Interlude on Getting the Spreader Replaced l
Max, in one of his exchanges with the Shell man mentioned three
reasons why the Nord Kaperen did not intend to go to Menton, France. First, that Menton was off course; second,
they were already late; third, they had to stay in San Remo anyway to get their
spreader replaced. He had not added the
principle reason which was that he himself was in a political battle with the
French government, to revoke his expulsion, and had broken his assigned
residence in Corsica.
--That is to say, Max says to the Nord Kaperen complex, the
French government would probably have no objection to me skipping the country
and getting out of their hair. Then, if
I tried to come back, they could arrest me for illegal entry. On the other hand, if I stay in Corsica like
a good boy, they can expel me whenever they feel like it. In a word, it is to their advantage to know
where they can put their hands on me and to my advantage not to be there.
Why do they want to put their hands on me? First, to present me with an official notice
of house arrest, which they have so far omitted to do, and second, to be able
to expel me if they decide to. August is
a traditional time for rapid and quiet expulsion since everybody is on
vacation, including my lawyers. I have
firsthand word from the Austrian counsel that they are getting pressure put on
them to take me back; at the same time, the Viennese authorities are making
inquiries to see whether I might be American and not Austrian after all. Twenty years ago I did take out second papers
towards my citizenship in America. While
they are fighting it out, I have gone sailing.
But I would just as soon not sail into a French port, if it is all the
same to all of you.
It is all the same to all of the Danes. They have to be back in Copenhagen between the 9th and 14th of August, and they have no desire to waste time stopping in Menton.
But neither Max nor the Danes can go anywhere until the
spreader is fixed. The spreader is in
the cross bar of the main mast. The Nord
Kaperen caught her spreader tying up alongside a large Dutch sailboat with
typical wider-than-average Dutch rigging which snapped off the spreader on the
Nord Kaperen. Björn and Bernhardt are
assigned by the captains to get a new spreader.
Why Björn and Bernhardt? Björn
because he is in charge of foreign relations and also because he is the one who
climbed up the mast to pry loose the broken pieces of spreader, and he will
climb up the mast to put the new one in place.
Bernhardt owns the Volkswagen minibus that they will use to drive into
town. They ask Max and June to come with
them to speak Italian. Max has to be
dropped off at the station to place a call to whoever is holding down his
lawyer’s office during August, and so June will handle the Italian
translations.
--Trulls has seen a furniture store where they make furniture
in the back, says Björn. Perhaps they
would do it.
--Let's hope so, comments June.
So far San Remo has not been very helpful. Even the harbor lights were out.
--They certainly weren’t clear from the sea, agrees Björn. Very dangerous.
--They will be when they finish putting up a new mole, says
Bernhardt, a philosopher.
--In the meantime, they should put a red light where it can be
seen, maintains Björn. And be not confused
with the light on the rocks. Just
suppose there had been a storm.
The future foreseen catastrophically. The present does not look so good
either. They find the furniture store,
but the lady cannot make a spreader and does not know the address of the place
where her husband has his carpentry done.
Perhaps if they could come by the next day? June conveys this information to Björn and
Bernhardt waiting in the VW bus.
--What is the name of the carpenter? asks Bernhardt. Perhaps we can find it ourselves.
Bernhardt and June go back to the furniture store lady, who
looks up the address in the telephone book for them. The name is Abalcar, 26 Via Lambroni. June writes it down in her address book, the
three of them thank the lady and leave.
--Things are looking up, says Björn.
* * * *
--Now we have the spreader, says Nardo. All we need now is the gas-oil.
Continuation
of the Battle for the Gas-Oil
--The situation, recapitulates Max, is now out of hand and
almost irrecuperable. If you had gone over yesterday at six oclock as the
Customs people had told you, we would have gotten it. Now the whole port knows about it, and they
have to save face by sticking to their decision.
Having stated the deterioration of the objective situation, he
adds that Björn and June can always try to get the written permission anyway,
but if they go over there, they should remember to bring the ship papers with
them.
June and Björn, with the ship papers in a black satchel, start
walking around the horseshoe of the harbor to the Port Authority building.
Björn looks the same as yesterday, but June has put on make-up, a dress and
earings. The Nord Kaperen stays in her slot near the gas tanks.
--I am not too optimistic now, June remarks to Björn. But as a matter of principle, I think we
should try. Always fight a bad
system. Besides, you have sailed all the
way from Denmark. They should make an
exception anyway.
--Certainly we have not sailed all the way from Denmark in
order to sell gas-oil on the black market in San Remo, says Björn
indignantly.
--A year ago, June continues, before knowing Max, I probably
would have said, “Oh, let’s forget it and just go to Menton.” But it would be asking for trouble for Max to
return to French soil after breaking his house arrest in Corsica. And I have learned with him that you have to
fight on your own ground. Your own
ground being where you are at the time.
It is too easy for them to send everyone somewhere else. The financieri will go right on running
things if everyone goes obediently to Menton.
Secondly, how do we know we will get the gas-oil in Menton once we’re
there? They may have some unknown law there
to prevent us filling our jerry cans.
--Yes, we must get it here, agrees Björn.
They are companions fighting against Customs and Systems.
The sun beats down on the Port Authority building which is made
out of brown stucco, with no trees anywhere to shade it. Together Björn and June enter and climb the
stairs to the first floor. The stone
paving is cool. A very young man wearing
a blue sailor suit comes out of an office and stands in front of the door. The hall is not very wide and not very
long. On the left are three windows
where the two officials had looked down on them the day before. On the right are three offices.
--I would like to see the man in charge, says June politely.
The sailor suited boy does not react. Perhaps it is her Italian? In Italian, he asks her if she speaks French
and leads her into the first office. In
the first office is another young man, not much older than the first one. He is wearing a white T shirt and blue pants
like many of the sailors on the yachts.
June decides she must not be satisfied with him. So she repeats she would like to see the
Commander about getting an authorization for gas-oil.
--I know nothing about it, says boy number two.
--Then please show me in to the Commander, answers June.
As long as they are having a conversation, she thinks things
are positive. The young yacht sailor
sends boy number one away and leads June and Björn into the next office where
the man in the white uniform from the previous day is sitting behind a katy-cornered
desk. He gets to his feet and the boy
leaves.
--I know nothing about your situation, says the Commander.
June knows he knows about their situation because he was in the
window the day before. But she starts
from the beginning and explains about the gas-oil on deck and in the tank and
ends with the Nord Kaperen having come all the way from Denmark. The Commander says he has nothing to do with
such permissions as he is the Captain of the San Remo port and fuel is handled
by Customs. June feels they have come to
the right place, because he is an important man and above Customs, or at least
he thinks he is. He goes on to say he
will see that they are officially registered as entering the port, and, with
that paper, they can get the authorization for the gas-oil. June thanks him, and he accompanies them into
the next office where he directs the boy in the sailor suit to write the Nord
Kaperen into the log.
--Halloo halloo halloo, calls Max from below.
June crosses the hall and leans out the window, like the
Commander yesterday.
--Halloo, says Max.
You’re on the wrong floor.
--Go away, answers June quietly. Things are going well. We are registering the Nord Kaperen as having
entered the port yesterday.
--What good will that do?
--With that paper we can go downstairs and get the
authorization for the gas-oil. Don’t
upset things.
--Good luck, says Max.
She goes back in the office in time to answer the Sailor Suit’s
inquiry about how many people are on the Nord Kaperen. He is sitting at a desk with the open log in
front of him.
--Oh, about fourteen or fifteen.
The Commander looks down at the logbook.
--Here are only six names, he remarks.
--Some are babies, says June.
--Babies too must be registered, comments the Sailor Suit
sententiously.
The Commander shakes his head and announces that all they need
is the captain’s name. Björn darts a
quick look at June. June is beginning to
feel that all this interference by the men of the ship may interrupt the smooth
progression she is making through the shoals of bureaucracy. Björn is worried because Nardo was once
arrested in Rome for hitting a cop. As
if anyone is going to stop and look up his personal history, June thinks with
exasperation. Why would they bother? She ignores Björn’s glance and assumes no one
else has noticed it.
--Here is the captain’s name, she says. Leaning over from the
front of the desk and pointing to the log:
Leonardo Nielsen.
It is obvious that she is not Leonardo Nielsen.
--Are you the owner? The
Commander asks her.
--I am aboard ship, answers June, as if that were the same
thing.
--Where is the captain?
--He is in town at present.
I am authorized to sign for him.
Nardo has gone with
Trulls to get the spreader. Björn has
remained slightly behind June, and June hopes he will not interfere. She feels that if negotiations are now
stopped for any reason—even to comply with an easy-to-fulfill requirement such
as producing Nardo, it will put a stop to the smooth bureaucratic flow of
papers that will, or should, culminate in the delivery of the permit for
on-deck gas-oil. So she signs her name
and for Leonardo Nielsen under it in the Port Authority logbook, for which she
pays 625 lire, about a U.S. dollar at the current exchange rate. This is accepted by everyone in the office
with no problem.
--Can I take this and get gas-oil with it? she asks the Commander.
The sailor suit and the Commander do not look at each
other. They do not know if she is aware
that they have made her pay 625 lire, admittedly not much, for a worthless and
unnecessary paper that very few boats putting in at an overnight harbor would
bother with. They look a little uneasy,
June thinks, but this uneasiness does not turn into aggression, and she has the
advantage of letting them have the first trick.
Now it is their turn to do something for her. The Commander says she must go downstairs
with it to Customs and there she will get the paper she needs. She thanks him again and leaves the office
with Björn.
--Now we’ll see, says Björn.
Downstairs there are different people.
--Yes, but these still are right upstairs, remarks June. They know we will come up again if we run
into trouble, so what would be the point?
--They could have closed this office in the meantime, says
Björn.
--How did you like the way they let me sign for Nardo?
--You could have been someone I just met, says Björn. It makes no sense at all. They are so careful with one thing, and let
something much more important pass. In Denmark
things are more logical.
--It’s logical because the financieri is watching them on the
gas-oil, but here they are only responsible to themselves.
The ground floor is on the same plan as the upper floor, or
probably vice-versa; that is, three windows on one side, separated by a two
meter wide hallway from three offices on the right. The first office is a secretariat which Björn
and June with one accord avoid, to go directly to the center office. There, also behind a katy-cornered desk, sits
a man in civilian clothes, cream-colored shirt and white pants, who cordially
invites them in. There is one chair
which he indicates to June. Björn ,
bare-foot, holding the black satchel with the ship’s papers, including the 625
lire receipt from upstairs, sits on the window sill outside. The office door remains open. The physical distance he has placed between
himself and the others is supposed to establish him as part of the crew and
June, therefore, as owner.
The Customs official is alone, so
it is two to one. This is good, figures
June, as long as he does not react by becoming aggressive—one of him is better
than two of anybody else sort of attitude.
He also is physically inferior, missing one eye behind his glasses and
having no glass eye replacing it. Could
also work for them or against them.
June
explains that she and Björn are from the Nord Kaperen, and the c.o. says he
knows, he has heard something about their situation. That sets things off on a better footing than
with the Port Authority Commander who was playing too grand to know anything
about them. The customs official now
explains to them for the nth time about the marine law forbidding oil to be put
in jerry cans on deck, and why such a law exists—although he adds immediately
and politely that he knows they would not re-sell the oil in town as some
people would. This law is only for that
type of person, and not for them, but still, if he makes an exception for them,
then he will be plagued by many others who will also want an exception and it
will not be possible. June says she
understands it is a problem. Björn is
looking out the outside window. June
adds that she thinks their case is, however, an exception because the Nord
Kaperen has come all the way from Denmark, and that, without the deck quota of
gas, they will never be able to reach Mallorca where the boat is to winter
while they go back to Denmark.
--When are you leaving?
asks the c.o.
--We would like to leave this afternoon, explains June, hoping
that he will be mollified by this recognition of his authority. We had to have a spreader made here, but it
will be ready this morning.
--I must see the ship’s papers.
June considers this a step in their direction. Björn, who has been following this
conversation from his outside perch, zips open the black portfolio, extracts
the ship’s papers and enters the office to put them right side up on the custom
official’s desk.
--This is useless, he says, putting aside the 625 lire port
registration paper. Now, what is your
tonnage?
Björn has understood without translation. The custom’s official has not understood
because the papers are in Danish. Björn
points to the tonnage: 19 T 84.
--How much gas-oil do you need to get to Mallorca?
June translates the whole sentence.
--All of it, says Björn.
300 liters.
--300 liters.
--How many liters did you buy yesterday when you filled your
reservoir?
June turns to Björn who says 100 liters.
--I am surprised, says the c.o. that a ship of your size only
carries 100 liters of gas-oil below decks.
--It was built in 1905, says June, hoping that this is an
explanation. She herself does not
understand anything about the relation of tonnage to gas-oil capacity and can
envisage carrying 500 or 50 liters above or below decks with equal facility.
Björn, however, has understood the custom official’s inquiry
and takes over the conversation:
--We carry 200 liters below decks, he says. But we still had 100 liters when we came into
San Remo as we have been filling the reservoir from the jerry cans.
June repeats this, but the custom official understands English, though he had kept his status as an Italian official by making them translate for him. Now he shakes his head.
--You should have first taken the gas-oil directly from the
jerry cans, he says.
--We did not envisage having this problem in San Remo, says
June. Everywhere else in Italy we have
gotten gas easily.
She hopes this will be interpreted as good will on their part,
and not as criticism of the San Remo people.
--What is the minimum you need?
The very minimum. I won’t give
you a liter more.
But he is smiling, so he is going to go through with it.
--225 or 300, says Björn in Italian, to show his own good will,
and June smiles and the custom’s official smiles and June thanks him and they
all go into the next office. At the desk
is a man in a business suit writing out papers. The c.o. explains he wants an authorization
for 300 liters of gas-oil and indicates to Björn that the papers are to be put
on the scribe’s desk. At this point the
Shellman himself walks in, and everyone nods to everyone else, and the Shellman
asks the c.o. for a letter he can show to the financieri authorizing him to
give the gas. The c.o. says he is going
to telephone over there immediately, so there will be no necessity for a
letter. The Shellman nods encouragingly
to June and Björn. Now that we have won,
he is on our side, thinks June. She nods
back to welcome him to their side.
A grey-haired man in impeccable shorts and sport shirt with
Yacht Owner written all over him comes in the office and the scribe stops
writing the authorization for the Nord Kaperen and asks what he can do for him.
--Finish up, I’ll wait, says the Yacht Owner.
The scribe adds a flourish or two to the Nord Kaperen authorization and puts it to one side. From the next room, comes the angry voice of the c.o. The Shellman raises his eyes to heaven. In a minute, the c.o. comes back, goes directly to the scribe, speaks angrily to him, leaves. Then the scribe gets up and leaves, and the Shellman leaves, leaving June, Björn, and the Yacht Owner together in the office.
--Are we getting it or not?
asks Björn.
--I thought we were, says June.
Now I’m not so sure.
--He’s written the authorization anyway.
The Yacht Owner smiles at June, shrugs, and comments stupid red
tape.
The custom officer’s voice is heard in angry one-sided dispute
with the telephone in the next office.
The Shellman returns and gives a thumbs up sign.
--He is taking your part!
First with the financieri, now with the Lieutenant of Finances in San
Remo.
--These people have been trying to get gas-oil since yesterday,
the Shellman tells the Yacht Owner. If
you had just gone to Menton, he turns to June, you would have had it by
now. In Menton, they stamp a paper, and
it’s finished. Whereas here—
He shrugs.
--Even now the financieri is making objections.
The Yacht Owner agrees.
He and the Shellman begin talking together very rapidly. The customs official is still talking angrily
in the next room. June is afraid all
this indicates back-sliding, especially since the subject of Menton came up
again…The scribe returns and without glancing at the papers of the Nord
Kaperen, begins to make out some papers for the Yacht Owner.
Björn comes and perches on the end of the desk next to June.
--It’s one of two things, says June. Either the c.o. lets the financieri bully him
or he doesn’t. If the c.o. wins, we get
our gas-oil. Because he is higher up
than the financieri. The financieri
probably said he is only responsible to the director of finances and so our
c.o. had to get him on the phone. Each
bureau works separately, but the police in Italy today is more important than
customs, and so even a low-grade financieri who has to spend all day standing
at a gas station feels he can talk back to a Director of Customs. If the Lieutenant backs up his financieri,
then the c.o. will lose face and he will be very mad, just like he was now,
when he asked the scribe to get the Lieutenant on the phone; a little
face-saving for him, not to make his own phone calls. If the financieri wins, one of two things
will happen. The c.o. gets mad at us, or
suddenly finds a regulation he has forgotten, and it becomes all our fault that
he can’t give us gas-oil. Or we never
see him again because he sends word by the scribe, or one of the sailors, that
he has been suddenly called away and will not be back today. And tomorrow is Sunday.
The Shellman comes back with his hands folded in prayer. He is enjoying himself.
--He is arguing for you, he says. I think you are going to get it.
June realizes the Shellman has certainly joined their
side. Because everyone, particularly
people working for a strong bureaucracy like the Italian Customs, are glad to
go against it when they can.
Technically, he probably worked for the Shell Corporation, but it was
dependent on Italian bureaucracy.
Anyway, yesterday the Shellman was neutral, against them—why
don’t you go somewhere else? It is not
my fault, I just work here—but he was always ostensibly for them against the
financieri. Once he saw they were going
to fight, it tipped him in their direction.
The c.o.’s voice in the next room has stopped. The Shellman makes an OK sign with his thumb
and fore-finger. The Scribe stamps a
paper for the Yacht Owner.
--Give her her authorization, says the Shellman to the
Scribe.
The Scribe looks up and hands the authorization to June who
hands it to Björn who puts it in the portofolio.
--We will get the gas-oil now?
June asks the Shellman to keep him into things.
--I’ll meet you across the bay, says the Shellman.
Leaving the second office they stop at the first office. June walks in and thanks the customs
officer. He gets up and smiles quietly
as if two minutes ago he had not been shouting into the telephone. Then he walks with them to the top of the
stairs and says if ever he can help them in any way, she has only to ask for
the Director of Customs. June asks his
name and he says she has only to ask for the director of customs.
Not that they care what his name is. On the way around the horseshoe bay to the
Nord Kaperen, still moored in front of the Shell station, they see Max in a
café telephoning and June makes the OK sign like the Shellman had done. Although they do not notice him pass on his
Vespa, he is already in front of the gas tanks when they arrive. A financieri is there too.
--Give him the authorization, says the Shellman to Björn,
authoritative and commanding as if, for this moment, he really owns the gas
station and is not just working there.
Björn, still cool, takes the authorization from the portfolio and
hands it to the financieri. The
financieri juts his chin and looks at
it, holding it for a time in his hands, like his previous power, before
relinquishing it to the Shellman.
Mussolini is once more strung up by the victorious people, thinks June. The Shellman pulls down the long hose from
the gas tank and starts dragging it over to the Nord Kaperen where the two
captains are waiting.
--Get your jerry cans ready for the gas-oil, he says.
* * *
--Gas-oil, repeats Karl back in Paris, as Max finishes up his
story. Capitalist bureaucracy. OK. I
thought you were going to tell us about whales?
--How can I tell you about whales if we don’t even have a boat
to get to them? asks Max
pleasantly. That had been more June’s
story than his, but he always liked tales of victory.
--You had a ship leaving Caprera, says Decater.
--They’ve all been on the Nord Kaperen since they left
Sardinia, says Charles. So what?
--I can see none of you are sailors or ichthyologists, says Max
smugly, considering himself both. If you
think any self-respecting whale would have put in a public appearance during a
storm…
--Whales are mammals, not fish, says Karl, so, in point of
fact, ichthyologist is not the right term.
--Dolphins too, adds Charles.
--I know quite a lot about dolphins too, agrees Max. But whales—first of all, you don’t usually see
whales in the Mediterranean at all, and only in August, in the hot still
weather, when they sometimes come through the straits of Gilbraltar. Like these must have done. I’ll tell you about them. We weren’t going to write anything this
morning anyway.
Voyage to Mallorca
We were all relieved to be back at sea, began Max. Björn had installed the new spreader in
record time and had gone off to drive the VW combi to Spain, where he would
rejoin us on the Nord Kaperen; that is, those of us who remained after the
massive departure for Copenhagen in the afternoon with about seven hours of
light to start us on our way to Mallorca.
There the Nord Kaperen was to spend the winter and set off in the spring
through Gibraltar and around the Iberian peninsula back up to Denmark.
One morning a bunch of us are sitting as usual on the
foredecks: Max lying on a mattress with
his feet up on a hatch cover, Ute reading a book and enjoying one of the
infrequent and unfortunately brief interludes when Horton was asleep and not
crying. The others were on watch, or
below decks, Trulls was steering and the Grey Marine engine doing all the work
brum brum brum. It is almost a dead calm
and the Nord Kaperen has been using her motor almost since we left San Remo on
August 2nd. The mizzen is up to catch
any wind to help push her along, but there is little wind to catch. It was Ute who first noticed the
porpoises.
Did I mention she is a very pretty young girl with very nice
breasts, always available for Horton? Actually
she was the reason Max got hooked up with the Danes in the first place. He saw their combi, with Ute in the front
seat, one day driving along the port in Corsica? Nardo, one of the captains, actually had kept
the news item about Max’s expulsion—
--We know all that, says Karl.
Get on with it.
--I never remember what I have told people or not, says Max
good-humoredly. So, as my mother used to
say, doppelt genäht hält’s besser. Ute has gotten up to see better, and
Marianne comes up from below decks and joins her. She says they don’t look like porpoises,
maybe sharks?
--They are big to be porpoises, agrees Ute.
--There are no sharks this big in the Mediterranean, says Max,
who has joined the girls at the railing.
Can we try to get nearer?
This is directed at Nardo. Max has a lot of respect for the captains.
--Only to settle the question, says Nardo. We don’t want to get off course.
The motor, nicely fueled with its new supply of gas oil, turns
after the whales. Below decks Horton
wakes up and starts to scream. No one
pays attention. Everyone is focused on
the big fish, momentarily below the surface.
Bernhardt, Horton’s father, goes below deck for his
camera. Everyone else is lined up along
the deck, except Nardo at the wheel, with one new crew member who has been
taken on to replace Björn. Suddenly one
of the fish jumps out of the water with a sort of swoosh.
--A big porpoise, cries Ute softly.
--A whale, says Trulls.
--After him, cries Max.
The new crew member waits, Max not being one of the captains.
--Don’t we want to get closer, says Max, appealing to Nardo and
Trulls.
--We can try, says Trulls and takes over the wheel. He begins to reverse not to hit the whales
below the surface.
--When we get close, says Max, happily giving orders even if
they are not obeyed. Cut the motor. I think they hear the vibrations and get
scared.
--Why did they come over then, if they were scared? asks June.
Bernhardt comes up the ladder with Horton and his camera. He gives the child to Ute and starts focusing
on the whales. The lead whale, or the
visible one, sends up a long spray of water before disappearing below the
surface.
--Cut the motor, directs Max.
Marianne goes below for her camera. Horton has stopped crying. Everyone is silent. The whale too.
--No one make any noise, says Max.
Quiet laughter on deck.
Quiet from the deep.
--They can stay under three minutes, says Max.
SWOOSH
The three minutes are up.
Hump dorsal tail emerge SWOOSH head with eye tail dorsal hump
head submerge blue phosphorous eye clearly visible under water sigh SWOOSH sigh
SWOOSH sigh SWOOSH
Five whales.
--There was a porpoise but he went away, says Ute.
The whales start to go away.
--Let’s follow them, says Max.
Chugging along with the bounding whales, two to starboard,
three to port, the Nord Kaperen follows the whales humping along soundlessly,
soulfully.
Bernhardt and June and Nardo are taking pictures. Horton says da for a change. Trulls has
climbed the mast with his camera.
Bernhardt takes the wheel from the temporary crew member. The course is forgotten. The Nord Kaperen has
had to maneuver to keep tract of the whales but now she follows effortlessly
brum brum brum…
--Don’t hit them, says Max.
One whale is twenty meters long with almond-shaped eyes,
whale-shaped tail, spouting water sporadically and sighing before he
spouts. The last water spout the Nord
Kaperen saw was off on the horizon between the island of Maddalena and the
island of Caprera. Immensely bigger than
a whale’s spout and avoided not followed.
That windy rainy grey day has changed to bright calm seas and rollicking
whales. No wind but plenty of gas-oil
and a chugging motor.
For one hour the Nord Kaperen follows the whales, and then the
whales depart very quickly, just like the porpoise had. The Nord Kaperen cuts the motor. Lunch.
Lunch is rice and tomatoes and onions and peppers. After lunch June and Marianne go below to
wash the dishes. Marianne makes a face
as the motor starts brum brum because the whaling peace and lunchtime quiet is
finished.
Brum brum um um plum…
Motor trouble.
Nardo turns the wheel over to Max and goes below to the cabin
to look at the motor. He is the mechanic/engineer, Trulls the sailor. Nardo takes off the cover to look at the
motor. The dish washing team stops and
goes back up on deck. Then the ladder
leading topside is hauled up on deck and no one can get easily up or down. No one wants to except Horton who has started
crying again. The motor is brumming away
to itself.
-- It no longer turns the propeller shaft, explains Nardo. It may have over-heated during the
maneuvering. It may be a ball bearing.
We will let it cool down.
June contributes that she once had a food blender that had
reacted similarly to over-heating. Max
knows that this is totally different and says so. The motor runs but only in neutral and jams
at any attempt to shift into gear. June
says so did her food blender.
--Food blenders don’t have gears, says Max.
--Maybe a ball bearing, repeats Nardo, still concentrated on
the Nord Kaperen’s motor.
--Have you tried reverse? asks Max.
--We can always try, says Nardo.
Bernhardt topsides has the wheel. Nardo calls up in Danish. But the boat does not go backward any more
than it had gone forward.
--It is not really meant to go backwards, says Nardo by way of
excuse. Just in momentary maneuvering.
--Like when we were following the whales, remarks Marianne.
The commune is discussing the problem.
--I did not want to say anything at the time, contributes Max,
a momentary communard, but stopping the motor by going into reverse is not a
good idea.
--Perhaps it was the whales, suggests Ute, holding a
momentarily silent Horton.
--It might well have been all the turning, says Max.
Bernhardt’s head appears above in the hatchway. He nods, not knowing much about motors at
all. He is more of a philosopher. Horton awakens with a hiccup. Usually a
prelude to crying. Anyone envisaging
life with Horton on a permanent basis would have to be a philosopher, thinks
Max, not for the first time, but refrains from saying, due to the tense
prospect of being becalmed for days, running out of food—and with Horton, to
boot.
Nardo tries the motor once more for Trulls, who has swung down
through the open hatch to join them.
--It
is a fairly new motor, he remarks to the assembly. I had it installed when we bought the boat.
--It's a little small for such a big boat, Max remarks to June
when they are alone on deck. It is all
right to push her straight ahead, but not to maneuver the way we did with the
whales.
--Why didn’t they put in a bigger motor then?
--Come on, says Max.
She’s a sailing vessel. Don’t
forget back in 1911 or whenever she was built, no one thought of her traveling
any way but under sail.
--In 1911 they already had steam ships crossing the Atlantic,
counters June. What about Watts lazy
little boy and all his brothers?
--I know, says Max.
There were even races around the world to see which was faster, the old
clippers or the new steam.
--I suppose the steam ships won hands down.
--Depends on the route.
Don’t forget, steam was totally dependent on coaling stations, whereas
if the clippers had a strong steady wind…Anyway, the Nord Kaperen was built as
a sailing ship, for recreational purposes.
No one thought of including a motor.
When the Nord Kaperen began to drift, Trulls and Bernhardt
hoisted the mainsail to catch any available wind. Max took over the wheel. With the return to this archaic mode of
transport, the ship stopped drifting and moved slowly forward. Bernhardt remarked that their pursuit of the
whales was like Ulysses and his crew dropping everything to go after the
sirens.
--The sirens were women though, says June.
--Only in poetry, corrects Max.
They really were sea cows who, seen from a distance, seem to have sort
of breasts.
June says they don’t sing though.
Late that evening, Nardo and Trulls try to reactivate the
cooled off engine. During the next days
they will partially dismantle it. The
ship moves, when at all, under sail, luffs, picks up a stray night wind or two,
or drifts again. The sound of the boom
swinging from one side of the mast to another is what they go to sleep to, and
usually wake to. From time to time they
discuss the battle for the gas-oil, stored in jerry cans and the big drum and
in the tank right next to the motor.
--I wonder what the Shellman would say if he could see us, says
June. Or the Commander at the Custom’s
office.
--Or the financieri,
for that matter, adds Nardo.
--Or Björn, says June, thinking of her companion in struggle,
now driving across France on his way to meet them in Mallorca.
--Björn has taken enough sailing trips not to worry too much,
says Nardo. It depends on how long we
are delayed.
--He knows we have enough gas-oil, June adds. And I guess he will check the weather reports
on the lack of wind.
--Anyway, we beat the system, says Nardo. That was worth it, whether we need the gas
oil or not.
--Always beat the system, agrees June.
--Always beat the system?
asks Max, a gleam in his eye.
--A very worthwhile exercise, says Nardo, the revolutionary,
who had socked a cop in Rome on a previous voyage.
--Even in Cuba? asks
Max.
General silence. The
Cuba Revolution has all their support.
--You would have to see it from up close to judge, says Trulls.
--Not in Cuba, says June.
--I know what you think, says Max. I want to know what the others think.
--You might want to change some things, starts Nardo. Even in Cuba.
--Exactly, agrees Max.
But you don’t want to beat it. Or
beat it up.
--Beat it up? asks
Marianne.
--Beat it up, repeats Max.
Demolish it, melt, destroy it, or blow it up. You want to ameliorate it. And this brings us to the question of order. Post-Revolutionary order.
Max is the only one on the ship who has been in Cuba, so
everyone is listening. The Nord Kaperen
has never crossed the Atlantic under the Danes capitainship, but in
pre-Revolutionary times had gone around the world, and possibly put in at Havana
in the days that Havanna was a virtual colony of the United States. None of them know for sure, since the first
owner kept all the log books. Max,
however, is hypothesizing on the post
Cuban revolution of 1959.
--So in Cuba you don’t want to beat the system but probably
ameliorate it, perhaps reform it.
Although reform is a tainted word these days. But the basic assumption is: it is our
system. We, or people very like us—
He glances at June who often verbally objects to his taking
credit for any deeds done by the Left at almost any time.
--People fought very hard against a rich
and powerful enemy, in most cases. You
know that after the victory of the Russian Revolution against their own
reactionary government, they had to fight an expeditionary force launched by
the Americans, accompanied by the British, French, and even soldiers from
countries in Asia. If I’m not mistaken,
I think Japan was a part of that effort.
Maybe after defeating the old Russia in 1905, the Japanese just thought
they should be there whenever anyone else decided to start a war with Russia. The imperialist regime the Japanese were
starting to build certainly felt that getting a, or the, only socialist country
in the world out of the way was too good an opportunity to miss out on.
The point is that this time,
in Cuba, or the Soviet Union, it is our system.
However good things may be in Italy, let’s say, it is theirs.
--Not so good for gas-oil, puts in Marianne.
--For example, Max goes on.
We were very pleased to beat the Italian system, and in Cuba, if such a
thing should happen, we would think differently about it because it was our
system.
--In Cuba there would have been nowhere else to send us, says
June, re-thinking the alternatives they had had. All the surrounding islands in the Caribbean belong
to the imperialist powers. So it would
have been sending people to the enemy to
get their gas.
--Plus the distances are greater, added Nardo. Menton was only forty sea miles from San
Remo.
--At any rate, continues Max, adept at not letting a discussion
get away from him, we do act differently when we are dealing with our system. In fact, this is one of the enormous problems
we have for The Day After.
--The Day After what?
asks Marianne.
--The Day After the Revolution.
Max stops, waiting to be encouraged. June tells him to go on.
--Yes, explain, says Ute impatiently. We’re not stupid, you know.
-- I never
thought you were, says Max gallantly.
I’ll be delighted to explain. I
love to explain. You see, this question
of The Day After is best explained by what I call “contradictory
reactions.” Contradictory reactions means that the people who make the Revolution
and work for the Revolution want many things that, once the Revolution has been
made, the day after, are seen to be in contradiction with the very survival of
revolutionary order and, in fact, with the revolution itself. This can be seen most clearly when, in one
way or other, such as exporting art or importing firemen, the revolution starts
producing contact between pre-revolutionaries and post. Turning on in Cuba was
identified with foreign tourists who had the money to pay for the stuff. It was not a symbol of freedom and doing your
own thing. In fact, such things became
increasingly things to check with the well-being of the revolution.
An even better example is the reaction of French audiences, right and left wing, to Eisenstein’s film on the October revolution, French pre-, Eisenstein post-revolutionary.
--Which is what?
asks Nardo. Elaborate.
--Elaborate… well, there is a scene in the movie
which, when it is shown in France, always produces outraged howls of non, non, pas ca. This is when the Red guards smash the
priceless wine bottles in the cellars of the Winter Palace.
One of the first actions of the working class after
taking power—in fact, you might say that on that late October day, the line
between a revolutionary and a counter-revolutionary passed, among other places
on the map, right between those who wanted Order and those who wanted
Disorder. The revolutionaries, in case
you were in any doubt, being for Order and the counter for Dis. An unknown Soviet commissar, talking to a
certain Lev Davidovitch on his way to becoming Commander of a yet non-existent
Red Army, strongly stressed the necessity of running a fundamental anti-alcohol
campaign.
--“The Preobrazhensky regiment got completely drunk
while it was doing guard duty at the Palace, reports the commissar; the Preobrazhensky regiment, our
revolutionary rampart, has not withstood temptation any more than the others. Mixed guards from different detachments have
been sent there, but they get drunk too.
At present, leading members of the regimental committees have been
consigned to do guard duty, but even these revolutionary leaders are going
under. Comrade Trotsky, our new born
baby revolution is drowning in a sea of alcohol!”
-- A commissar
would not have said that, puts in June.
--Oh yes, Max insists.
Russians get very sentimental when drunk. The commissar was drunk too, but
clear-headed. He had been at the Winter
Palace and knew what he was talking about.
At this point Lev Davidovitch said: “Break the bottles and pump the
stuff into the Neva!”
--Eisenstein cut straight through this and got the
action, remarks Trull, the cameraman.
--And cut out Trotsky, adds Nardo.
--Eisenstein became a Stalinist, adds June, a
Trotskyst.
--No sectarianism, says Max, a professed Third
Internationalist when he was not being an honest liberal. It’s a good action film if not exactly
historically correct in all details.
--Trotsky was hardly a detail of the Russian
revolution, says June.
--We can discuss that next, says Max. Now I just want to make the point that
pre-revolutionary French audiences feel this scene in terms of wine and in
terms of authority. In the France of the
first, second, third, fourth, or even fifth Republic, even leftists could not
condone people pumping wine into water.
--All right, I see the contradictory reactions, says
Nardo. Between the French audiences,
even left ones, and the Red Guard. Order
in Petrograd.
--Good, says Max.
Do you want to hear about Woodstock?
--What is Woodstock?
asks Bernhardt.
--Oh, that’s true, you don’t know about Woodstock,
says Max. June and I read about it in the
Herald Tribune.
--We don’t read those papers, says Nardo stiffly.
--No Establishment Press? asks Max and smiles. That’s another other question, so I’ll just
say there is very useful information to be got from them. It’s a question of knowing how to read them
correctly.
--What is Woodstock?
repeats Nardo for the commune.
Max is aware of his own tendency to get side-tracked
and accepts this push back to his subject.
--In August 1969, just before we left San Remo,
several hundred thousand young people, first in Woodstock in upstate New York,
and then on some British Isle of Wight, got together.
--The same people?
--No, different.
In different countries, different people. Different islands. Although both places begin with W. Is that significant? Probably not.
--Get to the point, pushes June, impatient as usual
with Max’s deviations. Woodstock is not
an island anyway.
--Most of the people, continues Max undaunted, were
different, as I said. Except the journalists.
Anyway, they got together, the young people, slightly more in Woodstock
than in Wight. They spent the time
listening to music, doing their thing, and then they went apart.
Silence.
--Is that all?
asks Trulls.
--That is a good deal, says Max. Their thing was illegal. On their own level, the Woodstockers defied
the power structure.
--But you are not going to compare the October
Revolution to some hippie festival?
objects Nardo.
--No, nor Watts lazy little boy to the San Remo
gas-oil battle, says Max. But they all
have something in common… Looking at Woodstock, New York, and the equivalent
British festival on the Isle of Wight—did you know that among those Woodstockers
and Wighters were Red Guards?
--How was that?
asks Bernhardt, platonically playing up to Max's Socrates.
--Well, what were the Red Guards doing? In a rough and ready way, they were
maintaining Order, “the day after.”
--I still don’t connect it up with Woodstock, says
Nardo.
--Whose order were the soldiers maintaining? asks Max.
The Tsars? Evidently the Tsar,
Kerensky, and the whole counter-revolution, all these people who represented
“the dead hand of the past” (as some poet, Yevtechenko I think, said forty-six
years later about something else) wanted Disorder in the Winter Palace on the 8th
of November (or 26th of October, old style, both being on the same
day). They wanted to drown the
Revolution and they were pretty short of drown-em-in-blood Cossacks at the
time. Only later, when the Revolution
showed its capacity to break the bottles and swim on that spirited sea, did the
Americans and their allies, such as the French, the Germans, the Japanese—what
have you—come to help the counter-revolution and Kerensky with the job.
--What do you mean?
asks Marianne.
--It took eight months, not till July 3, 1918, before
the Marines landed to save the Russians from Communism. Didn’t you know that?
It seemed
no one did.
--Well, you
know we are in Vietnam to save the world from Communism; how is it you didn’t
know we also tried that in Russia? Saving
the Russians from Communism, I mean.
--You
did? asks the Crew, the extra sailor
picked up in San Remo.
--Oh
yes. First in Murmansky, then in
Vladivostock—read Dr. Jivago
carefully, go get some reference books—but let me finish with the Woodstock deal. Mostly, of course, the difference between
Woodstock and Petrograd is that the Old Order in Petrograd was so weak that
they could not take advantage of the sea of alcohol and use it to sink the
Revolution.
--You said
that before, puts in June.
-- It can’t
be said enough. The first socialist
revolution in the world had a lot of enemies.
But the Bolsheviks prevailed.
Despite the Tsar’s wine cellars and the United States Marines, I think
is their official name, and the First World War which it didn’t call itself
because they did not know there was going to be a Second. And in the case of Woodstock, the Old Order
didn’t even know it was the Old Order.
The Dow Jones has fallen, but American capitalism figures it can handle
the situation. The hippies probably kept
order better than the Red Guards, but, despite this, a week later the Old Order
had recaptured the terrain—that is, the town of Woodstock.
Trulls
glances at Marianne, who translates.
--Recaptured? He repeats, looking at Max.
--Got back
in power, says Max. I don’t know how you
say that in Danish.
Marianne
does and says it to Trulls.
--During
the festival, the hippies were running things.
--They
weren’t running the banks or the town hall, says June.
--They were
not interested in the banks or the town hall, continues Max. Which were probably closed anyway. They ran the only part of the power structure
they really came in contact with—the cops.
No one was arrested: not for
trespassing, walking around naked, selling or giving away marijuana, LSD, speed
or whatever—not for making love in public—
--But the
cops are always for disorder, says Nardo, remembering his expulsion from Rome.
--Exactly,
agrees Max. Woodstock was engaging in
activities by definition disorderly, but doing them in an orderly fashion, thus
blowing the cops’ minds.
--Listen,
says Nardo, opening June’s copy of the History
of the Russian Revolution:
“Cutting
their way with the breasts of their horses, the officers first charged through
the crowd. Behind them, filling the
whole width of the Nevsky Prospect, galloped the Cossacks. Decisive moment! But the horsemen, cautiously, in a long
ribbon, rode through the corridor just made by the officers. Some of them smiled, recalls the Commissar,
and one of them gave the workers a good wink.
This wink was not without meaning.
The workers were emboldened with a friendly, not hostile, kind of
assurance, and slightly infected the Cossacks with it. In spite of efforts from the officers, the
Cossacks, without openly breaking discipline, failed to force the crowd to
disperse but flowed through it in streams.
Individual Cossacks began to reply to the workers’ questions and even to
enter into momentary conversation with them.
Of discipline, there remained but a thin translucent shell that
threatened to break any second. Standing
stock still, in perfect discipline, the Cossacks did not hinder the workers
from diving under their horses. The
revolution does not choose its paths; it made its first steps toward victory
under the belly of a Cossack horse.”
--That
commissar seems to have been everywhere, says June.
--He was
discussing his February experiences with Lev Davidovitch, explains Max. This business with the winking Cossacks
happened well before October, at the beginning of the February Revolution.
--We don’t
get the connection with Woodstock, says Nardo.
As a
cohesive commune, its members often speak of themselves in the plural.
--If the
Cossacks equal the Woodstock cops, what equals the Red Guard? asks Bernhardt.
--The Red
Guard of Woodstock are those of the 100,000 hippies who were consciously
“keeping things in order,” the revolutionary day-after order. One hundred thousand people, four days, rain,
fuzz, and frolics, and no fighting;
today’s revolutionaries, like these kids, descendants of Watt’s lazy
little boy, are nameless, but they are there all right.
Now,
continues Max, let’s go back to the Cossacks and the cops. Both can be influenced. Like the drown-em-in-blood Cossacks, a
certain percentage of policemen are sadists and will always prefer kicking
girls in the stomach; more fun than reading old Spillanes in the back of the
wagon. We can assume, however, that many
of these country cops in or around Woodstock were not. Sadists.
But, like the 1917 Cossacks, they will tend to adapt to the existing
power structure. I know this is somewhat
contradictory with old Karl who, after or during the Paris Commune, concluded
that revolutionaries cannot just take
over the bourgeois state, the power structure.
--You mean,
you really consider a hippie assembly as being an alternate power
structure? says Nardo. Even if they might have been one during the
festival, there was no “day after.”
--So far
their day after hasn’t had a tomorrow, agrees Max. But it might have. As far as I can tell—I was not in Woodstock
but on the Nord Kaperen while all this was going on--young people, the hippies,
enforced their order, with a small “o”, on points in direct contradiction with
what we must, unfortunately, still call the very-much-alive hand of the
present.
--The
philosophy animating the present power structure, says Bernhardt, is certainly
passé.
--Not yet,
says Max. But today’s present is always
one of tomorrow’s pasts—hey, that’s pretty good, get it? Today’s—
Port Andraix was the lookout shout, not at that present moment,
but in one of tomorrow’s presents.
Whoever shouted it got no reward, but then he or she had not expected
one. In which the situation had improved
since Columbus’s day when the first sailor to sight land had been promised gold
but never got it. The Admiral of the
Ocean Sea said he himself had already seen land the night before and had
pocketed the reward himself.
--Didn’t
the crew object? asks the Crew.
--Yes, but
sailors were in no position to put through an objection in the fifteenth
century, says Max. They were too
replaceable.
* * *
--Stop! Enough, cried Karl in a present tomorrow: the
meeting of Max and the three post-revolutionary historians to write about the
movement of American deserters in Paris.
You have already gone far beyond the whales, back to Columbus, soon in
the cretaceous period—
--How did
you know? asked Max, happy to have a
reaction. I was thinking of comparing
some groups working with the deserters, the future RITA’s, to dinosaurs and
pterodactyls.
--At least
you were wending your way back to the deserter movement, said Deter, the
Frenchman, who preferred events to be discussed in linear order.
--Oh, I’m
ready, said Max. I just wanted to tell
you all my fish story.
--Mammals,
put in Karl.
--What
about dinosaurs and pterodactyls, asked Charles, the Englishman.
--They
certainly weren’t mammals, said Max. If
they had been, they might not have died off, and earth might never have
developed humankind, otherwise very badly equipped to survive in the primordial
world.
--How were
the other groups working with deserters pterodactyl-like?
--One other
serious group, began Max. Besides
us. The phoneless friends were very
seriously working with deserters. At
times we found them very useful, I must admit.
They did not like working with us though. A tendency of a primitive mentality is the
inability to adopt, or even adapt to new ways.
--Didn’t
they adapt to the telephone? asked
Charles.
--They
thought, said Max, quite rightly as it turned out, that all our phones, and
their phones, were probably taped by the police. Obviously that had occurred to us too, which
is why we greatly appreciated Tony Clay of the Quaker Center giving us
permission to hand out the Quaker telephone to groups working with the
deserters. The Quaker Center was a
respectable registered charitable organization in Paris and the police expected
it, like most charitable organizations, to have all sorts of dubious
individuals like American deserters turning up there. And, of course, the phoneless friends used it
too. But inside their group—which
probably did not have a name, in line with their secrecy obsession—they were
working by rules that had been necessary during the Second World War and the
Nazi occupation of Paris, but were certainly counter-productive when it came to
organizing a movement to help U.S. deserters.
--I’ll give
you an example, that the G.I.’s did not at all relate to: all rendez-vous were
understood to be for one hour before the agreed upon time. If the other person had not turned up inside
of fifteen minutes, you left. All based
on the premise that the German Secret Police had arrested the person you were
meeting. Try to establish that with a
deserter. According to the same book, the
deserter was supposed to be hiding out in an attic somewhere, living on food
brought him by a phoneless friend volunteer.
In fact, he was usually down on Saint Michel, trying to chat up a girl. Americans do not cower in attics. That worked well enough with Algerian rebels,
who knew they were in for torture and prison if they got caught by the police,
but not with the Americans.
--What
happened if the deserters got were caught?
asked Charles.
--The
French police would call a base in Germany and tell them to send someone to
pick up their soldier. That was what the
deserter expected too. Our first deserters
were often just guys who thought a week in Paris was worth the three weeks of
stockade they would have to pay for it once they were sent back.
--In
pre-revolutionary times, strict security was a necessity, said Karl. You never knew what will happen. Your phoneless friends sound like a very
conscientious group.
--Oh, they
were conscientious all right, agreed Max.
But it wasn’t the right technique for U.S. deserters. The guy that made our test case for us had
been picked up by the French police in an unlocked car on the banks of the
Seine, where he had spent the night. Of
course, he was disobeying even our not very stringent rules of security. But if he hadn’t been picked up, no test
case, no asylum. Actually deserters
never got asylum in France like they had in Sweden and Canada, but they were
given residence papers, short term ones, and working papers if they got a job,
far better than normal immigrants get in the twenty-first century in most
European countries.
--What
happened to the phoneless friends? asked
Charles.
--They were
one of the few groups that weathered the failure of the May ’68 Revolution,
said Max. Not only as a group, but
without any individual expulsions.
--Like
yours, added Karl.
--Like
mine, said Max smugly. But there weren’t
many left after May ‘68—because like most groups, revolutionary and other, membership
has a tendency to expand in moments of success and dwindle in periods of crisis—they
eventually dissolved themselves. Some
of them, like Kurilla, did not agree with our revolutionary government—or maybe
they were just annoyed that they had not been asked to form it.
--Do you
know what happened to any of them? asked
Charles.
--I lost
touch when I went to Germany to live, said Max.
But I met a former girlfriend of Kurilla when I went to Australia years
later.
--Which one
was Kurilla? asked Decater.
--He was
really the main organizer. For one thing,
he was very critical of our giving them money.
He wanted the American deserters to live in the provinces and train as
guerillas. You can imagine how that went
down with the G.I.’s. They always ended
up coming back to Paris on their own.
As for
Kurilla, he was an Egyptian Jew who had been politically active in the Algerian
War, and then with us against the Vietnam War.
He was assassinated sometime during the great political downsurge of the
mid to late twentieth century. At more
or less the same time that the socialist republics in Europe were broken up, and
before the Soviet Union itself turned into capitalistic Russia, and China became the
creditor of the United States to the tune of 300 billion dollars, and all sorts
of things that we never would have dreamt of back in the sixties.
--You say
he was assassinated? asked Karl.
--Yes. His
body was found in front of the elevator in his apartment building.
--You were
lucky just to be kidnapped.
--Twice,
said Max. Not long after we returned to
Paris after the Nord Kaperen trip, they drained the gas out of my motorbike,
and when I stopped to see what was wrong with it, four guys jumped me. By then the DST had found out I had an
Austrian passport, and I was deported to Vienna the next day. But I never connected what happened to me
with what happened to Kurilla. With Ben
Barka, yes. But Kurrila’s murder took place
much later, long after I had left Paris and he was no longer at all involved
with the G.I.’s. And I don’t think the
DST was responsible.
--Why not?
stated Karl. First of all, your
situation was not at all like Ben Barka’s.
He was kidnapped and eventually killed during the Algerian War because
he was working with the Algerian revolutionaries against the French. You and Kurilla were working with American
deserters—and you’ve just made the point they were not at all revolutionary,
and had been given virtual asylum in France. Whereas I was working with RITA’s
in Germany. That was one of the reasons
I decided to stay there obviously.
--What does
DST stand for anyway? asked Charles.
--Department
de la Securité Territoriale, said Max. Or
Defense—no, I think it was a department.
--There,
you see, said Karl. You and Kurilla were
a threat to the security of French territory.
Whatever he was doing after the deserters was also a threat to French
security. So they must have decided he had to be gotten rid of.
--So why
didn’t they just send Kurilla back to Egypt like they sent me to Austria?
--Because
he had been working with the Algerians in the Algerian War and they had it in
for him. What were you doing during the
Algerian War?
--I had
been working in Algeria as a geophysicist for BP, said Max. Before the war, of course, but the Algerians
were not buying any geophysicists who had worked for an imperialist
country. I was on their side naturally,
but I didn’t have the opportunity of connecting up with them. And I am still pretty dubious about the DST’s
role in Kurilla’s murder.
--Well, you
were lucky, repeated Karl.
--But when
you got expelled, there were quite a few deserters—RITA's, said Charles. What
happened to them?
--They took
over their own movement, said Max. A
sign of our success. The whole point of
organizing proletarians is that they can run their own organizations.
--What proletarians?
asked Karl.
--What do you think the G.I.’s were? asked Max.
Students? Entrepreneurs?
--David Mitchell was a student, said Decater, who had been
doing background reading.
--David
Mitchell was a war resister, said Max.
Not a deserter. Quite a different
sort of animal.
--Their fathers might have been entrepreneurs, said Karl.
--Their fathers, those of them who had actual fathers around,
were lots of different things. None of
them had enough money to send their sons to college.
--That was one of the reasons lots of guys joined the
army, said Charles, to get a college education.
--That was after the Vietnam War, said Max. In 1967, most of the deserters we got in
Paris had joined to avoid Vietnam. There
was a pretty unfounded rumor going about that if you volunteered, rather than
waiting to be drafted, you got sent to Germany—or England, or Italy, or Spain when
that still had army bases--rather than being shipped off to Vietnam. Probably started by the army to beef up
recruitment quotas. Some of the guys
joined when they were drunk; or were offered a choice between the military and
jail.
--Why jail?
--Oh, minor offenses; car stealing was a favorite. Did I ever tell you about Pfc. Cornell
Heiselman? He left Paris for Canada and
played quite a role in the deserters committee up there.
--The Canadians are doing that report, said Karl. We are getting deviated again.
--It is interesting, however, put in Decater, that the
international revolution started in North Africa, in a country with one of the
oldest dynasties in history, and a forty year past of repressive dictatorship.
--That’s one theory, said Karl.
To count the Arab Spring as the precursor of the International
Revolution. The South American theory is
much better grounded.
--Well, it’s nearer to the three conditions our fathers, insofar as
we had revolutionary fathers, had thought almost indispensable: the people no longer consent to be governed
as in the past, the government can no longer govern as it has in the past, and
there is a revolutionary party to lead the revolution.
--And no one sings the International any more either, said
Max. Do any of you even know it?
Decater said he had heard it at gatherings commemorating May
’68.
--I’ll sing it for you, said Max. It’s still one of my favorite songs, along
with John Brown’s Body. I’ll begin with the third verse which very
few people besides Max still know. The
third verse is the most revolutionary.
The third verse is sung by soldiers who are going to use their
guns to shoot their own generals. We
will leave Max singing it to the young revolutionaries. If he had had the opportunity to sing it to
the Nord Kaperen commune, he certainly would have.