We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [94]
Punch him?
***
I returned to Heinrich Krebs's house toward the evening. He'd invited me to stay the night and I'd accepted his invitation because I didn't want to sleep on the beach. The dining table had been set for me, but Krebs was absent.
When I entered the room where I was to spend the night, I took it at first for a room that Krebs had furnished for himself and a wife whose arrival he longingly awaited. It was like entering a tent or being under the awning on a ship. Everything was in the same airy style as the dining room: the canopied bed was big enough for two or three people, and the huge mirror on one of the walls added a whole extra dimension.
It was the strangest place I'd ever spent a night, and I hesitated before climbing into the bed. The floor seemed more appropriate—but then again, I'd never slept on a cloud before, and I felt I deserved some comfort after all I'd suffered, so in the end I threw myself into this paradise of goose down.
I woke up during the night when someone tentatively touched the door handle. It was pushed down, and then it went up again. Shortly afterward I heard a plank squeak on the veranda. Then silence returned and I drifted back into my slumbers.
I was awakened the next morning by a knock at my door, to which I gave a drowsy reply. The servant had come with a pile of neatly folded clothes draped over his arm. In his hand he held a pair of high boots.
"Your clothes, masta," he said, and disappeared.
I unfolded the clothes and gazed at them in wonder. They were indeed mine—but they weren't those I'd worn the previous day. These were my shore clothes: dark blue trousers and jacket, white linen shirt with a collar, and the gray wool socks that I'd darned myself. The boots, which I'd dragged around half the world, were papa tru's. I'd been sure I'd lost my few belongings when the raft sank in the bay outside Apia. But now here they were, in my hands.
I dressed and pulled on the boots. I hadn't worn them for months. They felt heavy and uncomfortable in the heat, and my feet hurt as I walked to the dining room, where Heinrich Krebs was waiting for me with breakfast. As usual, he was immaculately dressed, with a fresh hibiscus in his buttonhole and pomade in his hair. My sea chest sat right there on the damask tablecloth. It looked like a large moldy stain in the neat room. And there was my name on it. I'd painted it myself.
"It drifted ashore last night," Krebs said. "One of my men found it."
I said nothing.
"I presume the shrunken head isn't a member of your family?"
"No," I replied. "His name's Jim."
"Well, that explains everything. Is he from Marstal too?" I shook my head, having reached the conclusion that it was best not to answer. "You're a very interesting young man, Albert Madsen," Krebs said, and looked at me over the rim of his cup. "Very interesting."
"And you sneak a peek at another man's property without asking for permission." I stared back at him without blinking. I was hoping he couldn't tell how outraged I was.
"If one doesn't, one never learns anything" he said, without looking away.
"What is it you want to know?"
"Many things," he said. "You come crawling out of the surf like some merman, all alone in the world, with this story about where you come from and who you are. A story that no one can confirm or deny."
"My name's on the sea chest."
"Which contains a shrunken head. Of a white man."
I reached for the silver coffeepot.
"That's another story. It doesn't concern you."
"There's