We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [125]
Anders Nørre had dropped Albert's arm, no longer in need of his support. He'd not been injured when the boys attacked him, and if he was upset, his passive features certainly gave no hint of it.
They passed Market Square, walked up through Markgade, and continued up Reberbanen until they reached Anders Nørre's hut, close to the fields. On the last stretch Nørre entertained his companion with a word-for-word repetition of Pastor Abildgaard's Sunday sermon. Suddenly Albert froze: it seemed that the parrot by his side was addressing him directly with an urgent message.
He stared into Nørre's face. The old man didn't seem to notice anything. His voice was unchanged, continuing at the same pitch. The difference was in his words. They were unusual. Was Pastor Abildgaard really their author, or were these words coming from a completely different place, and if so, where? From Nørre's soul, which had finally awakened?
"You were at the height of your powers," the man said. And because Nørre wasn't looking at anyone and his tone remained the same, the words really did seem to be coming from another place, gracing their speaker with the dignity and authority of an oracle.
"You sensed that the world needed your strength and you rejoiced in that. But then it changed. Your strength vanished and the world withdrew from you, and you felt alone. The world was like a big smile that enticed and beckoned you. But then it changed. Dark and hard times arrived and the smile of the world vanished behind menacing clouds. You were in the midst of a life filled with love. But then it changed. The treasure of your love was taken from you."
Albert felt his throat tighten. The words affected him strangely. He felt that someone was talking directly to him, and to him alone. He thought, Where there's a mouth, there'll be an ear too. At long last he could relieve himself of the burden of his loneliness. At long last he could share with someone all the things he'd been keeping to himself. Every word Nørre spoke was the truth. His strength had been taken away from him. And so had his enjoyment of life: a life in which he'd found things to love, and had lacked nothing. He could share his anguish with the author of these words. But who was he? Pastor Abildgaard? He refused to believe that. Nørre? That was even more unlikely. Or a third party? In which case, who might that be?
For a moment he was lost in his own contemplation. Then he became aware of Nørre's voice again. The Sunday sermon was reaching its conclusion. Old familiar themes now emerged, identical from one Sunday to the next: God's mysterious ways, the crucifix on Golgotha, the love of Christ, and this Sunday the word love had been repeated over and over: Christ's thoughts of love, His loving help, redemption through His love. The same convenient trivialities that religion always peddled in response to life's hardship. So it was Abildgaard after all.
For a brief moment the minister had succeeded in talking straight into Albert's soul. But it wasn't religion that Albert needed. It wasn't sugary words of comfort. What it might be instead, he could not articulate. Perhaps it was just this: a listening ear. But not the minister's.
What did Abildgaard know of Albert's predicament? Nothing, however much he might preach. How could he be aware of his banishment from the world of the living, his shipwreck on a dark and unknown shore of bones, peopled by the dead?
Albert shivered like a wet dog. He felt cold. Something inside him was trembling. He entered the hut along with its lone inhabitant. Nothing in Nørre's face revealed whether he welcomed his guest or would prefer to be left alone. As there was no other furniture, Albert sat down on the bed next to him. There was no heating in the hut, and though the winter chill kept the most unpleasant smells at bay, it was still hardly an inviting place.
"Do you ever dream, Anders?"
Albert looked at Nørre and tried to catch his eye. But as usual, he got nothing back. Albert leaned