We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [259]
"What about me?" Vilhjelm asked.
He and Knud Erik had agreed that they wouldn't be parted.
Bager thought for a long time.
"You'll get your food," he said.
They still needed a first mate. There was none to be had, but Herman, who'd fallen out with the skipper of the Uranus, happened to be in Newcastle and was broke. He had the experience and plenty of sailing time, but not the exams: he'd never pulled himself together enough for Navigation College. Bager offered him the job.
When Herman demanded the same wages as a qualified first mate, Bager did the mental arithmetic. He'd already saved the wages of two seamen and had some money to spare. "Your papers aren't in order," he said. "So I'm actually doing you a favor. But I'll add twenty-five kroner to what you usually get as an able seaman."
"Forty kroner," Herman said.
They agreed on thirty-five.
In fact it was Bager, not Herman, whose papers weren't in order—something that Mr. Mattheson at the shipping office in Waterloo Street pointed out to him. All right, they were prepared to overlook the situation with Herman. After all, they'd failed to find him a first mate for the Kristina and they wouldn't want to stand in the way of a man trying to make his living. But he couldn't have two boys running around pretending to be seamen. He'd need to sign on at least's one qualified man. If he didn't, they'd report him.
That was how Ivar came on board.
The Kristina had barely left Newcastle before the first clash occurred.
Knud Erik and Vilhjelm had instantly warmed to Ivar. He came on board wearing his shore clothes, a tailor-made, double-breasted cheviot suit, with French cuff links, a white collar, and a silk tie that he'd bought in Buenos Aires. Ivar was a man of the world. He didn't need to tell them all the places he'd been, from South America to Shanghai: they could tell just by looking at him. He'd gained his experience on steamers and had signed on to a sailing ship only out of curiosity. He was the son of a captain from Hellerup and had yet to decide if the sea life was for him. He was tall and well built, with a mass of raven hair, and he carried himself with the assurance of a man who's left more than one fight victorious.
Ivar had a talent for things mechanical. He brought along a radio that he'd built himself and could take apart and reassemble any way he wanted. He settled it on the hatch when they were in port and attached the antenna to the rigging.
"You'll never get that thing to work," Herman said, the first time Ivar set it up. Which made Herman look a fool because of course the radio had worked. They heard fragments of foreign languages, voices from different parts of the globe, and dance music, the kind you normally got to hear only in the French Channel ports.
Even Herman couldn't stay away when Ivar hooked up the radio. Ivar glanced over and smiled at him. "Right, the first mate's come to join us," he said.
Herman spun on his heel and left.
When they were sure he was out of earshot, they laughed at him.
Knud Erik and Vilhjelm always referred to Herman as the Seagull Killer, though Vilhjelm had learned the true extent of Herman's crimes long ago. One day Ivar, overhearing the odd nickname, asked about it, but they immediately deflected him. It was just a name. Anyway, didn't he look just like someone likely to strangle seagulls with his bare hands? Ivar shrugged. Their explanation didn't really make sense, but he didn't probe further.
Later they regretted not telling him the truth. They knew what Herman had done: they'd held the skull of his victim in their hands. They used the nickname like a counterspell, to dampen the terror they constantly felt in his presence.
They sought out Ivar's company because they knew they needed protection.
Ivar hadn't been on board long before he expressed indignation at the food. He found their evening meals, in particular, entirely inadequate. Twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays,