We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [168]
In the mirror he could see that his chest was sunken and long stretch marks ran from his shoulders down to his pectorals, which sagged under their own weight. The curly hair that covered his chest had been gray for many years. Yet once he was dressed, his body seemed as impressive as it had ever been.
One summer evening long ago he'd made love with Cheng Sumei in her large suburban villa in Le Havre, not knowing that it would be for the last time. It had been an evening like many others. Wax candles, flames that stood straight up in the calm evening, the scent of incense. She'd leaned over him and let him loosen her silk kimono, which fell open and exposed her naked body, as white as the petals of a tree peony, with a faint hint of something that was not yellow exactly, but more like cream. Her skin was as smooth as a polished jade figurine. He didn't understand it, the mystery of her agelessness, which he associated not with the Orient, but with her. In all the time he'd known her, only the few lines that appeared around her mouth betrayed her as the mature woman she was. They were like lines drawn on a picture. They only enhanced her beauty.
Cheng Sumei unbound her long hair and let it cascade over her shoulders, and he buried himself completely in its dense darkness. This was the unvarying prelude to their lovemaking. He closed his eyes and surrendered to her hands, which gently caressed his cheekbones. Then her lips landed on his.
The next morning she didn't wake up. She just lay there with her black hair spread out across the white, embroidered silk pillow. She'd died as though she'd merely turned her face away to look in a different direction. She'd never aged and was never struck down by illness. And yet her life had ended.
Cheng Sumei had passed away. That was exactly how he thought of it: she'd risen from the bed in the middle of the night and passed away, away from him. He looked at her dead body on the sheet as though it were a kimono she'd stepped out of. Every night for a long time afterward, he expected to hear the familiar swishing of silk as she undressed in front of him. He closed his eyes, though darkness already reigned in the room, and waited for the touch of her hands gliding across his face.
He worked hard during the day. But not even his daily activities provided distraction or escape. They'd worked together too closely for that. He'd accompany her to her office, and in the evenings they'd bring telegrams and newspapers home with them. Then they'd discuss freight rates and political events around the globe. He learned from her. And she learned from him. He had firsthand knowledge of the sea, and if there were problems with a crew, or if she was dissatisfied with a captain's decisions, she would consult him. If a new market was opening up, they'd make the decision jointly after extensive discussion. They discovered common ground in the brokerage business, and that was fundamentally the strongest bond between them.
He could still recall the moment he'd fallen in love with her. Luis Presser had invited him for the first time to dinner at the villa where he'd later spend so many nights. At the table, he'd been mesmerized by her. He'd had to concentrate on not staring and force himself to pay attention to the conversation, which was in English. After a while even he realized that it was embarrassing—odd almost—that he hadn't yet addressed her, or looked in her direction, except furtively. If he felt anything, it was awe. There was something transparent about her beauty that in his eyes made her enigmatic, almost supernatural. He hadn't expected that she would deign to do something as profane as open her mouth to speak, and so when she addressed him, he was as startled