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Fiction

MS Hitra

By Jo Nesbø
Translated from Norwegian by Don Bartlett

Captain Jonasen followed the dotted line in the atlas with his finger. What he would do after Buenos Aires he didn’t know. As far as he was concerned life could end there. He closed the atlas with a bang and lit his pipe. It would soon be midnight and it was dark in the captain’s cabin. He listened and waited. But no engines started up. All he could hear was the wind whistling through the air vent. And he didn’t know exactly what he was in fact waiting for any more, either. He turned and looked through the porthole streaked with sea and salt. Penelope was right: it was an unprepossessing bridge.

***

Captain Jonasen had been a respected man in Sirenes before the bridge came. Year after year he had got up, put on the uniform with the MRF—Møre og Romsdal Fylkesbåtar—captain’s insignia and piloted the ferry between Sirenes and Gjellestø. Apart from that, he had not done much that was of particular note, but in Sirenes it was what you didn’t do that commanded respect. Captain Jonasen did not drink any more than most people, did not miss church services any more than other people and did not let his house fall into disrepair—he gave it a new coat of red paint every third year.

The ferry, MS Hitra, was also kept in good order. It needed to be because it was an old boat, built in 1949. Eight meters wide, 35 meters long with a 338-kilowatt engine which produced a speed of eleven knots. The official capacity was 150 passengers and eighteen cars, but if Captain Jonasen and crew used every centimeter of space and stretched the rules, there was room for twenty-one. It was the smallest boat MRF had in operation, but it was big enough as the crossing took a mere four and a half minutes. Including turnaround time there was an interval of twelve minutes between each sailing. In other words, between the first departure at six and the last at eleven MS Hitra darted to and fro across Var fjord eighty-five times every day. If you missed the last boat you would have to drive 160 kilometers around the fjord. The boat alternated between overnighting in Sirenes and Gjellestø. With a crew of twelve—seven living on the Sirenes and five on the Gjellestø side—working three shifts, those who found themselves in the wrong place when the boat moored for the night returned in a dinghy.

But there was one man who did not set foot in a dinghy, and that was Captain Jonasen. Hydrophobia—a fear which is more widespread among seamen than one would suppose—was the explanation. For him stepping on board anything smaller than MS Hitra was out of the question. So when they docked in Gjellestø after the last crossing Jonasen sat in the captain’s cabin smoking a pipe and listening to the two men check the moorings, switch off the lights and lock the doors. He heard the outboard motor and the chief engineer’s car start up and fade away as he contemplated the light in his red house in Sirenes through a porthole gray with sea salt. Then he stood up and went ashore. And beneath stars or clouds, in the summer twilight or the winter darkness, in rain or snow, he set out up the steep terrain of the almost deserted mountainside.

Her name was Elinor and she lived alone in the white house. It was the time when there had been only apple trees in the orchard. In spring Captain Jonasen had been able to smell the flowers and in autumn the apples long before he reached the gate and the gravel path leading to her doorsteps. Yes, that was how it had been. Elinor had worked in the kiosk on MS Hitra in the seventies when the boat had still been full almost every trip, before the new motorway was built and Sirenes became a backwater. Jonasen had been the fine, young captain from the local area with alert, blue eyes beneath dark curls, a firm gaze and a deep, hearty laugh. Helpful and obliging to a fault, whether he was with old dears, schoolchildren, be-suited commercial travelers or the mayor himself. In short, Captain Jonasen was the kind of man everyone liked. And Elinor had been no exception.

Now, the captain was already married, to Penelope. However, while serving coffee, Firkløver chocolate, and griddle cakes, Elinor considered that she was entitled to dream. It had not escaped her attention that whenever Jonasen came down to the ship’s saloon, poured himself a coffee, and made some humorous comment about this or that, his eyes told a different story from his mouth.

The months went by and Captain Jonasen’s mouth continued to talk about the winds, weather, and local gossip, and in the end Elinor was forced to take the initiative. At this time Jonasen still went home in the dinghy. So, when one day she told him that, as a responsible ship’s captain, he would have to spend the night on MS Hitra in Gjellestø to go through the kiosk accounts, so that they could be handed in to the main MRF office in Molde the next day, he gave her a look of amazement. Then he nodded and conceded that, of course, it was his duty. He called Penelope to say he wouldn’t be going home, and as the others left, Jonasen and Elinor sat down to examine the accounts. The cash desk takings tallied, the balance balanced and before Captain Jonasen knew what was going on he and Elinor found themselves in his cramped captain’s cabin.

The next morning Elinor had a large swelling on her forehead from banging it on a protruding bulkhead, but her smile was like sunshine. Appearing on the bridge with coffee, she whispered that they would be more comfortable in her bedroom. Jonasen was well aware that she had the house to herself after Elinor’s mother had moved south with her stepfather. That was the day Jonasen developed hydrophobia.

***

The gravel crunched beneath his shoes. Twenty years had passed since that first night and he still came and went every alternate night in what seemed like an eternal love shuttle between his two women. Penelope never gave her husband any reason to suspect that she knew what was going on. And to Captain Jonasen it seemed as though Elinor had found peace of mind with his explanation that there was a risk that Penelope would commit suicide if he ever left her. On one occasion—the wedding night—Penelope had indeed said that she could not live without him.

“It’s getting colder,” Elinor said in the doorway shivering.

“A north-westerly from Greenland,” Captain Jonasen said, giving her a hug.

After she had fallen asleep he got out of bed, went over to the window, lit his pipe, and stared across the fjord. The light from the red house on the other side was flashing. He knew it was an optical illusion caused by fluctuations in the air temperature, but he could not help thinking that it looked like a lighthouse beacon. Or that Penelope was sleeping there.

And that he longed for her.

He experienced the same longing when he got out of bed in the red house and stared at the light from the lone white house up on the mountainside, where he was now. Every night it felt just as unbearable that he could not simply open the window and fly across the water into the arms of his beloved. To Penelope. Or Elinor. Wherever he was not. That was at least as peculiar as any optical illusion.

“Aren’t you coming back to bed?” Elinor whispered from the bed.

Captain Jonasen puffed on his pipe.

“I was talking to the mayor on the ferry today,” he said.

“Oh, yes?”

“He says it’s a done deal. There will be a bridge.”

“Oh, I don’t know. They’ve been saying that for as long as I can remember.”

“In two years’ time. It’s certain now.”

They didn’t say anything. Just listened to each other’s silence. Then Captain Jonasen crept back into bed and kissed her forehead.

“Hitra and I will have to find something else,” he said. “Could you envisage joining us on a little trip?”

“Where would that be to?”

“Buenos Aires, of course.”

Elinor chuckled, but it was too dark for him to see her eyes.

***

“There we are,” Penelope said, tightening Captain Jonasen’s tie so hard that he almost suffocated. “Now both the king and the mayor will be happy.”

She rested her hand on his shoulder as he buttoned up his suit jacket. Looked at him in the identical way she had the day they buried his father.

“You look nice today,” Jonasen said, and he meant it.

Then they left the red house and set out down the road. The distant sound of band music came and went with the wind. They nodded to their festively dressed neighbors. As they came closer they could hear the echo of the snare drums being tossed hither and thither across the fjord.

“It’s an ugly bridge,” Penelope said.

The wind crackled in the microphone and swept the mayor’s hair in all directions as he said how nice it was to see such a good turnout from both sides of the water and how the bridge would usher in a new era for all of those living around Var fjord. New links would be forged and old ones strengthened. First of all, though, there was one link which had to be cut, he smiled, and proudly presented the guest of honor.

“The King of Norway,” whispered Penelope.

As the king spoke Captain Jonasen cast his eyes over the tiny, unlovely car ferry moored to the quay in Sirenes. MRF had no need of such a small ferry on any of their other routes, and for the moment no buyers had appeared. With the talk of scrapping MS Hitra, Jonasen had offered to take it under his wing for the company. And, since he had taken early retirement anyway, to maintain the boat until a buyer came forward. He had been waiting for an answer for a week now. That was what was going through Captain Jonasen’s mind when something strange happened.

“I didn’t know you were so beautiful.”

Penelope sent her interlocutor an inquisitive smile.

“My name is Elinor,” the woman continued, also with a smile.

“I have wanted to meet you for a long time.”

From that moment on the voices around Captain Jonasen blurred into a muffled drone. He pinched his eyes and squinted at MS Hitra, which was bathed in a sudden, solitary pillar of sunlight that had appeared between the clouds. He was thinking that a fair amount of rust would have to be knocked off before she could be given a new coat of paint. The engine had been recently overhauled, but a few valves needed changing. And the boat coped without any difficulties in open sea. Twice they had sailed through rough weather outside the skerries to Bergen.

“Now I can see it. You must be Agnes’s daughter,” Penelope said. “I haven’t seen you since you were a young girl. You’ve moved to town, have you?”

“No, I’ve lived here the whole time. I just haven’t been to Sirenes for the last twenty years.”

“Oh? How come?”

“Hydrophobia.”

Captain Jonasen had the route clear in his mind. Le Havre. Porto. Lisbon. And then the big leap. Past the end of the world to Buenos Aires. Pampas steaks. Gentle rain in his hair. He had read it rained quite a bit. He liked that.

There was an outbreak of clapping and people cheered. It sounded like a train derailing when the band struck up a march. Captain Jonasen clapped, too, beat his palms against each other until they hurt, but he was unable to wake from the evil dream. For this was not real. At any rate, no more real than sailing MS Hitra up and down the river Plate with tourists. No less of a dream than a white linen suit and tango dancing in a café.

***

The lights of a single car turning off the bridge swept across his face. He put down his pipe and went outside. Glanced at the other side of the road and saw that Penelope had turned off the lights for the night.

It was four years since the king had cut the ribbon, Penelope had met Elinor for the first time, and Penelope had asked him to move out. That evening Elinor had met him on the steps and said he didn’t need to walk up the mountainside any more.

The air was cold and clear, the sky high and empty apart from the moon, which looked pale and frozen. Soon it would be spring in Buenos Aires, but here autumn was on its way. MS Hitra was not built for autumnal storms in open sea, so it was too late for this year as well.

He saw the lone light on the Gjellestø side and the long reeds in the low tide tickling the black keel of the ferry in the white moonlight.

It would have to be next year.

Translation of “MS Hitra.” From Karusellmusik. Copyright 2001 by Jo Nesbø. By arrangement with the author. Translation copyright 2008 by Don Bartlett. All rights reserved.

English Norwegian (Original)

Captain Jonasen followed the dotted line in the atlas with his finger. What he would do after Buenos Aires he didn’t know. As far as he was concerned life could end there. He closed the atlas with a bang and lit his pipe. It would soon be midnight and it was dark in the captain’s cabin. He listened and waited. But no engines started up. All he could hear was the wind whistling through the air vent. And he didn’t know exactly what he was in fact waiting for any more, either. He turned and looked through the porthole streaked with sea and salt. Penelope was right: it was an unprepossessing bridge.

***

Captain Jonasen had been a respected man in Sirenes before the bridge came. Year after year he had got up, put on the uniform with the MRF—Møre og Romsdal Fylkesbåtar—captain’s insignia and piloted the ferry between Sirenes and Gjellestø. Apart from that, he had not done much that was of particular note, but in Sirenes it was what you didn’t do that commanded respect. Captain Jonasen did not drink any more than most people, did not miss church services any more than other people and did not let his house fall into disrepair—he gave it a new coat of red paint every third year.

The ferry, MS Hitra, was also kept in good order. It needed to be because it was an old boat, built in 1949. Eight meters wide, 35 meters long with a 338-kilowatt engine which produced a speed of eleven knots. The official capacity was 150 passengers and eighteen cars, but if Captain Jonasen and crew used every centimeter of space and stretched the rules, there was room for twenty-one. It was the smallest boat MRF had in operation, but it was big enough as the crossing took a mere four and a half minutes. Including turnaround time there was an interval of twelve minutes between each sailing. In other words, between the first departure at six and the last at eleven MS Hitra darted to and fro across Var fjord eighty-five times every day. If you missed the last boat you would have to drive 160 kilometers around the fjord. The boat alternated between overnighting in Sirenes and Gjellestø. With a crew of twelve—seven living on the Sirenes and five on the Gjellestø side—working three shifts, those who found themselves in the wrong place when the boat moored for the night returned in a dinghy.

But there was one man who did not set foot in a dinghy, and that was Captain Jonasen. Hydrophobia—a fear which is more widespread among seamen than one would suppose—was the explanation. For him stepping on board anything smaller than MS Hitra was out of the question. So when they docked in Gjellestø after the last crossing Jonasen sat in the captain’s cabin smoking a pipe and listening to the two men check the moorings, switch off the lights and lock the doors. He heard the outboard motor and the chief engineer’s car start up and fade away as he contemplated the light in his red house in Sirenes through a porthole gray with sea salt. Then he stood up and went ashore. And beneath stars or clouds, in the summer twilight or the winter darkness, in rain or snow, he set out up the steep terrain of the almost deserted mountainside.

Her name was Elinor and she lived alone in the white house. It was the time when there had been only apple trees in the orchard. In spring Captain Jonasen had been able to smell the flowers and in autumn the apples long before he reached the gate and the gravel path leading to her doorsteps. Yes, that was how it had been. Elinor had worked in the kiosk on MS Hitra in the seventies when the boat had still been full almost every trip, before the new motorway was built and Sirenes became a backwater. Jonasen had been the fine, young captain from the local area with alert, blue eyes beneath dark curls, a firm gaze and a deep, hearty laugh. Helpful and obliging to a fault, whether he was with old dears, schoolchildren, be-suited commercial travelers or the mayor himself. In short, Captain Jonasen was the kind of man everyone liked. And Elinor had been no exception.

Now, the captain was already married, to Penelope. However, while serving coffee, Firkløver chocolate, and griddle cakes, Elinor considered that she was entitled to dream. It had not escaped her attention that whenever Jonasen came down to the ship’s saloon, poured himself a coffee, and made some humorous comment about this or that, his eyes told a different story from his mouth.

The months went by and Captain Jonasen’s mouth continued to talk about the winds, weather, and local gossip, and in the end Elinor was forced to take the initiative. At this time Jonasen still went home in the dinghy. So, when one day she told him that, as a responsible ship’s captain, he would have to spend the night on MS Hitra in Gjellestø to go through the kiosk accounts, so that they could be handed in to the main MRF office in Molde the next day, he gave her a look of amazement. Then he nodded and conceded that, of course, it was his duty. He called Penelope to say he wouldn’t be going home, and as the others left, Jonasen and Elinor sat down to examine the accounts. The cash desk takings tallied, the balance balanced and before Captain Jonasen knew what was going on he and Elinor found themselves in his cramped captain’s cabin.

The next morning Elinor had a large swelling on her forehead from banging it on a protruding bulkhead, but her smile was like sunshine. Appearing on the bridge with coffee, she whispered that they would be more comfortable in her bedroom. Jonasen was well aware that she had the house to herself after Elinor’s mother had moved south with her stepfather. That was the day Jonasen developed hydrophobia.

***

The gravel crunched beneath his shoes. Twenty years had passed since that first night and he still came and went every alternate night in what seemed like an eternal love shuttle between his two women. Penelope never gave her husband any reason to suspect that she knew what was going on. And to Captain Jonasen it seemed as though Elinor had found peace of mind with his explanation that there was a risk that Penelope would commit suicide if he ever left her. On one occasion—the wedding night—Penelope had indeed said that she could not live without him.

“It’s getting colder,” Elinor said in the doorway shivering.

“A north-westerly from Greenland,” Captain Jonasen said, giving her a hug.

After she had fallen asleep he got out of bed, went over to the window, lit his pipe, and stared across the fjord. The light from the red house on the other side was flashing. He knew it was an optical illusion caused by fluctuations in the air temperature, but he could not help thinking that it looked like a lighthouse beacon. Or that Penelope was sleeping there.

And that he longed for her.

He experienced the same longing when he got out of bed in the red house and stared at the light from the lone white house up on the mountainside, where he was now. Every night it felt just as unbearable that he could not simply open the window and fly across the water into the arms of his beloved. To Penelope. Or Elinor. Wherever he was not. That was at least as peculiar as any optical illusion.

“Aren’t you coming back to bed?” Elinor whispered from the bed.

Captain Jonasen puffed on his pipe.

“I was talking to the mayor on the ferry today,” he said.

“Oh, yes?”

“He says it’s a done deal. There will be a bridge.”

“Oh, I don’t know. They’ve been saying that for as long as I can remember.”

“In two years’ time. It’s certain now.”

They didn’t say anything. Just listened to each other’s silence. Then Captain Jonasen crept back into bed and kissed her forehead.

“Hitra and I will have to find something else,” he said. “Could you envisage joining us on a little trip?”

“Where would that be to?”

“Buenos Aires, of course.”

Elinor chuckled, but it was too dark for him to see her eyes.

***

“There we are,” Penelope said, tightening Captain Jonasen’s tie so hard that he almost suffocated. “Now both the king and the mayor will be happy.”

She rested her hand on his shoulder as he buttoned up his suit jacket. Looked at him in the identical way she had the day they buried his father.

“You look nice today,” Jonasen said, and he meant it.

Then they left the red house and set out down the road. The distant sound of band music came and went with the wind. They nodded to their festively dressed neighbors. As they came closer they could hear the echo of the snare drums being tossed hither and thither across the fjord.

“It’s an ugly bridge,” Penelope said.

The wind crackled in the microphone and swept the mayor’s hair in all directions as he said how nice it was to see such a good turnout from both sides of the water and how the bridge would usher in a new era for all of those living around Var fjord. New links would be forged and old ones strengthened. First of all, though, there was one link which had to be cut, he smiled, and proudly presented the guest of honor.

“The King of Norway,” whispered Penelope.

As the king spoke Captain Jonasen cast his eyes over the tiny, unlovely car ferry moored to the quay in Sirenes. MRF had no need of such a small ferry on any of their other routes, and for the moment no buyers had appeared. With the talk of scrapping MS Hitra, Jonasen had offered to take it under his wing for the company. And, since he had taken early retirement anyway, to maintain the boat until a buyer came forward. He had been waiting for an answer for a week now. That was what was going through Captain Jonasen’s mind when something strange happened.

“I didn’t know you were so beautiful.”

Penelope sent her interlocutor an inquisitive smile.

“My name is Elinor,” the woman continued, also with a smile.

“I have wanted to meet you for a long time.”

From that moment on the voices around Captain Jonasen blurred into a muffled drone. He pinched his eyes and squinted at MS Hitra, which was bathed in a sudden, solitary pillar of sunlight that had appeared between the clouds. He was thinking that a fair amount of rust would have to be knocked off before she could be given a new coat of paint. The engine had been recently overhauled, but a few valves needed changing. And the boat coped without any difficulties in open sea. Twice they had sailed through rough weather outside the skerries to Bergen.

“Now I can see it. You must be Agnes’s daughter,” Penelope said. “I haven’t seen you since you were a young girl. You’ve moved to town, have you?”

“No, I’ve lived here the whole time. I just haven’t been to Sirenes for the last twenty years.”

“Oh? How come?”

“Hydrophobia.”

Captain Jonasen had the route clear in his mind. Le Havre. Porto. Lisbon. And then the big leap. Past the end of the world to Buenos Aires. Pampas steaks. Gentle rain in his hair. He had read it rained quite a bit. He liked that.

There was an outbreak of clapping and people cheered. It sounded like a train derailing when the band struck up a march. Captain Jonasen clapped, too, beat his palms against each other until they hurt, but he was unable to wake from the evil dream. For this was not real. At any rate, no more real than sailing MS Hitra up and down the river Plate with tourists. No less of a dream than a white linen suit and tango dancing in a café.

***

The lights of a single car turning off the bridge swept across his face. He put down his pipe and went outside. Glanced at the other side of the road and saw that Penelope had turned off the lights for the night.

It was four years since the king had cut the ribbon, Penelope had met Elinor for the first time, and Penelope had asked him to move out. That evening Elinor had met him on the steps and said he didn’t need to walk up the mountainside any more.

The air was cold and clear, the sky high and empty apart from the moon, which looked pale and frozen. Soon it would be spring in Buenos Aires, but here autumn was on its way. MS Hitra was not built for autumnal storms in open sea, so it was too late for this year as well.

He saw the lone light on the Gjellestø side and the long reeds in the low tide tickling the black keel of the ferry in the white moonlight.

It would have to be next year.

MS Hitra

Kaptein Jonasen fulgte den prikkete linjen i atlaset med fingeren. Hva han skulle gjøre etter Buenos Aires, visste han ikke. Livet kunne godt slutte der for hans del. Han slo atlaset igjen med et smell og tente pipa. Det var snart midnatt og mørkt i kapteinslugaren. Han lyttet og ventet. Men ingen motorer startet opp, alt han hørte var vinden som plystret i luftventilen. Og hva han egentlig ventet på, visste han ikke lenger nøyaktig. Han snudde seg og så ut av koøyet som var stripete av sjø og salt. Penelope hadde hatt rett, det var ei stygg bru.

 

Kaptein Jonasen hadde vært en respektert mann på Sirenes før brua kom. I år etter år hadde han stått opp, tatt på seg uniformen med Møre og Romsdals Fylkesbåtars kapteinsdistinksjoner og loset ferga mellom Sirenes og Gjellestø. Utover det hadde han ikke gjort noe som det stod spesiell respekt av, men på Sirenes var det det man ikke gjorde som ga respekt. Kaptein Jonasen drakk ikke mer enn folk flest, skulket ikke gudstjenesten oftere enn andre og lot ikke huset forfalle, men la et nytt strøk rødmaling hvert tredje år. Ferga, MS Hitra, ble også godt vedlikeholdt. Den trengte det, for det var en gammel båt, bygd i 1949. Åtte meter bred, trettifem meter lang med en maskin på 338 kilowatt som fikk den opp i 11 knop. Offisiell kapasitet var 150 passasjerer og 18 biler, men når kaptein Jonasen og mannskap stuet skikkelig og tøyde reglene, fikk de plass til 21. Det var den minste båten MRF hadde i trafikk, men den var stor nok siden overfartstida bare var fire og et halvt minutt. Med avog påkjøring gikk det tolv minutter mellom hver avgang. Det vil si at mellom første avgang klokka seks og siste klokka elleve pilte MS Hitra frem og tilbake over Varfjorden 85 ganger hver dag. Kom du for sent til siste båt, måtte du kjøre 16 mil for å komme rundt fjorden. Båten alternerte på å overnatte på Sirenes og på Gjellestø. Av mannskapet på tolv fordelt på tre skift, bodde sju på Sirenes-siden og fem på Gjellestø-siden og de av dem som befant seg på feil side når båten ble fortøyd for natten, tok en jolle tilbake. Men det var én mann som ikke satte sin fot i jolla, og det var kaptein Jonasen. Det var vannskrekk – en fobi som er mer utbredt blant sjøfolk enn man skulle anta – som var forklaringen. Det var helt uaktuelt for ham å stige om bord i noe mindre enn MS Hitra. Så når de la til på Gjellestø etter siste tur, satte Jonasen seg inn på kapteinslugaren og røykte en pipe mens han hørte de to matrosene sjekke fortøyningene, slukke lys og låse dørene. Han hørte påhengsmotoren og maskinsjefens bil starte opp og forsvinne mens han så over mot lyset i sitt røde hus på Sirenes gjennom et koøye som var grått av salt. Så reiste han seg og gikk i land. Og under stjerner eller skyer, i sommerskumring eller vintermørke, i regn eller snø, begynte han på de bratte bakkene oppover den nesten folketomme fjellsiden.

Hun het Elinor og bodde alene i det hvite huset. Det var den gangen det bare hadde stått epletrær i eplehagen, og når det var vår hadde kaptein Jonasen kunnet kjenne lukta av blomster og om høsten av epler lenge før han kom til porten og grusgangen som gikk opp til trappa hennes. Ja, slik må det ha vært. Elinor hadde jobbet i kiosken på MS Hitra på syttitallet mens det fortsatt var fullt på nesten hver tur, før den nye riksveien kom og Sirenes havnet i bakevja. Jonasen hadde vært den staute, unge kapteinen fra stedet med kvikke, blå øyne under mørke krøller, trygg i blikket og med en dyp, hjertelig latter. Alltid hjelpsom og imøtekommende enten det gjaldt gamle kjerringer, skoleunger, oppdressede handelsreisende eller ordføreren sjøl. Kaptein Jonasen var kort sagt en sånn mann alle likte. Og Elinor hadde ikke vært noe unntak.

Nå var kaptein Jonasen allerede gift, med Penelope. Men Elinor tenkte som så at det ikke var forbudt å drømme litt mens en stod og solgte kaffe, Firkløver og svele. Hun hadde heller ikke kunnet unngå å merke at når Jonasen kom ned i salongen, skjenket seg kaffe og kom med spøkefulle bemerkninger om dette og hint, fortalte øynene en annen historie enn munnen.

Månedene gikk og munnen til kaptein Jonasen fortsatte å snakke om vær og vind og bygdetøv, og til slutt var det Elinor som hadde måttet ta initiativet. På den tida tok Jonasen fortsatt jolla hjem. Så da hun en dag sa at han som ansvarlig skipssjef måtte bli igjen på MS Hitra natta over på Gjellestø for å gjennomgå regnskapene fra kiosken som skulle innleveres til MRFs hovedkontor i Molde neste dag, så han først forbauset på henne. Så nikket han og sa selvfølgelig, det var jo hans ansvar. Han ringte hjem til Penelope og meldte fra, og mens de andre dro hjem, satte Jonasen og Elinor seg ned med regnskapsbøkene. Kassa stemte, balansen balanserte og før kaptein Jonasen visste ordet av det, befant han og Elinor seg i den trange kapteinslugaren.

Neste morgen hadde Elinor en diger kul i pannen etter å ha stanget i et utspring i skottet, men smilte som en sol. Da hun kom opp på brua med kaffe, hvisket hun at det var bedre plass på soverommet hennes. Jonasen visste godt at etter at moren til Elinor hadde flyttet sørover sammen med stefaren, hadde hun huset for seg selv. Samme dag fikk Jonasen vannskrekk. Grusen knaste under skoene hans. Tjue år var gått siden den første natta og fortsatt kom og gikk han, annenhver natt, i en tilsynelatende evig kjærlighetsskyttel mellom sine to kvinner. Penelope ga aldri sin mann noen grunn til å mistenke at hun ante hva som foregikk. Og på kaptein Jonasen virket det som om Elinor hadde slått seg til ro med hans forklaring om at de risikerte at Penelope tok sitt liv om han forlot henne. Penelope hadde da også ved én anledning – bryllupsnatta – sagt at hun ikke kunne leve uten ham.

«Det blir kaldere,» sa Elinor som stod i døra og hutra. «Nordvesten fra Grønland,» sa kaptein Jonasen og ga henne en klem.

Etter at hun hadde sovnet, stod han opp fra senga, gikk bort til vinduet, tente pipa og stirret utover fjorden. Lyset fra det røde huset på den andre siden blinket. Han visste at det var et optisk fenomen som skyldtes temperatursvingninger i lufta, men han kunne ikke kvitte seg med tanken på at det så ut som en fyrlykt. Og at Penelope sov der inne.

Og at han lengtet etter henne.

Akkurat slik han pleide å lengte når han stod opp fra senga i det røde huset og stirret over fjorden på lyset fra det ensomme, hvite huset her oppe i fjellsida. Hver kveld føltes det like uutholdelig at han ikke bare kunne åpne vinduet og fly over vannet og inn i sin elskedes favn. Til Penelope. Eller Elinor. Alltid dit han ikke var. Det var minst like merkelig som noe optisk fenomen.

«Skal du ikke komme og legge deg igjen,» hvisket Elinor fra senga.

Kaptein Jonasen pattet på pipa.

«Jeg snakka med ordføreren på ferga i dag,» sa han.

«Jasså?» «Han sier det er avgjort. Det blir bru.» «Å, jeg vet nå ikke, de har sagt det så lenge jeg kan huske.» «Om to år. Det er sikkert nå.» De sa ikke mer. Lyttet bare til hver sin stillhet. Så krøp kaptein Jonasen opp i senga igjen og kysset henne på pannen.

«Hitra og jeg må finne på noe annet,» sa han. «Kunne du tenke deg å bli med oss på en liten seilas?» «Og hvor skulle den gå?» «Buenos Aires, så klart.» Elinor lo lavt, men det var for mørkt til at han kunne se øynene hennes.

«Sånn,» sa Penelope og strammet slipsknuten til så kaptein Jonasen nesten mistet pusten. «Nå blir nok både konge og ordfører fornøyd».

Hun lot hånden bli liggende på skulderen hans mens han kneppet igjen dressjakka. Så på ham og smilte akkurat slik hun hadde gjort den dagen de bisatte faren hans.

«Du er pen i dag,» sa Jonasen og mente det.

Så gikk de ut av det røde huset og begynte på veien. Den fjerne lyden av korpsmusikk kom og gikk med vinden. De nikket til festkledde naboer. Etter hvert som de nærmet seg, kunne de høre ekkoet av skarptrommene som ble kastet frem og tilbake over fjorden.

«Det er ei stygg bru,» sa Penelope.

Vinden knitret i mikrofonen og kastet luggen til ordføreren hit og dit mens han sa at det var hyggelig å se at så mange var møtt opp fra begge sider av fjorden, og at brua kom til å innlede en ny epoke for alle som bodde rundt Varfjorden. At nye bånd ville knyttes og gamle forsterkes. Men først var det et bånd som skulle klippes over, smilte han og introduserte stolt hedersgjesten.

«Kongen av Norge,» hvisket Penelope.

Mens kongen talte, stirret kaptein Jonasen ned på den vesle, uvakre bilferga som lå fortøyd til kaia på Sirenes. MRF hadde ikke bruk for en så liten ferge på noen av de andre rutene og foreløpig hadde ingen kjøpere meldt seg. Da det ble snakk om opphugging, hadde Jonasen tilbudt selskapet plass til MS Hitra i fjæra si. Og, siden han likevel var førtidspensjonert, å vedlikeholde båten inntil en kjøper meldte seg. Han hadde ventet på svar i over en uke nå. Slike tanker stod kaptein Jonasen i da det skjedde noe merkelig. «Jeg visste ikke at du var så vakker.» Penelope smilte spørrende til kvinnen som hadde snakket til henne.

«Jeg heter Elinor,» fortsatte kvinnen, også hun smilende. «Jeg har lenge hatt lyst til å treffe deg.» Fra det øyeblikket fløt stemmene rundt kaptein Jonasen ut i en utydelig grøt. Han knep øynene sammen og stirret på MS Hitra som plutselig lå badet i en enslig søyle av sollys som kadde sluppet gjennom skydekket. Han tenkte at det måtte en del rustpikking til før MS Hitra kunne få et nytt strøk maling. Maskinen var nyoverhalt, men det måtte skiftes noen ventiler. Og båten greide seg fint i åpen sjø, to ganger hadde de seilt utaskjærs til Bergen i ruskevær.

«Nå ser jeg det, du må være datteren til Agnes,» sa Penelope. «Jeg har ikke sett deg siden du var ungjente. Du flyttet kanskje til byen?» «Nei, jeg har bodd her hele tiden, jeg har bare ikke vært på Sirenes de siste tyve årene.» «Å? Hva kan det ha seg?» «Vannskrekk.» Kaptein Jonasen hadde ruta klart for seg. Le Havre. Porto. Lisboa. Og så det store spranget. Forbi verdens ende til Buenos Aires. Pampasbiff. Mildt regn i håret. Han hadde lest at det regnet en del. Han likte det.

Klappsalvene braket løs, og folk ropte hurra. Det hørtes ut som en togavsporing da korpset satte i gang en marsj.

Kaptein Jonasen klappet også, slo håndflatene mot hverandre til de sved, men han greide ikke våkne opp fra den vonde drømmen. For dette var ikke virkelig. I alle fall ikke mer virkelig enn å seile MS Hitra opp og ned River Plate med turister.

Ikke mindre drøm enn hvit lindress og tango på cafe. Lysene fra en enslig bil som svingte av brua, sveipet over ansiktet hans. Han la fra seg pipa og gikk ut. Kastet et raskt blikk over på den andre siden av veien og så at Penelope hadde slukket for kvelden.

Det var fire år siden kongen hadde klippet over snora, Penelope for første gang hadde møtt Elinor og Penelope hadde bedt ham flytte ut. Samme kveld hadde Elinor møtt ham på trappa og sagt at han ikke behøvde å gå opp bakkene lenger.

Lufta var kald og klar, himmelen høy og tom bortsett fra månen som så blek og forfrossen ut. Snart var det vår i Buenos Aires, men her var høsten i anmarsj. MS Hitra var ikke bygd for høststormer på åpent hav, det ble for sent i år også. Han så på det ensomme lyset på Gjellestø-siden og de lange stråene i fjæra som kilte den svarte kjølen på ferga i det hvite måneskinnet.

Det fikk bli neste år.

 

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