We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [193]
Ravn was from Sønderborg in South Jutland. He'd been drafted to fight for the Germans and had served on a U-boat. Photographs had been taken of all the ships the U-boats had sunk, and every man got a copy. He had a whole album of them at home.
"I've got the photograph here," Herman said. "Do you want to have a look?"
He passed it across the table and turned to order a new round.
We instantly recognized the Hydra, and the sight of it in flames shifted a weight inside us. The black-and-white photograph echoed our own experiences of shipwreck.
"Anyway," Herman said, "Ravn won't be going around bragging about sinking Danish ships anymore."
"Perhaps we were a bit too rough with him," Lennart said. We could hear the uncertainty in his voice.
"It was a fair fight. Ravn could have fought back. We've got nothing on our conscience." Herman sounded like a priest offering absolution. "He got what he deserved," he added, turning to us. "I beat him up for the men who died. And for the Hydra."
Herman paid a visit to Klara Friis, intending to tell her the story of Ravn. We imagined he was hoping to profit from it. Only this time he'd say, "I beat him up for Henning."
Klara opened the door. "What do you want?" she asked tersely, when she saw Herman on the doorstep. The last time he'd paid her a visit, his intentions hadn't been good. "I've got news of Henning," he said.
She listened to his story in silence. She'd paled when he informed her that he had news of Henning; now she reddened as he sat there boasting about having beaten to a pulp the man who sank the Hydra. When he concluded by claiming that he'd beaten him up for Henning's sake, her face whitened again and her mouth became a thin line. She stared at him through narrowed eyes. Completely unable to's interpret her expression, he felt temporarily at a loss.
"Perhaps you disapprove of fights, Mrs. Friis?" His manner had suddenly become very formal. Still she didn't speak. He shifted in his chair and regretted having come.
Finally she broke her silence.
"I'd like you to accompany me to Copenhagen," she said.
By now Klara Friis had hired a maid who could take care of the children in her absence. She'd been to I. C. Jensen and ordered new rugs and consulted Rosenbæk, the carpenter, about a new bed suitable for her widowed status. She was filled with energy, but no one knew what she planned to do, apart from rearranging her life to suit her new financial status.
She revealed nothing to Herman while they were on the ferry. He'd not expected her to be forthcoming, nor had he speculated about what the trip to Copenhagen might involve. When she asked him to accompany her, he'd sensed no promise on the horizon, so it was purely out of curiosity that he'd agreed. He was on the lookout for new opportunities in life, and although he couldn't determine the nature of this expedition, he felt it held possibilities.
"You know the moneymen in Copenhagen, Mr. Frandsen," she said to him.
She addressed him formally, and he preferred it that way. It established a businesslike tone between them, and he was up for doing business.
"I want you to introduce me to them."
He stared at her. Was she stupid or just hopelessly naive? Was she practically asking to be robbed? He hadn't given much thought to Klara Friis's intelligence, but there was no reason to assume she was a fool. Was this a test?
He decided to be honest with her—which in turn demanded a rare moment of honesty with himself.
"Are you referring to Henckel? But he was a fraud. Surely you know that he's in prison now?"
"I'm well aware of that. But you must have known others. You've been to the stock exchange. I need to speak with someone who understands finance."
"You mean people like the Negro Thug or the Rolling Sidewalk? I'm afraid they're cut from the same cloth as Henckel. If you value your money, then don't entrust them