We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [215]
"But you do have free rein," Ellen said authoritatively. "Only the times are so uncertain."
"I need power of attorney."
Power of attorney? The three women looked at one another, not following his drift. Again they were on shaky ground. Did he not trust them? "Klara Friis says that—"
"Klara Friis?" Isaksen woke from the lethargy that overpowered him more and more often these days when in the company of the three widows. He'd suddenly spotted a connection.
"What does Klara Friis say?"
It wasn't clear precisely what Klara Friis had said, but she'd said something and it had left an impression: that much was evident. Words like uncertain and risky were much in her vocabulary. Words like that fed the farmer's wife in them, nurtured their suspicions, and strengthened their simple philosophy that in this life you know what you have, but you don't know what you might get, and so it's better to stick with what you have.
"But that philosophy doesn't hold here," he said in desperation. "If you stick to what you have, you'll lose that too. Such are the times. Only by risking the unknown do you have a chance of achieving anything at all."
"I don't understand," said Ellen, the tall one, in a wounded tone. "We haven't said anything about philosophy!"
He realized that he'd been thinking aloud, and that for a moment he had actually let them hear the inner dialogue he constantly had with them, trying to persuade them to let him get on with the job they'd hired him to do.
He stood up and made his excuses: he suddenly felt unwell. He needed fresh air. He knew they'd be staring after him as he left; the moment he was out the door, they'd begin a discussion far livelier than any they'd ever let him be party to.
He went down Havnegade, turned on to Prinsegade, and knocked on Klara Friis's door. A maid in a starched apron showed him into the drawing room. Klara Friis rose from her sofa, and he saw more than surprise in her eyes. He saw fear, as if he'd caught her, red-handed, being someone other than the person she'd pretended to be.
"What do you want?" she exclaimed involuntarily.
He watched her struggling to assume the vacant expression she'd worn the last time he visited her. But her face signaled vigilance and her eyes stayed alert, confirming his suspicions. So he came straight to the point.
"I want to know why you are working against me," he said. "I don't understand your motives. Do you think of us as rivals? As a shipowner you surely ought to have the town's best interests at heart."
He spoke to her as to an equal and hoped this would make an impression and convince her to abandon her mysterious games.
"You talk like a mayor," she said. "But we've already got one of those."
She gave him a defiant look. Her mask had fallen. Well, that's something, he thought. Now I don't have to put up with the usual feminine subterfuge. Now she can't get her own way simply by pretending not to understand mine.
Aloud he said, "A mayor doesn't have much power. But I would, if you'd just allow me to get on with my work. And you would too. I understand that you inherited a shipping company of your own and that you're managing it quite expertly."
"I'm just minding my own business," she said. "You ought to do the same."
Ah, there it is; the thought rushed through him. We're back where we started. If you won't fight openly, then obstinacy's your last defense.
"That's what I'm trying to do," he retorted. "But every time I try to get the widows to approve one of my proposals, I hear the same things. Times are too uncertain. It's too great a risk. Some say it would be wise to wait. And the same name keeps cropping up. Yours."
He could feel himself growing angry. He thought about the plots of land that she'd bought along Havnegade, sitting unused. A vibrant harbor front could have been built there, buzzing with enterprise. Instead, the plots looked like a wasteland of ideas, destroyed before they'd had a chance to flourish.