We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [222]
As a result he decided to put the weapon to a conclusive test by bringing down a really big bird. Marstal's biggest, in fact. It was a decision that in our opinion showed his true stature, but at the same time it worried us; indeed, it made us feel uneasy. Everyone in town was fond of this bird; it even had its own name. Of course, so did the many macaws, cockatoos, nymph parakeets, mynah birds, and canaries that sailors had brought back to Marstal over the years. But those birds sat in cages, begging for sugar lumps—and even Anton's Tordenskjold was half tame. This was different. This bird, whose life Anton planned to end, was a free and noble creature that flew just as far, every year, as the men of Marstal sailed. We were honored that it had chosen to nest in our town. It was a stork, and it lived on the roof of Goldstein's house. We called it Frede.
Goldstein's roof was a strange place for a stork to pick for its nest. Storks like being high up, but Goldstein's house, which lay at the end of Markgade, was a low half-timbered building, painted yellow, with a red-tiled roof that looked set to skid right off the sunken walls. Abraham Goldstein was a white-bearded, mild-mannered shoemaker who never looked at you. There was a reason for that: some said he could give you the evil eye. Any skipper who passed him on the way to his waiting ship postponed his voyage until the next day. What's more, Goldstein had been sighted standing in Market Square early one spring morning, hypnotizing sparrows. They'd flown onto his outstretched hands and hopped all the way up his arms and along his sloping shoulders, even settling on his hat. Others said this was all nonsense and that Goldstein was a completely ordinary man who should be judged only on his ability to resole a pair of boots. As far as that went, no one had any complaints.
We went over to Goldstein's house on a Sunday afternoon in July. The heat had driven everyone to the beach, so Anton could shoot the stork without worrying about witnesses. The whole thing felt infinitely sad. And yet we had to watch. We were sure we'd shut our eyes the moment the stork flapped its black and white wings for the last time and tumbled out of its big nest of twigs, its red legs in the air. We had a vague sense that great men and pointless, sad events went together, and we saw the whole business in that light. Convinced that Anton was destined for greatness, we wanted to be there when it happened.
Anton raised the gun and narrowed one eye. He stood like that for a long time, as if unsure of his aim, and we thought we saw his hand shaking slightly. Looking at the stork, we understood. I felt we were bidding it farewell, and Anton surely felt the same. Then he pulled the trigger.
We all shut our eyes tight, as if on command, and kept them shut as the shot rang out. It seemed loud enough to carry all the way to the Tail. Absolute silence followed. Then Anton cursed. We opened our eyes and looked up at the ridge of the roof. The stork was still standing there, motionless on its pile of twigs, as if it had fallen asleep.
Was that how storks behaved when they were shot? The bullet should have reduced the noble bird to a pathetic heap of feathers and long red legs; instead, it stood upright, as if it had been stuffed.
It took several minutes to figure out why. Anton had missed.
Furiously, he reloaded the air gun and fired again and again, until he had no pellets left. The stork didn't so much as twitch. It was like it was deaf. But deaf or not, one thing was sure. Despite Anton's cannonade with the air gun, Frede remained unharmed.
Suddenly the door to Goldstein's house flew open and a man appeared: not the little old shoemaker, but a giant who had to bend to exit the tiny door. Beneath his blue overalls, his tanned torso was bare; we could see his massive biceps and the blue and red tattoos that snaked