We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [310]
In a ward where you could barely have squeezed in one more bed, a figure sat slumped in a high-backed wheelchair by the window. He appeared to have nodded off, but he woke when the official greeted him, and looked up drowsily. He was wrapped in a blanket that concealed most of his body, but Knud Erik could see that his left arm was missing. His face was swollen and flushed scarlet.
According to the information Knud Erik had received, the man had been in the hospital for four months, so the stark color of his face wasn't due to excessive sunbathing. This was Russia, where the vodka doubtless flowed freely even in the hospitals.
The man's red face broke into an ingratiating smirk when he spotted Knud Erik in his captain's uniform. He was keen to sell himself, and Knud Erik could see why. He was desperate to get away from this backwater and return to civilization, no matter how bombed-out civilization was at the moment.
"I understand you're Danish," the man said in a cracked voice, as though it had been a long time since he'd spoken.
Knud Erik nodded. He held out his hand and said his name. The other man clasped his hand enthusiastically, then appeared to hesitate, as if he couldn't remember his own, or was considering giving a false one. Then he came out with it.
Knud Erik turned to the official, who was standing behind them with her normally pursed lips relaxed in a friendly smile, as if congratulating two long-lost relatives on their reunion.
"You can do what you like with this creature," said Knud Erik. "You can take him to the basement and shoot him on the spot, for all I care. Or you can send him to Siberia or wherever the hell it is you send unwanted people here in Russia. But there's one place he most definitely won't be going, and that's my ship."
He marched out of the ward without looking back, splashing his way up the corridor, where the cleaner had resumed her efforts with the apparently inexhaustible bucket.
"Captain Friis," the official called out after him. Yet again he had to admire her pronunciation. Her English accent was perfect, and when she said his surname, so was her Danish one.
He left the hospital and started walking toward Molotovsk. He'd got a fair bit of the way and could already make out the low wooden houses of the town when a car pulled up in front of him. The official stepped out onto the road. It wasn't until then that he noticed that she had a black holster attached to her belt.
"I don't think you understand how serious this is, Captain Friis. I gave you an order. You don't have a choice."
"You're welcome to shoot me," he said calmly and nodded at the holster. "And make that freak an honorary citizen of the Soviet Union afterward. I really don't care. But he's not coming on board my ship."
"Watch your words, Captain."
She spun on her heel and got into the car, which turned around and drove back to the hospital.
He returned to the Nimbus and issued orders to sail immediately. The first mate gave him a startled look. "We can't do that, Captain. We need to light up the boiler first. And our papers aren't ready. They'll come after us and make us turn around."
"For Christ's sake!" He started pacing up and down the bridge, awaiting the inevitable. Sure enough, in just half an hour a truck pulled up on the wharf in front of the Nimbus. On the back of it sat the man in the high-backed wheelchair, with a sea bag on his lap. The official stepped out of the cab. The crew crowded around the rail to stare at the man, who raised his one arm and waved to them.
"Hello, boys!"
The official ordered two men to lift the man off the bed of the truck and carry him up the gangway. Once he was settled on the deck, she saluted Knud Erik with irony.
"Over to you, Captain."
"He's going over the side as soon as we leave the harbor."
"That's entirely up to you."
She turned around and got back into the cab of the truck. The engine revved and the truck drove off.
The man in the wheelchair waited.