We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [247]
Finally the wind died down. The sea still moved in heavy swells, but the rigging no longer shrieked, and the ominous froth disappeared from the waves. The sun broke through the clouds; the big-bellied sharks were gone. The black coastline became land again, a place one could reach, the fulfillment of an impossible dream: firm ground underfoot, an amazing notion that it took time to get used to after thirty days on a convulsing sea.
Two black mountains with almost vertical sides appeared ahead of them. Between them was an opening.
"The Black Hole," Bager said, paler than ever. "The entrance to St. John's."
He turned to Knud Erik, who was at the wheel. "Seems you'll get your way after all," he grinned. "We'll call at St. John's to take in supplies."
IT WASN'T MISS SOPHIE so much as himself he'd forgotten: the monotony of the storm had swallowed everything. But the skipper's remark and the sight of the Black Hole brought her back. It was more important than ever to see her again. He'd been given a second chance, and it couldn't be a coincidence. Meaning returned to everything, and all the signs pointed in one direction: Miss Sophie.
He forgot about his blisters and his soaked clothes. The tension that had stiffened his body for thirty days and nights, making it ache more than any physical exertion could, disappeared. The storm had passed, only to make way for a new, internal one. The skipper's words had prompted more cursed blushing. An impatient wind whipped his blood and made his heart race.
Bager took the wheel and they passed through the Black Hole. Behind it the narrow entrance to St. John's opened, teeming with fishing boats, schooners, and small steamers. Wooden houses stood on the rocky slopes, and along the harbor front, dense rows of buildings faced the water, with warehouses and ship's chandlers packed cheek by jowl. The wharves were crowded with people and horse carts. The din from the street mingled with the screeching of seagulls, and the stench of fish and fish oil pervaded everything.
He could tell right away that St. John's wasn't a major city. Copenhagen was bigger, but compared to the life here, the wharves along Frederiksholms Kanal seemed deserted. Knud Erik had imagined St. John's as a slightly bigger version of Little Bay: somewhere behind the town Mr. Smith would have a house much like his other one. He could simply stroll up to it, knock on its door, and meet Miss Sophie again. Looking around now, his heart sank. He'd never find her here. There were sure to be hundreds of other Mr. Smiths. And—the thought almost paralyzed him—perhaps hundreds of other Miss Sophies too.
They lit a fire in the fo'c'sle stove to dry their clothes, they washed in buckets of warm water and put on clean clothes from their sea bags. For a while they sat around the table at the center of the fo'c'sle like something on display, before one by one they began to nod off.
"I feel like a damn chicken. Not a single bone left in my body," Rikard said.
The next morning the skipper announced shore leave that same evening, and they all headed into town together. Even Helmer was als lowed to join them. The storm had been his baptism; the punctual coffee service he'd provided throughout its duration had earned him membership in the group. They made for Water Street, right behind the harbor front.
Dreymann winked at Knud Erik.
"You'll probably find Miss Sophie there."
They went into a pub and ordered beer. The