We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [249]
He surrendered to the pushing and shoving: the sheer pressure of the bodies around him prevented him from falling flat on his face. Suddenly, through the blissful tickle of the gin, the thought struck him that Miss Sophie was out there waiting for him. All he had to do was walk out the door. He'd definitely find her. He contrived to get himself jostled toward the entrance, found the door, and disappeared into Water Street.
He had no idea how late it was, but the street was still teeming with people. Most of them were men swaggering heavily and unsteadily across the sidewalk or in the middle of the street, with whinnying horses and hooting cars navigating around them. But there were also a few women who sized him up with kohl-rimmed eyes.
At the end of Water Street the crowd thinned. He backtracked a few steps and turned off into a side street. Then, on the corner of Duckworth Street, he recognized her neck. She was walking ahead of him, dressed in a winter coat with her boots just visible beneath, and carrying a handbag. He could be wrong about anything else, but not her neck. That bare, exposed neck, suntanned against the winter fur collar: it was hers!
He ran after her, and then lost her. He got tangled in the crowds on the sidewalk, and when he and a hefty woman attempted a mutual sidestep, they bumped together instead. Stumbling again, he felt her sharp alcoholic breath on his face, and darted back onto the street, where a coachman cursed at him and lashed out with his whip. He started running along the gutter, and when he reached the crossing at King's Road he spotted Miss Sophie, on the opposite side of the street. He soon lost sight of her, but now he was convinced that he was on the right track. He stopped running. It was part of the game. He didn't want to reach her too soon.
They'd kiss again. And afterward? Nothing. The kiss would be enough. Inhaling the air from her lungs into his just one more time.
He started jogging, to test the steadiness of his feet on the pavement. His body had a floating feeling of lightness. Never before had he had such faith in himself.
The street ahead was now completely empty. Signal Hill Road started its long, slow ascent, crowned by Cabot Tower, a black silhouette against the swirling belt of the Milky Way. The whole starry sky seemed to be moving in the same direction he was, like a shimmering flock of birds migrating south through the night.
He spotted her some distance up the slope, a black figure against a road white with frost. She seemed almost to glide, as if pulled by an invisible string.
He started running again but ran out of steam and had to stop to catch his breath. Then he sprinted on past a lake and some trees. Everything was silver, covered with crystals of ice that shone like the stars high in the frosted sky. Below he could see the black forest of masts in the harbor and the illuminated pubs along Water Street.
By the time he caught up with her, she'd reached Cabot Tower. Her back was turned to him, and she was staring out across the Atlantic, which stretched beyond the harbor in all directions, a matte black surface that sucked up all light. For a moment he stood too, completely lost in the sight of its vast expanse.
"Sophie," he called out, then suddenly felt a prick of doubt.
When she turned around, she showed no surprise. "Yes, Knud Erik" was all she said. Her lips were black in the faint starlight. "What do you want from me?" His drunkenness restored his courage. He flung out his arms and prepared to embrace her.
"Are you drunk? Have you been pub-crawling on Water Street?"
He was mortified. "I'm not drunk. I just want a kiss." A smile spread across his face.