We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [51]
That night Albert ventured down to the fo'c'sle, but he soon came back up again. By the glimmer of his tallow dip he'd seen men lying on the floor in oddly contorted positions, while a few sat on benches, cradling their heads in their hands. He couldn't tell whether they were sleeping. But there was blood on the bulkhead, and vomit covered the floor. He'd prefer to sleep on deck.
The next morning the men emerged, bearing the traces of yesterday's brawl. Some were limping while others moved about slowly and deliberately, as if their bodies ached beneath their clothes. Their faces were bloated, with livid swellings around the eyes. One man had a broken nose—though its shape suggested it wasn't his first. These were tough men, used to beatings and the aftereffects of prolonged drinking—men who could take practically any treatment without complaining. But they wore an expression you rarely see in a sailor. They looked cowed. They didn't so much as glance at one another and never lifted their eyes to O'Connor when he roared his orders. Instead they stared at their hands or let their eyes drift toward the rigging.
There was a proper cook on board the Emma C. Leithfield— and we understood Albert well when he pointed out the difference between a proper one and the kind we'd been on the Marstal cutters, when we'd all started out as galley boys, barely mastering any cooking skills beyond steadying the water pot in a storm to ensure the supply of hot coffee and satisfying the appetites of men more interested in filling their bellies than in the pleasures of the palate.
But Giovanni, said Albert, was nothing like that. He was an Italian and he made sure that every day, both fore and aft, there was freshly baked bread, a hot lunch and dinner, and plenty of pies and pastries. We ate better than at the best boardinghouse: not even Frau Palle in Kastanien Allée in Hamburg could compete with Giovanni.
All told, the Emma C. Leithfield was an odd ship. Despite the men's linguistic differences, they understood one another well enough to agree that of all the vessels of the American merchant navy, the Emma had the worst first mate and the best cook. The galley was heaven, and the deck was hell.
***
Giovanni was the last man to board, but he didn't arrive alone: with him came two suckling pigs, ten hens, and a small calf, for which he built a pen on the foredeck. O'Connor's dog grew restless and left his place at his master's feet to roam, with its huge jaw hanging open and a hungry look in its eyes. Spotting the dog, Giovanni stepped right up to the beast, which bared its teeth and growled menacingly: it seemed to think the whole ship was its territory. But Giovanni stared straight into its eyes and slowly raised his hands—not to strike it, but to explain. Hypnotized, the dog lay down on its belly and whined pitifully, before starting to shuffle backward. The sight of the ferocious monster, its belly to the floor, backing off from the small, agile man, was so funny that the sailors watching the incident started e laughing.
O'Connor saw it too. But he didn't laugh.
O'Connor never ate with the other officers. Instead, he sat on his throne on deck and had his food brought to him there. The weather never bothered him; his body seemed immune to everything. He never changed clothes, but always wore the same tattered shirt, barely covered by a waistcoat with no buttons and ripped buttonholes. By day, only a blizzard or a hailstorm could budge him out of the chair, while at night, they said he slept in another chair, bolted to the floor of a cabin that stank like a wild animal's lair. He was always on guard. Word had it that he kept his muscles tensed even while he was asleep.
When Giovanni brought him his food the next day, instead of placing the plate on his own lap, O'Connor lay it on the deck and signaled to the dog, which immediately came and wolfed down the whole beautifully presented meal. All the while O'Connor kept his eyes fixed on Giovanni, and Giovanni met his stare. He was no more afraid of O'Connor than he was of the