We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [185]
"Why didn't you marry the Chinese lady?"
He didn't have to reply. He could see in her face that she'd already decided on an explanation of her own. "That's what you're like, isn't it?" she said. "You never marry them."
"Have you spoken to Pastor Abildgaard?" she asked the next time he came by Snaregade.
He looked away. "Not yet."
"Why not?"
He said nothing. A feeling of impotence overwhelmed him—shame too. He had no idea how to reply. She bit her lower lip. She didn't know how to open him up. Unaware of his fear and resistance, she focused instead on her own sense of being jilted.
"I'm not good enough for you?" she asked. "Is that it?" He didn't reply. "You promised." Her gaze grew firm.
"I'll do it." He was mumbling, a rare tone of voice for a man used to shouting orders on deck in high winds and who'd not dropped the habit once he came ashore. But this answer was worse than none at all.
"I don't know what to believe," she said, shaking her head. "I don't suppose it matters, anyway. I thought that was what you wanted."
"I'll do it," he repeated.
He hated himself and her because she was addressing him like a child, and it was his own fault.
"So do it, then. Do it tomorrow."
Unable to bear the humiliating situation any longer, he rose and left without saying goodbye.
"You're ashamed of me!" she screamed after him.
ON SHROVETIDE EVE the lamp above Albert's door was lit. To us this was an invitation: according to the traditional, unwritten law of Shrovetide Eve, every lit door was an open door. If you didn't want visits from revelers in fancy dress, you switched off the light.
The housekeeper answered our knocking and let us in. It looked as if she'd made preparations for our arrival. The punch bowl awaited us on a stand. We were just settling on the sofa and the chairs that had been set out for visitors when our host entered. We saw the surprise on his face—unpleasant surprise, disapproval even—and realized immediately that we'd made a mistake.
It could be that Albert and his housekeeper had misunderstood each other. But later we speculated that she'd let us in as an act of revenge. The prospect of another woman in the house couldn't have thrilled her, and this was her way of paying him back.
Obviously, we should have made our apologies and left at that point. But we were full of a particular energy that night. We weren't that easy to control.
Was it our fault that Albert later forgot himself? No, it was mostly his own. The scandal was his, not ours. You have to be prepared to put up with a few japes at Shrovetide. We meant no harm—well, not much. Besides, our host was welcome to give as good as he got, and join in the fun. It was all just high spirits. We certainly bore no responsibility for what followed.
We had nothing but sympathy for Albert Madsen. He'd been good to Marstal and we didn't begrudge him taking a young wife in his old age, if that was what he was up to, and not something worse. Which his procrastination over marrying Klara Friis certainly seemed to indicate.
When he opened the door and found us in his drawing room, one hell of a sight met his eyes. A cow was sitting on his sofa, yanking on a springy coil of yellow paper hanging from its tar-black nose. Next to it, a Spanish señorita was brandishing a fan. Her red lips, painted on the outside of the silk stocking pulled over her head, were parted slightly, as though inviting a kiss. A thickset farmer's wife with a lampshade for a hat stood in the middle of the floor with hands—in gloves sized for a man—planted on her hips. The room had filled with the smell