A Night in the Cemetery

ON THE SEA: A SAILOR’S STORY

I could see only the dim lights of the harbor we had just left, and the black sky above us, darker than pitch. We felt a cold wind that was blowing in the dark sky above; it was about to rain. We felt suffocated, despite the wind and the cold. By “we” I mean we sailors who stood in the hold, making bets. I could hear some noisy laughter; somebody was cracking jokes, and somebody else was crowing like a rooster to entertain the others.

I was trembling all over, from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet; it was as if I had a hole in the back of my head, from which cold sweat was pouring down my naked spine. I was trembling from the cold, and from other things I don’t want to tell you about.

I think man is a vile creature, and a sailor worse than any other, worse than an animal; but sometimes there is a faithfulness that tells me I may be mistaken. Maybe I don’t understand life, but it seems to me sometimes that a sailor has more reason to hate and blame himself than any other man. A man who is prepared to fall from the mast into the sea, to be covered forever by the waves; a man who could be drowned at any moment, going headfirst into the abyss: such a man need not fear or regret anything. We drink lots of vodka, and we are dissipated because we don’t know whether we need virtue in the open sea.

But I should continue my story.

We were making bets. There were twenty-two of us, idle hands after hours. Only two men out of the whole crowd could see the spectacle. The thing is, our ship has a special cabin for newlyweds, and that night it had occupants, but the walls of the cabin had only two holes we could use.

I made the first hole myself using a little saw, first making a small hole plugged with a cork, and my friend made the second hole with a knife. The two of us worked for more than a week.

“One hole is for you,” they shouted to me.

“What about the other one?”

“The other one’s for your father.”

My father, an old sailor with a big crooked nose and a face like a baked wrinkled apple, came to me and slapped me on the shoulder.

“My boy, tonight will be a happy one. You hear me, boy? There is some enjoyment for you and me both tonight, and that’s what important.” He asked impatiently, “What time is it?”

It was about eleven.

I went out of the cabin onto the desk, smoked my pipe, and looked at the sea. It was dark but seemed to reflect my own soul’s working. I seemed to see some dark images, and I felt something was lacking in my young life.

At midnight, I passed the passengers’ lounge and looked through the door. The newlyweds were there. A young pastor with beautiful blond hair was sitting at the table, a New Testament in his hand. He was explaining something to a tall, thin Englishwoman. The new bride, a slender and very beautiful woman, was sitting next to her husband and did not move the gaze of her blue eyes from his blond head. A large, fat, old Englishman with a foul, fat face and red hair, a banker, was pacing the room from one corner to the other. He was the husband of the tall woman whom the newlywed pastor was addressing.

“Pastors have a habit of running off at the mouth. I suppose he won’t be finished until morning,” I thought.

At one in the morning, my father came to me, pulled me by the sleeve, and said, “It’s time. They just left the passengers’ lounge.”

I sprinted down the long, steep steps and ran up to the wall I knew so well. Between this wall and the cabin’s wall was an empty space filled with water, dirt, and rats. Soon, I heard my father’s heavy tread. He stumbled over some bags, wastepaper, gasoline drums, and boxes. He swore. I felt my hole and removed the little square wooden plug I had spent so much time cutting. I saw a thin translucent veil, through which I saw some dim pink light. Along with the light I had found some sort of unpleasant, smothering odor. It was probably the smell of an aristocrat’s bedroom. To see into the room, I had to move aside the veil, which I did.

I saw some bronze, velvet, and lace. Everything was bathed in pink light. About two meters from my face, I saw a bed.

“Let me see through your hole,” father said to me, impatiently shoving in behind me. “I can see better through yours.”

I was silent.

“Look, boy, your eyes can see better than mine; it’s the same to you looking from close up or farther away.”

“Shut up! Let’s keep quiet; they can hear us.”

The newlywed woman was sitting at the edge of the bed, with her small feet on the fur carpet. She was looking at the floor. Her husband, the young pastor, was standing before her. He was talking to her, saying something, but I could not hear what. The noise of the engines muffled his speech and kept me from hearing him. The pastor was speaking passionately, gesticulating, flashing his eyes. His wife was disagreeing with him, shaking her head in refusal.

“Damn it, I’ve been bitten by a rat,” my father groused.

I pressed my chest against the wall, as if I feared that my heart would jump out of it. My head was on fire.

The newlyweds talked for a long time. Finally, the pastor kneeled in front of her and started imploring her about something. She shook her head in refusal. Then he jumped up and started pacing the room in agitation, almost at a run. I looked at his face, and from its expression I understood that he was threatening her somehow.

His young wife stood up, slowly came to the wall, right at the place where I was hiding, and stood in front of the hole. She stood, considering something, and I devoured her face with my eyes. She seemed to be hesitating from some kind of suffering, and her face expressed some kind of hatred.

For about five minutes we stood like this, face to face. Then she turned, moved to the middle of the room, and nodded, saying that she agreed to his demand.

He joyfully smiled, kissed her hand, and left the cabin.

About three minutes later, her door opened, and the pastor entered the room. Behind him was the tall red-headed Englishman I mentioned before. The Englishman came to the bed and asked the nice-looking woman something. She sat with pale face, without looking at him; she nodded.

The English banker pulled something from his pocket, a bunch of papers, maybe a bunch of bills, and gave them to the pastor. The pastor looked at them, counted them and left with a bow. The Englishman closed the door behind him.

I jumped away from the wall as if a snake had bitten me. I was terrified. It seemed to me that the wind was tearing our ship into pieces so that we would drown. My old, drunken, debauched father, took me by the hand and said, “Let’s get out of here. You needn’t see this. You’re still just a boy.”

He could hardly stand. I carried him up the steep winding steps, up onto the desk. It was raining, and it was autumn.