We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [177]
He hadn't hit her again, but he knew that this was only because his first blow had left evidence on her face, which would be visible to the whole town. Only fear for his reputation stayed his hand when the urge to hurt her overwhelmed him. Oh yes, his stiff member could have the same effect as a punch, and be used to inflict pain, but here he was betrayed by his age. He didn't have the stamina he once had.
They made love like two people who are tied to others and can only meet illicitly, briefly, and breathlessly. And that was indeed their situation: he was married to his old age, and she to her youth. The bridge where they were supposed to meet cracked the moment they stepped on it. He didn't understand himself, he didn't understand her, and he knew that if he asked her to explain her feelings for him, he'd get no reply.
Knud Erik returned to school, and a rainy autumn forced them to abandon the trips, but their meetings continued. They thought of other things to do. Knud Erik would visit him frequently in the afternoons, and they'd go through his homework together while the light faded outside. Sometimes Albert would go over to Snaregade, but Klara never came to his house. It hadn't been agreed on formally, but the understanding lay in the air between them. He could enter her world, but she couldn't enter his.
Albert stopped visiting the marine painter's widow, and it felt like final proof of his shame. Did the whole town know what was going on? He was sure it did. He couldn't put his finger on one thing in particular, but the signs were all about him. A passerby would give him a stare, a conversation on a bench would suddenly stop when he passed, a shopkeeper whom he'd long been familiar with would greet him with a new reserve.
Sometimes he'd run into Herman. After their confrontation, the young man no longer spoke to him, but wryly lifted a finger to his hat, or grinned coarsely, as though they were fellow conspirators. Albert ignored him but worried about how often he encountered him on his way to or from Snaregade. Did that layabout have nothing better to do than spy on him?
We saw him sitting late at night in the bay window facing Prinsegade, with a book in his hand, trying to read. Most of the time, though, he simply stared into space.
What was he thinking about? He was old, but he hadn't found peace.
Had he realized that a long life didn't automatically bestow wisdom?
Albert and Klara did have one thing in common: their concern for Knud Erik. She trusted all his views about the boy implicitly, even though he'd never had children of his own. His presence set Klara apart from most Marstal women who, with their husbands at sea, were forced into the role of father as well as mother. Any doubts about their ability to achieve this they'd hide behind a strict, almost harsh manner. For many months of every year and sometimes for years on end, they lived life like a dress rehearsal for widowhood.
Klara Friis was now experiencing the rare privilege of having a man around, an unexpected luxury that made her surrender to an inner weakness, which she should have fought. She handed things over to him and stopped making her own decisions. She looked to Albert as though expecting that from now on, he'd organize her life.
She stood firm on only one point: Knud Erik was not to follow in his father's footsteps. She'd listened to the conch and she'd heard the rush of death. Her son must never make a living at sea. When she talked about this, she abandoned the passivity that characterized her behavior in Albert's presence: she straightened up in her chair and her voice took on an unwonted sharpness.
The boy flinched whenever Klara raised the subject. Albert had heard him promise his mother that he'd never be a sailor. But the