We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [63]
At first glance he seemed unremarkable. He didn't look like a captain: far from it. A modest merchant, maybe. And yet all sorts of rumors stuck to him. I'd already learned that just the mention of his name made you untouchable.
His crew pulled the boat up onto the beach, and he stood next to it, studying the sand, seemingly deep in thought. I went over to him and told him my name. He looked up at me. I watched his face, but it seemed my name rang no bells—or if it did, he wasn't letting on.
Then I mentioned Anthony Fox, and he turned his back to me. His men didn't seem to be listening to us, but they were clearly waiting for I orders.
"I'm not here for the money," I said. "I'm here for something else."
He swung around to look at me.
"Everyone comes here for money. What other reason is there?"
"I'm looking for someone."
He sized me up with his close-set monkey eyes. "Madsen," he said. "You're Laurids Madsen's son."
"Is it that obvious?"
"It's easy to work out. Only a son would look for a man like Madsen."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
I stepped up to him. I could feel my anger surge. But it was mixed with a fear of what I might discover. And when anger and fear get mixed up, anything can happen.
Jack Lewis didn't move. He kept staring me in the face. His eyes were inscrutable. I could tell this was a man who'd taught himself to control others with just a look.
"Listen to me," he said. "You're young. You're looking for your father. I've no idea why and it's not my business. Nor is morality. I'm not interested in good and evil and I judge no one. I'm only interested in whether a man is suited for work on board."
"And my father wasn't?"
There was still anger in my voice: a ridiculous feeling of hurt pride on my father's behalf had swept through me. After all, the man passing judgment on him was no more than a criminal.
"The first time I met your father he seemed like a man who'd lost everything. As a rule, men like that are useful in my line of business. They have no illusions. They're survivors and life has taught them what really matters: money. I ask this out of curiosity, and you don't have to answer—what had he lost?"
I shook my head. "I don't know."
"His family? His fortune? Or some quaint notion of honor?"
"He had my mother. He had three sons and a daughter. He could get all the work he wanted. He was a respected sailor."
Jack Lewis made a gesture of invitation. "We're standing on a beach. Let's go into town and have a drink."
When we parted a few hours later I discovered, to my astonishment, that I'd grown to like Jack Lewis. He reminded me of Anthony Fox. In Marstal I would probably have avoided him like the plague, but when you're far from home you learn to appreciate the strangest people. He was a man who considered things. He was direct and he never pretended to be anything he wasn't. He invited me on board the Flying Scud the following day, and I accepted his invitation.
Neither of us mentioned my father.
Sunshine filtered through a skylight onto the table in Jack Lewis's low-ceilinged cabin. At the center sat the empty shell of a sea turtle, laden with a strange fruit—the Kanaks called it a pineapple—that I'd never seen before coming to Hawaii. A whale-oil lamp was burning, but it seemed that the real light came from the fruit. It was gold and it glowed like a slice of sun.
On the bulkhead a spear and shield shared space with two miniature portraits, which I studied closely. One was of a portly gent with sideburns and bushy eyebrows; the other showed a pale, weak-looking woman with a sharp nose, whom I took to be his wife.
"You're wasting your time," Jack Lewis said. "I've no idea who they are. I found them in a wrecked ship. I thought my cabin could do with a few ornaments. A couple of portraits like that