We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [64]
I pointed at the weapons.
"And those?"
"A gift from the Pacific. A healthy brawl with cannibals on a remote island that no one ever visits. A fight like that makes you feel alive. Especially afterward, when you're wandering the beach, looking at the enemies you've slain. Those weapons are trophies. They remind me why I'm here."
He opened a wall cabinet and took out a bottle. It was an unusual shape and held a white liquid that seemed to whirl around like mist or boiling milk. I thought I saw something dark stir inside it. Jack Lewis shook his head and put the bottle back, then selected another one.
"Scotch?"
I nodded. We sat down, facing each other.
"And my father?"
"He looked at things differently. He didn't share my view of a good time. He didn't want the same as me. But I didn't know what he was after, so we went our separate ways." He raised his glass to me and we drank. "Pity," Jack Lewis said. "He had it in him. He could have done well out here. I liked him."
He got up and drew the curtain of the bottom berth. He was looking for something and a moment later he straightened up. In his hand he held a small parcel wrapped in a cloth that had once been white but had yellowed with age. He grinned at me.
"Now that we've got to know each other, there's something I want to show you. Initiate you into the inner sanctum, so to speak."
He placed the parcel on the table and started to untie the string around the yellow cloth with slow, careful movements, almost as if this were a ceremony he'd invited me to witness. Then he whipped off the cloth with a quick tug.
Before me lay the most disgusting sight I've ever seen.
At first I couldn't even have found a name for it, but my eyes were faster than my brain. Even before I'd understood what was on the table in front of me, my stomach started to spasm and my heart felt as if it had stopped. The thing wasn't much bigger than a clenched fist. The filthy, smoky hair, which must once have been white, was gathered in a pigtail at the back.
I clasped my mouth with my hand and staggered to my feet. Jack Lewis sent me a look of approval, as if my reaction had lived up to his expectations.
"You've gone pale," he said.
I grabbed the table for support, then withdrew my hand as if a scorpion had stung me: the revolting thing was still on it. A terrible thought struck me. I had only vague recollections of my father's face. We'd no pictures of him at home, and whenever I tried to recall his features, my imagination seemed to be conjuring something as shifting and unreliable as a cloud in the sky.
"My father?" I whispered.
I'd never have expected to see Jack Lewis erupt in laughter. But at this, his hard mask cracked and he guffawed—not a warm or hearty sound, but one as dry and harsh as his appearance. Still, he was laughing.
"For God's sake," he hiccupped between fits. "Of course it's not your father. What kind of a man d'you take me for?" Then he burst out laughing again. It was only when he'd finally stopped that it dawned on him that I was standing with my fists clenched. My fear had turned into rage.
"Don't be angry," he said, holding up his palms to calm me. "I'm only trying to contribute to your education."
He picked up the head from the table.
"Do you know how to make a shrunken head like this? Clearly you have to start by scalping it. Now the redskins in America take only the scalp and the hair. For this, you have to slice off the whole face, because you can't shrink the skull. Then you dry it over the