We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [175]
An old man in a boat on the sea on a summer's morning, with an erection. He was furious with himself. And he needed relief at the same time. He'd reached the critical stage of an illness. The only cure for it was time. And distance.
AFTER TWO WEEKS he came home and found Klara Friis in his drawing room. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa when he entered, wearing the same dress she'd worn on that fateful evening. He could see the contours of her body beneath the thin, loose-fitting fabric.
"Your housekeeper let me in. I told her I had an important messag."
He remained standing in the doorway, looking at her guardedly. He knew his behavior was rude, but he was held back by the fear that he might do something impulsive if he took another step. The urge he'd refused to name in his restless hours on the water took hold of him again, just as it had that night in the darkness of the hallway. Fear and excitement at the same time.
"It's Knud Erik," she said. "He doesn't understand why we don't see you anymore. He asks after you every day, but he's afraid to visit you. Have you dropped him completely?" She directed her gaze at him. At the mention of Knud Erik his fear seemed to evaporate.
"My dear Klara," he said, and went over to her.
He took her hands in his. She looked at him, and her eyes suddenly reddened.
"There's something else. I miss you terribly too!"
She freed her hands and flung her arms around him, pressing her lips against his. Suddenly he was overcome by rage. He grabbed hold of her waist to push her away, but his hands did the opposite. He pressed her to him as he kissed her hard, without tenderness. She buckled, and he pushed her down onto the sofa. Landing heavily on top of her, he tugged at her dress.
"Wait, wait," she breathed.
She pulled her dress up around her waist and got herself ready for him. His anger hadn't left. When he entered her, gasping, he struck her hard across her face. In the excitement of the moment it seemed to him that he was hitting her in self-defense, in protest at her youth and what she'd lured him into. Then he collapsed, panting, already done, both with his own violence and with her surrendering body, which he'd barely seen or felt. She clung to him, apparently unaffected by the blow, which had left her cheek burning red.
Albert's head lay on her chest. He felt its softness and resented it. In her arms he was a defenseless child. He already knew that he was trapped. He'd come back to her and then he'd hit her again. He grew red with shame. He freed himself from her arms and started rearranging his clothes. She came up to him and rested her cheek on his shoulder. The mark of his hand was still visible.
"Are you fond of me?" she asked. "Are you really fond of me?"
"Yes, yes," he snapped. "Now let me get my clothes in order."
He didn't recognize himself. He felt no triumph in his conquest. Instead, the feeling that a disaster had occurred was slowly spreading through him.
Klara got up and went over to a mirror hanging above a chest of drawers to fix her hair. When she'd finished, she turned to him.
"What do you want me to tell Knud Erik?" He shrugged and turned his head away. "He knows I've been to see you. He'll be very disappointed if you drop him."
"I'll be there to pick him up tomorrow. We'll go out and catch some shrimp."
In the hall they grew formal again, shaking hands when she left. The small dark room was like a lobby entrance to the town outside, and to its ever-curious eyes. Albert remained in the doorway as she stepped into the street. Across the way Mrs. Jensen, the draper's wife, was going up the granite steps to the bank. He nodded to her. She threw a critical glance at Klara from underneath the brim of her black lacquered straw hat and returned his greeting with a curt nod. His public undressing had begun.
When he turned up to find Knud Erik the next day, the boy wasn't