The Discovery Of Slowness by Sten Nadolny Read Free Book Online Page B

there were swayings round the ship’s longitudinal axis, a listing and rolling that merged with the up-and-down movements in ever-new combinations. John’s brain skidded back and forth like a pat of butter in a frying-pan and seemed to melt altogether. With his last strength he tried to discern any regularity, anything to which head, stomach, heart, lungs and all the rest could cling as a common denominator. ‘What’s the use if I can calculate a ship’s position but can’t stand its motions?’ He sighed and went on calculating, the bucket in front of his eyes. ‘Answer: 6:05 p.m. and twenty seconds,’ he whispered. Nothing could keep him from completing a problem.
    It seemed to him as if the forefoot plunged in too deeply. Perhaps the bow had sprung a leak. The lower the leak’s position, the greater the water pressure. Water flowed into a ship at the rate of the square root of its height. So if a ship sank, she sank more and more inevitably from second to second. He’d better go above.
    He got through the door after taking careful aim. On deck a fight started between his two poor hands and the rough elements, which, without further ado, put him here, threw him there, and jammed him between the wood and the rigging as it pleased. Each time he found himself again in a new situation, and the heavy seas fed him one huge mouthful of water after another. Now and then he saw people clinging to ropes or spars, looking where to dash for another hold at a precisely chosen moment. That was the only way they could move. It was as if they were trying to trick the storm into thinking they were a fixed part of the ship. They dared to move like humans only behind its back. From the direction of the mainmast the heard a weak bang and furious beating and clattering. Screams, muffled by the storm, reached his eardrums. The main topsail had been up until now; that was over. The sea appeared white, like boiling milk, and waves rolled in large enough for entire villages to find room in them.
    Suddenly he was seized by two fists that didn’t belong to the storm. They dispatched him below deck with a speed equivalent to that of free fall. A curse was the only comment. In themidshipmen’s berth the boatman’s bucket had tipped over after all, despite its wide bottom. John felt as sick as it smelled. ‘Still,’ he said as he reeled over along with the bucket, ‘it’s the right thing for me.’ He sucked his lungs full of air to keep out any possible dejection. He was a born sailor: he knew that for certain.
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    â€˜That’s the best wind one can have,’ said the Dutchman. ‘The Portuguese norther, always beautiful from aft; we’re doing better than six knots.’ If anyone else had said it, John wouldn’t have understood the new word, but the Dutchman knew that his listener understood everything when he was allowed pauses. Besides, they both had a great deal of time on their hands because the sailor had sprained his ankle during the storm.
    The weather remained sunny. Off Cape Finisterre they saw a huge mast drifting by, covered with crabs, already three years on the way if the captain was right.
    At night they were approaching a brightly lit beacon. ‘That’s Burlings,’ John heard. An island with castle and lighthouse. Then he noticed something that reminded him of Dr Orme’s theories.
    The beam rotated round the top of the tower like every single revolving light. John saw the beam wandering, but he also perceived that the light went on being visible on the right side even as the beam was again swinging back to the left, and that it was still on the left side when it turned up again on the right. Present and past – what had Dr Orme said about that? The light was most fully in the present when, flaring up, it met John’s eye directly. Whatever else he saw must have been lit up before and now shone only within his