Ned (3)

3.

Nine o’clock and the Esbjerg Princess has been sailing for three hours. Robert has checked into his cabin, had a snack in the canteen, browsed the duty-free shop, and managed to grab a window seat within easy distance of the bar. He just has time to take a sip of his beer and open his copy of Madame Bovary when a familiar looking figure settles in the seat opposite.

   ‘Mind if I join ya ? D’ya have a good meal ? What’s your cabin like ? Mine’s Ok. Not what you’d call the QE 2 but it’s adequate. Somewhere to lay your hat, know what I mean ? You’re a reader, huh ? Can’t say that I am. Gustave who ? Never heard of him. What’s that stuff you’re drinking ? Gold beer ? Neat choice. It’s the other stuff you need to avoid. Jeez, these are good ships. Always good. Got everything – even a sauna. What time do you make it ? Just gone nine ? Hmmm. The cabaret starts in about an hour but I don’t recommend it. They hire east European musicians these days. Get ‘em cheap, see. Anything to make an extra buck. Name’s Ned by the way. Having somebody to talk to kinda breaks up the journey, don’t you think ? Know what Ned means in Danish ? Means down. Can you believe that ? Down.’

   He’s offloaded his duffel coat and is sporting a rather faded tweed jacket – the kind Robert’s sixth form students used to pick up in Oxfam for a couple of pounds – and by now Robert is resigned to the fact that he’s a victim of his own politeness and Ned isn’t about to go away. So, he discards his Flaubert and they each stand a round. True to form it’s Ned who does most of the talking. He talks about the O.J Simpson case and about that time back in the early eighties when Soviet leaders were dropping dead like flies. He gives Robert the low-down on Roman Polanski – ‘a fraud’ – and John Belushi – ‘a real American genius’ – and Hollywood films in general…..how they aren’t as good as they used to be and how Walter Matthau is right up there with Brando in the acting stakes. Robert manages to slip in that he’s moving to Denmark whereupon Ned gives another lecture, this time about Danish politics and how the social democrats are all communists and can’t be trusted. He tells Robert a joke about an antique dealer who sells a matchstick under false pretences (Napoleon’s toothpick) and, when Robert presses him as to why he’s making the trip, the old man stutters and says: ‘Just visiting friends.’

   He explains his theory that humans are descended from chimps and that there exist weird people called Christians who believe in a man named Adam and a woman named Eve. He calculates the age of the universe before Robert’s eyes and says he’s convinced that the world is run by the tobacco companies. Soon he’s onto Kennedy, via Oliver Stone (evidence that leftist Hollywood is alive and kicking) at which point Robert holds up his hands and says yes, Lee Harvey Oswald was either duped, doped, or at least a thousand miles from Dallas at the time of the shooting. Ned pauses, shakes his head, and tells Robert that all Kennedy conspiracy theorists are air-heads.

   Two hours later and they’ve shifted seats, placing themselves just outside the entertainment suite so as to better hear the cabaret. Ned seems to be obsessed with the lead singer – who, he insists, is Bulgarian, even though the compere has introduced her as Czech – springing every now and again up off his seat so as to peer through the open door at the short woman who is murdering every popular song known to mankind. At a table in front of them a group of five Scandinavian girls are busy drinking and getting excited as they wait for the disco to start and Ned’s eyes linger long enough for them to notice. Robert stands another round and, what with the gentle rolling of the ship and the effects of the scotch he had at lunch, discovers he’s beginning to feel more than a little lightheaded and – conversely – self-conscious. It doesn’t help when Ned uses him as a stooge in order to start up a conversation with the girls, telling them Robert is a well-known English actor who’s just finished shooting a film with Kevin Costner. This arouses their curiosity enough for three of them to gather round the two men’s table. Up close Robert suspects the girls are no more than fifteen or sixteen and when Ned makes a wildly outrageous pass towards one of them (which, Robert is sure, borders on some form of sexual harassment) they mouth harsh, guttral words and disappear into the cabaret room. Robert blushes but the American merely chuckles. He leans over and with all the gravitas of a psychologist imparting radical new information, says: ‘Kids these days start doing it at twelve years old. You know that, don’t you ?’

   Robert shakes his head: ‘Actually, no, I don’t.’