The Whispering Muse by Sjon Read Free Book Online

bones, the chopped-up cheeks floating in stock with carrots, bay leaves, peppercorns and onion, and yet there was still more than enough left over to make a fish stew for tonight’s supper.
    Anyway, the purser’s lady friend seemed to regard this contribution of mine to our little community on board the MS Elizabet Jung-Olsen as a criticism of her boyfriend’s job. And of course she was right that my actions were motivated by more than a mere appetite for seafood: I felt that on the maiden voyage of this new vessel of the Kronos line it would have done the purser credit to have been guided by Jung-Olsen and his son’s ideals when it came to buying in provisions – and he himself certainly took the hint and swallowed it without rancour. If anything, I would have expected his lady friend to be grateful to me for eking out their stores, thus enabling them to profit still further from the illicit trade in which they and the cook were engaged.
    Last night I started awake at the sound of voices in the saloon. Although they were trying to be quiet, I overheard a business transaction that would not have tolerated the light of day: strange voices were haggling over the price of tinned ham but the purser’s lady friend wasn’t budging an inch. Apparently the problem is rife among the prosperous Danish shipping lines whose pursers and cooks make a killing by selling off provisions on the side; many of them even have regular customers in foreign ports. I don’t know what the woman would do if she knew I had overheard the couple’s secret commerce.
    As luck would have it, three Norwegian police officers turned up here at coffee time to take statements from those of us who were on deck when the accident occurred at the factory. I voluntarily engaged the eldest in conversation, going so far as to appoint myself his escort while the visit lasted, thereby using an old ploy to alert the law to my presence on board the MS Elizabet Jung-Olsen. He was a man of about fifty, powerfully built and keen-eyed, with prematurely white hair, small ears and the familiar-sounding moniker of Knud Hamsun:
    ‘With a “d” ...’ he said, explaining that he was no relation to the great writer.
    I invited him to inspect my quarters and take my statement there, adding that I would like to offer him some Irish whiskey from a flask that the owner of Café Sommerfugl had given me as a parting gift when I set out on this voyage. As we went below I noticed that the constable had a limp and observed to him that it didn’t really matter once you were on board ship; it merely looked as if he were riding the swell and no one would notice that he was different from the rest of us.
    The taking of my statement was performed with a civility that did the Norwegian constabulary credit. I gave Knud Hamsun a thorough description of all I had seen and heard, stressing, as was true, that Raguel Bastesen’s reaction had been far from admirable; the injured man owed his life to his workmate, who had been forced to knock the director unconscious before he could use the car that would carry them most speedily to hospital.
    ‘Yes, I’m not afraid to say it, though I’m no friend of the Communists and have played a personal part in the struggle against them!’
    The constable finished noting down my statement in shorthand in his leather-bound pocket book, which he then closed, snapping on a red elastic band and pushing the pencil stub underneath:
    ‘I’m sorry to have to inform you that the worker Vidar Røyrvik died from his injuries this morning at the Kristiansand District Hospital.’
    ‘Oh ...’
    ‘Yes ...’
    Finishing his whiskey, Knud Hamsun continued:
    ‘There’s always a danger of unrest among the ranks of the dead man’s fellow workers following incidents like this, so we’ve arrested the men who drove him to hospital and announced that they are being held in custody until the investigation into the theft of the car is complete. There is nothing to