We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [151]
"Aren't you going to ask us in, Captain Madsen?"
The widow smiled at him. Yesterday he'd loved the way her smile lit up her face and made it round and mild; now he was convinced it had been false. He stepped back, gestured them inside, and helped the widow with her coat while the boy took off his own.
"Say hello to the captain," the widow said.
The boy stuck out his hand and bowed stiffly.
"Aren't you going to tell the captain your name?"
"Knud Erik," the boy said, frozen in mid-bow, staring at the floor in embarrassment. Albert was moved by his shyness.
"How old are you?" he asked.
"Six," the boy said, turning scarlet.
"Let's not stay here in the cold hall."
He escorted them into the drawing room and called his housekeeper.
"Coffee?"
The widow nodded.
"Yes, please."
"And what would you like to drink?"
"I'm not thirsty," the boy said, and blushed even more deeply.
"But I imagine you'd like a cookie?"
The boy shook his head. "No, thank you. I'm not hungry." He shrugged and tried to make himself invisible. Albert took a large pink conch from the windowsill.
"Have you seen one of these before?"
"We've got one at home," the boy said.
"And where does it come from?"
"My dad brought it back."
The boy's hunched shoulders looked like the wings of a bird. He bit his lower lip and stared at the Persian rug as if he was deeply interested in its swirling arabesques. He was trembling slightly. Now Albert grew awkward; he looked at the widow. She shook her head silently. He felt like a fool.
"I might have something you haven't seen before," he said, to break the silence. "Come here." He took the boy by the hand and led him to his office next door. In the window was a wooden model of the Princess, over a meter long and almost as tall. Albert carefully carried it back into the drawing room and placed it on the carpet. "I don't normally let anyone play with this. But you can, if you promise to be careful."
"I promise."
The housekeeper entered with the coffee and Albert sat down opposite the widow. The boy was busy examining the model's anchor. Then, very carefully, he turned its wheel. Slowly he pushed the Princess across the rug. With both hands on the hull he rocked the ship from side to side while imitating the sound of waves and the singing of the wind in the rigging.
Albert kept an eye on him. When he could see that the boy was completely absorbed in playing, he turned to the widow.
"I told you I don't know anything about children."
Mrs. Rasmussen laughed.
"Oh, don't you worry about that. Just treat him as one of your crew. The youngest member. And you just be the captain, like you used to."
"He doesn't want to be with an old man like me."
"Of course he does. You'll be like God to him. Just start telling him about your travels and your experiences, and you'll find you have an audience like you've never known. And now you must stop making a fuss because I'm not giving you any more compliments."
The next day he went to Snaregade to fetch Knud Erik. The boy's mother, Klara Friis, was pregnant, and the time for her confinement couldn't be far off: her body was big and heavy under a black shawl. He couldn't remember seeing her before, which surprised him. Marstal was a small town, and he had lived in it for a long time. Yet he no longer knew it.
She invited him in for coffee, but he declined, not wanting to inconvenience her. Besides, he wanted this visit over and done with. He felt he'd been tricked into it and he still felt resentful toward Mrs. Rasmussen.
The boy walked silently beside him down to the harbor. It was a clear, sunny day. The boy had no mittens on and his hands were red with cold.
"What happened to your mittens?"
"I lost them."
They walked along Havnegade to Dampskibsbroen and looked at the water. A thin layer of