Queequeg and I stayed in bed for a long time, talking and occasionally drifting off for a few minutes. Every now and then, he would affectionately throw one of his brown, tattooed legs over mine, then pull it back again.
We had become completely comfortable with each other.
Eventually, our conversation drove away the last bit of sleepiness. We were both wide awake, even though dawn was still several hours away.
Lying down had become uncomfortable, so little by little we sat upright. We pulled the blankets tightly around ourselves and leaned against the headboard, our four knees drawn close together and our noses hanging over them.
It was surprisingly cozy.
The room was cold, especially with no fire burning, so the warmth under the blankets felt even better.
In fact, I have always believed that comfort depends on contrast. Nothing feels good simply because it exists; we understand everything by comparing it with something else.
If you have been completely comfortable for a long time, you eventually stop noticing the comfort.
But if the tip of your nose or the top of your head is just a little cold, the warmth beneath the blankets suddenly feels wonderful.
That is why, in my opinion, a bedroom should never have a fire burning all night. A warm room may sound luxurious, but true comfort comes from having nothing between you and the cold outside except a blanket.
Then you feel like a tiny spark of warmth surrounded by a world of ice.
We sat there curled up together for quite some time.
Then I suddenly decided to open my eyes.
When I am in bed, whether it is day or night, asleep or awake, I usually keep my eyes closed. Somehow, shutting out the world makes the comfort of lying in bed feel even stronger.
Perhaps darkness is the natural home of the soul, while light belongs more to our physical bodies.
But when I opened my eyes and left the pleasant darkness I had created for myself, I was faced with the dull darkness of the room.
I immediately regretted it.
Queequeg suggested that we light the lamp since neither of us was sleepy anymore. He also wanted to enjoy a few quiet puffs from his tomahawk pipe.
The night before, I had been horrified by the thought of him smoking in bed.
Now things were different.
It is amazing how quickly our strict prejudices disappear once affection takes hold.
I actually enjoyed having Queequeg smoke beside me, even while we were lying in bed. He looked so peaceful and content that I no longer cared about the innkeeper’s insurance policy or the danger of setting the place on fire.
All I cared about was the simple pleasure of sharing a blanket and a pipe with a true friend.
We pulled our heavy jackets around our shoulders and passed the tomahawk pipe back and forth.
Soon a blue cloud of smoke gathered above us, floating beneath the ceiling and glowing softly in the light of the newly lit lamp.
Perhaps that drifting smoke reminded Queequeg of faraway places.
Whatever the reason, he suddenly began talking about his homeland.
I was eager to hear his story.
“Tell me about your island,” I said. “I’d like to hear where you came from.”
Queequeg was happy to tell me.
At that time, I could barely understand some of the words he used. His English was broken and unfamiliar to me.
But as I became more accustomed to the way he spoke, I eventually understood much more of his story.
What follows is the story he told me, presented as completely as I could remember it.