The Flying Dutchman

Chapter 9

6

Along the lane, around the corner, along the lane again, down the slope, between the barrels, over the ditch, around the cart, over the little bridge, hop, skip and a jump over the puddles, then back on the lane again, but he has already forgotten where he is going… no, not forgotten. Two more blocks, a left turn, then to the right, and straight ahead… Seems he has brought himself somewhere, and he is glad: it’s good to have reached the final destination of any journey, although not all final destinations turn out to be pleasant resting places.

Take this tavern here in Rotterdam, for instance, this sailors’ purgatory, with its fumes, tobacco smoke, dark corners, and low, terse hullabaloo where everyone talks at once. A figure in a rust-coloured camisole and a grubby neckerchief takes itself from table to table with obvious effort, stopping for a long talk here, barely mumbling one word there. Will they chase him away at once? No, the figure slides over to the next table, and once again: “blah blah blah…”

“Who is it?” the infantry officer asked a fellow at his table.

“Dirk Slothem,” replied the old sailor, leaning over the table like a truncated mast. “Sailed with him once I did, he was the bosun on that ship. Now he’s gathering a crew for the Crystal Key, an old piece of junk from Antwerp, a schooner or a bark, who knows. Wants to sail to the East Indies, on that old wreck!”

“Reckon it won’t make it, then?”

“I wouldn’t even risk riding it at anchor, roadstead!”

“So why’s he rounding up a crew, then?”

“Who knows? Made it worth his while, I guess. A daredevil looking for his own kind. They’ll all perish!”

The tobacco smoke coiled into a Pacific Ocean cloud turning the sea foam grey. The figures in the corners of the tavern braided themselves into tornado-columns and then unwound themselves again. One of the figures appeared dimly at the other end of the table. It seemed more real than ghostly, and the sailor realised there was someone else at the table, too: a young maritime officer.

“I’ve signed up,” said the officer, whose name was Kees van der Weide. “They offered to make me First Mate. They really do pay well, whoever they are, and anyhow, I know that craft. She doesn’t look too good, of course, but she can creak on another 50 years and more.”

“You’re a brave man,” said the old sailor shaking his tousled grey head and topping up his rum from the jug. “With a risk like that you might as well buy a ticket to heaven.”

“Ah, so you know the story, too!” said van der Weide with a wink.

“What story?” the infantry officer asked, squinting like a pharmacist as he measured the next dose of port into his glass.

“I’ll tell you. An interesting tale, by the way,” van der Weide began. “It happened many moons ago, back in the days when a large monastery stood not far from here. Well, one day the young novice Brother Ambrosius comes running up to Abbot Boniface and he presses his frightened face right up to the abbot’s shrivelled ear and whispers: “Father, a young runaway monk is selling tickets to heaven in the next village.” “Really?” says the surprised abbot, almost choking on his Moselle. “For how much?” “For a sum equivalent to the church tax,” replies Brother Ambrosius, nervously running his fingers through what’s left of his brown hair. “And the people find money both for him and for us?” asks the abbot. “Yes, Father.” Now it’s the abbot’s turn to scratch his tonsure. “But we’re missing out on that money!” he sniffs. “Can’t we add at least a little to our profits? I want to talk with this monk!” The novice Brother Ambrosius’s Adam’s apple starts to bob up and down his salient chick-like throat. “But he’s a blasphemer, Father!” Gnawing on his chicken bone, the abbot says piously: “The church teaches one should use the mistakes of her wayward sons to further her good.” And so the monk was caught in some peasant’s house and brought before the abbot. They found scraps of tatty paper on him, with the words: “We, the most merciful Archbishop of Utrecht, do hereby confirm that the below (there was a gap in the text here) has atoned all earthly sins and is worthy of our mercy. As such, we see no reason why he should not be admitted into the Kingdom of Heaven unhindered.” The papers were signed ‘Humble Servant of God Frederick, Archbishop of Utrecht.’

“My brother, you are not giving God’s unto God,” said the abbot when—at his own request—he was left alone with the sinner. Having obtained his interlocutor’s full agreement, he continued: “My brother, if the name of Christ’s representative is taken in vain, then that representative should be recompensed.” The sinner’s full agreement was obtained on this point, too. Father Boniface faked the archbishop’s signature himself, since he was better at it. The peasants continued paying their taxes, buying their tickets to heaven, being brought to ruin, and dying out.

The Reformation came. The surviving peasants stormed the monastery, pitchforks in hand, and drowned Father Boniface in a vat of Moselle. As for Brother Ambrosius, they very humanely cracked his skull. The rebellion was led by that same rogue monk who decided it was better to be the lightning than the lightning conductor.

“And so, did the peasants get to heaven with their tickets?” asked the infantry officer, who had lost count of his drinks.

“That I cannot tell you,” said van der Weide with a smile. “You see, I’ve never been there and, taking my future plans into account, I doubt I ever shall.”