I fell asleep shortly afterward. When I woke, it was quiet. It was night, and I heard the breathing of sleeping people around me. I stared into the darkness for a while, then drifted back to sleep.
The next morning I took my leave of the Kanaks, and for the second and final time we shook hands. My one-eared rescuer placed a hand on my shoulder and from the bottomless blue of his face, fixed me with his eye. As I returned his look, I felt there was a bond there, though I don't suppose it could be called friendship. We'd never exchanged a word. But now, as we parted, each of them said something, and I still remember what: "Palea," "Loa'a," "Kauu." The fourth word was longer. Something like "Keli'ikea," but I'm not sure. At the time I assumed they all meant goodbye. Later it struck me that they had been telling me their names.
I went down to the beach. There was still a heavy swell, but the air was no longer filled with flying foam. Everywhere there were smashed palm trees and ruined huts torn apart by the wind and rain, and it struck me how lucky we'd been that the hut we'd sheltered in had withstood the storm. I went as close to the surf as I dared and scouted anxiously across the battlefield of the beach, terrified that I'd see wreckage from the Flying Scud, which might belie the story I'd prepared. A yard, a plank, or a ship's wheel would be fine. A nameboard, though, would ruin everything. But when I scanned the horizon and the reef, I saw not a single trace of the ship. The sea had annihilated the Flying Scud, and wherever its wreckage might have ended up, it certainly wasn't here on the beach in Apia.
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 emerge in one piece from an encounter with the reef at Apia. What about the rest of the crew?"
"Captain Hansen didn't make it," I responded curtly, feeling a pang of conscience at my second lie.
"You could probably do with a bath and some lunch. You can make your report afterward."
A native servant dressed in whites as immaculate as his master's prepared me a bath. When I'd removed my filthy, torn clothes, I examined myself in the full-length gilded mirror. Its frame was far too elegant for the sight that greeted me. I'd grown lean and angular, and my body was covered in bruises. My face too bore witness to my recent trials: it was scored with half-healed cuts and scratches. One bisected my right eyebrow, while another made a blood-red line across my cheek. I looked like a drunken sailor fresh from a brawl rather than a man who'd been shipwrecked, and I wondered why the consul hadn't told me to clear off at once. I'd got the impression that my report on the shipwreck would be purely a matter of form: that no inquiry would be held, and no official authorities would become involved. It would have been easy enough for me to blend in with the other inhabitants of Apia, where no one would have noticed an extra vagrant on the beach.
The lie I was telling wasn't even necessary. Having told it, there was no withdrawing it now—but Heinrich Krebs was unlikely to unmask me, or even try to. I guessed that he simply wanted confirmation of his own importance. My role now was to enable him to play the benefactor and provide him with some distraction—for clearly a hurricane was not novel enough in these parts to count as excitement. That said, he gave the same impression as most of the other white men I'd met in the Pacific: behind the façade of civilization and order, you sensed they all had something to hide.
Not that Heinrich Krebs's secrets were of any interest to me. I'd made enough discoveries recently to last me a lifetime.
As I stepped out of the bath, I noticed that a white suit had been laid out for me on a chair, and on the floor beside it was a pair of chalked white canvas shoes. Heinrich Krebs was lending me his own clothes—but as I was considerably taller than he was, both the trousers and the jacket were too short, and I couldn't even button the shirt. I had to forgo the shoes entirely and appeared at lunch barefoot. I still looked like a vagrant—but a lucky one.
The dining room was pleasantly cool. Floor-length white curtains filtered the light from outside. The table had been set with a damask cloth, china, silver, and crystal glasses. I've sat at many dining tables since, but never one that could match that of Heinrich Krebs.
Then he appeared. He'd taken off his hat, and his sandy hair was combed back and held firmly in place by a viscous pomade.
The table was set for two.
"You live alone?" I asked.
"I'm in the process of establishing myself. My wife and our three's children will join me later." The food was brought in. "A little surprise," Heinrich Krebs said.
When the china serving dish was placed in front of me, I blinked in disbelief. Not knowing the name of the wonderful dish in German, I said it in Danish: "Flæskesteg."
"Yes, flæskesteg," my host said, in almost flawless imitation of my Danish. "I have, of course, visited Denmark, and found that the Danes and the Germans share a fondness for pork. The crisp crackling, which I know you Danes value so highly, you'll have to do without, I'm afraid. The talents of my otherwise excellent cook do not extend that far." Krebs was studying me. He gestured at the food. "You can take many things with you. You can re-create your home, surround yourself with your treasured objects and your native culture, read familiar authors, eat the dishes of your childhood, and speak your own language, just as we're speaking mine now. And yet it isn't the same, because there's something you can never re-create. Perhaps even the very thing you once wanted to escape. Why does one leave in the first place? I often ask myself that question. Why are you here? You have been shipwrecked, endured all sorts of hardships. It's written in your face. But why?"
"I'm a sailor," I replied.
"Indeed. But why did you become a sailor? Surely God didn't point His finger at you and command you to go to sea? It was your choice, I presume?"
I shook my head.
"My father was a sailor. My two brothers are sailors. My sister's married to a sailor. All my friends from school sail."
"The Baltic wasn't big enough for you? It would suffice most men. Why the Pacific? What are you hoping to find here?"
I resented Krebs's curiosity, if that's what it was. Perhaps he just enjoyed the sound of his own voice. But he'd got too close, and I had no intention of confiding in anyone. I looked down at my plate again and concentrated on eating.
"This really is delicious," I said.
"I'll pass your compliments on to the chef."
I could tell from his tone that he was insulted. I'd rejected his invitation to confide in him, and a chasm had opened between us.
"This Madsen," he said eventually. "Is he a relative?"
I was already regretting having mentioned my father's name. But this was a big island, and I had to find him one way or another.
"No." I lied. "We're not related. We just happen to come from the same town."
"And share the same surname?"
"A lot of Marstallers do. I promised his family I'd find out how he's doing. Since I'm here anyway."
"Since you're here anyway. Since you happened to pass by Samoa."
His voice was thick with contempt. He didn't believe me, but rather than say so directly, he mocked my reply.
I didn't care. I'd had my bath and my hot meal. He could kick me out now if he wanted to, and I'd manage without his help. I wiped my mouth with my damask napkin.
"That was lovely, thank you," I said, feigning politeness.
I could see that Krebs was reconsidering his position.
"There's dessert too," he said. "Don't get up, please."
Venetian blinds, made from thin bamboo, were swaying in the light breeze on the veranda. It was just as pleasant here as indoors, though the tropical sun blazed from its zenith. The natives were still busy clearing up after last night's destruction. The surf pounded the beach. In the distance I could see the foaming barrier of the reef where I'd nearly lost my life the day before.
Krebs questioned me about the circumstances of the shipwreck. I mentioned the raft and Captain Hansen, who'd gone down to his cabin to rescue the ship's papers and failed to reappear when the Johanne Karoline gave a last lurch and a wave washed us overboard. He asked about the Kanaks, and when I told him that they'd reached the shore alive with me but then disappeared, and that apart from that I knew nothing about them, he shrugged as though it was an insignificant detail.
He looked at me again and smiled the ambiguous smile that I'd quickly come to recognize.
"It's amazing what a good meal can achieve. Wouldn't you agree?"
I nodded.
"Take me, for example," he continued. "My memory has returned. Madsen: yes, I recall him now. If you feel sufficiently rested, I can provide you with a native to show you the way. Then you can see him as early as this afternoon."
"I really can't turn up looking like this," I said. Even I could hear the panic in my voice.
"Of course not." Krebs continued to smile. "You're a stickler for etiquette, I see that now. Which attire would you prefer to wear when you meet this Madsen?"
"My own," I said.
I could hear the falseness in my voice, and it seemed to me that we were play-acting for each other. But truth be told, I could see nothing remotely funny about this comedy. In fact, I was afraid. I was afraid to meet my papa tru after all these years, and I was afraid of Heinrich Krebs because he seemed to know something about my father that he didn't care to reveal. He'd sensed how eager I was to meet him—and he'd sensed my fear. He was toying with me, but I didn't know why. What was he after?
Krebs excused himself and left the veranda, and I spent the rest of the day wandering around the beach, looking out at the ocean and reflecting on my situation and all I'd been through. Should I have stayed away from papa tru? Should I have left him—as I would have left the dead—in peace? For if I had not gone looking for him, he would have been just as dead to me as any other man in Marstal's long list of drowned fathers, brothers, and sons. What did I want from him, when he so clearly wanted nothing to do with me? He could easily have returned home to Marstal, but he hadn't. He'd rejected us. What do you say to a father who's stood with his back to you for fifteen years? You tap him on his shoulder. And what do you do when he turns around?
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 no need to get upset. You're quite right. It doesn't concern me. By the way, you'll be relieved to hear that your friend has suffered no damage from his time in the sea. Remarkable when you think about it, wouldn't you say?"
Krebs stirred his coffee. I couldn't make him out. He was toying with me and I hated it.
My host tilted his head and examined me. Then, without warning, he started whistling a tune I didn't know.
"So distant," he said finally, sounding almost as though he was addressing himself. "So young, so angry, and so very unapproachable. How sad." He shook his head. "Tut, tut, tut." Then he continued. "By far the most bizarre thing about you is your interest in your namesake. You see, that interest—and you can trust me on this one—is shared by no one else here in Apia."
We, the Drowned Page 21
