We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [245]
One by one the days passed, all filled identically with the loading of the salt cod beneath a sky of unchanging gray cloud. Still she didn't appear. He hung around on the deck, unable to stop thinking about her.
The others kept teasing him, and he reddened every time. They referred to her as "Knud Erik's girlfriend."
"Have you had your kiss today?" Rikard would ask.
Or, worse: "Surely she's not bored with you already?"
By now the salt cod was piled almost as high as the hatch coaming: they'd nearly finished loading it, and soon they'd be off to Portugal and he'd never see Miss Sophie again. Out of sheer desperation he decided to do something rash. He'd return, alone, to the big green-painted villa. He'd stand outside the door on the veranda. And when she opened the door, he'd turn his back on her. Or perhaps even spit on the ground. Or something, anything, to show that she meant nothing to him. That he had his own world, and she couldn't rock it.
It was the day before their departure and they were getting the sails ready. With no idea of how he might escape to visit her, his agitation was turning to full-blown panic. If he didn't get to see her one last time, his whole world would come crashing down. Unable to stand it any longer, he leapt over the rail and onto the wharf, then started running toward the green villa. He heard Dreymann call out behind him, but he didn't turn.
Though the villa was visible from the Kristina, it was a long way to run and it was mostly uphill. He was out of breath when he got there, but he didn't stop until he reached the front door of the house. He knocked hard, then rested his hands on his thighs for support as he struggled to get his breath back.
He was still in that position when the door was opened.
He'd fantasized about this. With burning cheeks, he'd imagined their last meeting, the one that would set him free. But it wasn't Miss Sophie. It was the older woman who'd shown him into the house on his first visit.
She stared at him expectantly, as if she thought he must have an important message for the owner of the house, the mighty Mr. Smith.
"Miss Sophie," he gasped, still incapable of standing up and breathing normally after his long sprint.
Shaking her head, she said some words in English. He caught only the last two: "...not here."
But the shake of her head conveyed her meaning. If he hadn't been in this wretched state, he'd surely have attacked her, as if it was her fault that the object of his longing wasn't there.
"Where?" he panted, still breathless.
The woman gave him a disapproving look and seemed to consider whether she should even dignify the confused boy's question with an answer. "St. John's," she said finally, and gave him another look, in which he thought he detected both malice and pity, though he couldn't see how that worked.
His heart sank. St. John's was the biggest town in Newfoundland, a frequent port of call for Marstal schooners. That much he knew. He also knew that the Kristina wasn't going there.
Miss Sophie had left. That was why she hadn't appeared for her daily rowing trips. She was somewhere else on this endless earth, and they'd never see each other again. Something that had vaguely begun, heading in all directions, was already over.
Bager was waiting for him.
"What's the matter with you, boy?" he said and whacked Knud Erik across the back of his head.
"How far away is St. John's?" Knud Erik asked, ignoring the blow.
"What the hell's got into you?" the skipper exclaimed, and whacked him again. "One hundred and eighty miles, but we're not chasing skirt in St. John's. We're going to Setúbal with salt cod for the Catholics."
The whacks weren't hard. Taps, really. An amused tone had crept into Bager's voice. He looked as if he was enjoying himself. "Foolish boy," he said. "You think you're setting the course now? I told Mr. Smith. Keep that girl under control, I said. She drives people mad. Spoiled little missy."
The barometer had dropped the next morning when they left Little Bay and headed out through the Bay of Notre Dame.