We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [258]
The damage had to be repaired, but that wasn't the only reason they'd called at Newcastle. Bager's daughter, Kristina, was expected on board. She'd sail with them to Setúbal, in warm and sunny Portugal.
Knud Erik found his fountain pen and wrote a letter to his mother. He asked her to give his best to everyone before describing the fair weather that had followed them right across the Atlantic. There was no need to worry her unnecessarily. He also wrote that he was looking forward to the voyage to Portugal.
Later he admitted that if he'd known what lay ahead, he'd have signed off in Newcastle.
WHEN HERMAN HAD recounted the story before, it had always gone down well. But with Miss Kristina it had the completely opposite effect. Something about it frightened her. Well, that had been his intention, but it had frightened her too much and she'd got up, turned her back on him, and gone to the cabin. With a slight sway of her hips. Damn it, that woman confused him!
Women should never get what they ask for, he thought. Ideally they should be weeping and pleading in front of a locked door. Never be nice to them, even though you might be tempted. That's what made it all so damned difficult. You had to scare them a bit. Not too much and not too little. Too much and they'd panic, and you wouldn't get what you wanted. Too little and they'd wipe their dainty little feet all over you. It took experience to get the balance right. You had to feel your way.
Women liked a man who could make them laugh. But they loved a man who made them cry. They respected only what they didn't understand. Respect was what it was all about. He'd seen enough of the world to know that it wasn't a woman's love that made life bearable for a man. It was her respect, and respect always contains an element of fear.
Knud Erik and Vilhjelm had been there on the hatch, listening to him tell the story about Ravn, the car mechanic who'd sailed with a German U-boat during the war and sunk Danish ships, and who late one night in a doorway in Nyborg had got what was coming to him. Miss Kristina had listened with interest too, until he got to the part about the punishment in the doorway. Then she had left without saying a word.
Afterward Herman had sounded off to Knud Erik and Vilhjelm about the awkward and fundamentally incomprehensible nature of women. They'd laughed at his remarks but remained guarded, as they always were when he was around. When he'd first come on board, he'd scrutinized them as though trying to retrieve something from his memory. They'd both looked away and he'd brushed it aside.
"There's the Seagull Killer," Vilhjelm had said, when he saw Herman board the Kristina.
Everything had gone wrong in Newcastle. Dreymann received a telegram from home, informing him that his wife was gravely ill and might not have long to live.
"I hate to leave my post before the job's done," he said. "I've got four children. Three of them were christened and I wasn't there. Two were confirmed, and one was married—and I wasn't there either. I can't bear the thought that Gertrud might kick the bucket when I'm not around to hold her hand."
Rikard and Algot signed off and made no effort to hide the reason why. They'd had their fill of ships from Marstal that did nothing but sail into one storm after another, and if they'd wanted to be undertakers, they'd have sought a different apprenticeship. The Kristina could get along without them, and good luck to her.
They grabbed their kits and half-empty sea bags, stuck their Polish cigarette holders in their mouths, and left.
Bager offered Knud Erik the job of ordinary seaman. He hadn't sailed for quite long enough to merit it, but he knew the job, broadly. And the sail