rm.thenightboat-第33部分

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rust　whites　anyway；　and　this　foreigner　was　very　strange。
　　The　man　seemed　to　dislike　the　sun；　his　flesh　was　a　pasty　white；　his　hair　dull；　tinged　with　yellow　and　bed　straight　back　in　an　old　style。　He　had　never　e　up　on　the　freighter's　deck　during　the　day；　but　there　were　stories　circulating　that　he'd　been　seen　walking　the　forward　deck　in　the　dead　of　night；　standing　at　the　bow　as　if　trying　to　sight　something　off　in　the　distance。　And　he　had　spoken　to　the　galley　steward　in　a　strange　accent：　not　British　or　American；　but　something　else。　When　the　freighter　tied　up　at　the　mercial　wharf　in　Coquina　harbor；　the　seamen　were　glad　to　be　rid　of　him。　The　captain　had　told　the　first　mate　and　talk　had　trickled　down　through　the　men　that　he　would　not　be　returning　to　Kingston　with　them。
　　As　the　seamen　worked　their　lines；　the　foreigner　emerged　through　a　hatchway　onto　the　deck；　he　squinted；　though　the　sun　was　dim　in　the　gray　sky；　and　walked　past　the　men　toward　the　port　side　where　the　gangplank　would　be　lowered。　He　carried　a　battered　brown　suitcase　and　wore　a　suit；　once…white；　that　had　yellowed　with　age。　The　men　moved　out　of　his　way　so　he　could　pass。　He　walked　slowly；　stepping　over　lines　and　cables；　and　he　winced　occasionally　because　today　his　leg　was　bothering　him；　he　thought　it　must　be　the　humidity　and　the　heat；　perhaps　even　rain　ing。　One　could　often　judge　the　weather　from　the　pain　of　shattered　bone。
　　He　waited　until　the　gangplank　was　secured　and　squinted　again；　the　light　almost　painful　to　him。　When　he　crossed　over　onto　the　wharf；　one　of　the　seamen　behind　him　muttered；　〃Damn　good　riddance。。。〃
　　The　man　walked　along　the　wharf　for　a　moment；　limping　slightly；　then　stopped　to　gaze　across　the　village　ahead。　A　small　boy　lugging　a　basket　of　bananas　was　passing；　and　the　man　asked　him；　〃Please。　Is　there　a　hotel　here？〃
　　The　boy　looked　up　at　the　stranger；　turned；　and　pointed　at　the　blue　house　on　the　hill。　〃Indigo　Inn；〃　he　said；　then　quickly　moved　on。
　　〃Danke；〃　the　foreigner　replied。　He　gripped　his　suitcase　and　began　to　walk　toward　the　street　beyond。
　　The　jukebox　began　to　throb　in　the　Landfall　Tavern　as　coins　tinkled　down　through　metal　cylinders。　Its　treble　range　had　deteriorated；　so　all　that　came　through　the　speakers　was　the　bass　guitar　and　the　low　thud…thudding　of　drums。　The　bartender；　annoyed　because　he'd　expected　this　to　be　an　easy　day；　drew　mugs　of　beer　and　poured　rum　for　the　group　of　seamen　who'd　e　in　off　the　freighter　to　quench　their　thirsts。
　　At　a　back　table；　sitting　alone；　the　foreigner　sipped　from　a　mug　of　beer；　the　corner　was　dark；　and　he　was　glad　because　he　was　not　eager　to　have　the　men　notice　him　there。　Before　him　on　the　table　was　a　tattered　piece　of　the　Daily　Gleaner　dated　four　days　earlier；　which　he　had　bought　in　Jamaica。　When　he　saw　the　item　on　the　third　page　he'd　had　to　sit　down　in　his　room　at　the　boarding　house　and　read　it　again　very　carefully。　Then　again。　He'd　made　a　telephone　call　to　the　paper　and　was　referred　to　an　officer　at　the　police　station　by　the　name　of　Cyril　McKay。　〃Yes；〃　the　officer　had　told　him；　〃it's　under　investigation　now；　yes；　a　small　island　called　Coquina　to　the　southwest　of　Jamaica。　Do　you　have　any　particular　interest？〃
　　〃No；〃　he'd　said。　〃Only　curiosity。　I　was　a　naval　man；　you　see。〃
　　And　now　he'd　reached　the　island。　He'd　wanted　to　get　out　of　the　sun　before　starting　that　long　walk　up　the　hill。　He　looked　down　again　at　the　two…paragraph　item；　staring　at　the　headline：　WRECKAGE　DISCOVERED。
　　So　strange；　so　strange；　he　mused；　how　one's　past　never　really　releases　its　hold；　it　always　remains…in　a　phrase；　a　remembered　sight；　sound；　or　smell…a　sharp；　aching　feeling　one　might　have　watching　the　freighters　cast　off　their　lines　and　head　for　the　open　sea。　He　felt　swallowed　up　by　those　two　words。　Wreckage　Discovered。　After　all　those　years？　Thirty…five；　thirty…six？　He　had　just　turned　sixty。　More　like　forty　years。　Enough　time　for　him　to　grow　older　and　grayer；　for　the　muscles　that　had　been　firm　and　tight　to　turn　to　flab；　for　his　long…unused　sea　instincts　to　bee　dull。
　　And　though　he　was　barely　sixty　he　looked　older。　That　was　because　of　his　time　spent　in　the　prison；　suffering　humiliations　and　beatings　from　a　patriot　of　a　jailer　who　had　spent　his　fury　through　his　fists；　then　had　calmly　sat　down　outside　his　cell　to　discuss　the　hopelessness　of　the　Nazi　cause。　The　man　knew　how　to　beat　his　prisoners　where　the　bruises　didn't　show；　and　they　were　told　that　if　they　cried　out　they　might　be　smothered　in　their　sleep。　The　medical　records　would　record　them　as　having　died　of　heart　attacks。
　　He　had　never　said　a　word。　When　they　took　him　to　the　black　room　and　opened　up　a　hole　in　the　roof　for　the　hot　tropical　sun　to　burn　down　on　him　he　had　kept　his　lips　a　tight；　grim　line。　Who　was　your　mander？　the　one　who　spoke　German　had　asked；　while　the　other；　a　younger　man；　had　watched。　You're　the　only　one　who　survived；　there's　no　use　in　being　loyal　to　them　anymore。　They're　dead；　food　for　the　fishes。　They　wouldn't　have　been　so　cruel　to　you！　There　are　women　and　children　back　in　the　Fatherland　who　want　to　know　what's　bee　of　their　loved　ones！　Whose　names　are　they　going　to　have　chiseled　on　the　gravestones？　Your　boat　destroyed　the　Hawklin；　isn't　that　right？　And　then　it　got　into　Castries　harbor　and　torpedoed　a　freighter　moored　there；　isn't　that　right？
　　Sweat　had　streamed　down　his　face；　the　sun　had　cooked　him；　searing　his　flesh　through　that　ceiling　hole；　but　he　had　not　spoken　because　he　was　still　one　of　them；　still　under　orders；　and　he　would　never　betray　them　as　long　as　he　lived。
　　〃Refill？〃　someone　asked。
　　He　looked　up；　the　bartender　stood　over　him。　〃Excuse　me？〃
　　〃Another　beer？〃
　　〃No。〃　The　bartender　nodded；　moved　away。　The　German　glanced　around　the　room　at　the　freighter's　crew。　They　hadn't　liked　him；　he　knew；　they　had　scorned　him；　as　if　his　pale　flesh　carried　a　disease　they　were　afraid　of　catching。　But　the　freighter　was　the　quickest　way　to　get　here　and　though　the　cabin　he'd　shared　with　a　dozen　cockroaches　had　been　cramped　he　hadn't　paid　very　much　for　it。　He　had　been　on　a　lower　deck；　and　at　night　he　could　hear　the　racket　of　the　huge　diesels　ing　through　the　bulkheads。　It　was　a　good　sound；　a　sound　that　reminded　him　of　good　men　and　other　times　and　places。
　　Someone　nudged　him　roughly　on　the　shoulder　and　he　turned　his　head。　Who　was　it；　grinning　from　the　dark　with　teeth　as　large　as　tombstones？　Yes；　yes。　VonStagel；　with　his　bushy　red　beard　that　made　him　look　like　a　wild　Viking。　And　beside　him　in　the　smoky　bar　the　morose；　brooding　Kreps。　Everyone　at　their　cluster　of　tables　was　drinking；　laughing　and　shouting；　the　sounds　came　from　everywhere　at　once；　glasses　clinking；　someone　cursing　drunkenly；　others　singing　a　bawdy　mariner's　song　about　the　ladies　left　behind。
　　〃Hear；　hear！〃　shouted　Bruno；　the　big…shouldered　diesel　mechanic。　〃Bring　on　the　dancing　girls！〃
　　A　roar　of　laughter；　plates　clattering；　chairs　scraping　the　floor。　The　waiter　placed　a　pink　mound　of　pork　on　a　bed　of　potatoes　and　sauerkraut　before　him。　He　dug　into　it　hungrily；　for　tomorrow　it　would　be　rations…moist　eggs；　lukewarm　coffee；　stale　bread；　and　sausages　that　would　rapidly　collect　fungus　from　the　dank　air。
　　〃。。。and　so　what　was　I　to　think？〃　Hanlin；　the　senior　radioman；　was　asking　VonStagel。　〃There　was　the　petty　officer…you　remember　Stindler；　the　pompous　asshole…standing　in　the　whorehouse　balcony　holding　his　prick　out　and　parading　so　the　good　people　of　Berlin　could　see！　My　God！　Well；　anyway；　the　patrol　wasn't　long　in　ing；　I　can　tell　you；　and　they　hauled　him　off　in　a　wagon　with　his　dick　still　hanging　out　of　his　pants！　And　to　think　we　all　thought　of　him　as　a　saint！　St。　Stindler　we　called　him　on　U…172。　My　God；　how　wrong　could　we　have　been？〃
　　〃And　what　happened　to　him？〃　VonStagel　asked。　〃Did　he　get　his　piece　or　not？〃
　　〃Who　knows　about　that？　I　only　know　he's　not　signed　on　the　new　boat。。。〃
　　Farther　down　the　table；　Lujax；　the　E…motor　mate；　and　Bittner；　the　diesel　stoker；　were　talking　quietly；　absorbed　in　their　conversation。　〃。。。dangerous　waters；〃　Lujax　was　saying。　〃。。。Atlantic　boiling。。。〃
　　〃。。。it's　all　dangerous　now；〃　Bittner　replied。　〃It's　a　question　of　strategies。　Who's　the　smartest；　not　who's　the　strongest。。。〃
　　A　large　Nazi　flag　had　been　tacked　tightly　across　one　wall　so　there　wasn't　a　single　wrinkle。　The　chair　just　beneath　it　was　vacant；　the　mander　was　noticeably；　perhaps　pointedly；　absent。　The　executive　officers　were　talking；　eating；　drinking；　but　watching　the　door　that　led　out　into　the　street。
　　〃Sonofabitching　Tommies　almost　got　Ernst's　boat　last　week；〃　Hanlin　was　saying　between　mouthfuls。
　　〃I　heard　something　about　that；〃　added　Drexil；　a　fresh…faced；　raw　recruit　sitting　beside　Hanlin。　〃It　happened　just　off　Iceland。。。〃
　　〃Sonsofbitches　came　out　of　the　sun；〃　Hanlin　continued。　〃Slammed　bombs　all　around　the　boat；　doused　their　tower　pretty　well；　but　they　managed　an　emergency　dive。。。〃
　　〃Damned　lucky；〃　Kreps　muttered。
　　Bruno　was　admiring　the　tavern　girls；　there　were　three　of　them　carrying　big　trays　laden　with　mugs　of　beer　back　and　forth　from　bar　to　men；　from　bar　to　men。　Two　of　them　looked　fine…blond　girls；　firm…fleshed　and　youthful…and　he'd　heard　stories　about　the　taller　one　from　Rudy。　The　third　was　a　snaggle…toothed　monstrosity　and　not　worth　crossing　the　street　for。　Yet　she　was　the　most　gregarious　of　the　three；　throwing　herself　down　in　the　laps　of　the　men　and　joining　in　their　bawdy　choruses。　〃The　Paradise；〃　Bruno　said。　〃They've　got　women　over　there　who　dance　on　your　tables！〃
　　〃Ahhhhhhh！'　You're　horny　as　hell！〃　VonStagel　chided。
　　〃I　admit　it；　then！　The　Paradise！　We've　got　to　go！　You　friggers　think　it's　a　joy　breaking　your　back　in　an　engine　room　for　a　tour　of　duty；　you're　mad！　I　want　to　fill　my　lungs　with　perfume　before　I　have　to　smell　the　stench　of　oil　and　piss！　The　Paradise　and　then　the　Seamen's　Club！　We'll　make　the　rounds　tonight。〃
　　〃I'm　for　it！〃　Drexil　shouted。
　　〃What　the　hell？〃　VonStagel　looked　around。　〃Schiller；　what　about　you？〃
　　And　then　there　was　a　silence　in　the　room　as　the　door　came　open。　A　chill　seemed　to　spread　from　the　door　into　the　Celestial　Bar。　The　noises　of　eating　and　drinking　died　away；　in　the　quiet　the　sailors　could　hear　a　tug　chugging　off　in　the　harbor；　and　the　distant　wail　of　a　foghorn。　Boots　clatte