Sleet: Selected Stories

Soon bicycle tires can be heard on the small road below, sizzling like frying pans, as all the folks heading to the city slowly begin to fill up the dock’s benches on the other side of the cove, awaiting the boat’s departure whistle. A horse-drawn cart filled with overpacked bags and other items signifying the end of someone’s summer comes along the road, and as it wobbles along Greta and Alfhild join arms again and make their way down to the boat to prep the galley. Sune, on the other hand, strolls for a bit along the shoreline, collecting unusual-looking stones. When he has collected enough of them, he throws them all pointlessly into the water. Altogether pointlessly. Then he heads down to the boat, where an old man with white unruly hair sticking out from beneath his sailor’s cap tells him that he wants a copy of For All Tastes, the latest issue of For All Tastes. He has to tell this man that that magazine was discontinued a long time ago, ages ago.

The upper deck is empty. From the galley comes a boisterous laugh and out through a hatch leading down to the engine room clamor the repetitive strokes of hammers and pistons. He makes his way down a dark creaking stair toward the aft saloon where he spends his nights hating his naked body. As he passes the first cabin, the door to the last compartment ahead of him opens and out steps Greta. She suddenly positions herself right in front of him in the narrow passageway and opens her arms wide. Now he has only two choices: turn back and climb up the steps again or walk straight into her embrace. He does not go back up the steps. He allows her to pull him in tight against her body, in turn resting his hands gingerly on her back, mostly out of politeness, sympathy, fear of hurting her feelings. Though he is only fifteen years old and will not be fully grown for some time, she barely comes up to his chin. A bit of her hair gets caught in his mouth until she arches her neck backward to let his eyes take in her little pinscher face, and at that point any desire that might have stirred in him is swept away instantly: those teeth, the tight narrow lips, the wrinkles. He understands that she wants him to kiss her. Can’t she understand that he doesn’t want to?

But they are both startled as someone begins rummaging around in the captain’s quarters and in the confusion they let go of one another.

“Tonight!” she whispers quickly. “Come to my quarters tonight!”

“OK, tonight,” he whispers back, lying with the clean conscience tall liars always feel toward shorter dupes. “I’ll come tonight.”

As always, the aft saloon’s stifling, murky air is laced with the mixed scents of secrecy and somnolence. Sune rests there for a while on the couch that doubles as his bed until he hears the captain step out of his cabin, laboring for breath as he bears his two hundred and fifty pounds up the steep steps. It isn’t long before the departure whistle blows and then right away hurried steps tramp across the deck overhead, as a few women’s voices stand out animated among many others. The engine engages, the propeller rumbling into motion. By the time he makes it up the steps they are already backing out into the sound as some rowers in nearby boats hurry to get out of the way.