The Story of My Wife by Milán Füst Read Free Book Online Page A

runs between Europe and the Near East. Such cruises were a novelty then, though the need was there, for never was there such a longing to visit the Holy Land as in those postwar years. And even people of modest means began to feel like traveling. So the company's gamble paid off. They refurbished the boat in a hurry, at the height of the depression (before it was used to freight tropical fruit and wine), and sparing no expense, they advertised heavily. We got all kinds of people—devout pilgrims, pleasure-seekers, tourists from America, in short, an interesting and mixed crowd, and my cargo also consisted of a better grade of goods (we still carried some, the Daphne wasn't exclusively a passenger ship). And as far as the route was concerned, I could pilot a boat in those waters in my sleep, that's how well I knew the region—the sea, the coast, the offshore conditions, etc. Everything, then, was fine, the pay decent—need I say more? I could find nothing wrong with the arrangements, really, still I felt pretty miserable. Indeed, I thought my luck had run out when I had to switch from heavy freighters to this powder puff. There were signs of trouble on the Daphne's first voyage, but I discounted them. The second trip, however, was calamitous. One night, less than a hundred miles off Alexandria, fire broke out in the ship's interior.
    But let me describe the incident in a little more detail, partially to unburden myself. For as far as I am concerned, this is still unfinished business and will remain that, I fear, to the end of my days. I feel the accident also explains a lot of things. After it I was like a man who lost his footing. But let's not rush ahead.
    I will start by saying that I've always been a sound sleeper and what's rather unusual, I rarely dream. (As a matter of fact, I didn't quite know what to say to that certain psychoanalyst. Do I dream? No, I don't.) However, on this new boat I couldn't sleep very well, was restless—I worried too much about the boat, I think. At the same time I was also absent-minded, though it's all the same now. Suffice it to say that that night I sweated a lot and felt a kind of pressure on my chest. I may have been asleep, for all I know, but didn't feel good about it. I was glad when I was awakened. For a moment I thought it was my turn on the bridge. I always liked night duty, especially when it was pitch dark and you did nothing but work, steadily like a machine, and had nothing else on your mind.
    At any rate, one of my officers knocked on my door and reported:
    "Captain, we are on fire."
    "What are you saying?"
    But he didn't have to repeat it. I knew right away what was up, at such moments I always do. It's scary how fast I can act in a crisis.
    "Let her heat up, let her sweat," I gave the order quickly. I knew from experience that cotton and wool and other such material will turn white-hot, like charcoal, before starting to burn, they absorb their own heat. If we can only trap that heat, we've gained precious time.
    "And don't wake up the men if you can help it," I called after him, and also reached for my robe—it was a cold night.
    Try as I might, I don't think I could really describe that night. The little motor pump was hissing away, otherwise there was eerie silence; only occasional footfalls could be heard on deck. And there was this great brightness, as if all the lights had been turned on for some non-existent guests. For ghosts.
    Slowly, quite peacefully, the bow of the boat began to smoke; it gently curled through the cracks at first, then rose swiftly, as we were still going full steam.
    It wasn't the first time I found myself in such a fix; it happened twice before, in fact. Once, on a short run between China and Japan—the boat was a Dutch three-master, as I recall—we ran aground. The vessel was loaded with rice. For two days straight we kept dumping the world's finest rice into the ocean, still we couldn't break loose, though after a time we were so light, we