We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [97]
I looked up at the palm tree where the hidden man, who might be my papa tru, had briefly appeared. I felt hot and uncomfortable, standing there in my shore clothes and knee-high boots, not saying anything, so I shouted up at the tree:
"Laurids!"
I didn't call him papa tru. I couldn't bring myself to. The whole business seemed bizarre enough as it was. I didn't want to be the man standing on some remote Pacific island, yelling for his dad. At first nothing happened.
"I've seen you," I shouted. "I know you're there!"
I grew annoyed, and then furious. But it was a form of rage that didn't know what to do with itself. "Now come down! What do you think you are? A damned monkey?"
My own voice frightened me. I was addressing him as though I was the captain of the Flying Scud and he a primitive Kanak.
The palm leaves rustled, and then the man appeared between them. He was strong-limbed and bearded, with one of the natives' colorful cloths wrapped around his waist. Had it not been for his lighter skin and his gray beard, I'd have taken him for a Samoan. He grabbed the trunk with his large hands, planted his naked feet firmly against its rough surface, and came down, using a native climbing technique that made it look as if he almost walked down the tree. He landed with a bump and stood opposite me.
He stared at my feet.
I studied his face, with its dense beard. If I'd had a moment's doubt, it had vanished completely. I can't say that I recognized him after all these years, for what do the memories of a four-year-old count for? But I recognized myself. I don't often have an occasion to look in a mirror, and if someone was to ask me to describe myself, I'd lack not just the words, but the interest. Yet now I stood face to face with my mirror image. Time had drawn its marks across my father's face. Deep lines ran along his sunken cheeks, and wrinkles spread from his eyes like the marks a bird's claws leave in wet sand. But it was me. We were father and son, and now I saw how Heinrich Krebs had known what he'd known. All it took was one look at me.
I had no idea what to say or do; it was papa tru who broke the silence. Tearing his eyes away from my boots, he now fixed them on me.
"I see you've brought me my boots."
"They're mine now."
I gritted my teeth and made my voice as hard as his. But he held his gaze. The only thought going through my mind right now was that there wasn't a chance in hell of his getting my boots. Then he said a few words in a native language, and three of the boys in the circle around me stood up.
"Say hello to your brothers."
Behind his beard, his lips formed a vague smile. He pointed at the boys one by one. "Rasmus. Esben." He hesitated in front of the youngest one, whom I guessed to be about the same age I'd been when he left us. "Albert."
I don't know what he said next to the three boys, but none showed any sign of wanting to get to know me better, nor did their father encourage it. They just rejoined the circle of kids and started giggling.
To begin with, I couldn't take in what he'd just said. He appeared to be living with a new family, just like his old one—and it included three sons he'd christened with our names. The whole thing felt like an idiotic and vicious dream. But if it was, it had gone on far too long. Fifteen years had passed since papa tru left us. The dream had swallowed up my whole life, turning night into day, until I no longer knew where I belonged, in the light or in the darkness.
I don't know what my face looked like just then—whether it was astonished, baffled, angry, or blank. At any rate, papa tru made as if there was nothing unremarkable about what he'd just said. And out of pride, I did the same. But I could feel resentment welling inside me, and I knew that it would keep growing until it changed into something far more dangerous.
I should have turned on my heel and left him at that moment. Made him call out after me, plead with me to stay,