looking at it. He still couldn’t grasp that Samuel was lying in there.

Samuel had gone away.

He’d gone on a journey.

He’d signed on for an invisible ship and was on his way to a port that didn’t exist on any map.

But perhaps the name of the ship was Celestine?

Samuel’s grave was by the west wall of the churchyard.

As the coffin was lowered into it, Joel couldn’t stop himself bursting into tears. All the time he tried to cling fast to the idea that Samuel was on a ship on the way to somewhere. On the way to a warmer climate. But despite all his efforts, he couldn’t help himself. Not at that moment.

Afterwards they had coffee at the Tourist Hotel.

Göransson told Joel that they would have to go through the contents of the flat the very next day. Now that Joel had decided not to stay there, other tenants would be moving in.

It took a week.

The furniture vanished. Joel packed his belongings in his sailor’s kitbag and a suitcase.

In the end the only thing left was a mattress. A sheet, a pillow and a blanket. Joel would sleep in the house one final night. Then he would leave.

He said goodbye to Göransson and Sara.

And that last evening, he took a walk round the town.

It was still cold.

He wandered along the familiar streets. Paused outside the Community Centre and studied the film posters. Walked round the deserted schoolyard. Round and round until he ran out of strength.

He was in a hurry now. In a hurry to get away.

He went back to the empty flat and fell asleep almost immediately on the mattress.

The night outside was full of moonlight, the sky full of stars.