detail to the table—where sat at that moment, in addition to ourselves, the First Mate and the Chief Engineer, observing the newpassengers in some alarm—the even more recent excision of some pesky hemorrhoids, a triumph over the Forces of Darkness for which he gave full credit to the Lord. Horace had an odd squawking voice and a sudden shrieking laugh perhaps more pleasing to the Antichrist than to his Maker. Uttered now for no apparent reason, it confounded the poor Levantine, who took his slighted nose into both of his soft hands and peered through his ringed fingers at his shipmate.
“What is it you call yourself?” the Turk hissed finally. “Horse ass?”
“Hor-ace,” said Horace. “An upright Christian name.”
“With a
W?
” Hassid inquired archly, directing this question to me. He winked just to bedevil Horace, knowing the missionary would not acknowledge such a joke even if he got it. From that point on, as the friend of these two enemies, I served them as both referee and foil, tossing in small provocations just to keep things lively.
“Turk,” mused Horace, chewing carefully.
“Whore-ass,” Hassid murmured here and there during the meal, shaking his head in gloomy wonderment, while the two Britons huddled over their food.
O UR SHIP SAILED OUT that evening into North Atlantic storms, and by next day Hassid’s soiled complexion had turned sickly. Propped up at the mess table, he looked embalmed. At the noon meal, Horace informed him that he looked “poorly,” at which Hassid put his whole face in his hands. “I been noticin them li’l beads of sweat on yo’ upper lip,” Horace continued, just before Hassid bolted from the table. “Smell that fish?”
Horace complained about the fish smell in the galley. Hecould not bear the sight or smell of fish. The Lord ate fish, I reminded him, stirring things up to rally Hassid, who was losing their struggle by default, but Horace put me nicely in my place.
“He probably liked it,” Horace said, and Hassid had the ingratitude to smile.
The Turk did his best to appear at meals, since the Chief had told him that food was the best cure for seasickness. The long days of rough seas had “knocked us back a bit,” in the Chief’s phrase. The slow pace exasperated Hassid when he was well enough to feel emotion, since he’d already missed a swifter ship owing to the operation on his nose. If he got “indisposed” even once again, he’d quit this ship of fools at the next port and fly to Belém.
“How to kill this time?” Hassid begged each day, rolling his soft eyes heavenward in supplication. “How to kill this time?” He was the only man I ever knew who tore his hair—I thought this habit had gone out of fashion. In fair weather, he crouched up in the bow, staring away toward southern destinies, in hope of nothing. The Chief responded to his ceaseless plaints by saying that a man had best be patient about arriving anywhere. “What is a day, a week, even a month, after all?” he once inquired—an old, sad, touching observation that the Turk misconstrued in his great misery as an affront.
The Chief was an amiable old Scot, gone bald and a bit bleary with hard use. Though scarcely garrulous, he doubtless was considered so by the First Mate, whom we never saw except across the table. The First was a rufous, blocky man who detested anything not known in Liverpool, but happily he talked little while he dined. Having stuffed his gob with thick bread gobbets until his soup was set beforehim, he proceeded doggedly through the little menu, taking all choices in the order listed, plate after plate, like somebody packing a bag. The one dish he would not consume was “American mutton,” a weekly entrée which lent our menu its one hint of international cuisine. (I asked him once what distinguished “American” mutton. “Different animal altogether,” huffed the First.)
In Bermuda, our first port of call, Horace passed the day at a small white
“What is it you call yourself?” the Turk hissed finally. “Horse ass?”
“Hor-ace,” said Horace. “An upright Christian name.”
“With a
W?
” Hassid inquired archly, directing this question to me. He winked just to bedevil Horace, knowing the missionary would not acknowledge such a joke even if he got it. From that point on, as the friend of these two enemies, I served them as both referee and foil, tossing in small provocations just to keep things lively.
“Turk,” mused Horace, chewing carefully.
“Whore-ass,” Hassid murmured here and there during the meal, shaking his head in gloomy wonderment, while the two Britons huddled over their food.
O UR SHIP SAILED OUT that evening into North Atlantic storms, and by next day Hassid’s soiled complexion had turned sickly. Propped up at the mess table, he looked embalmed. At the noon meal, Horace informed him that he looked “poorly,” at which Hassid put his whole face in his hands. “I been noticin them li’l beads of sweat on yo’ upper lip,” Horace continued, just before Hassid bolted from the table. “Smell that fish?”
Horace complained about the fish smell in the galley. Hecould not bear the sight or smell of fish. The Lord ate fish, I reminded him, stirring things up to rally Hassid, who was losing their struggle by default, but Horace put me nicely in my place.
“He probably liked it,” Horace said, and Hassid had the ingratitude to smile.
The Turk did his best to appear at meals, since the Chief had told him that food was the best cure for seasickness. The long days of rough seas had “knocked us back a bit,” in the Chief’s phrase. The slow pace exasperated Hassid when he was well enough to feel emotion, since he’d already missed a swifter ship owing to the operation on his nose. If he got “indisposed” even once again, he’d quit this ship of fools at the next port and fly to Belém.
“How to kill this time?” Hassid begged each day, rolling his soft eyes heavenward in supplication. “How to kill this time?” He was the only man I ever knew who tore his hair—I thought this habit had gone out of fashion. In fair weather, he crouched up in the bow, staring away toward southern destinies, in hope of nothing. The Chief responded to his ceaseless plaints by saying that a man had best be patient about arriving anywhere. “What is a day, a week, even a month, after all?” he once inquired—an old, sad, touching observation that the Turk misconstrued in his great misery as an affront.
The Chief was an amiable old Scot, gone bald and a bit bleary with hard use. Though scarcely garrulous, he doubtless was considered so by the First Mate, whom we never saw except across the table. The First was a rufous, blocky man who detested anything not known in Liverpool, but happily he talked little while he dined. Having stuffed his gob with thick bread gobbets until his soup was set beforehim, he proceeded doggedly through the little menu, taking all choices in the order listed, plate after plate, like somebody packing a bag. The one dish he would not consume was “American mutton,” a weekly entrée which lent our menu its one hint of international cuisine. (I asked him once what distinguished “American” mutton. “Different animal altogether,” huffed the First.)
In Bermuda, our first port of call, Horace passed the day at a small white
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