We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [134]
"Where does it come from?" he asked.
"You know Josef Isager? They call him the Congo Pilot, I believe." Albert nodded. Josef Isager had been a pilot on the Congo River many years ago. He'd worked for the Belgian king, Leopold, and had returned home with a medal for faithful service. He was reluctant to speak about his years in Africa, but the neighbors said that they'd sometimes be wakened in the night by screaming. It was Josef Isager. Once he'd kicked the headboard of his bed to pieces: a loud crack had sounded as the large mahogany frame fell apart. He'd leapt up and thrown the furniture around as if it were an enemy and he was fighting for his life. His bed linen, which fell in a messy heap on the floor, was soaked in sweat. It was malaria, so he told us.
Albert, who'd heard the stories about these nocturnal upheavals, had his own theory. These weren't malaria attacks, but nightmares. Josef Isager was dreaming about Africa.
"And then he comes to me with a severed hand. A hand—a human hand! 'What do you want me to do with it?' I ask him, once I've recovered from my shock. 'Give it a Christian burial,' he replies. 'Who is it?' I ask. 'I don't know,' he says to me. 'Some nigger woman. Damn you, Pastor!' he says. And he gives me a furious look. Perhaps I shouldn't burden you with such things, Captain Madsen, but the man scared me."
Albert nodded. The Congo Pilot had the same effect on him. Josef Isager was a tough customer. But there were many of those. Life had kicked them around and they'd kicked back. The son of the old schoolteacher, he and Albert had been at school together, and Josef had been trapped in the war between the boys and their brutal tormentor, unable to take sides because he'd be a traitor no matter whom he supported. He'd taken out his frustration with his fists, beating up his brother, the ever-whining Johan. Then he'd gone to sea and no one knew what he'd seen there: new abuses, with fresh victims, no doubt, where he himself had an outlet, for that was how things were. But perhaps he'd also found a way out. That, at least, was what Albert reckoned. The sea was a vast space where a boy could leave the ill-treatment of his childhood behind and rediscover himself.
After Josef shipped out, we saw nothing of him for several years. We heard he'd gone to the Congo via Antwerp, and sailed on its great rivers. He returned to Denmark, but not to Marstal. Then he left again. Africa had got into his blood. We didn't know why. After many years the fever left him, and he came ashore and worked as a loss assessor, first in Copenhagen and then in Marstal. His wife, Maren Kirstine, whom he'd married in his youth, was a Marstaller, and they'd settled down in Kongegade.
At first he didn't even mention his years in Africa. When we questioned him, he'd shake his head dismissively as though he couldn't find the strength to describe it and because we wouldn't understand anyway. One day he'd asked Albert if he could see the shrunken head. For a while he sat holding James Cook in his hands, turning the head while he assessed it. He looked at it with expert eyes.
"Well, that's not how we used to make them," he finally said.
"We?" Albert frowned.
"Yes," Josef replied casually. "We preferred to smoke them."
He laughed—Albert couldn't determine whether from disgust or cynicism.
"They have put an effort into this one." Josef went on. "We only made sure they dried out. They looked like they were sleeping. Closed eyes, their lips rolled back a bit so you could see a thin white line of teeth." He looked at Albert. His eyes grew distant, as though he was dwelling on the memory.
"Who are you talking about?" Albert asked.
The Congo Pilot snapped out of his trance.
"The niggers, who else?" He sounded disappointed. "We had to show them who was boss, you see. There was this Belgian captain. He used Negro heads as decorations around his flower bed. To each his own."
He laughed again, and this time Albert thought he detected a hint of embarrassment. He sensed that it wasn't the mention