The Whispering Muse

X

It was nearly one in the morning on Easter Day when Caeneus broke off his story so that someone could comfort the purser’s lady friend who had burst into tears when he described the rape of Caenis. At first she had borne up bravely, clamping her hand hard over her mouth and gesturing to the mate not to worry about her but to carry on, she would get over it. But when he said, ‘It was I, Caeneus’, a paroxysm of sobbing escaped from behind her hand and she wailed:

‘Oh, I can’t bear it!’

The purser clasped an arm tightly around his lady friend’s shoulders. She buried her face in his chest and wept there a while. He stroked her hair gently, crooning something consoling, humming so deep in his chest that the melody vibrated low against her ear. The ensuing quiet gave me a chance to observe my dining companions’ reactions to this heart-warming spectacle:

One word was written on all their faces:

‘DEFEAT!’

Indeed, though the tune was meant for the purser’s lady friend alone, the song and the weeping were for all of us. Four years had passed since the end of the great conflict but we still couldn’t believe that humanity had won.

The woman straightened up in her chair. She dried her eyes with her napkin, blew her nose, took a large gulp of water and said:

‘Right, I’ve had my cry.’

The atmosphere relaxed a little and I got the impression that it was not the first time this had happened. The captain refilled our glasses. I drew attention to the lateness of the hour, which gave rise to a murmur of comment, but in spite of this Caeneus carried on from where he had left off:

‘As the first child’s cry sounded over Lemnos, I recovered my former physical strength and virility. But the Argonauts’ conditions had deteriorated so greatly during their stay in the realm of doe-eyed Hypsipyle that it didn’t seem wise to set me to work straight away. Instead I was quartered with Heracles aboard the Argo for our last three weeks on Lemnos. Nevertheless, I had achieved more than might be expected of a badly injured man: Iphenoa was more than five months pregnant and nine of the girls who had nursed me were with child by the time I was discharged from hospital.

‘Meanwhile, my crewmates’ lot during those spring days was such that even as the babies began to be born in the palace, they were finishing their duties towards the women in the paupers’ district and all that remained was to bed those who lived in the Street of the She-wolf; mostly prostitutes whom the queen had ordered to give up their trade — though the men did not find them particularly compliant. This combination of births and diminished living standards now finally had a dampening effect on the men’s ardour, and many became frequent visitors to Heracles and his lads, who had by now been guarding the ship for nearly ten weary months.

‘The visitors complained of their lot, moaning that they were kept constantly dashing from one end of town to the other, either flattening the straw with their verminous mistresses or lulling their infants to sleep in the palace apartments. And to crown it all, the mothers of their children were eager to start all over again.

‘A lesser man than Heracles might have made use of this discontent to foment a mutiny against Jason son of Aeson. He would have summoned the men to him by night, hoisted the canvas and sailed away, leaving the captain behind in the clutches of this strange nation of women. Instead he summoned Jason and they met by the side of the ship, at the crack of dawn, while I lay in my berth inside and overheard the whole thing.

‘It was the spring equinox.

‘I heard Heracles say:

‘“Tell me one thing, brother: who are the Argonauts? Are we hunted killers? Were we exiled from our lands for sacrilege or incest — forced to roam the seas like pirates? Why have we sat here so long, blockaded by women, going nowhere? Was it not our mission to achieve an impossible task? To triumph over monsters and witchcraft? To sail to the ends of the earth and return with a priceless treasure?

‘“Or do you intend your men to die of old age in the laundries of Lemnos, kneading the shit from the nappies of their base-born offspring?”

‘In that instant the spell seemed to lift from Captain Jason son of Aeson. He embraced Heracles, declaring that he had spoken well and justly, then ordered the crew to bid farewell to their mistresses and prepare the Argo for departure. He himself lay with Hypsipyle for the very last time, having by then begotten one son, Thoas, with her, and their lovemaking proved so potent that it resulted in another son, Euneus, who later became famous for providing the drink at the siege of Troy.

‘The Argo weighed anchor.

‘The wind was in our favour.’

In the momentary silence that followed Caeneus’s last words, I seized the chance, before people started clapping, to strike my wineglass with a teaspoon, then rising to my feet I announced:

‘My dear shipmates! I must be permitted to say a few words. I wish to express my gratitude.

‘We have been on this voyage now for seven days and nights, soon to be eight, and it must be said that I have looked forward to every day. Throughout the voyage you have gone to great lengths to make my stay as agreeable as possible; Captain Alfredson has allotted me a regular seat at his table, the radiator in my cabin breaks down and before I can say ‘Jack Robinson’ someone has repaired it; I am invited on one motor excursion after another; there is always hot coffee in the pot when I come in from my turns about the deck; the steward has ironed my shirts. And although at times discord has raised its head between us “supernumeraries”, it has always been resolved in the end. We are adults and know that it takes two to make a quarrel.

‘Here in the saloon the atmosphere has invariably been homely; we have had music and dancing, and Mate Caeneus has entertained us with his life story — fascinating stuff for the most part, if a little on the racy side. But you are young; after the war we awoke to a new world — and the words of Dr Pázmány, who predicted in 1927 that in the future sexual matters would be openly discussed at the dinner table, have been proved correct. Yes, high or low, young or old, you have shown me perfect amiability and respect.

‘And this evening you have humoured me yet again by having seafood for dinner; prawns and ocean clams with a creamy dill sauce on toast for starters, and poached salmon with potato gratin and melted butter for the main course. And although it was tinned, not fresh, I have no complaints. I feel as if my Nordic temperament has been revitalised by this excellent and intelligently concocted repast. Little did I suspect that the seeds of the ideas I sowed in your minds with my points about “fish and culture” would find here such fertile soil, would so soon bear such excellent fruit.

‘I thank you for that!’

Raising my glass I looked over the brim at each of my table companions in turn. I took a sip. I raised my glass anew. Lowering it, I did not replace it on the table but allowed it to remain in my hand. And for the rest of the speech I brandished the glass to emphasise my words:

‘As I have lain in my cabin reflecting on your kindness to me, I have indulged myself in the belief that it has not been from obedience to your master alone but that perhaps you have derived some small pleasure from this old man’s company on the voyage, just as he has unquestionably enjoyed yours.

‘But now the adventure is over, tomorrow our ways must part. For, you see, I have decided to abandon ship and head for home…’

I paused to let the news sink in. They looked at one another in surprise, shaking their heads and exchanging comments in low voices. I raised my hand for silence, then carried on in the same friendly tone:

‘One moment, please, one moment! In my letter of thanks to Mr Magnus Jung-Olsen I will give you all the highest recommendation. It is nobody’s “fault”, merely that I feel I have already seen so many things, experienced so much, that I doubt the journey to Poti in Georgia could add anything new. But if anything interesting should happen on the voyage I do hope that when we meet again you will tell me the story — I will give Captain Alfredson my address and telephone number before I go.

‘Finally, I would ask you all to be upstanding and drink a toast to the Jung-Olsen family and the Kronos shipping line.’

Everyone rose to their feet and I led the toast:

‘Long live the Jung-Olsen family and the Kronos line. Hip, hip, hurrah!’

When I returned to my quarters the fore cabin had been converted into a larder. From the way everything was arranged you would have thought it had been like that for the duration. It was a mystery to me how the purser and his lady friend had achieved this transformation without my being aware: the walls were lined with shelves and through the wire netting — designed to keep everything in its place in heavy seas — I saw piles of tins, jars of pickled vegetables and packets of flour, sugar and spice. There were sacks of potatoes in one corner and a stack of boxes of wine and fruit juice by the door, all lashed down with leather straps. In the middle of the cabin stood a huge refrigerator.

My luggage, however, was nowhere to be seen.

My first reaction was to assume that this was a practical joke in honour of my departure, something typical of life at sea and traditionally performed the night before men left the ship. But I soon realised that this couldn’t be right as I hadn’t told anyone I was leaving until just now. It must be some kind of misunderstanding. I was about to return to the saloon to ask Alfredson what was going on when the memory of the send-off I had just received prevented me; it had been so heart-warming:

The men had hugged me. The purser’s lady friend wished me bon voyage on the long journey that lay before me as I returned home to Copenhagen overland. Mate Caeneus had laid his great fist on my shoulder and said: ‘Goodbye for now, brother Valdimar.’ And I invited him to drop the ‘Mr’.

No, there was no need to spoil this happy memory by carping about something that must have a perfectly rational explanation.

I decided to investigate the matter a little further and opened the door to the bathroom. It was dark and the light switch wouldn’t work, but once my eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom I saw that here too someone had been busy. Bath and shower, mirror and basin, bench and cupboard had all gone and instead of white tiles the floor was now covered with black earth. The blood froze in my veins. For a split second I thought I saw the huge figure of a man standing where the shower used to be. Then the moon crept out from behind a cloud and shone in through the porthole — and its rays revealed a suit of armour hanging on a purpose-built stand; on top was a burnished bronze helmet with a high, billowing feather-crest; beneath it gleamed the breastplate, moulded for a muscular giant, while down on the floor stood a pair of greaves, showing what strong legs the owner must have.

I was standing in an armoury. There were rows of halberds and daggers, bows and quivers, maces and axes, spears and swords. Beside the armour stood a shield the size of a wagon wheel, propped up against the wall so that it gleamed in the moonlight. An etching in flaming silver screamed from the centre of the shield; the head of the Gorgon with her swine’s tushes, venomous eyes and hissing snakes.

I fled out of the bathroom, through the fore cabin and into the saloon, slamming the door behind me. Yes, there was no mistaking it, this was the door to the quarters I’d had the use of for the last seven days and nights; no other fitted the description. I looked from the cabin door over to the captain’s table. There was no one there. I shouted his name:

‘Captain Alfredson, Captain Alfredson!’

No answer. I hurried across the empty saloon and looked to see if there was anyone in the galley. No one there. I stuck my head into the lounge, the radio room, the bridge. I went along the deckhands’ corridor, banging on all the doors: I knocked on the doors of both mates, of the engineers, of Alfredson himself. But there was not a soul to be seen anywhere. This was quite an ordeal for an elderly man and I frequently had to stop and catch my breath.

It was not until my third circuit of the ship that I noticed the door down to the engine room was open a crack. It hadn’t occurred to me to go down there as I was wearing my best suit, which I was unwilling to dirty since it looked as if it would be my only outfit for the homeward journey.

I opened the door and called:

‘Hello! Is there anybody there?’

No answer.

I was no more than halfway down the companion-way when I saw that the whole crew was assembled there, including the purser’s lady friend. They were all dressed in white coats and stood around a black platform in the middle of the engine room. The platform was about four feet high and at a guess twenty-four feet in diameter. An imposing four-sided prism jutted up from the centre, revolving with infinite slowness, while from inside the platform came a heavy ticking, a slow, deep pulse. This was the only sound that could be described as an engine noise — there was nothing else resembling an engine to be seen.

Next I heard the sound of effortful groans and the onlookers stepped aside for the first engineer who came walking backwards, guiding four deckhands who struggled over to the platform under the weight of a man-high key for winding a clock, all of them clad in white coats. Here they dispersed, one climbing on to the platform to receive the key, the other three lifting it. Then these three climbed on to the platform too and together the four of them lugged the key to the prism. The engineer signalled to them to hoist the key and they held it suspended over the prism while the engineer guided it into place, then they lowered it. The engineer and deckhands jumped down from the platform. The captain nodded:

‘Good work, lads…’

At this point Caeneus appeared. He took up position by the platform and the purser’s lady friend helped him out of his white coat. Caeneus was now wearing nothing but a loincloth. He stepped up on to the platform, walked once anticlockwise around the key, then stopped and flexed his muscles like a wrestler. He stroked quickly but firmly over his biceps and thighs, spat on his palms, then set to work on the key.

As the second mate turned the key in a clockwise direction, his pliant body gleamed in the dim light of the engine room.

I yelled:

‘What about my cabin?’

Captain Alfredson was the only one who looked round. He seemed to have been expecting me and called back:

‘Don’t be alarmed, Mr Haraldsson, everything will be fine.’

He turned to the ship’s steward and jerked his thumb over his shoulder at me:

‘Make up a bed for him in Caeneus’s cabin…’

And he added so that everyone could hear:

‘The old man can sleep there tonight. It’ll take Caeneus till noon to wind up the ship…’