We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [226]
Doctor Kroman said nothing. We expected him to start scolding Anton, the way our teachers at school always did. We expected him to call him a rotten kid, a bad example, a thug, and a habitual criminal; to reproach him for his latest irresponsible breach of conduct; and to threaten him with the delinquents' home or even an adult prison. But the doctor was a practical man. He understood the body and its functions and he stuck to what he knew. He told us to get out so he could tend to Kristian's eye undisturbed. We headed for the door.
"Just a moment, William Tell," Doctor Kroman called after Anton. "I want you to come and see me tomorrow. There's something I want to take a closer look at."
"Perhaps it's my brain," Anton said afterward. "He wants to find out if I'm the dumbest guy in Marstal." He looked utterly devastated, and no wonder. This was all his fault. He'd wrecked Kristian Stork's eye. Although we'd lied when he'd asked us to, we were well aware that he'd done something so terrible that it was beyond apology.
The next time we saw Anton, he was wearing glasses.
His face, which until now had looked so determined, hard even, appeared pale and defenseless behind the dark brown horn frames that seemed to drag him downward. He looked as if he wished he were someone else entirely, and if there was a message in the eyes behind the lenses, it was "Please pretend you haven't seen me."
Not only did the spectacles mean that he was finished as leader of the Albert Gang. They meant he was finished entirely. He'd wanted to go to sea one day. That had been the whole point of his life: what else would he do? But a sailor can't wear glasses. It's simply forbidden. He needs to have the eyesight of an eagle. He's allowed to become far-sighted when he grows old, but if he's found to be nearsighted when he's young, it's all over. He won't even get his first job.
And over it was. Going to sea hadn't been Anton's plan so much as what nature intended for him, the culmination of his growth into manhood. He was getting taller, bigger, stronger, and older with every year that passed, and one day all these changes, which no earthly power could stop, would result in his stepping onto the deck of a ship and staying there to the end of his days. The spectacles were a farewell to all that: to Schipperstraat in Antwerp, Paradise Street in Liverpool, Tiger Bay in Cardiff, Vieux Carré in New Orleans, Barbary Coast in San Francisco, and Foretop Street in Valparaiso; they were a farewell to Amer Picon, Pernod, and absinthe. It was as if someone had come and trampled on his destiny and left it crushed.
Doctor Kroman might as well have told him he'd never be a man. Anton with spectacles was no longer Anton.
Now we knew why he was always narrowing his eyes, and why he'd failed to hit the stork. It hadn't been Shooter's fault, but Anton's. He'd stopped being who we thought he was, and oddly enough, we felt sorrier for him than we did for Kristian Stærk. Perhaps that was because we'd all admired Anton and none of us had really liked Kristian, with his rocking ears and casual abuse of anyone younger and smaller. Besides, Kristian's life didn't change because he'd lost an eye. He kept his job as an apprentice ironmonger. But everything changed for Anton.
At first, our teachers interpreted the spectacles symbolically and thought that Anton had become bookish. Perhaps even a scholar. But they soon learned that he was as impossible as ever: the only difference was that they had to make him take off his glasses before they boxed his ears.
To us, Anton's lenses were like two locked doors. He hid behind them and he shut us out. He left the leadership of the Albert Gang to Kristian Stærk, but Kristian derived little benefit from his newly acquired power. The only advantage he had over us was his strength, and that was exclusively based on our age difference. Beyond that, there was nothing he could do that we couldn't do too;