Bacacay (17 page)

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Authors: Bill Johnston Witold Gombrowicz

BOOK: Bacacay
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“All right, all right, that’s enough now, that’s enough, Mr.
Smith.
After all, Mr.
Zantman is a passenger ...
But by the by, it wouldn’t do any harm to show him what a captain at sea really is, what the meaning is of that huge word composed only of fancies.
Hee hee, Mr.
Zantman probably imagines a captain in a braided cap and spotless pressed white pantaloons, like one sees on picture postcards.
Think up something good, Mr.
Smith.”
He reflected for a moment, taking a few puffs at his pipe.
“I could give orders, eh?
If I order them to jump, they’ll jump,” he said.
“Tomorrow and the day after.”
“We already did that,” murmured Smith.
“I’ll give orders—eh, Mr.
Smith?
I’ll order them to cut something off—to cut off an ear ...”
“Perhaps,” said Smith, “but it’s a devilish tricky operation ...
that is ...
um ...
Afterward.
It’s problematic.”
“Then I’ll give orders, eh?
I can order anything!
By three hundred devils—I’m the captain!
Those devils will feel it .
.
.
call one of the sailors here, Mr.
Smith.”
“The sailors all feel it already,” said Smith after a moment, in no hurry—he spat his gum onto the palm of his hand, looked at it closely and slipped it back into his mouth.
“Choose the one who feels it the least,” Captain Clarke replied, growing impatient.
“Quick—I want to show Mr.
Zantman.
Think something up, Mr.
Smith.
You’re rather unimaginative.
Remember Baffin Island and the seal.”
“I’m out of ideas,” said Smith, looking dully with the glazed
pupils of a gin-lover.
“Everything’s been used.
They’re all used up, crumpled, covered in sh ...
that is, I mean the ...”
“You’re a fool, Smith,” said the captain, bridling.
“Quickly—quickly—I need someone to feel me.
Sometimes I have doubts.
Sometimes I’m beset by doubts.”
At this moment I made the mistake of moving—but my heel had begun to itch, and with me it is innate that a heel always itches when it shouldn’t.
“Maybe Mr.
Zantman could be used,” murmured Smith, eyeing me with undisguised malice.
“You know, that’s not a bad idea,” exclaimed the captain.
“We’ll use Mr.
Zantman.
He’s still fresh.
He hasn’t felt me yet—he’ll be the best one to feel me on his own skin ...
That’s right—that’ll be the simplest.”
“If those are your orders, captain,” said Smith, and he took my hand warmly and squeezed it as if in a pair of pincers (I once had my hand shaken in just this way by a certain sergeant on land—first warmly, then very strongly)—“in that case we’ll knock together a big fishing pole, we’ll stick Mr.
Zantman on a hook and with this bait we’ll catch a great deep-water fish.
The fish will swallow Mr.
Zantman, and we’ll slit open its belly and pull him out still alive, like Jonah.
It’ll be a capital lark.
You remember, captain, we got up to worse tricks in the Caribbean Bay—now that was the real thing—ho, ho .
.
.”
“You’re a fool, Mr.
Smith,” repeated the captain.
“That’s all hogwash.
What will he feel in this manner?
He won’t feel a thing.
Besides, he’s a passenger ...
hmm ...
But no violence, Smith, no violence.
You’re a fool,” he roared; “be silent now, sir!
I’ve had it up
to here with your pranks and your jokes; to be honest, they make me puke!
They don’t make an ounce of sense.
I need him to feel, to feel Captain Clarke, to feel without a figleaf or any other extras, as the Lord God created him.
I spit on pressed white pants and a captain’s braided cap!
I want to take my clothes off, I want to be naked —you understand!—naked and hairy!
But after all your idiotic Jonahs will Mr.
Zantman recognize me, me, Clarke, when I take my clothes off?”
“We’ve no need to stand on ceremony,” said Smith indistinctly through a mouthful of gum.
“There aren’t any boarding-school girls here.
Or any consulates!”
“He won’t recognize me,” said the captain thoughtfully, “but what if I don’t allow him to fasten his garter?
What if I don’t allow him to fasten his garter, Smith, and he goes around with his sock hanging down?
What then?
By hell!
Then he’ll recognize me, then he’ll know who I am, because the calf is hairy!
Dammit!
These landlubbers with their white pants and their blue-and-white postcards forget that a captain’s calf is hairy.
Quickly now, Mr.
Zantman, did you hear?
Quickly!
Look lively, sir!”
“Quickly, sir!”
repeated Smith and clasped my hand.
“That I like,” said the captain more calmly after a moment.
“I see that with you one can come to terms, Mr.
Zantman, even though you don’t sway as you walk.
We had one landlubber here two years ago—he was a hopeless dunderhead.
He had to be thrown off the ship and straight into the water, because when I ordered him—a trivial thing—to lift up the collar of his jacket, he squealed like a stuck pig, and we sailors, you know, are not fond of squealers.”
“I think that’s enough now,” I said when Clarke had gone, leaving me alone with the lieutenant.
“I think that it’s all right now to fasten the sock,” I added confidentially, hoping to resolve the matter amicably, in an approving and understanding tone of discreet tolerance for the captain’s unrefined eccentricities.
“What?”
responded Smith, stepping back at arm’s length from me.
“What?
What do you imagine?
I’d advise you not to—I’d advise you not to, even when you’re alone in your cabin.
What is this!”
he thundered, so ominously it gave me gooseflesh—“Don’t you try to be funny!
Godda ...
Sh ...”
I grew embarrassed and, flushing deep crimson, I stammered only: “Oh no, no, no ...
I was merely ...
that, that ...
Not in the slightest!
Far from it!”—just like on the tram once, and once at that picnic ...
We sailed on; the weather was marvelous, the sky clear.
Here and there amid the silver and emerald waves a ray or a swordfish appeared; a school of sharks sped along behind the stern, and tiny little fish flew above the water; but the ship was also moving ever more slowly, as if wondering whether it shouldn’t stop for good—while the crew, under the supervision of the tireless second officer, after washing the leeward side of the brig would carry their cleaning rags over to the windward side.
The second officer was a flaxen-haired young man in his twenties, vigilant, expressionless and not given to familiarity.
In essence he existed only pro forma, so that the first officer should be able to exist too.
The captain and Smith spent whole days almost entirely in their cabin, since the sea was tranquil.
Walking on deck I could see them through the porthole, sitting at the table and throwing small balls made of some substance—probably bread—at something or other.
It seemed boredom
was making itself felt rather strongly—at times they quarreled bitterly and poured invective on one another, and they themselves probably did not know what it was about.
They also mixed cocktails with Bols liqueur and flavored their whisky with ginger root.
From time to time, at a given signal the crew would begin to chant: “Fish and sea birds feed behind the ship.”
Recently I had noticed that the sailors were performing bizarre movements with their torsos; specifically, as they bent over their rags they would suddenly lean on their hands, stiffen their legs and arch their backs, just like certain earthworms do.
I did not, however, ask anyone for an explanation.
I put it down as a “novel way to pass the time.”
Truth be told, I generally avoided conversation, since I considered that the line of the mainspar twisted needlessly into a letter S.
The letter S began one word that I had thought up myself and that I would have preferred not to know.
In fact, it was not the mainspar alone—there were also other disagreeable shapes and outlines on the ship; it was cracked all over from the heat.
And so it was not I who entered into conversation with Smith—but Smith who came up to me as I was leaning on the rail, and asked flat out if I did not know any good card games, or dicing games, or others—or if I didn’t have any puzzles to solve.
First is father, second mother,
While the third is yet another.
“Earlier on we used to play dominos, old maid, snap, and jackstraws, and we would take turns at singing old songs from operettas.
Then we’d look through the horse breeder’s calendar.
For
the last few days,” he said frankly, swallowing a variety of imprecations, “we’ve been throwing balls of bread at a deuced tiny little bug that we pulled out from under the cupboard.
But we’re sick of it.
Then (since we always sit opposite each other at the table) we started to fix one another, you know, sir?—stare at one another—to see who could hold out longer.
And as we started to stare at each other, we also started to prick one another with pins—to see who could hold out longer.
Now it’s hard for us to stop, and we’re pricking each other harder and harder.
The captain strikes, then I strike, back and forth.
Perhaps you could think something up—perhaps you know something good, Mr.
Zantman.
I’m pricked all over already.”
I forgot myself and said improvidently: “It’s because you’ve formed a kind of vicious circle and there’s no side release.
Pins need pincushions—take a pincushion and put it on the table between you.”
Smith’s mouth dropped open, and he looked at me with respect.
“I’ll be sc ...
Mr.
Zantman!
We had you for a greenhorn, sir, but it’s clear you’re a seasoned mariner.
You have experience!”
“God forbid!
I assure you ....
It’s quite by chance ....
What are you saying, Mr.
Smith?
I’ll be angry with you.
I give you my word of honor, this is my first time at sea!”
I spluttered, deeply embarrassed.
“You’re a devilish seasoned mariner!”
repeated the lieutenant, bowing to me.
“Come along now, sir!
Don’t play the fool!
You must have sailed to your heart’s content on all those damn ponds, the Red and the Yellow, and the Okhotsk, and the Sargasso, and the China, and the Arabian.—You’ve never sailed?
Come now, sir, you have the flair of an old sea wolf; you go directly, as they say, to
the root of the matter.
A pincushion—yes indeed!
That’s the best remedy!
If we put a pincushion down we’ll stop jabbing one another at once.”
“Excuse me, sir, but I’ve just remembered I left a spirit stove burning in my cabin; the coffee may boil over.—Excuse me, Mr.
Smith.”
Around four in the afternoon I saw pelicans playing with deep-water fish.
Two of them glided in from the southwest and began wheeling over the ship.
Pelicans are big snow-white birds with large crops and extraordinarily sharp bills a meter long.
Of course they cannot dream of managing to swallow a shark or whale, but they are tempted by their absolute superiority over those marine monsters, arising from the fact that neither sharks nor whales can fly.
This tempts them and gives them no peace.
For that reason they fly quietly up and—plop—they plunge their razor-sharp bills into the back of a deep-water fish that is fleeing into the depths or thrashing about, trying to leap out and chase after the pelican into the forbidden element of the air.
The deckhands interrupted their work in order to stand and stare, which brought down on them an awful series of curses from Smith.
“Scoundrels,” he bellowed at the compact, silent group—“worthy gentlemen!
Thompson!—you’re the worst of them, I’ve got my eye on you, you swine, Thompson!
I’ll have a word with you this evening!
You and I—Thompson—we’ll have a word—this evening—you’ll see.”
Then he began to confess to me that as far as the crew were concerned, they were old stagers, old hands, rovers gathered from every port, who needed to be kept tightly by the throat.—“All they
think about is how to wheedle their way out of work and lie there on their backs.
For instance there’s one of them, by the name of Thompson; he’s the worst of them.”

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