We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [209]
"But does he do his job properly? Is he someone you can talk to?" Ellen asked.
"Not too pushy, I hope?" Johanne added anxiously, when the Commander mentioned that Isaksen had vision.
"Yes, I've heard about him," Markussen told Klara over the telephone. "I'd be happy to hire a man like him. He has drive. He wouldn't come to Marstal if he saw it as a provincial backwater. He's spotted an opportunity. Old Boye must have done better than we suspected. Capital in the bank, no debts. An enterprising man could go far with that. Isaksen could very well throw a wrench in the works."
Isaksen was hired on the skippers' recommendation, and he arrived in the middle of August. Avoiding the complicated ferry and train transfers that made the journey from the capital to Marstal so onerous, he'd opted instead for a nonstop trip on the packet boat, which normally carried passengers of humbler origins. He stood on the deck, tossed the mooring line to the people on the wharf with familiar ease, then waved his broad-brimmed straw hat as if he was greeting the whole town.
He was dressed in a white linen suit and wore a fresh carnation in his buttonhole, and when he raised his hat, we saw that his skin was as dark and tanned as a sailor's. Or perhaps it was his natural coloring. His brown eyes were fringed by thick lashes that made him look both gentle and enigmatic.
A man of the world, we concluded as we returned his greeting. We didn't mind men of the world. That's what we were ourselves, and we had no need for any new arrival to go all meek and self-effacing just to suck up to us. He was welcome to show off a bit if he could back it up.
Isaksen could indeed back it up, and as the days went by, his popularity increased. The skipper of the packet boat, Asmus Nikolajsen, who'd chatted with him as they navigated the archipelago, reported him to be a straightforward and informed man, full of natural curiosity. Indeed, after answering all his questions, Nikolajsen reckoned the exotic-looking stranger probably knew more about packet sailing than he did himself. He clearly knew his way around a ship, and he'd very deftly lent a hand on board without once soiling his beautiful suit—something that further raised him in Nikolajsen's esteem: all sailors value cleanliness.
Of course, one big question remained. Would Isaksen know how to talk to the widows?
First he talked to us. He did a round of the harbor and sat down among the old skippers on the benches. He knocked on the doors of the brokers' firms, stepped inside, raised his hat, and said immediately that he wasn't some rival come to spy on them. He'd come because he felt that this town was a community, one that could tackle the challenges of the future only if it set aside rivalries and grudges, pulled together, and, to sum it up, dared to think big.
What he said reminded us of Albert and his speech about fellowship. Only a few years had passed since we'd stood in front of the newly mounted memorial stone and heard those words, but it seemed a lifetime ago. It finally struck us: that day on the harbor in 1913 had marked the end of an era. And not a single one of us had noticed.
Isaksen's words had a magic to them. He helped us see how things looked from the outside. Our multiply owned shipping shares had helped us get this far, but the age of the small investor was over. The money now required was far more than a maid, a cabin boy, or even a good captain could supply. Big investments demanded big money: the capital of a whole town. Marstal had that capital; it was just a question of knowing how to use it.
"My suggestion is that Marstal's capital should be in fewer hands. It's the only way that merchant shipping, and the control of it, can remain here."
What was he hinting at? Some thought he seemed a bit too similar