We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [266]
He reached a large square, where upturned chairs and tables lay scattered about and men in uniform were carrying bodies away. Soon the tiles would be washed clean of blood. Day had returned.
As he crossed the square, a soldier called out to him and came up, followed by two others. They looked him up and down. He stood there, bare-chested and smelling pungently of sweat, the face beneath his short blond hair reddened by wind, drink, and sun. What was he? A sailor who'd forgotten time, place, and curfew in the excitement of the moment?
He stank—but they assumed it was from bed linen and women: he could see it in their faces. He grinned at them, and they grinned back. The tallest of the soldiers pointed to his cheek. Herman touched it and felt a scab where a bullet had brushed him.
"Mujer," he said. Woman.
"Mujer." They laughed. One of them made a cat's paw of his hand, with its claws out.
He'd shot at them in the night and they'd shot back at him. Shadows firing at shadows. Now they were simply men in the first light of dawn. They let him go.
He went down to the harbor and found the boat. He loosened the mooring and began rowing slowly back to the Kristina.
THE NEXT DAY Herman was quiet. The crew shot him furtive glances. They'd noticed his absence, but no one said anything. From time to time he'd smile an odd smile that seemed to be directed at no one in particular. They exchanged warning looks. What would follow this calm? Ivar gazed thoughtfully at Herman's massive back. Only Bager seemed not to notice anything.
Herman was aware of their glances. What were they thinking about him? What did they think he'd been up to during the curfew in Setúbal? If they thought all he'd been doing was whoring, why didn't they just say so? Were they afraid of the answer?
With the strike broken, the Kristina could dock. A couple of barges arrived and the dockers began unloading the salt cod. Bager had gone into town to buy provisions, taking Miss Kristina with him. She came back in a state of excitement and told them that the chandler had invited them to lunch: they'd eaten fish with fried olives.
"But imagine, all the windows in the restaurant had been smashed. I wonder if there was fighting last night?"
Herman smiled but said nothing. He watched the dockers working in the hull and on the wharf; he watched the fishermen rowing out to sea with empty vessels and returning with full nets; he watched the soldiers standing with their bayonets at the ready; he watched the people of Setúbal. His gaze took in the whole world. Time stood still, and in its silence he solved all the riddles of the earth.
Was that the moment he was struck by the fatal certainty that Miss Kristina would be his?
The Kristina was readied, and they left Setúbal. For the first two days a southerly wind was behind them. Then calm set in. They lay-to with the fore staysail and topsail; the helm looked after itself. The sea was still heaving with lingering swells, and the water rose all the way up to the bulwark. High overhead the midday sun leached the color from sea and sky until everything melted into a white mist of heat. The Kristina heaved and dipped with the slow breathing of the sea. Their world had fallen into a deep slumber. They wandered around the deck like sleepwalkers and breathed in the rhythm of the waves.
Miss Kristina sat on the deck, embroidering. No one spoke. Bager sat next to his daughter with the Book of Sermons. They didn't converse, and they looked as if their closeness didn't require it. He turned a page, then looked absent-mindedly across the sea before returning to his book. She concentrated on her embroidery. Her skin had tanned, and she let her hair hang loose. Helmer served the coffee.
These were the last warm days before they approached the Bay of Biscay.
The calm continued through the following afternoon. Then