We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [165]
Albert was thinking about shrimp one evening after he'd left Knud Erik and his mother and was strolling along Nygade to his house in Prinsegade. Shrimp. He'd take Knud Erik with him the next time he went to check on his nets. He'd teach the boy how to do it and give him a bucketful to take home to his mother. They could sell the rest at the harbor, and Knud Erik would get a bit of money in his pocket and bring in some earnings like a good little man. It would be half play and half real help for the hard-up widow, who was unlikely to accept assistance in any other form. Normally he'd just give his shrimp away to anyone who happened to turn up at his office or to Lorentz across the street.
That summer he'd laid his nets along the coast of Langeland, starting at Sorekrogen and working his way toward Ristinge. In the light summer nights when he fished, the water's surface was like a mirror. The first glow of the sun blazed northeast as he rowed out through the entrance to the harbor, and the sound of the oars traveled far across the water.
He asked the boy if he wanted to come along.
***
The summer holidays had started. With school over, Knud Erik hung about during the long, empty days when the weather didn't tempt him to swim at the beach. After some hesitation, Knud Erik's mother consented to a shrimp outing. A bond had grown between Albert and Klara. He felt it keenly but he didn't explore its nature, though he found himself spending more and more time in front of his mirror, and sometimes a smile—one of recognition—would appear behind his dense, graying beard. It was an old friend he was greeting in the mirror, one he hadn't seen for many years: his own younger self.
He was to pick up Knud Erik in the evening and take him home. The boy would sleep on the sofa in Albert's drawing room until three in the morning, and then he'd wake him and they'd head for the harbor. Klara was baking thick pancakes when he arrived. They were a local specialty; as she made them, she brought them directly out from the kitchen, so they could be eaten piping hot. He stood in the doorway, watching her as she deftly poured batter into figure eights in the hot pan, where they quickly rose into small compact mounds. When they turned golden, she placed them on brown paper to drain. Knud Erik stood next to her, eagerly awaiting the first pancake, which he immediately sprinkled with sugar.
No words passed between them as she worked on the pancakes, but the silence was a comfortable one. Standing in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest, Albert realized he felt at home in the presence of this young woman.
She'd tied a scarf around her hair to protect it from the greasy fumes: when a lock came loose and fell over her eyes, she blew it out of the way and shot him a cheerful glance. He smiled back at her.
She served gooseberry compote with the pancakes and he asked if it was homemade. She nodded. There were gooseberry bushes in their little back garden. Even the most wretched hovels in the town had a garden. She'd made far more pancakes than they could eat, and she gave them the remaining ones, wrapped in a tea towel, along with a jar of compote.
"In case you get hungry tonight," she said.
She turned to Knud Erik and handed him a woolen sweater.
"It can get cold out on the water."
"I won't be cold," Knud Erik said, in a tone that implied that his newly acquired manhood had been offended.
"Well, I'll be bringing my sweater," said Albert. He placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Say goodbye to your mother."
Klara stood in the doorway, waving after them as they walked toward Kirkestræde.
When he roused Knud