We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [140]
We gazed at the bubbles rising from the bottom of our glasses. They looked like the last air squeezed out from the lungs of a drowned man. We could have spat on the floor. But we didn't. We drained our glasses and thought the beer tasted strangely flat and bland.
A GROUP OF men, young and old, were gathered on Dampskibsbroen one warm summer's evening when the water and the sky were like a pastel drawing, all light blue and pink, and the sea was as flat as a floor you could walk on all the way to Langeland. The young men were the new breed who spoke boldly and frankly in the presence of their elders. They'd only dipped their toes in the ocean, but they regarded themselves as experienced because of the war and the money in their pockets. But today their attention was fixed on a stranger in their midst.
For once even Herman was silenced. He stared intently at the stranger: a tall, energetic man with a wide-brimmed straw hat and a light-colored summer jacket that hung loosely from his broad shoulders. He had full lips and reddish blond hair that flopped casually across his forehead. Only his bloodshot eyes told you that he wasn't just another of the summer residents who came here for some coastal relaxation. Ever smiling, he flung out his arms, his voice rising with excitement as he spoke, clearly delighted with the attention he was receiving from his young audience. Meanwhile the older skippers had withdrawn to the periphery: whether this was due to their instinctive dislike of Herman, who stood within it, or the fact that the stranger was so obviously Herman's ally (and indeed even resembled him in his large physique and bragging manner) was impossible to tell.
Herman's face wore an expression we'd never seen on it before: admiration. Not only did he never take his eyes off the speaker's lips, but his own started to move, as though silently echoing the stranger's words and preparing to repeat them at the first possible opportunity.
Herman wasn't in the habit of looking up to anyone. Albert Madsen had once saved his ship from a serious collision, but the incident had made Herman feel resentful rather than grateful, because on the same occasion Albert had struck him, and he'd borne a grudge ever since. Spotting Albert now, out on his customary evening stroll along the harbor front, he invited him to join the circle, but his intentions weren't friendly. "Good evening, Captain Madsen." It was immediately clear that his politeness was only in honor of the outsider. "Allow me to introduce Mr. Henckel, the engineer."
"Edvard Henckel," said the stranger, offering Albert his hand, with a broad smile.
Albert had never forgotten the look Herman gave him the day he'd jumped onto the deck of the Two Sisters. He hadn't expected the boy to lash out at him, but he'd easily dodged his blow and saved the ship. It wasn't the first time he'd made short work of a useless helmsman by landing him one. He might have believed that Herman, then fifteen, had lashed out at him in panic, but the boy's eyes had betrayed nothing but reckless fury, and Albert didn't doubt that Herman was capable of murder. There was a harshness about him. That in itself wasn't a bad thing, but beyond the harshness, something about Herman seemed dead to the core. Like fossilized wood, no shoots would ever sprout from him, and his life wouldn't blossom in unexpected ways. There was no vitality there. Just brutality.
Albert was well aware that the young man saw him as an enemy. The feeling wasn't mutual. He felt an almost physical unease in the younger man's