We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [154]
Her house was clean and tidy. There were geraniums and wallflowers on the windowsill. But the furniture was a random collection from all sorts of places. No pictures hung on the walls: the discolored patches on the wallpaper had been left by the damp. No amount of cleaning could keep those stains at bay: they came from within the walls, caused by the poor construction of the house, a house built for's poor people. Such a house did not become neglected. Neglect was its essence.
During winter it was either freezing inside or as humid as a green-house, depending on whether there was money for coal. On days when he showed up unexpectedly, his breath would linger like white clouds in the cold; on days when she knew he was coming and invited him for coffee, the overstuffed stove glowing in its corner turned the room into a steambath. Heated or unheated, the atmosphere was equally unhealthy and unpleasant.
They'd never had a serious conversation. Her gratitude was expressed in her shy deference. She didn't look him in the eye or say anything that came from the heart. The divide between them remained.
When the water in the harbor froze, Albert took Knud Erik for a walk among the trapped ships. Between them stood wooden stalls where vendors sold apple pancakes and warm elderberry cordial. Business was brisk, thanks to the crowd of people who'd come out to test their skates, and the clear winter air echoed with cheerful voices. Albert taught the boy to recognize the various types of ships. There were small cutters and ketches with round, fat curves and flat sterns. There were all the different sorts of schooners: fore-and-aft schooners, topsail schooners, topgallant schooners, schooner-brig combinations, and then the huge brigantines, which were the boy's favorite, undoubtedly because of their size. How the sails might be set was one big mystery to him, especially now, with all the canvas removed. Only the black lines of the yards and the rigging against the winter sky hinted at their secrets.
"It's just like learning to read at school. The layout of sails is the sailor's alphabet," Albert told him.
"Tell me a story," the boy would say.
So Albert did. He took one from his own life, or from his dreams. It made no difference to the boy and, eventually, to Albert either. He felt as though something inside him that had been violently forced apart had started to grow back together.
From time to time the boy's eyes drifted to the skaters, and Albert could tell that he was in another place.
"Do you know how to skate?" Albert asked.
The boy shook his head.
"Well, we'd better teach you then."
Their excursions always concluded with a visit to Albert's house in Prinsegade. Once Knud Erik had deposited his wooden-soled boots in the hall, he'd settle in front of the stove, where he'd take off his woolen socks and wriggle his toes in its heat. Albert would place his boots next to Knud Erik's. In winter he was still known to wear Laurids's old boots, which had plenty of room for an extra layer of woolen socks. There they stood, with their knee-high leather shafts and their metal caps, right next to the boy's.
The housekeeper would bring them hot chocolate with freshly whipped cream, and Albert would sit at the table, drawing. He was a good, meticulous draftsman, and in his sketches he'd carefully detail the canvas and rigging of different types of ships. He added seagulls and a fair wind, so the ships would heel slightly, offering a view of the deck. Behind the wheel he'd put a man smoking a pipe. There was a galley, a hood, and hatches. In front of the ship he always drew a spiral.
"What's that?" the boy asked one day.
"A maelstrom."
"What's a maelstrom?"
"It's a whirlpool that sucks everything down. The ship will disappear in a moment."