Authors: Bill Johnston Witold Gombrowicz
Bacacay (19 page)
2
The
Banbury
was advancing ever more slowly.
The sun was burning ever hotter; melted tar dripped from the sides of the vessel into the sea, the sea was sapphire blue, and the water used to scrub the deck evaporated into the equally sapphire-blue sky.
Captain Clarke appeared on the bridge, licked his finger, and said:
Banbury
was advancing ever more slowly.
The sun was burning ever hotter; melted tar dripped from the sides of the vessel into the sea, the sea was sapphire blue, and the water used to scrub the deck evaporated into the equally sapphire-blue sky.
Captain Clarke appeared on the bridge, licked his finger, and said:
“I knew it—the breeze is dying down.
And it’s quite possible that we’ll have an adverse wind.
Mr.
Smith—have them put up the side foresail.
On this run it’s always the same way—always, whether we’re going to Valparaiso or coming from Valparaiso, there’s an adverse wind.
And this is called sailing?
This
is sailing!
This
is supposed to be sailing!”
he shouted furiously.
And it’s quite possible that we’ll have an adverse wind.
Mr.
Smith—have them put up the side foresail.
On this run it’s always the same way—always, whether we’re going to Valparaiso or coming from Valparaiso, there’s an adverse wind.
And this is called sailing?
This
is sailing!
This
is supposed to be sailing!”
he shouted furiously.
A school of dolphins remained by the stern.
They were not after meat—their only wish was to scratch themselves a little against the ship’s rudder, since they were suffering terribly from water
lice.
It was not often that they had such a golden opportunity—a solid object in the boundless waters against which they could rub themselves.
They would swim about the ocean for weeks on end in search of such an object.
Yet they did not see that the ship, though very slowly, was nevertheless moving forward, and they were continually missing the edge of the rudder by a couple of inches.
The wretched fish, failing to understand the reason, kept repeating the maneuver unsuccessfully.
They were not after meat—their only wish was to scratch themselves a little against the ship’s rudder, since they were suffering terribly from water
lice.
It was not often that they had such a golden opportunity—a solid object in the boundless waters against which they could rub themselves.
They would swim about the ocean for weeks on end in search of such an object.
Yet they did not see that the ship, though very slowly, was nevertheless moving forward, and they were continually missing the edge of the rudder by a couple of inches.
The wretched fish, failing to understand the reason, kept repeating the maneuver unsuccessfully.
On a sheet of paper I noted the following: “I feel there’s too much of all this.
Dolphins missing the edge of the rudder, rats biting their own tails, sailors who stare at their own feet and straighten their bent backs, pelicans jabbing the backs of whales, the captain and the lieutenant jabbing each other with pins, whales incapable of rising in flight above the water, flying fish that on the contrary swell up so much that the water cannot stand the pressure and expels them into the air—this is all decidedly too monotonous.
I imagine that from time to time something different could be shown.
If I’d known it would be like this I never would have set off on a voyage.
A little tact wouldn’t go amiss.
Repeating the same thing over and over is dotting the i, utterly unnecessary—and furthermore, someone might suspect something.
Dolphins missing the edge of the rudder, rats biting their own tails, sailors who stare at their own feet and straighten their bent backs, pelicans jabbing the backs of whales, the captain and the lieutenant jabbing each other with pins, whales incapable of rising in flight above the water, flying fish that on the contrary swell up so much that the water cannot stand the pressure and expels them into the air—this is all decidedly too monotonous.
I imagine that from time to time something different could be shown.
If I’d known it would be like this I never would have set off on a voyage.
A little tact wouldn’t go amiss.
Repeating the same thing over and over is dotting the i, utterly unnecessary—and furthermore, someone might suspect something.
“Besides, sights are one thing, but on the part of the captain and Smith there’s now a glaring lack of tact; those feet and those pins are impossible, and the conversations are even worse.
What’s supposed to be the meaning—pardon me—of these confidences?
‘We mariners’—what does ‘we mariners’ mean?
Who wishes to ‘rock’ here; what’s the meaning of ‘drive’ and ‘devouration,’ what’s the
meaning of ‘boredom’ and ‘getting carried away’?
I have no desire to know.
It was clearly a tip of the head in my direction—they’re all tipplers.
They’re tipplers and people with disastrous tendencies, cocaine or morphine addicts I’ll wager, thoroughly corrupted in some Pernambuco somewhere.
I’m not going to talk to them any more.
I’m not a mariner and I want nothing to do with the captain’s nautical ‘imagination’ and his nautical ‘boldness.’
I’ll try cautiously (since the sock is after all still lowered) to loosen our relations.
I’ll put Smith in his place too, with his ideas and his gimlet.
It’s not true that I spoke about the pincushion or the flying fish (something’s bound to pop out from time to time, since they’re always on at me) so they would immediately declare me a ‘seasoned mariner’ and initiate me into everything, whether I want it or not.
What’s supposed to be the meaning—pardon me—of these confidences?
‘We mariners’—what does ‘we mariners’ mean?
Who wishes to ‘rock’ here; what’s the meaning of ‘drive’ and ‘devouration,’ what’s the
meaning of ‘boredom’ and ‘getting carried away’?
I have no desire to know.
It was clearly a tip of the head in my direction—they’re all tipplers.
They’re tipplers and people with disastrous tendencies, cocaine or morphine addicts I’ll wager, thoroughly corrupted in some Pernambuco somewhere.
I’m not going to talk to them any more.
I’m not a mariner and I want nothing to do with the captain’s nautical ‘imagination’ and his nautical ‘boldness.’
I’ll try cautiously (since the sock is after all still lowered) to loosen our relations.
I’ll put Smith in his place too, with his ideas and his gimlet.
It’s not true that I spoke about the pincushion or the flying fish (something’s bound to pop out from time to time, since they’re always on at me) so they would immediately declare me a ‘seasoned mariner’ and initiate me into everything, whether I want it or not.
“I confess that I imagined life on board to be completely different.
But it’s a quagmire.
There’s no breeze.
I was hoping for the salty smell of the sea and of the open spaces and so on, so much healthier than the stifling smells of land; whereas I see that things are cramped here—cramped, intrusive, and in addition there’s some kind of apery.
Above all there’s not an ounce of tact.
The day before yesterday, not wishing to continue a conversation with Clarke, I returned to my cabin; but some large insect, I believe a scorpion, crawled out of a crack in the floor, stared at me for a while, wiggling its feelers, and then out of the blue it rolled into a ball and injected into itself all the venom in its abdomen—in this way committing suicide.
I’ve heard that this is a common occurrence among such hymenoptera.
But why did he come to my cabin to do it?
Could he not have managed in the crack?
I pretended not
to see.
On land, too, one sometimes sees dogs or horses, but there’s more discretion, and no one will crawl out specially to someone else just to show them.
But it’s a quagmire.
There’s no breeze.
I was hoping for the salty smell of the sea and of the open spaces and so on, so much healthier than the stifling smells of land; whereas I see that things are cramped here—cramped, intrusive, and in addition there’s some kind of apery.
Above all there’s not an ounce of tact.
The day before yesterday, not wishing to continue a conversation with Clarke, I returned to my cabin; but some large insect, I believe a scorpion, crawled out of a crack in the floor, stared at me for a while, wiggling its feelers, and then out of the blue it rolled into a ball and injected into itself all the venom in its abdomen—in this way committing suicide.
I’ve heard that this is a common occurrence among such hymenoptera.
But why did he come to my cabin to do it?
Could he not have managed in the crack?
I pretended not
to see.
On land, too, one sometimes sees dogs or horses, but there’s more discretion, and no one will crawl out specially to someone else just to show them.
“I wish we would just arrive in Valparaiso as quickly as possible.
Will we ever arrive in Valparaiso, though?
I don’t know; though perhaps this is normal and anticipated in our travel schedule—I know nothing about the constellations and I don’t know how to use a sextant or compass, but if the stars (as it would seem) are unfavorable, and even apishly malicious in some way, and we’ve entered the undesirable sign of Aries or Capricorn, then in my opinion the captain and Smith are too forward and are taking too many liberties.
I was always afraid of that officer’s nautical imagination —paying no attention to anything, only holding things by the throat in bachelor fashion—a bachelor’s imagination and a bachelor’s way of traveling.
At times one needs to quiet down and wait it out.
One needs to know when and what.
It’s cramped here, just like in a box, and some scandal could result; I don’t like the look of the sailors’ faces, though I only see their backs.”
Will we ever arrive in Valparaiso, though?
I don’t know; though perhaps this is normal and anticipated in our travel schedule—I know nothing about the constellations and I don’t know how to use a sextant or compass, but if the stars (as it would seem) are unfavorable, and even apishly malicious in some way, and we’ve entered the undesirable sign of Aries or Capricorn, then in my opinion the captain and Smith are too forward and are taking too many liberties.
I was always afraid of that officer’s nautical imagination —paying no attention to anything, only holding things by the throat in bachelor fashion—a bachelor’s imagination and a bachelor’s way of traveling.
At times one needs to quiet down and wait it out.
One needs to know when and what.
It’s cramped here, just like in a box, and some scandal could result; I don’t like the look of the sailors’ faces, though I only see their backs.”
Having written this I burned the paper as quickly as I could over the candle.
Then I took a sheet of paper and added:
Then I took a sheet of paper and added:
“Yes, I don’t like the look of the sailors’ faces, though I only see their backs.
Their backs, naturally, are meek and timorous, as backs usually are, but in the evenings, through the floor of my cabin, I hear beneath the deck a flat, persistent buzzing, akin to the hum of a nest of insects.
This buzzing comes from the sailors.
And so Smith keeps them by the throat by day, but not at night.
Are they snoring?
Are they talking?
And if they’re talking, what could they be talking about, and are they not by any chance gossiping
overmuch, as can happen on long sea voyages?
For it’s possible that out of boredom they’re spinning one another some endless tall tales that don’t contain a word of truth.
After all, as Smith reminded me—they’re globetrotters, old stagers of the quayside; and they’re bound to have heard a thing or two in their lives.
I knew a fellow like that—he used to recount with great glee that he once heard from a barber in Tokyo about a gentleman who was ‘very well dressed, and must have been from the upper crust,’ who cautioned his manicurist ‘not to cut my fingernails too short, or I won’t be able to pick my nose.’
There’s an example of their attitude to intelligence.
It’s only things like that they can grasp—nothing more.
And they’re prepared to talk about it for hours on end, always with the same repulsive, sarcastic sneer.”
Their backs, naturally, are meek and timorous, as backs usually are, but in the evenings, through the floor of my cabin, I hear beneath the deck a flat, persistent buzzing, akin to the hum of a nest of insects.
This buzzing comes from the sailors.
And so Smith keeps them by the throat by day, but not at night.
Are they snoring?
Are they talking?
And if they’re talking, what could they be talking about, and are they not by any chance gossiping
overmuch, as can happen on long sea voyages?
For it’s possible that out of boredom they’re spinning one another some endless tall tales that don’t contain a word of truth.
After all, as Smith reminded me—they’re globetrotters, old stagers of the quayside; and they’re bound to have heard a thing or two in their lives.
I knew a fellow like that—he used to recount with great glee that he once heard from a barber in Tokyo about a gentleman who was ‘very well dressed, and must have been from the upper crust,’ who cautioned his manicurist ‘not to cut my fingernails too short, or I won’t be able to pick my nose.’
There’s an example of their attitude to intelligence.
It’s only things like that they can grasp—nothing more.
And they’re prepared to talk about it for hours on end, always with the same repulsive, sarcastic sneer.”
I burned this paper too—yet that did not mean I didn’t put into action my resolution concerning Clarke and Smith.
I kept my distance from them, and when I saw them on one side of the brig I moved to the other.
It was worse, I will not deny it, when one of them was on one side of the ship and the other on the other side.
In the meantime a sea wind had blown up, but instead of coming from the side or from behind, it began to blow softly right from the bow.
The
Banbury
did not move backward, but it was all unspeakably irritating—low waves were slapping against its nose.
I kept my distance from them, and when I saw them on one side of the brig I moved to the other.
It was worse, I will not deny it, when one of them was on one side of the ship and the other on the other side.
In the meantime a sea wind had blown up, but instead of coming from the side or from behind, it began to blow softly right from the bow.
The
Banbury
did not move backward, but it was all unspeakably irritating—low waves were slapping against its nose.
To make matters worse, it turned out that Thompson really did have a mouth like a snout—seeing this, I couldn’t hold back (I blame myself for this rashness) and asked: “Thompson, why do you do it?
Surely that’s not the right way, Thompson.”
He was a strapping fellow, tall, broad-shouldered, with a weather-beaten face, a hairy chest, earrings in his ears and short bangs on his forehead
—they were too short in relation to the rest of his figure.
He looked around to check that no one else was nearby, came up very close to me, and said, sticking out his lips: “Me, I like it, sir.”
Surely that’s not the right way, Thompson.”
He was a strapping fellow, tall, broad-shouldered, with a weather-beaten face, a hairy chest, earrings in his ears and short bangs on his forehead
—they were too short in relation to the rest of his figure.
He looked around to check that no one else was nearby, came up very close to me, and said, sticking out his lips: “Me, I like it, sir.”
“Now then, Thompson,” I said hurriedly.
“Here’s five shillings for tobacco, Thompson.”
Thompson closed the paw into which I had slipped the money and said:
“Here’s five shillings for tobacco, Thompson.”
Thompson closed the paw into which I had slipped the money and said:
“That won’t be of any use.”
“I expect it’s boring for you on board, Thompson,” I said benevolently.
“I’ll say it’s boring,” groaned Thompson.
“It’s hard to stand it, sir.
I have to go to bed at nine like a good little babby, sir, and in the daytime I have to sing songs.
The captain and the lieutenant are too strict, sir.
I can’t enjoy myself—I can’t have fun—I’m dying, sir.
Once I was ruddy, I was red as fire, sir, I was in good shape, and now I’m pale and exhausted—I’m going to hell, sir, I’m going to waste, sir.”
“It’s hard to stand it, sir.
I have to go to bed at nine like a good little babby, sir, and in the daytime I have to sing songs.
The captain and the lieutenant are too strict, sir.
I can’t enjoy myself—I can’t have fun—I’m dying, sir.
Once I was ruddy, I was red as fire, sir, I was in good shape, and now I’m pale and exhausted—I’m going to hell, sir, I’m going to waste, sir.”
I brought him out some milk in a bowl, which he lapped up.
“That will do you good, Thompson.
Milk is white, and that’s the best thing for redness—I’ll leave you a bowl like this outside my cabin door every day.
Milk and lots of fruit.
But for the love of God, don’t make a scandal, Thompson.
Try to hold out till Valparaiso.
The ship is slowing down, but the captain told me that soon a favorable wind will be blowing.
Please, please though—no funny business, Thompson; here’s five shillings more.”
Milk is white, and that’s the best thing for redness—I’ll leave you a bowl like this outside my cabin door every day.
Milk and lots of fruit.
But for the love of God, don’t make a scandal, Thompson.
Try to hold out till Valparaiso.
The ship is slowing down, but the captain told me that soon a favorable wind will be blowing.
Please, please though—no funny business, Thompson; here’s five shillings more.”
We were still at 76 degrees latitude, a good 450 miles southwest of the Canary Islands—though no canaries were to be seen.
Those small, golden-feathered birds were obviously afraid of excessive distances; they preferred to hop from branch to branch in a
dappled grove of tropical trees, where their chatter rang out much more loudly than at sea.
These are not sea birds but land birds.
The wind was blowing lightly yet constantly, right into the bow of the ship; small waves were making small flicks over and again, and little mild white clouds were passing in single file across the violet sky.
Those small, golden-feathered birds were obviously afraid of excessive distances; they preferred to hop from branch to branch in a
dappled grove of tropical trees, where their chatter rang out much more loudly than at sea.
These are not sea birds but land birds.
The wind was blowing lightly yet constantly, right into the bow of the ship; small waves were making small flicks over and again, and little mild white clouds were passing in single file across the violet sky.
Thompson must have spread the word that I had given him a few shillings—for in the afternoon, I was approached amidships by the mate—a large, fat, asthmatic man with drooping, puddingy cheeks and a bug-eyed, pale, exhausted gaze.
He complained of boredom and said that he had dirty feet—that this tormented him, and he asked for a few shillings.
When I upbraided him sternly, he declared more quietly:
He complained of boredom and said that he had dirty feet—that this tormented him, and he asked for a few shillings.
When I upbraided him sternly, he declared more quietly:
“All right, all right.
Life’s like that.
I know.
I’m forty-seven, and I’ve never had clean feet—never, it just wasn’t possible.
Other people can have clean feet, but not me—never—it’s a dog’s life for me.
One thing or another always gets in the way and it’s not possible—and when it’s possible you don’t feel like it.
In fact, I feel I want to—but I don’t feel like it and”—he added dully—“I’ve found other ways, here”—he tapped his forehead with a shrewd expression, staring at me.
I quickly gave him five shillings for beer and advised him to at least powder his feet—it’s practical and takes less time.
I asked him not to tell anyone that I had given money.
But he obviously couldn’t help himself.
One of the sailors, whose name I did not know, whispered supposedly to himself as he passed by, looking around to check that no one was listening:
Life’s like that.
I know.
I’m forty-seven, and I’ve never had clean feet—never, it just wasn’t possible.
Other people can have clean feet, but not me—never—it’s a dog’s life for me.
One thing or another always gets in the way and it’s not possible—and when it’s possible you don’t feel like it.
In fact, I feel I want to—but I don’t feel like it and”—he added dully—“I’ve found other ways, here”—he tapped his forehead with a shrewd expression, staring at me.
I quickly gave him five shillings for beer and advised him to at least powder his feet—it’s practical and takes less time.
I asked him not to tell anyone that I had given money.
But he obviously couldn’t help himself.
One of the sailors, whose name I did not know, whispered supposedly to himself as he passed by, looking around to check that no one was listening:
“Nasturtiums.”
I gave him a few shillings too.
Hmm ...
I was beginning to be
seriously worried, for in my view the crew was becoming too importunate.
Not two days had passed since my conversation with Thompson, yet the notebook in which I recorded my daily expenditures was black with a series of new entries.
It looked almost as if the crew had found some poems of mine under my pillow, but I had no poems, for after all I had clambered onto the
Banbury
from a motor launch, without any luggage.
Hmm ...
I was beginning to be
seriously worried, for in my view the crew was becoming too importunate.
Not two days had passed since my conversation with Thompson, yet the notebook in which I recorded my daily expenditures was black with a series of new entries.
It looked almost as if the crew had found some poems of mine under my pillow, but I had no poems, for after all I had clambered onto the
Banbury
from a motor launch, without any luggage.
Thompson for “I like it” and snout: 10 s.
Mate for feet: 5 s.
X for nasturtiums: 2 s.
Stevens for certain tomatoes and buds: 5 s.
Buster for bashfulness: 5 s.
Dick for small vegetable patch tended with trowel amid tall reed stems: 1 s.
6 d.
6 d.
O’Brien for huge milk cows grazing on meadow full of round pebbles: 3 s.
(Meant to give less, but he knew about “Primrose” too.)
(Meant to give less, but he knew about “Primrose” too.)
O’Brien again for ladle, with recommendation that he refrain until Valparaiso.
(NB he refuses; says he ran with blood again yesterday.
For this another 6 d.
extra.)
(NB he refuses; says he ran with blood again yesterday.
For this another 6 d.
extra.)
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