We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [264]
He moored the boat and climbed up onto the wharf. There was no moon, yet the town hadn't been completely absorbed by the dark. Here and there, light streamed from a window or slid through the slats of a shutter. He could hear voices, then the sound of a piano—a delicate music protesting against the silence, only to be engulfed by it.
He stood between two rows of houses and tilted his head back. He could see the Milky Way running parallel with the street, a celestial track of shining pebbles forging through the wasteland of the night. He recalled the first time he'd seen it. He had been a boy then, alone in the night. He'd stood on the beach and cocked his head the same way, bursting with impatient hope. But now, tonight, he turned his back on everything. He was alone with the Milky Way and a gun.
Did he want to survive this night? Was this a test he had designed for himself, or was it something else? He didn't know. He didn't understand the language of the stars well enough for that.
He stood in the middle of the street, looking upward. The white walls of the houses glowed blue as if reflecting the starlight. Gates and doorways pulsated black. Was it wise to be standing in the middle of the street?
His peculiar intoxication, which had been generated not by drink but by his loneliness beneath the night sky, evaporated. He ran across the sidewalk and pressed himself against a wall. Here he was likely to be just as visible: a dense black mass against its glowing blue.
He hadn't come here to hide. He returned to the middle of the sidewalk and started walking.
Suddenly he heard steps. He stopped. They sounded measured. Was it one or more men who were approaching? He listened again. It certainly wasn't a group, he decided. Perhaps there were only two of them? Soldiers on night patrol? Who else would be out and about after dark in a town with a curfew? He looked behind him, then ahead. It was a wide street, and palm trees blocked the starlight: he had to be on a boulevard. He ought to head for the narrow, winding lanes where it would be easier to escape. He wavered, but stayed put. Then he raised his gun and turned around slowly. Darkness: nothing but darkness. He could still hear the measured footsteps. Were they coming closer or moving away?
He walked on cautiously, gun in hand. If they were to meet, it would be them or him. He knew that.
The footsteps continued.
Yes, they were definitely approaching, but he couldn't decide which direction they were coming from. He might just as easily be walking toward them as away from them.
He'd been going for a while when he spotted them. They were standing still, just three or four meters in front of him, as if they'd been waiting. He stopped at once. One of them called out.
The cry was drowned out by a deafening explosion. Herman looked around to determine the origin of the blast and saw the revolver in his hand. He must have fired it.
He had no idea if he'd hit anyone. He started running. No shots or footsteps rang out behind him. At one point he was tempted to stop and look back, but the pulse of his blood gave his flight a momentum he couldn't fight. His head felt completely clear. But his legs pounded like pistons; they seemed to have a will of their own.
He rounded a corner and kept going until finally he regained control of his muscles: stopping, he pressed himself against a wall and listened to the night. At first he heard nothing. Then, far away, he made out the sound of running feet, coming first from one direction and then another. A shot was fired, then several more in quick succession, drowned out by the long stutter of a machine gun. He heard orders being shouted and the stomping of boots, as if a whole army had started marching. Somewhere a car engine revved.
Firing the gun had broken the silence, and now it sounded as if his shot had detonated