We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [164]
"It's for an army of working men," said Mr. Henckel, who was a fiery soul. "It's just the beginning. The day will come when we'll tear down all the old rubbish in this town and make proper use of the space." In addition to the shipyards in Marstal, Korsør, and Kalundborg, he also owned a brickyard. "I've enough damn bricks to build a whole new Marstal if you want one. Just say the word," he bragged in the bar at Hotel Ærø, as his eyes grew bloodshot and large patches of sweat formed on his shirt. Then he'd buy another round, and we'd toast the new era that was storming in. We'd grown accustomed to champagne. The bubbles rose to the surface and burst in little pops that tickled your lips. There was no end to them, just as there was no end to the engineer's ideas.
Herman raised his glass too. He no longer went about with his sleeves rolled up, and he wore cuff links on his shirt these days. We'd all heard about the two spelling mistakes on his tattoo.
All we'd had before in Marstal was a savings bank: now we got a proper one. The Commerce and Credit Bank from Svendborg, on the island of Funen, opened a branch. The building stood across from Albert's broker's office and it was even taller than the school, the post office, and Henckel's workers' accommodation, with a large façade facing Prinsegade. Broad granite steps led up to a big varnished oak door with a brass handle. It looked like the entrance to a castle.
From time to time you might hear the noise of a rivet hammer from Marstal Steel Shipyard, but no ships had been launched yet.
Albert nodded to Peter Raahauge, the boat builder, as he made his way home through Buegade at the end of the day. Raahauge raised a finger to his cap and stopped.
"When do we finally get to see one of your ships?"
Raahauge set his toolbox down on the cobbled street. He folded his strong arms across his chest and snorted contemptuously into his mustache, before he shook his head. "Damn strange way they do business," he said. "If laying down the keel is the same as building a whole ship, then I've built an awful lot of ships lately. I've yet to see any frames or shell plating."
"So how does that work?" Albert asked. "It doesn't make any sense to me."
"Or to the rest of us mere mortals. But that's because we're not as smart as Henckel. You see, Captain Madsen..."
Raahauge leaned close to Albert. His voice became a confidential whisper. "He's arranged it so that the Norwegians pay the first installment as soon as the keel's been laid. Then he invites them down here, offers them champagne, and shows off the keel, and they think the ship's as good as built. How are they to know that the last set of customers were shown the same keel? It's the same one we show all of them."
"So Henckel's taking large sums of money for ships he'll never deliver? But that's fraud!" Albert was outraged.
"You might say so, Captain Madsen. I couldn't possibly comment. Still, I'll be having to look for new work soon. Because there's no way in hell this can last."
Peter Raahauge touched a finger to the brim of his cap once more and disappeared up the street.
FOR SOME YEARS now, Albert had gone out fishing for shrimp. Many of us did that when we came ashore. Some did it out of necessity, but for Albert, it was a way of passing the time. The local waters belonged to boys and to old men. He'd learned his way around the archipelago as a child, exploring all its islands, bays, points, sandbanks, and invisible currents.