set a splendid table; the damask tablecloth gleamed like a field of ice under the bright chandelier. And our raid yielded the very best: beautiful pieces of ham, mouth-watering sausages—we created regular still-lives with the red and brown meats. Later, though, things soured. For one thing, we broke open a cupboard—my friend wanted to get his hand on some money, too. And then, another unpleasant memory: we were trying to distill brandy on the kitchen table when a young girl walked in, a maid apparently . . ', When it was all over, she started crying, and kept it up, there was no consoling her.
Adolescents are awful creatures. The beast in them has not yet been tamed. We didn't make much of the incident with the girl, though the next morning we couldn't look each other in the face, my friend and I. He wrote a brief note to his mother, thanking her for their hospitality, put it on her desk, and we left.
But I couldn't get the crying girl out of my mind. For a long time afterwards I kept hearing her sobs, even her quickening heartbeat, as if she was secretly taking me to task, making me pay.
And now this boat.
Again I felt like a wastrel, a scapegrace, who's got corruption in his blood, who is sure to come to a bad end.
And then the tormenting questions, the self-reproaches. How could I let this happen? How will it all end? Why was I entrusted with this beauty. . . ? Because it was a splendid boat. And so well maintained. We were encouraged to be on the lookout even for minor defects. At home port the inspector came around regularly, and we had to report the slightest damage, even scratches on the woodwork. And now all that painted and varnished woodwork was sizzling, the whole goddamn handcrafted frame.
Well, Kodor, you picked out a winner, I said to myself. (He was the one who recommended me to the post. Why on earth did he do it?) The boat began to smell like burning wooden play dishes, freshly painted toys, Christmas boxes—a sickeningly sweetish smell, it almost made me sick. To this day I get nauseous when I see such wooden dishes. But that's the way we old-timers are; we get very attached to the boat we serve on. Keeping things intact somehow means more to us. A broken cup, a lost key causes us grief, let alone something as big as this. Ah, it's a terrible heartache, enough to drive you mad.
"And the passengers' lives meant nothing to you?" someone asked me after the accident. Sure they did. Even my life is worth something. So at half past three I decided to give the distress signal. But let's face it, this was a mistake, too. I did it late, much too late. What was this with me: just a lapse, a sudden paralysis, temporary insanity? God only knows. It must have been around one thirty when my navigator first came over and saluting me stiffly, asked:
"Hadn't we better signal for help?" Just at that moment I was staring at the barometer and then at the sky.
"Let's wait; I have a feeling it's going to rain."
"If we delay, the entire deck is going to burn through."
"It will not. In any case, it's the captain of the ship who must take the responsibility, not the officers. In case you didn't know."
He withdrew.
But half hour later he came up to me again.
"Do I have your permission?"
"No."
I have some explaining to do. Again. Where do I start? For one thing, I was always taught to be ambitious and self-reliant, which gave rise to such an inflated sense of responsibility, such vanity ... It was madness, I know. The man was right. And still. There's always that urge to prove you can do it, on your own, without help. Just then we were getting close to the seat of the fire. I was there, I saw it—deep inside, a gentle little flame, a mere flicker, hardly more than the light of a candle. Could that be all?
Well, God be praised, I said to myself, like a man obsessed.
The sky was overcast, there was a sluggish breeze, the barometer kept falling, and I felt like saying, hold on, hold on, it'll soon rain, very soon,
Adolescents are awful creatures. The beast in them has not yet been tamed. We didn't make much of the incident with the girl, though the next morning we couldn't look each other in the face, my friend and I. He wrote a brief note to his mother, thanking her for their hospitality, put it on her desk, and we left.
But I couldn't get the crying girl out of my mind. For a long time afterwards I kept hearing her sobs, even her quickening heartbeat, as if she was secretly taking me to task, making me pay.
And now this boat.
Again I felt like a wastrel, a scapegrace, who's got corruption in his blood, who is sure to come to a bad end.
And then the tormenting questions, the self-reproaches. How could I let this happen? How will it all end? Why was I entrusted with this beauty. . . ? Because it was a splendid boat. And so well maintained. We were encouraged to be on the lookout even for minor defects. At home port the inspector came around regularly, and we had to report the slightest damage, even scratches on the woodwork. And now all that painted and varnished woodwork was sizzling, the whole goddamn handcrafted frame.
Well, Kodor, you picked out a winner, I said to myself. (He was the one who recommended me to the post. Why on earth did he do it?) The boat began to smell like burning wooden play dishes, freshly painted toys, Christmas boxes—a sickeningly sweetish smell, it almost made me sick. To this day I get nauseous when I see such wooden dishes. But that's the way we old-timers are; we get very attached to the boat we serve on. Keeping things intact somehow means more to us. A broken cup, a lost key causes us grief, let alone something as big as this. Ah, it's a terrible heartache, enough to drive you mad.
"And the passengers' lives meant nothing to you?" someone asked me after the accident. Sure they did. Even my life is worth something. So at half past three I decided to give the distress signal. But let's face it, this was a mistake, too. I did it late, much too late. What was this with me: just a lapse, a sudden paralysis, temporary insanity? God only knows. It must have been around one thirty when my navigator first came over and saluting me stiffly, asked:
"Hadn't we better signal for help?" Just at that moment I was staring at the barometer and then at the sky.
"Let's wait; I have a feeling it's going to rain."
"If we delay, the entire deck is going to burn through."
"It will not. In any case, it's the captain of the ship who must take the responsibility, not the officers. In case you didn't know."
He withdrew.
But half hour later he came up to me again.
"Do I have your permission?"
"No."
I have some explaining to do. Again. Where do I start? For one thing, I was always taught to be ambitious and self-reliant, which gave rise to such an inflated sense of responsibility, such vanity ... It was madness, I know. The man was right. And still. There's always that urge to prove you can do it, on your own, without help. Just then we were getting close to the seat of the fire. I was there, I saw it—deep inside, a gentle little flame, a mere flicker, hardly more than the light of a candle. Could that be all?
Well, God be praised, I said to myself, like a man obsessed.
The sky was overcast, there was a sluggish breeze, the barometer kept falling, and I felt like saying, hold on, hold on, it'll soon rain, very soon,
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