We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [91]
My sea chest had been on the raft, but I abandoned all hope of seeing it again. Its loss was the price I must pay for severing my connection with Jack Lewis.
I was in the western part of the bay, close to Mulinuu, which I'd seen on the map. I followed the shore eastward in the hope of coming across buildings that would indicate the presence of white men. Soon I spotted some brick houses with red-tiled roofs behind the palm trees and I headed for them. They too had not escaped storm damage: one house had a collapsed gable, and another's tiles were ripped off, exposing the bare rafters.
It was a sparsely built area, with houses scattered amid the palms rather than packed together in street formation. I got an impression of wealth and order: large airy estates, with whitewashed walls, covered verandas, and broad eaves, afforded their inhabitants the shade that people long for so keenly in the sun-baked tropics. Whites and natives were going about their business, with a well-organized cleanup operation already under way.
I wandered about aimlessly, feeling superfluous and alien, which, of course, was exactly what I was. No one paid me any attention or called to me. Many were merely passing through too, I guessed: merchants, sailors, and adventurers like me.
I stopped to look at a freshly polished brass plate that shone against the white wall of a house, hoping that behind the wall might be some kind of authority I could approach with my false report of the loss of the Johanne Karoline.
DEUTSCHE HANDELS- UND PLANTAGEN-GESELLSCHAFT, it said.
I had just finished reading the words when I heard someone behind me clear his throat. I turned to see a gentleman dressed all in white, his suit immaculately clean and newly pressed. He wore a fresh hibiscus in his buttonhole and looked as if he had spent the night of the storm preparing for a fancy dinner engagement. His pale eyes observed me from beneath the wide brim of his hat, while his hand stroked a mustache that unfurled in two impressive semicircles on either side of his suntanned, slightly lined cheeks.
"May I help you?" he asked, in English. Instantly recognizing his's accent, I replied in German.
"I'm a Danish sailor. I'm here to report the loss of my ship, the Johanne Karoline of Marstal, which ran aground on the reef outside Apia in the storm. Please, can you tell me if there might be a consulate or another authority nearby, where I can go?"
"Ah, you're Danish. In that case we're almost compatriots. Obviously you won't find a Danish consulate here. And as far as any authorities go—" He shrugged as if the word didn't mean much in these parts. He let go of his mustache and surveyed the ground for a moment as though in search of something. Then he folded his hands behind his back and his face grew pensive. "Well, I'm a consul of sorts; I mean, I'm the German consul. So I suppose I'd be the most appropriate person to deal with your case. I did hear that a ship had run aground on the reef, but the storm made any rescue mission impossible. Staying alive ourselves was challenge enough." He held out his hand. "Heinrich Krebs."
"Albert Madsen."
"Madsen? The name sounds familiar." He took off his hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. "But this heat does something to a man. Ruins his memory."
"He's a fellow Dane," I said. My mouth had gone dry, and my heart was pounding. "There's supposed to be another Madsen here on Samoa. I'd like to meet him."
"Yes, I'm sure that's possible. I'll ask around. But I must warn you. Meeting a fellow countryman in these parts isn't always a pleasant surprise."
He placed his hand on my shoulder and gave me a searching look. Then he smiled. "Do come inside. You look exhausted. But you've had luck on your side, eh? Not many men