The Passenger (14 page)

What must it be like, to be out there now? Sinking, weighed down by the foul-weather gear, or carried away by frozen currents? Lorenz judged that Hoffman might still be capable of thought—although only just. There might still be a final flickering before the light went out: memories of his wife, wishes for the daughter he would never see.

Lorenz had once been told that the final stages of drowning were peaceful, that when the struggling was over, the battle lost, there was only serene acceptance. He hoped that Hoffmann was experiencing this sublime state. When Lorenz looked up into the roaring, flashing sky, he found it difficult to believe such things. Hoffmann had been ripped off the bridge and transported to hell. How could such a cruel, harsh, and lonely death be so comprehensively mitigated by the weightless compensations of a dying brain?

Letting go of the snap hook, Lorenz seized the communications pipe and shouted, ‘Hard a'starboard.' They would undertake a search, regardless of its futility.

L
ORENZ WAS SITTING WITH
F
ALK
and Graf in the officers' mess beneath a swinging lightshade, observing a luminous circle that oscillated from one side of the table to the other. Although the boat was still pitching and rolling the weather had improved a little. Graf was eating some sliced sausage and a chunk of bread that was so hard he was obliged to clench his jaw until a corner separated from the whole with a loud ‘crack.' When he began chewing it sounded as though he was grinding gravel with his molars.

‘I've never known it to happen before,' said Falk. He scratched at the bandage that covered his swollen forehead.

Graf grimaced as he swallowed. ‘It happens . . .'

‘But how?' Falk communicated his bemusement by showing his empty palms.

‘The leather disintegrated.' Graf loosened a sliver of meat that had become stuck to the plate with his thumbnail and lifted it to his mouth.

Falk paused, considered the chief engineer's answer and said, ‘
Someone
would have noticed.
Hoffmann
would have noticed.'

‘There must have been a tear then. A small tear: small enough to be overlooked.'

‘Our safety belts are ten centimeters wide.'

‘That makes no difference.'

‘And reinforced with steel cable . . .'

‘Steel cables can break.' Graf was getting tired of the persistence of Falk's questioning. He glared at his inquisitor.

The first watch officer sighed. His gaze shifted from Graf to Lorenz and back again. ‘It's just,' his speech was hesitant, ‘we seem to have been getting more than our fair share of bad luck lately.'

Graf tightened the knot of the kerchief that he had tied around his throat. ‘Accidents happen.'

The boat heeled and the engineer's plate slid down the table. Lorenz prevented it from hitting the rail. ‘Luck?' he said, without looking up. ‘What about the fourth bomb—when we were
distracted by the whale—the fourth bomb that hit us and didn't explode?
That
was luck.'

Falk took a slice of sausage, studied it for a moment, and then put it back on the plate. ‘Well, Kaleun, that's just about the only bit of luck we've had on this patrol.'

‘Yes,' said Lorenz. ‘But it came at the right time. We wouldn't be sitting here now if that bomb had gone off. You and I would have been blown to bits—and this boat,' he struck a wooden panel with his fist before continuing, ‘this boat would have gone straight to the bottom.'

Falk grunted his assent.

Placing a finger on one of his front teeth, Graf investigated its stability. There was a distinct wobble. He tossed the bread onto the table and swore.

‘Could be worse,' said Lorenz. ‘Some crews have had to eat their shoes.'

Juhl appeared and handed Lorenz a message from headquarters. It was a brief communication concerning three aircraft attacks on U-boats, none of which were close enough to merit action. The second watch officer withdrew discreetly, like the head waiter of a high-class restaurant.

Lorenz addressed Falk: ‘How's your head?'

‘A lot better,' Falk replied.

‘It doesn't look a lot better,' said Lorenz sceptically.

‘The pain is . . .' Falk pressed his dressing and completed his sentence, ‘tolerable.'

‘You're not going to end up like Richter then?'

‘Occasionally I see spots in front of my eyes,' Falk smiled, ‘but nothing else, Kaleun.'

Graf put his elbows on the table and clasped his hands together. ‘Richter isn't helping matters.'

‘No,' said Lorenz.

‘Shame we couldn't have transferred him to another boat.'

‘I agree.'

‘Do you think he'll make it?' asked Falk.

‘I don't know,' Lorenz replied.

‘What does Ziegler think?'

‘Ziegler is a radio operator. He attended a thirty-six-hour first-aid course. We can't expect him to make that kind of prediction.'

‘They should provide us with a doctor next time.'

‘Doctors are more trouble than they're worth. They get sick as soon as they're on the open sea, they take up valuable space, and when they're finally well enough to get to work they complain incessantly about the conditions.'

‘Won't be long now: once we're out of this storm . . .' said Graf. His voice sounded distant and reflective, as though he were talking to himself.

‘Ten days without a fix,' said Falk.

‘Müller's dead reckoning is exceptional,' said Lorenz.

‘Home . . .' said Graf.

Their conversation became disconnected and degenerated into a series of non sequiturs that preceded a long hiatus. Eventually, Lorenz rose from his seat and said, ‘I'm going to get some sleep.' His companions, momentarily roused, nodded before sinking back into their respective states of self-absorption. He left them staring blankly at the table top.

Lorenz retired to his nook and closed the green curtain. A gap remained through which he spied Brandt in the radio room. Another tug of the curtain created a comforting illusion of privacy. Someone opened and closed the door to the diesel compartment and there was a sudden blast of engine noise. Lorenz took off his cap, lay down on his mattress, and pulled a blanket that stank of oil over his body. He rested his head on the pillow, and when he closed his eyes he became acutely aware of the boat's movements, the continuous rising and falling, the listing, sometimes sustained, that threatened to tip him out of bed. In the absence of any distractions he discovered that he wasn't feeling very well. His mouth was dry and an odd shivery sensation seemed to have
settled around his shoulders. Demonstrating a sailor's faith in the restorative properties of rum, he propped himself up, retrieved the bottle from his bedside cabinet, and poured himself a generous final measure. He stared into the open drawer at the flat oval of Grimstad's stone. Pressing his fingertips onto the marked surface, Lorenz registered heat. Once again, he judged that the stone was warmer than it should be. Perhaps it was something to do with the iron content? This hollow speculation did nothing to quell a host of liminal anxieties. He drank slowly, savoring the flavor of the fragrant liquid, and when he had finished he put the bottle and glass back in the drawer. Pulling the blanket up to his chin, he allowed the falling boat to carry his unraveling mind toward sleep.

Before long he was walking by the cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris with an attractive woman by his side. She was wearing a pillbox hat with a transparent veil that covered half her face. Her lips were sensual and as red as a cardinal's cassock. They talked and laughed and held hands as they made their way around the Hôtel Dieu and along the Quai de la Corse. Presently, they were crossing the Pont Neuf and heading toward the Right Bank. The woman stopped, drew him into a bastion and pointed toward the setting sun. Above, the sky was the same color as the woman's lips and divided by thin, horizontal slats of purple cloud. Between the Pont Neuf and the Passerelle des Arts the black back of an enormous whale arched out of the Seine. Its motion was unhurried, almost sluggish, and when the woman turned to face Lorenz they embraced. Her perfume was familiar. He knew her well, this woman. They were lovers, but at the very same time she seemed to be a total stranger. This jarring contradiction was comfortably accommodated by the errant logic of the dream world, and its resolution seemed as irrelevant as it was unnecessary. Paris melted away and they were no longer locked in a stationary embrace but dancing at a grand ball. There was a large orchestra on a raised stage, and it was being conducted from the podium
by Vice Admiral Dönitz. The surrounding décor was palatial: gilt mirrors, classical busts, and a painted ceiling overpopulated with gods, shepherds, and cavorting nymphs. As Lorenz and the woman waltzed beneath glittering chandeliers, Lorenz spied his niece and nephew among the watching crowd. His niece waved as they passed. The tempo of the dance accelerated, and Lorenz and the beautiful woman revolved faster and faster until everything blurred. When they finally stopped and parted, they were standing in a dry dock surrounded by cranes. The woman raised her hat and removed the pins from her hair. ‘I'm going to need a complete overhaul,' she said, shaking out her tresses. Her German was softened by a French accent. ‘It's going to take months.' The fact that she was naked seemed a perfectly natural development. The light changed and her pale skin began to darken. The process continued until she had turned the camouflage grey of a U-boat. When Lorenz reached out and touched her cheek he discovered it was hard and cold. She was no longer human but an iron statue. The scene changed abruptly and all that had gone before seemed vague and inconsequential. Lorenz was now on the deck of U-330, looking out over black water. He circumvented the 8.8 cm gun and stepped over the loading hatch of the forward torpedo room. When he could go no further he paused and waited. He knew they were out there. He knew they were coming. As expected, the raft drifted out of the night, materializing only a few meters distant. Once again, the British commander was standing by the central post, and the old man was sitting at his feet; however, they had now been joined by a third person attired in oilskins and a sou'wester. This newcomer was standing behind the British commander, his head lowered and his posture suggesting dejection. The foul-weather gear was wet, and when he moved forward the rubberized material glistened. Halting at the raft's edge the sailor removed his sou'wester. It was Hoffmann. He opened his mouth and water spilled out before he said, ‘Permission to board, sir?'

‘Permission denied, Hoffmann.' Lorenz responded. ‘You're dead.'

‘I know, sir.'

‘Then be reasonable. Surely you must understand that I can't let the dead onto my ship.'

‘But sir, you already have.'

T
HE STORM HAD SUBSIDED AND
all that remained was a squally wind that made the sea choppy and filled the air with twisting braids of spume. Juhl looked through his binoculars and tried to fight off the drowsiness that made his eyelids feel heavy. Endless rocking, somber light, and the unrelieved tedium of the flat horizon had already induced a temporary absence, but luckily this brief dereliction of duty had not attracted anyone's notice. Juhl had remained standing even though he had effectively abandoned his post for a minute or perhaps even more. It was unacceptable behavior for a watch officer and he endeavored to make sure that there would be no further lapses by sinking his front teeth into his lower lip until the pain made him alert.

‘Aircraft dead astern,' cried Voigt. Juhl wheeled around and saw the approaching silhouette, which was sizeable, and immediately screamed ‘Alarm!' The bell rang and the watchmen leaped through the hatch. When Juhl landed in the control room the stampede to the foreward torpedo room was already underway. Graf was at his post behind the hydroplane operators, issuing orders. ‘Clear air-release vents.'

Lorenz found Juhl and asked, ‘What was it?'