with a crash the empty bottle was flung away, striking several objects and glancing off in a zig-zag. All turned their heads and followed the bottle with their eyes. From a corner someone cried out in an angry voice. Distorted by the storm, the words sounded like mere gibberish.
“We’re leaving Japan,” said one, wiping the porthole with his elbow.
The stove did nothing but smoke, as if mistaking for salmon these humans who were shivering away. Over the hatches, covered with canvas, the waves passed with great swishing strides. Against the wall of the bunks the men heard a banging as though some hefty shoulder were breaking it down.
Now the steamer heaved like a whale in its death throes.
“Dinner,” shouted the cook, poking his head in the door and putting his hand up to his mouth. “No soup, because of the storm.”
“What is there?”
“Stinking fish,” he answered, withdrawing his head. One after another they got up. They were as crazy for their food as convicts. They were ravenous.
Placing their plates between their legs and blowing the steam, they crammed the hot lumpy rice into their mouths and loading it on their tongues moved it around from side to side. It was the first time anything hot had come in contact with their noses, which ran in a continuous trickle which threatened to fall into the food.
While they were eating the boss came in.
