We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [143]
He didn't know what he needed, so he sat in the church, gathering his thoughts. Most of the time he studied his hands, but every now and then he'd look up at Rasmussen's altarpiece depicting Jesus calming the Sea of Galilee. Outside, the war raged on. More sailors were being killed than ever before and he noted the losses in his ledger. At times he thought he was just like Anders Nørre, an imbecile whose only hold on sanity was the endless lists of numbers that flashed like lightning through the dark night of his mind. What would Jesus have done in the midst of a world war? One crucified man with a spear in his side seemed a trifle when millions were trapped in barbed wire, dying, with their intestines hanging out.
For his own part, Albert wrote down numbers. In what other way could he contain all this incomprehensible destruction? If anyone ever found his ledger, what would they think? That it had been written by a madman?
He got up from the hard blue-painted wooden pew, shivering. It was chilly inside the whitewashed church. He glanced again at the telegram in his hand, officially notifying the shipping company of the loss of the three-masted topgallant schooner Ruth: "Location: Atlantic Ocean, traveling from St. John's to Liverpool. Description of loss: missing. Wind and weather conditions: unknown. Since she left Newfoundland, the Ruth has not been seen. The ship is presumed lost with all hands."
His job was to translate that terse verdict into human speech. A ship had been sunk somewhere in the vast Atlantic, within a radius of a thousand nautical miles, by ice, or a storm, or a freak wave. Or by an ironclad prehistoric monster rising out of nowhere, spitting torpedoes, mercilessness incarnate: a reminder that the sea wasn't the only enemy. The result: a young Marstaller gone missing, never to be seen again, and this news about to be thrust in the face of Hansigne Koch, a sailor's widow who two years previously had lost another son, a seven-year-old, in a boating accident in the harbor. This was Albert's task: to guide the woman safely to port, ensure that she wasn't swallowed by the depths as she received the message.
Earlier, from his bay window, he'd watched Lorentz cross the street with the telegram in his hand. He'd let him in. Having hung his overcoat in the hall, Lorentz eased himself painfully onto the sofa. His many active years had taken their toll. He'd already had one heart attack, and his childhood frailty had returned. He was often short of breath, especially during the cold winter months. His shoulders heaved, and he breathed in rasping, wheezing gasps, exhausted from crossing a single street in the stiff, sleet-filled wind. He'd forgotten to put on his hat: his wet, thinning hair clung to his scalp and his Buddha face was flushed red. He'd brought his indispensable walking stick with him into the drawing room.
"This time it's the Ruth" was all he said.
He'd lost two ships before her, and each time he'd informed the bereaved families personally. He probably intended to do so now, but in his condition a walk through town would be a feat of strength that might cost him dearly, and he'd become too old to mount his horse.
"You've forgotten your hat," Albert said. "Let me do it."
***
So Albert had walked up Kirkestræde to inform Pastor Abildgaard, then gone to the church to compose himself. And now, finally, he stood in front of the house in Vinkelstræde. Hansigne Koch opened the door to him herself.
"I know why you're here," she said, when she saw Albert's towering figure outside. "It's Peter." When she uttered her son's name, a shock seemed to run through her. The skin beneath her eyes paled and her lips began to tremble. "Don't