We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [248]
Algot put his arm around her thick waist. "You're better off with this one," he said to Knud Erik. "You'll get more for your money than with that skinny Miss Sophie. Isn't that right, Sally, or whatever the hell your name is."
"Julia. My name's Julia," the woman said in English.
She was used to Scandinavian sailors and understood a little of what was being said. She leaned provocatively toward Knud Erik. She smelled of perfume and sweat: close up, he could see that the floury powder on her face had cracked, revealing wrinkles underneath. She made as if to kiss him: he instinctively turned away, but she grabbed hold of his neck and tried to shove his face deep into her cleavage.
"A pretty boy like you shouldn't sleep alone."
He squirmed free and turned his back on her while the others roared with laughter. He took a swig of beer to cover his embarrassment: its bitterness made him wince. He took another, hoping it would taste better on the second try. It didn't. Did he really have to drink this stuff?
He turned to the others. The woman was now sitting on Algot's lap, a bottle to her lips. The rest of the crew were deep in a discussion.
"Wait till we get to Setúbal; this is nothing," Rikard said.
"Setúbal!" Algot snorted. "Give me Martinique any day. The girls there dance on the tables naked."
"And give you syphilis," Rikard retorted. "We had this bosun once. Spends one night with one of them: three months later he's a goner. Priciest cunt in the world, that one. So no nigger bitches for me, mate."
"I suggest you enjoy it while it lasts, boys," Dreymann said indulgently. "When we get to England, we pick up the skipper's daughter. Once Miss Kristina's on board, you'll need to start watching your language."
Knud Erik looked across to Helmer, who sat clasping his bottle in silence. He hadn't drunk much of his beer, either.
"Don't you have something else to drink here?" Knud Erik said, trying to sound like a man of the world.
"You mean soda pop?" Rikard called out, laughing at his own wit.
"Gin," the woman said. "Give him some gin."
Dreymann sent Knud Erik a warning look. "Watch out," he said. "It's as strong as schnapps."
"Rubbish," Algot shouted. "Looks like water, tastes like water, even has the same damn kick as water." He pushed a glass of clear liquid toward Knud Erik. "Down the hatch."
Relieved to escape the bitter taste of beer, Knud Erik took a large gulp. The others looked at him expectantly. The taste was strong, but it wasn't sharp. Tentatively he took another swig. The gin filled his mouth with a pleasant softness, but rather than sliding down his throat, the sensation seemed to run the other way and creep into the walls of his skull. It felt like someone was stroking the inside of his head.
Algot nodded in approval. The woman grinned and presented her lips to him again, then turned to concentrate on Algot, who had one hand up her skirt.
Knud Erik looked at the others: pleasure was nudging at him. His gaiety needed an outlet. He laughed in the direction of Helmer, who returned his smile, glad of the attention. "You should try gin," he said knowledgeably. "It's much better than beer."
Helmer shook his head. "I'm not thirsty."
"It's not about being thirsty. It's about getting drunk!"
Helmer shook his head again, and Knud Erik decided to ignore him. "Well, what the hell. Cheers!" He raised his glass with a flourish and spotted his reflection in a large mirror with a gilded frame. A blond lock fell across his forehead. His eyes were brown. His mother's eyes. Perhaps he really was a pretty boy.
The world seemed to be in motion, but unlike the rolling of a ship, its movements were unpredictable. The floor kept finding new and surprising angles of tilt, and though he quickly learned that his chair was the safest place to be, he kept wanting to get up and stagger about on the floor. There was a playfulness in him that was too big for the company around the table: he wanted