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

nearly tipped over—we were hit broadside, to boot. ... I had contended with fire too, just outside Trieste. But we managed to steam into harbor in the nick of time. It was so hot on board, our bones were about to melt. In short, I'd been in sticky situations before and sweated out each one, but nothing like this night.
    I was helpless, especially at first—that was the main problem. As though my ill fortune had made me lose my senses, preventing me from thinking straight. I just didn't know what to do. Went up on the bridge, raced down to the fire, issued the most contradictory orders. Told them, for instance, to let out the throttle, increase speed, and immediately thereafter demanded to know why they hadn't flooded the hold with steam. I ranted and raved, though I knew full well, as does everyone, that if I wanted to pick up speed, I needed engines operating at full blast. Still, I was half-insane with rage and about to attack the engineer. My first officer just stood there, staring.
    And that irritated me, too, his look did. So I vented my anger on him as well, blaming him, absurdly, for everything.
    Luckily, we had no trouble with the passengers, not with those in steerage, that is (we had plenty of them aboard, we were that kind of ship). With their sorry belongings, they proceeded to the upper decks, pale and frightened, like so many prisoners, but in perfect order and without a murmur. Yes, they could do it. I must say that this orderliness—the solemn composure of the poor— moved me. They've grown accustomed to misery, and danger, the things other people consider indignities not meant for them. I do like the poor so much better . . . But let's not get into that just now.
    I had some of the clogged-up vents cleared, in the hope that something would flare up and we could locate the source of the fire. But all we got was more billowing smoke, it assailed us like some dark beast. You couldn't see a thing: below deck all the lights went out, and even lanterns were useless. But my men grimly stood their ground, exerting themselves to the breaking point. Only when overcome by the smoke did they wheeze and cough and grope for fresh air. Out in the open things were dripping wet; down below the fire raged on.
    All I wanted to do was quickly get to the storage area and close off the entrance. Whatever lay in the way had to be tossed overboard. I always know exactly what kind of cargo I am carrying, even its shape, its size, the way it's placed in the hold, since my main concern is keeping the proper balance and making sure nothing slides or tilts—that's why I never skimp on rope and packing material. ... So I did make myself useful, after all. What is more, my head began to clear up by then. What else? Soon, more steam than smoke was coming from below, and that, too, was something to be cheerful about.
    But by then some of the first-class passengers began to appear.
    "What is it, captain, what happened? Why is it so hot?" Such questions they put to me. As if they'd gone batty and couldn't see what was happening.
    "There is a fire, damn it," someone in the foredeck yelled, and even gave a jerk on the bell.
    By then I was myself again: I rounded up these gentlemen and hustled them into the first-class lounge. Even turned on the gramophone for them, let them enjoy themselves. And I ordered a few sailors to stand at the door and not allow anyone to leave that room.
    I had a schoolmate at the Academy, a boy from Friesland by the name of Ebertsman-Leiningen, who once invited me to his house for winter recess. He'd checked with his parents first, but curiously enough, when we arrived no one was there except the gardener. The master and missus had gone off to the Riviera, we were told.
    My friend was furious. "But I told them I'd be bringing a friend," he said indignantly. "But wait . . ." and there was a mischievous glint in his eyes.
    Sure enough, when it got dark he broke open the larder. Of course I helped him too, gladly. We