TWELVE ( Novel )

 

TWELVE

 

    K. Bernh. Genell

 

 

       CHAPTER ONE

                        Revenge

 

 

 “Dear Tinkville News!

 

I am writing to you to clarify the murder of Mr. Subert. This is a symbolic murder. Even if I had a grudge against Mr. Suber, that was not the reason I killed him a couple of hours ago. No, by slaying him, I wanted to make a statement and urge society to change. For a thorough intellectual interpretation, one must understand happiness calculus, as Jeremy Bentham and the entire Philosophy of Hedonist Utilitarianism put forth. According to this, one principle should guide the philosopher and every person: We must seek maximum happiness for a maximum number of people. Here, the life of Mr. Suber weighed very little against the lives of every little child in all the country's schools.

Mr. Suber was a creep and a teacher who frequently ignored the pupils they do not like.

This has got to stop! Every child deserves to be invited to a dialogue with their teacher!

 

    ALL THE BEST!

 

       Revenge-man”

 

 

My name is David Ryley. But they are calling me “Twelve”. I just turned thirty years old. I have felt that other people have mistreated me all my life. There have been numerous people through the years who have bullied me, but I have always thought that you have to deal with that later, and so now I just have this immense, all-encompassing feeling that you have stolen my whole life right in front of my eyes, and so I have decided to get back on them.

 

I said to myself: ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!

 

Some thoughts first, on revenge in general. Nothing can be more important than this, to treat the subject thoughtfully, logically, and comprehensively, since an essential element in the Revenge ITSELF is the intellectual part - to put one act in the shadow of another concrete action. And that only happens through a plan conceived in deep insight. Thus, revenge, perhaps more than anything one undertakes - if one undertakes it - is an INTELLECTUAL ACT.

An invention, any work, or a victory in a sports arena need not be understood intellectually in all its parts to have value to somebody. It doesn't matter if you understand your work as a train driver or a doctor as long as you do it well. And so it is with almost every other action in life. You can enjoy and be honored by them, even if you don't understand the depth of the matter. Yes, most people go through life that way without ever realizing the meaning of all their actions. But that is NOT the case with REVENGE. Revenge must be understood down to the smallest detail. Otherwise, it is not revenge.

 

To put revenge, as a general phenomenon, into relief, we can first briefly consider revenge in animals other than humans. Here, we find a multitude of points of interest. One immediately thinks of elephants, monkeys, dolphins, horses, and dogs. Known to everyone are the wild demolitions that African and Indian elephants can cause in entire small villages if they feel wronged. That's what I call revenge, wiping out a town. You know that other high-ranking animals, such as monkeys, very carefully keep track of who are friends and enemies, and an attack from a conspecific will very often be remedied with a complementary attack if the opportunity arises. It is essential to point out that revenge in animals is quite simple and that you rarely see the vicious bitterness that can develop in humans in these cases of revenge in animals. The revenge among animals is executed almost entirely thoughtlessly by the monkey, who then probably forgets the whole thing and thus never thinks to enjoy the revenge. Not the way a human can do. But Revenge in humans is a completely different story. Perhaps mainly because it is so relatively rare. You can probably say that it is one of the most incredible feats of human civilization to make revenge, something which you can try to avoid undertaking. From the point of view of civilization, then.

 

It is true that there are various desert religions, representations in the Icelandic sagas, and stories of people on the tundra that encourage revenge. Still, these mythical accounts have no deep anchoring in the fundamental relationship around revenge. Myth is always constructed by power, and from the perspective of power, there is no reason to inhibit such things as revenge. On the contrary, power only benefits from whipping people into battles and assassinations. It is different, as I said, in reality. It is because people often swallow the desire to take revenge. You swallow it and suppress it deep into your stomach. Revenge is, of course – seen from one perspective - a primitive action that usually backfires on the avenger himself. Revenge is suicidal. But it undeniably has its advantages. The enjoyment of the avenger can be immense. And you then have to weigh this pleasure against the fact that revenge can most likely backfire on you, often not just in one way, but in several ways. I HAVE CHOSEN.

Revenge –my firm belief – can be the only thing that makes life worth living if you have been deprived of the possibility to do everything else.

 

Of course, I can´t say that I recommend revenge. The backsides are enormous. But in my case, I have taken care of that small problem.

 

Nobody will ever know THAT IT WAS ME. I will limit myself to an act of covert revenge. I will not take the credit. I will not leave any hallmark. I will SILENTLY enjoy my revenge.

 

To make my story credible and my motives understandable, and for me to present you with a narrative from which you can learn much more than the usual stories about people who have gone havoc and created massacres, I will give you a precise look into my soul. Manifestos can´t give you that. It takes an artist to paint the picture of a human soul.

I am not an ordinary person.

 

I know that many people claim that they are extraordinary. But they are all overshadowed by me. Because I have something they do not have. I have an absolute absence of will to succeed or dominate. I don´t want to be superior. I have no wish to be loved or to make a fortune. I have never wanted anything at all. I don´t even want to take revenge. My revenge is void of feelings. It is about PRINCIPIAL JUSTICE. It is a matter of clarity, about righteousness, about BEAUTY. It has nothing to do with me. It is an intellectual duty of the first order.

 

Of course, some people will say I am crazy. After they have claimed that I am a lunatic, they will continue with their lives, insulting people, usurping the poor, being mean to people they think are inferior, and collecting riches at the behest of others. Nobody will ever call them lunatics.

 

My revenge is a thing of beauty, which means it is a kind of Rethorical Masterpiece. Everything I do will, apart from the pain on bare flesh, be able to be enjoyed as a cascade of righteousness, much like the fireworks on Independence Day.

 

Hence, this book will be greeted by many, loved by some, and the authorities will ban it. Oh, how I will enjoy this situation when this book will be so hard to lay hands on that people will give their arms to own a couple of crumpled pages from it!

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

                                      

                   Pontus Subert

 

Typically, a life marked by ongoing, severe bullying starts during the school years. That was the case with me, too. I cannot tell you much about my primary school teachers, and I will not seek revenge on them, apart from Mr. Subert. Quite frankly, I have never understood this man. He was always very jolly and friendly when he addressed the entire class. But I never got a word from him. He ignored me. When my fifth year ended, the term ended, and I got my scores. I got a D in every single subject. And the man never even addressed me. He never spoke my name.

That is why I am going to visit Mr. Subert tonight.

         ------------------------

I took the bus to the area where quite wealthy people were living, where he lived one evening in September and started to stroll around his house, a small one-story villa with a very steep roof. I carried a baseball bat in a bag I had with me. I thought this would make an excellent murder weapon. When I had checked the garden for traces of dogs or cats and was satisfied with not having found any, I rang the door to the man, who, according to a short investigation online, was a bachelor.

As he opened the door, I swung the bat, when Subert, who by this time was around 60 years old, vigorously jumped back and looked around in his hall for his own baseball bat.

 

In a minute he was back and we fought each other with the bats.

 

None of us managed to the hit the other.

When we both were out of breath he said:

- You could have killed me!

I ran from his house, and when I came home I put on some music by Vivaldi.

I looked at the letter to Tinkville News, and tore it into a thousand pieces and put it in the stove and burned them up.

When I went to sleep on this night I saw strange figures before my eyes.

“Nothing," says Meister ( a psychologist ) , " so well illustrates the nature of our thinking faculties as to consider them in the different conditions of waking and of sleeping, and in that intermediate state between sleeping and waking, where the external senses are in a more perfect state of quiet and rest, than in the most profound repose ; when the active inner sense is cut off from the external world, and we doubt whether we are in a state of sleep or meditation. This condition usually precedes or follows that of sleep, sometimes it arises from prolonged meditation on one object, or on one idea, especially when we are placed amidst the silence of nature, in the recesses of a forest, or are surrounded by the darkness of night. Under these circumstances a single impression or a single image becomes arrested before us, and takes exclusive possession of our thoughts; at such times the understanding acts only by its own intuitive powers. Entire scenes, broken or connected pictures, pass slowly or rapidly before the vision of our inner sense. We fancy we behold, and behold with the most perfect reality, things which we have never seen. They are, in truth, phantoms which the power of our imagination has invoked around us, happy or miserable, beneath the charm of its magic. "

 

 

 

 

 

   CHAPTER THREE

 

                          The Pond

 

On the next day I took a walk in the sun. Even if it is a September day, it is beautiful.

For some reason, though, my vision had grown dizzy, and I could barely see the ground. I walked right into a lamp post, and became standing there when a young lady came up to me and asked if I needed help.

I said yes, and she asked me where I was going. I told her, that I had planned to take a walk in the park, by the large pond, called MOON LAKE, right there.

She said that she had nothing to do, and that she could take me there. She was a receptionist at a hotel, and she was free until 300 p.m. and it was four hours till then.

I could not help but telling her of the incident, as I prefer to call it.

“You are a lucky one.”, she said.

“Mr. Subert is way luckier.”, I answered, smiling.

She hadn´t have time to answer, because three policemen came up to us, and they rapidly took me aside and asked me for my name:

 

“I am Roland Huskinsson, but they call me “Twelve”.”

“Then you have to come with us. A Mr. Suber has filed a complaint.”

I was stunned. ”Complaint”, I thought. Dear, dear!

 

 

 

 

  CHAPTER FOUR

 

 

 

 

 

The corrections afficer wekcomed me with a smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the lion´s disease ( but it on Amazon!!!!!)

 

It occurred only years after the horrendous pandemic, the Covid19, had paralyzed the entire world. The economy had been slowing down, and the disease – which we still do not understand completely - made many people face death, sorrow, hunger, and homelessness.

In November of this year, Rattner & Rattner, the renowned and prosperous London Shipping Agency, hired me as an officer onboard the Punjab, a Handysize Geared Bulk Carrier. Minutes after being appointed an officer at a visit to the Staff Employment Office, I set out to find my ship from Emmet Street, where the office building was situated. I was on foot, in light rain and some wind in the dusky remains of the Tuesday afternoon, out for the vessel, which was an immense one, lying at anchor outside the Northwest Pier of London Outer Harbor. I had been hired in an extreme hurry due to a mishap on a red London bus on the morning of the ship´s departure; the ordinary 3rd Mate – a man whose name I forgot - unprovoked got busted up by a drunkard, and, because of a broken arm, was brought to the hospital for surgery. The Company was in dire need of a replacement, and with a terse notice, I, who was then 1st Mate on another Carrier - the Swanee - of the same size but an oil carrier, decided to jump in.

It was a commotion to try to reach the area. My beloved Swanee lay by an anchor in a different port part. I went by subway and bus and, on my way, ended up on a small bridge, about a hundred yards tall, in one of the harbor areas, viewing a large portion of the London port from a distance. The harbor rested with thousands and thousands of ships, cranes, sheds, and piers in front of me. Stairs and viaducts, trains, and carriages were everywhere, and miles of rails in grey and blue nuances, covered by smoky fog, were spotted in all directions. How strange are the cities, man built out in the plane and by the outpour of rivers! But they were part of Work, of human endeavor.

Work, this rather primitive agreement between people, is often not entirely rational or logical, but still, the only meaningful agreement precisely because it, since primordial times, stay based on reciprocity. This small mutual agreement is quite fundamental. Since the earliest epochs, there was no other decency to be found in the world of humans than in the simple understanding of Work. Some say that slavery was born the day after Work was invented. I realize that. Maybe so… But that does not affect the nobility of Work itself.

The city, this immense organism, the actual big city, skyscraper City, was the predicament, the condition, and the very place of this decency and agreement, and in this decency, quite simply, marked by smoke, fog, and thousand smells, … marvelous. So this was the city of British righteousness, of the righteousness of civilization, I thought, as I folded my collar against the wind from the West, which came in, gust after gust on this evening.

 

   “Of all the airts the wind can blow,

   I dearly like the West,

   Because there my lovely dearie lives,

   The girl that I loe´ best.”

 

I silently hummed. I always loved Robert Burns. My father was from Edenborough. But as for myself, I have mostly been living in New York.

 

When I approached my future home, m/s Punjab, now by foot on a distant busy narrow pier, I noticed that my ship, a relatively modern and ingenious one, ( which my former ship, the tanker, was not ) with its 160000 deadweight tons was towering over far more modest and older vessels, which also were part of the London fleet of conventional general cargo ships. This fleet consisted solely of cargo compartments that could carry rare, sensitive, and expensive goods long-distance. These goods typically are famous cars, old aero planes, sculptures, racehorses, circus animals, and ready-made building elements to bridges, in short things that could not be taken across the globe by container ships.

When I was brought out to m/s Punjab by the Company extra ferry, it was already late in the day, 08.00 pm, and I was at the first real sight of her body, impressed by the size and beauty of the ship and, as I thought, the ingenuity with which it was built. In the shade of progress related to the money-intense internet and communication industry, the development of the ancient art of ship construction has been thriving too.

 

I escaped from the ferry to a steel ladder, on which I, with some effort, climbed up along the side of the vessel. Halfway up a small door, which was set on the side of the ship and had the door neatly shut behind me, when a small elevator in seconds brought me right to the main deck. The decks were perplexing, in light blue, and shining. Leaning towards the hatch of one of the large, square cargo holds, which all four of them were neatly covered with orange steel hoods, large as tennis courts, the Captain was standing, together with the 1st officer, to welcome the new 3rd officer, who so late at night was about to report himself to them.

The ship was magnificent, like a white castell. The Captain was a man in his sixties, thus 25 years my senior, by the name of Daniel H. Stork. He was Irish and born in Dublin. This was his second journey with the Punjab. He told me all this when we, after a walk around the remarkable wonder of a floating castle, which it seemed like to me, were sitting in the gunroom, one deck below, in the aft of the ship. He was a rather tall man, looked more like an American, with dark hair and a piercing look in his blue eyes. Stork had an air of seriousness about him but seemed, all the same, not entirely without vanity.

Last five years, he had been with Rattner &Rattner, mostly on container vessels. He had been the boss on many a tugboat, cargo ship, and ferry and had enjoyed it. The grave but very talkative Irishman said that he had often been flattered by being entrusted as a captain by the Rattners on still more modern, still more expensive, and still more beautiful ships. The executive director of the Amsterdam office had asked him to take on the “Punjab” on a trip with to Surabaya, Java, he thought it was a tough job, and he was looking for a crew, and – through connections, I had been recommended to him as a reliable chap, he said.

The reason the ship too was in a hurry was, though the Captain did not tell me until many weeks later when we had become friends, was that it first-hand was bound to Cherbourg when it should pick up the manager´s daughter. The latter had a yearning to be with the ship on its journey, this time to the exceptional destination it had. The Captain had protested against this, claiming that he was hired to take responsibility for the ship, managed by a company, who was to be governed on reasonable grounds. He could not act in his profession for a company run on grounds such as “not waiting for crew, because the need to pick up the CEO´s daughter.”

Mr. Kaminsky then simply retorted that the Rattner& Rattner Company always had a multitude of agendas, of which getting the cargo out for delivery was the main one. The other reasons were of less importance but had to be waged in, he said. They always said things like that. Miss Kaminsky should be picked up on the 22nd.

The Captain had not in turn answered to this, he recalled but simply told Mr. Kaminsky that as soon as they had left London harbor, he was the Captain. He merely hoped they would reach Cherbourg and Rachel Kaminsky, he had added in a casual tone. “Ultimately, the Ocean decides.”

The Captain was a man of strong will.

The ship was painted white, the hull and deckhouses, hatches, masts, and rafters. The decks were blue. She was enormously big, rectangular in shape, as modern ships are, very high, sturdy, deep, and comprehensive. We were twenty-five people on board, twenty in the crew, and eight passengers, when the two animal tenders, Linda and Dorothy, were included. On this trip, the Captain also brought his young wife, Ruth.

It was now October, the month of storms on the North Sea, and “Punjab” had in the afternoon just haply gotten underway from Amsterdam, via Le Havre, carrying lots of wheat, a couple of cars, and some horses as well as some other animals, amongst them a lion. Then they added more cargo here in London, more machines, an old airplane, parts of a submarine, and more animals, while they unloaded the wheat. The lion was a lioness, brought aboard, of course, in a cage. She was dressed in a suit, a green one, made of thinnest tarp, and, although I just spotted her very casually, as I was inspecting “my new backyard,” I felt sorry for her. To take a lioness from Amsterdam all the way to Java in Indonesia seemed to me on the brink of animal cruelty.

All cargo was stuffed in the big four compartments by experts on loading these things and experts on airplanes and animals. The animals were held in hatch No.1, closest to the main deckhouse and the bridge, amidships.

Like most general cargo bulk carriers have some 4 or 5 holds covered by metal hatch covers, Geared bulk carriers - as the Punjab - are mainly in the giant size range. All ships nowadays are too big. They often have several cranes mounted that allow them to load and discharge cargo everywhere without shore-based equipment in foreign harbors. A typical General Cargo Carrier of the geared bulk type has a crew ship has a crew of somewhere around 13-35. There is a Captain; the Captain is in charge of everything. We always have 3-4 deck Mates, and the 1st Mate’s in charge of the cargo. Chief Engineer, The Chief Engineer, is of course, in charge of the engine and systems. 3 to 4 other Engineers, 1st and 2nd Oiler, 2 to 4 deck crew,  and 2 to 3 galley crew, plus Radio-Electronics officer, one Bosun, one Electrician, and a Cook, a Steward,  and 2 Steward’s assistants. Some ships house a couple of deck-engine utility men extra.

The Punjab also carried a few passengers: two doctors who were also veterinarians, who mainly were there to look after the horses and the other animals, one author of novels, Mr. Contour, and Mr. Schultz, a banker, probably an acquaintance of the Rattner family or something. Initially, all passengers were told they would have to reside by themselves since captain Stork was busy taking command of a ship that was entirely new for him. The company representative onboard, finally, was Geronimo Weichsel, a supercargo clerk.

Stork wandered around the ship, and one could see it on him that he thought it was way too big by the way he watched his craft. Even I thought it was not wise to build ships of this size. These ships are made in Japan, and the Japanese know what they are doing, of course. Only I wouldn´t say I like these seafaring monsters.

The doctors were a middle-aged couple, Mr. and Mrs. Williamson. The writer, who was a tiny, slender boy from Texas, USA, by the name of Paul Contour, claimed he had written a novel set in Baltimore. We were later not able to find it on Amazon or elsewhere, though.

Since it turned out that the only reason Punjab was anchored up in this part of the London harbor was to wait for me, we, as soon as I had accepted to be a member of the crew on this ship, which was set for Surabaya, we raised the anchor, after having telephoned for a tugboat and navigation aid. Then we were sailing out through the Thames and into the English Channel.

glömska

 

"Klockan var sju på morgonen.

Jag sade nu till den storväxte och med vitt hår och högrött ansikte försedde Suydman, där jag satt i en knarrande korgstol intill denne, som yrvaken belägrade en identisk, att jag glömt min plånbok på rummet och måste gå och hämta den."

 

Ofta kan man finna ett glömske-grepp, ett glömske-skeende i många sämre romaner från den gamla goda tiden: och man kan finna att det i dessa, till exempel inledningsvis, berättas om någon person som glömt något, en plånbok eller så, eller låtsas ha glömt något, d.v.s. avsiktligt lämnat något bakom sig, för att bli tvungen att avlägsna sig från ett sällskap, för att ”hämta något”. På så sätt kan man – som berättare - få tillfälle till en liten rekapitulering, och samtidigt som man har börjat berätta sin historia, så avlägsnar man sig, inte sällan övertydligt retfullt, ifrån denna, för att sen återkomma till handlingen, laddad man ny information och ny kraft, till att ta sig an det skeende, som man redan inledningsvis börjat återge.

Man får, genom införandet av fenomenet ”glömska” en helt ny dimension i berättelsen, och ger denna en tidlig elasticitet. Vad man har glömt, vad Någon glömt, det har denne glömt FÖRUT, - d.v.s. INNAN berättelsen tog sin början. Så kommer berättelsen därför extra flyhänt igång, om man inför glömskan på detta sätt.

Även är ju glömskan en väldigt viktig antropologisk markör. Glömska hos Människan är ju särdeles komplex, då man får förutsätta att gamla rön om minnets funktion från Freuds dagar har visst sanningsvärde: man Glömmer bara det Man Vill glömma. Och så vidare. Så blir då berättelsen med ens mera PSYKISK, om man inför glömskan som fenomen, redan i berättelsens inledning.

Man öppnar då för tankar som ”Vad mera kan huvudpersonen ha glömt?” eller t.o.m.: ”Vad kan BERÄTTAREN ha glömt.” ( Mer sällsynt är reflexionen Vad har JAG glömt?”)

 

Viktigt är att den inledande anmärkningen om glömskan utformas på ett så noggrant och sorgfälligt sätt som möjligt och med en så i själva berättandet grundad och känslomässigt övertygande touche, så att man som Berättare i det man berättar om denna glömske övertygar läsaren om att man själv, som berättare, minsann inte glömmer ett enda dugg, men att läsaren kan känna sig fullt trygg, och känna sig fri att för de närmaste timmarna totalt kunna överlämna sin själ uti berättarens händer. Man måste alltså få läsaren, i och med detta glömskegrepp, fullständigt själv glömma bort var han är, vem han är och av vilken anledning läsaren själv tror att han alls läser boken.

 

Exempel: ”När hon stigit på tåget kom hon på att hon glömt låsa ytterdörren. Ju längre tåget avlägsnade sig från X-köping, desto mer drogs ångesten åt omkring hennes hjärta vid tanken på att Oscar nu kunde ha fritt tillträde till hennes lägenhet, trots att hon själv inte var där.” Ty det är ju just det som det handlar om, romanläsandet, att man i stor utsträckning tillåter en berättare leka med ens egen själ. Således handlar romanskrivandet om att man som författare, via en berättare, tillåter sig att manipulera en läsare till gränsen för vad dennes identitet tål. Det roligaste man har som författare är just det, att skriva på det sättet att man riktigt ser, för sitt inre öga, läsaren balansera ytterst ute på kanten av vad hens mentala hälsa kan uthärda, ja, intill det rena vansinnets gräns, för att sedan, med en värme stark som från ett modershjärta, draga läsaren till sig och översålla läsaren med ömsom kyssar, ömsom insikter i det Sanna, samt lite förakt för dem som inte, likt läsaren och författaren, förstår det fina i kråksången. Författaren kan alltså genom sina berättargrepp få läsaren att knappt kunna se ett steg framför sig men att få denne att vara helt beroende av sig, så att läsaren blir just som en liten kråkunge som man handföder med majskorn rakt ifrån det den kryper ur det ägg man stulit från korpmamman.

 

Från den gode läsarens sida fordras det, med andra ord, en viss slags masochism. Som läsare måste man tillåta författaren att hålla en på sträckbänken, plåga en lite med ovissheter och orimligheter och lura ut en på det osannolikas tunna is i det absurdas vinterstorm, och omsvept av tvivlets snörök kommer man blott sent i nattens timmar fram till de sista sidornas prunkande trädgård, där man slutligen kan somna in i den oväntade upplösningens opiedoft och som i ett kärleksrus låta sig omfamnas av författarens ben.