...
Our captain never spoke about himself or his past. But today, his birthday, something “broke through,” as they say. And for the third hour now, pausing every so often to sip from his favorite cognac, he just talked and talked and talked.
The mess deck was already filled with the off-watch crew, yet the captain seemed blind to everyone around him. He sat facing the porthole, gripping his glass, gazing into the restless expanse of the ocean, quietly giving voice to his memories.
At times he smiled, at times the listeners chuckled, but his eyes burned with such a grim light that even the youngest stoker-boy would have instantly recognized it as the fire of hell’s furnace, into which demons, cackling with glee, toss the souls of the most hardened sinners.
How old he was today, we could only guess. Men like him stop changing in appearance after a certain age, decades may pass without a trace, unless, of course, they happen to go gray suddenly after some particularly unforgettable night.
Someone asked shyly if he was married.
“I am,” the captain replied. And after that, his speech flowed on its own, laying bare someone else’s secrets to us.
"Long ago," he said, "I captained a cruise liner in warm waters. It was always noisy and cheerful on board, full of merry, decidedly not-poor people. On one voyage, a passenger struck up a conversation with me. She introduced herself as Renata and began telling me about her life. I could tell she wouldn’t say no to seeing my cabin. And after that, well, everything went just as usual. She turned out to be married to a young aristocrat who, after two years of marriage, barely paid her any attention.
She organized evenings and banquets, it was at one of them that they’d met. Her husband, Mike, was a quiet, somewhat sullen man, owner of a modest two-hundred-year-old estate and a devoted connoisseur and collector of medieval weaponry. Nearly every room in their small manor house was cluttered with that ancient paraphernalia. Renata told how sick it made her feel whenever she imagined people being hacked and maimed with those very pieces of iron. Her new family never became her true home. And when it became clear she wouldn’t be able to bear an heir, family life between them withered away completely…"
The captain took a long swig, squeezed his eyes shut, sat in silence for a moment, and went on:
"Her life became like the wanderings of a lonely soul on a deserted island. In that little town near which they lived, there was absolutely nowhere to go. But one day, Renata stumbled upon the house of the local fortune-teller. And of course, she asked: “What lies ahead for me?”
The captain gave a dry chuckle. Sat silent again. Then, suddenly shouting into the void, he asked:
"What lies ahead for us?"
And answered himself at once:
"Death! That’s what awaits us all! What’s there to divine about that? Death, damn it! What good is it if someone else tells you what you already know? What’s going on in your head if you can’t figure that out yourself? And what kind of life is it if everything’s been spelled out for you in advance? Misery. Live while you can breathe, live your own life, listen to yourself, and don’t lie to yourself, anchor cable!"
He cursed silently once more, took another sip, and spoke again, calmer now:
"Of everything that witch told her, Renata remembered only one thing. Only that her husband would kill her one day. She told me this later, after everything had settled down. She was truly afraid of that Englishman of hers and all his iron trinkets.
So, in the end, I kept her on board, not entirely truthfully. We were good together, and about six months later, half in jest, we went through a marriage ceremony on one of the islands, according to their native customs. Soon after, I left the liner and signed on with a freighter. I’d had enough of that noisy, half-drunk crowd of rich idlers. There was another unpleasant incident there… Never mind.
Renata was bored on cargo runs. And ashore, without me, she was worse off. So she started “nagging” me. Once, while we were on a voyage together, we had a fight. A real row. She called me a failure, screamed that I’d ruined her life. To top it all off, a storm hit, and seasickness made her wretched. And she blamed me for that too. But I’m good at sea. The sea gives me strength, it has no patience for the weak. If the sea senses you’re dodging, twisting, trying to weasel your way out instead of standing your ground, it’ll destroy you. Sooner or later. And when Renata, after yet another wave hit, lunged at me with her fists, I knew that was the end. That this person had ceased to mean anything to me, just as I had ceased to mean anything to her. I dragged her onto the deck and threw her overboard. Without regret, but without malice either. Like an old mackintosh that had served me faithfully for years, but was now simply useless. It happened somewhere in these waters, a few years back. Since then, no one has been closer to me than she was. That’s why I still consider us married. Sometimes I think I hear her voice, calling my name. But if it happened again today… I’d do the exact same thing. Now get out!"
We hurriedly left the mess deck.
No one wanted to cross the captain’s path while he was in that state, and no one disturbed him all night.
When we came up for breakfast, neither the captain nor his bottle was to be found. His cabin stood empty, the bunk untouched.
The sea rolled on, indifferent, its waves heaving, roaring, lashing our faces with wind as we stood gathered on deck…
