We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [251]
The blood seeped through the sack of meat and left large dark stains on the gray sackcloth: Knud Erik felt people must be staring, and got it into his head that he looked like a murderer carrying the remains of his mutilated victim through the town in broad daylight.
When they were back on board, Bager asked Knud Erik to come to his cabin.
"Sit down," he said, seating himself opposite. Then he leaned forward, hands folded on the table. "Miss Sophie," he started, and then he stopped. He gazed down at the table and gave a deep sigh. "Miss Sophie," he repeated, "has gone missing." Then he slammed his hand down hard. "Damn it all!"
Knud Erik said nothing. The room didn't grow black in front of his eyes, but in his head, a kind of night began. He could see everything vividly, but he was incapable of thought.
"She's been gone two days now. No one knows where she is. An accident maybe. Or a crime. Personally I think she's eloped with some sailor. That girl's disturbed. I probably shouldn't be saying this, but she's not quite right in the head. Her mother died a long time ago—she probably told you that—and Mr. Smith was too busy to take care of her properly. She always got her own way. That's never healthy in a girl that age. All this nonsense about inviting crewmen to tea. Dressing up like a lady and turning their heads. You weren't the first, I'm afraid." Bager looked directly at Knud Erik. "And dear Lord, you fell for her too. And yes, I blame myself. I shouldn't have let you go. But Mr. Smith charters us, so it's no easy thing to say no. I didn't see the harm in it. But look what it's led to."
Knud Erik didn't speak. Now he knew what had happened to him in his drunkenness. Or did he? He saw Miss Sophie's slender coat-clad figure glide up Signal Hill where Cabot Tower stood, a dark silhouette against the Milky Way. He saw her face and her lips, black in the pale starlight. And he finally traced the source of the helpless, jilted feeling, which had haunted him these past days. He recalled his wild race down Signal Hill and the silent town shrouded in frost. He'd left Miss Sophie up there under the cold stars. Was whatever happened to her afterward his fault, because he'd run off? But she'd told him to go. She'd stamped her foot and called him a dog.
The whole thing seemed like a dream. Could he trust his own memories? What if something completely different had happened? Had he hit her? Suddenly he wasn't sure.
"I'm sorry," the skipper murmured, still looking at the table. It sounded as if he was talking to himself. "I'm sorry you met her. I know it's my fault." Then he looked up and noticed the vacancy in Knud Erik's eyes. "Are you even listening to me, boy?"
When Knud Erik came up on deck, he could tell right away that the others had heard the news too: it must already have made its way from town to deck, via the harbor. They eyed him gravely but said nothing. Only Rikard's mouth twitched, as if he had a stock of malicious remarks he was dying to use.
What was going through their minds? Did they suspect him of anything? What would they think if they knew the truth about his night on Signal Hill?
Well, what did he think?
Did you always know what you did when you got drunk?
The question stumped him. When it came to drunkenness, he had no experience whatsoever. He had no knowledge of himself either. He sensed that something fateful had happened that night on Signal Hill. It wasn't just his confusion that kept him silent: the whole event was too intimate. He couldn't speak about it without revealing his defeat. He desperately needed to confide in somebody, but an instinct for survival made him keep his mouth shut. If he didn't, he knew all too well that the others would fall on him instantly.
That night he climbed into his berth not having exchanged a word with a soul.
By now the temperature was between twelve and fourteen degrees below zero every