Lorenz took another chocolate. ‘Do you remember that old story about Günter Leidland?’
‘What story?’
‘His boat was scheduled to leave Lorient on Friday the thirteenth. As the date approached his men were getting more and more on edge, so he cast off on the twelfth and sailed to the other side of the dock, where he and his crew waited for a whole day before continuing their patrol.’ Lorenz studied the second chocolate before putting it in his mouth. When he spoke again it was as though he was thinking aloud. ‘It’s possible to convince yourself of certain things…’
‘They’ll be all right,’ said Graf. Then, indicating the chocolates, he added, ‘Have you finished with these, Kaleun?’
‘Yes,’ Lorenz replied, standing up. Graf pressed the lid back onto the tin, and Lorenz walked off. He found Richter lying on a bunk in the bow compartment. The injured man was feverish and talking in his sleep. A bandage had been wrapped around his head and only one of his eyes was visible. Lorenz noticed the iris oscillating beneath the papery lid. He tried to make sense of what the mechanic was saying, bending down so that his ear was close to Richter’s lips. A single, clear phrase interrupted the stream of poorly articulated syllables. ‘Stay away from me, you devil!’
Lorenz drew back.
‘What did he say?’ asked Voigt.
‘Nothing,’ Lorenz replied. ‘He’s delirious.’
Juhl handed the decoded message to Lorenz who accepted it with a curt nod. His expression gave away nothing. As always, after a message had been received, the men watched him closely. He fancied that he could feel their frustration when, albeit for only a few seconds, he disappeared behind the curtain of his nook. When he emerged his features were still uninterpretable and set hard, like plaster of Paris. He marched resolutely to the petty officers’ quarters where he found Hoffmann sitting on a bunk, reading a damp, disintegrating newspaper. Torn strips hung out loosely from the front page. The electrician sensed Lorenz looming over him and stood up. ‘Herr Kaleun?’
‘Well, Hoffmann.’ Lorenz steadied himself by reaching out to grip a rail. ‘How are you feeling today?’
‘As good as can be expected, sir.’
‘Yes, filthy weather.’ The electrician folded his newspaper. ‘We just got a message from headquarters,’ Lorenz added.
Hoffmann looked bemused. He wasn’t accustomed to being taken into the commander’s confidence. His brow wrinkled as he tried to work out what was expected of him. Feeling obliged to respond, he made a guess: ‘Is it about the batteries, sir?’
‘No,’ said Lorenz. ‘However, it does concern you.’
‘Me, sir?’ Hoffmann looked over Lorenz’s shoulder at Juhl, who was as inscrutable as his superior.
‘A personal communication from Admiral Dönitz,’ said Lorenz.
Hoffmann’s face showed confusion and incredulity. ‘Admiral Dönitz?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Are you sure there hasn’t been a mistake, sir?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘Admiral Dönitz?’ Hoffmann repeated the name in an uncomfortable, higher register.
‘The Lion himself!’ Lorenz produced a sheet of paper and held it up ceremoniously as if he were about to read from a scroll. ‘You are informed, Elektro-Obermaschinist Hoffmann, of the arrival of a submarine,’ Lorenz looked over the top of the paper, ‘without periscope.’
‘Without periscope…’ Hoffmann echoed.
Lorenz handed Hoffmann the paper and pulled a bottle out of his pocket. ‘Congratulations.’ Suddenly, men began to crowd into the petty officers’ quarters. They extended their arms to shake Hoffman’s hand and reached in to slap him on the back. ‘I gather from Juhl here,’ Lorenz continued, ‘that you were hoping for a daughter.’
‘Yes, I was.’ Hoffmann looked at Juhl. ‘How did you know?’
‘You told me.’
‘Did I?’
‘Maybe not explicitly: on the bridge.’
‘I don’t remember that.’
Lorenz filled two glasses and handed one to Hoffmann. ‘To your daughter, may she enjoy a long life of unprecedented health and spectacular happiness.’
‘Thank you, Herr Kaleun,’ said Hoffmann. His eyes glittered with emotion.
After touching glasses they downed the rum.
Werner emerged from the galley and made a lewd remark about Hoffman’s potency, which provoked laughter and quick exchanges of competitive vulgarity.
‘Have you thought of a name?’ Lorenz asked.
‘My wife likes Dorothea,‘ said Hoffmann.
‘And so do I,’ said Lorenz. ‘Congratulations.’
The men parted, giving him enough room to leave. On returning to his nook, Lorenz observed, with considerable attendant regret, that his bottle of rum was now almost empty.
The lights had been dimmed in all compartments. Lorenz stepped out of the forward torpedo room and made his way between the occupied bunks. He passed the officers’ mess, the sound room, the radio shack — climbed through the forward compartment hatchway — and arrived in the control room. Graf was standing by the periscope and Müller was studying charts. The crew looked at Lorenz but their expressions were curiously untenanted. Lorenz crossed the control room and ducked into the petty officers’ quarters where the bunks were also fully occupied with sleeping men. As he passed though the galley Lorenz saw Werner at his stove. The cook was beating a thick red mixture with a whisk. His skin shone with a porcelain glaze, and the ticking revolutions of his wrist made him resemble a clockwork dummy. Lorenz continued, along the narrow gangway between the motionless diesel engines, and then into the motor room. Because the motors were relatively small and mostly concealed beneath the deck, this part of the boat appeared spacious and uncluttered. The lights flickered into darkness, and when they came on again they emitted a weak glow: a slow luminescence that diffused through the air like an expanding ink blot. Beyond the panels of the motor room Lorenz could see the rim of the rear torpedo tube. He paused and found that he was reluctant to go forward. Why was this part of the boat empty? Where had everyone gone? The sound of Werner’s whisk suddenly stopped. Its abrupt termination created an odd impression, like stepping off a precipice. Everything seemed wrong, misaligned, disturbed by subtle discords. He tried to remember what he had been meaning to do, the purpose of his nocturnal wandering, but his memory was opaque — misted over with undefined anxieties. Unease made him turn on his heels, and the next instant he was looking into the eyes of the British commander. Sutherland’s hands came up quickly and closed around Lorenz’s neck. Weakness and terror made retaliation impossible. Lorenz tried to call for help but his windpipe was being crushed. Sutherland swung him around, pushed him against one of the electric motors, and tightened his grip. Their noses were almost touching.
‘Destruction is your purpose,’ said Sutherland, repeating the words that Lorenz had used during their brief parley. ‘Destruction is your purpose as much as it is mine.’ His voice was fortified by an echo, the final iterations of which survived the dissolution of the dream. Lorenz stared at the overhead. He was breathing heavily but he could still hear waves breaking against the conning tower.
‘Herr Kaleun?’ Brandt sounded anxious.
Lorenz’s answer was poorly articulated. ‘Bran—… Brandt?’
‘Did you call for something, Kaleun?’
‘Yes,’ Lorenz improvised. ‘I’ve got a murderous headache. Go and get Ziegler for me, will you? I need some pills.’
Lorenz sat up and swallowed with difficulty. He undid the top button of his shirt and pressed the flesh around his neck. It felt tender and sore. How could that be? Had he harmed himself in his sleep? Had the blanket twisted around his body as he tossed and turned?