We, the Drowned

by Carsten Jensen

  He got up abruptly. "Right, let's get going."

  He nodded in the direction of the sea chest, which was still on the table. "You'd better take that. I presume you'll be staying with your"—he hesitated before tasting the word—"friend."

  I nodded, but I was at a loss. I hadn't even thought that far ahead. But I supposed that Krebs was right. I would stay with my father. Fifteen years with his back to me, I tap him on the shoulder—and he turns around and invites me to stay? I could feel my earlier anxiety return. It was all so ill-considered. I really had no chart for this part of the voyage.

  I stood and took the sea chest.

  "Of course you're always welcome to return here, should the stay with your friend fail to work out. I would be only too happy to renew our acquaintance." Krebs bowed theatrically and gestured me toward the door with a sweeping movement. "Do you ride?" he asked, as we stepped down from the veranda. Two horses, already saddled, awaited us.

  "Well, I can try," I replied, and stuck a foot in one stirrup with a movement that I hoped looked practiced. Then I swung myself up onto the horse. For a moment I thought I might slide down the other side, and I could feel how bruised and battered I was. I secured the sea chest to the saddle.

  "You're doing pretty well," Krebs said, sizing me up.

  With a light tap of his whip he got his horse moving at a walking pace, and I copied him as best I could. A white-clad servant trotted alongside me on foot: I presumed he was there to take charge if my horse decided to cause me any trouble. We followed the beach for a while. Here the pounding of the surf made conversation impossible, but when we turned toward the interior of the island and the ocean's din subsided, Krebs launched a torrent of speech, which didn't end until we reached our destination. I was too preoccupied by my own thoughts to pay much attention to his words, but I recalled them later—along with the warning that lay buried in them.

  "Take a look around," he said. "We have big plans for this area. We don't own much land at the moment. But that's going to change." As he pointed his whip here and there, his posture straightened in a way I'd not seen before. "Come back in ten years and you'll see the difference for yourself. Then all this chaos and lack of discipline will be gone."

  He snorted in contempt as he said this, and I recalled his house. Yes, it was light and airy—but it was also so neatly arranged that a sea chest on his dining table, and a man like me sitting next to it, looked like pieces of dirt. I followed the movements of his whip, and at first I thought that the chaos he was referring to was the mess left by the storm. Then I realized that it was nature itself that he saw as being out of control.

  "Straight rows," he said. "In ten years there will be straight rows everywhere. Stone walls at right angles, and behind them, pineapple, coffee bushes, and cocoa trees—in formation! Copra plantations, yes, but with the palms properly aligned. Areas for grazing, leveled out. Cattle. Horses. Avenues of palm trees, like soldiers on parade! Fountains!" His voice grew staccato as the list of future delights grew longer. Then he paused and became pensive. "Of course, we'll have to import labor. The locals are utterly useless."

  "Why?" I asked—though mostly to demonstrate an interest in his's impassioned words, because my thoughts were elsewhere.

  "Oh, it's not because they're lazier here than anywhere else in the world. A native is a native. I can mention several individual examples of hard work, of course. But it never lasts." He looked at me as if to signal that what he was about to say was of particular interest. "Their families are their curse. When my servants go home for a visit, I make them leave their nice clothes behind. Take Adolf—yes, I give them German names, it makes it easier." He pointed at the servant walking next to my horse. "I gave Adolf permission to visit his family, wearing his fine clothes. He was so proud of them. But he came back in rags. His family had taken over his uniform. I meet them, from time to time, prancing about. There's a cousin wearing the waistcoat, there's a brother in the jacket, an uncle with the shirt, and his dad's wearing the trousers. They'll wear one item of clothing at a time and nothing else—oh, it's a sight all right, eh, Adolf?" He poked the servant with his whip, but Adolf stared straight ahead as if he hadn't heard what Krebs had said, or didn't understand a word. The latter seemed the most likely. "The Samoan doesn't work," Krebs said. "He goes visiting. He's not your industrious ant type. More of a grasshopper."

  "A grasshopper?"

  "A grasshopper. You see, if a Samoan suddenly grows rich, whether through hard work, which is rather unlikely, or through luck, then his entire clan will instantly come and visit him. Even the most distant branches of the family tree will arrive. I've seen it. A whole village might move. And they'll behave like a swarm of locusts. They won't leave until they've stripped him of everything. Your Samoan has the same word for visit and misfortune: malanga. And you can figure out the consequences. It's a system that rewards the beggar and penalizes effort. Hard work is nothing more than an invitation to be robbed. It's impossible to save. So what does the smart man do? He makes sure he earns enough to cover the bare necessities, so he can put food in his mouth and the mouths of those closest to him, and nothing more. A man like that's no use to me. No: imported labor. Single men who don't need much and, most important, don't have a big family."

  While Krebs had been speaking we had left the last houses behind, and only native huts surrounded us. The road had ended and we had to ride around a crisscross of woven fences behind which black, hairy pigs grunted in the mud. A crowd of children encircled us. Adolf gave a warning whistle as though chasing away dogs and the kids shrieked and retreated—but they soon reappeared, and every time they did, their chattering numbers had swelled. Women stared at us from the opening of their huts.

  "Well, this is where Europe ends," Krebs said. "Now we're among the savages."

  A gust of wind swept through the tall coconut palms and set their tops rustling. I looked up. Their large leaves opened and closed like sea anemones, and I caught a brief glimpse of a man perched in one of them. He was white, with a naked torso and a large gray beard. Then the leaves closed again and hid him from view, as if the palm tree was his home and he was now shutting its door against curious onlookers.

  For a moment I doubted my own eyes. Most of all, I wanted to ignore the strange apparition, which seemed to belong to a dream world. Krebs had seen it too. He stopped his horse and turned to me.

  "We're here," he said. "So I'll be turning back." He gestured to me to get off my horse. I took hold of my sea chest and dismounted, and he leaned down to shake my hand. "I hope you won't regret it. You're always welcome at my house." He squeezed my hand and turned his horse around. Then he looked back at me. A mocking smile appeared on his face. "Good luck with your father." Then he spurred his horse and galloped away.

  I STOOD THERE, with my sea chest under my arm. The children gawked and gestured, but I ignored them until eventually they calmed down and squatted around me, looking curious and expectant. Women continued to stare at me from the surrounding huts. There were no men in sight.

  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, beg my forgiveness for all the years that had passed while he'd stayed away. But I already knew that he wasn't going to do that. He'd managed without me for all these years, and the only thing that interested him, when he finally saw me again, was his boots.

  So instead, I stayed. I knew exactly why.

  Because I wanted him to embrace me. Just the once.

  "Right, let's go home and get a bite to eat in Korsgade," he said.

  Had he completely lost his mind? Korsgade! Rasmus, Esben—and Albert! And it followed that there would have to be a sister called Else too somewhere. It felt like staring into an abyss. Here, in the shade of the palm trees, my father had re-created the family he'd turned his back on. I might have been able to take the betrayal if he'd been living an entirely different life—if, I don't know. But this!

  The small dark-skinned boy trotting alongside me was claiming to be Albert. So what did that make me? A first draft?

  My heart was unmoved by the sight of the boys darting after papa tru. They were my half brothers—but I felt no kinship to them. All I could feel was sudden, fierce bitterness that overwhelmed me. Now I understood Heinrich Krebs's warning. Hell, I even approved of his mockery. I watched my father's muscular back above his sarong. My father! No, he wasn't my father. He was the father of the little dark-skinned boys. Our blood tie was gone.

  I watched the red dust beneath my feet; the hens, wandering freely; the woven fences with the snorting black pigs behind them; the airy huts. I heard the rustle of the palm tops. In the days when I'd dreamt of the Pacific, that sound had called to me. Now here I was, reunited with my father, and it was no dream come true: it was a loss of hope. I'd rather have found his grave than the man himself.

  "Papa tru," I called out to his back.

  He didn't even turn around.

  "Papa tru." I mocked him. "That's what you taught me to call you. Do you actually know what that means? Papa tru—my true father. But what kind of father are you? One big lie—that's what you are!"

  I should have turned and left at that point. But I followed him to his hut.

  ***

  He shouted something and I understood that he was demanding food for his guest and himself. A woman appeared in the opening to the hut. I didn't look at her. I didn't want to know anything. I had no idea whether she knew about me. We sat there, waiting. The children formed a circle around us.

  Laurids looked at my boots again.

  "Give them to me," he said.

  "You're not getting them!" All of my disappointment was expressed in those words. "You're not getting them!" I repeated.

  He gave me a baffled look, as if he hadn't anticipated a refusal.

  Then I looked him in the face and saw a peculiar lethargy in his eyes—and I knew that he was lost. He was no longer my father. Nor was he Laurids Madsen anymore. He'd left everything behind, including a part of himself. I saw now that all the names from home that he'd strewn around him were nothing but a desperate attempt to grasp at something that was gone forever. My rage gave way to horror. I wanted to get up and leave. I looked around for my sea chest, which I had set down, but it was nowhere to be seen.

  "The boots," Laurids said again.

  He'd recovered his commanding tone, but I'd seen evidence of something else in his eyes. So I ignored him and began looking about for my sea chest, which I found over by the woven fence: the boys had dragged it there and were just opening it. They giggled in anticipation. The oldest one put his hand inside and rummaged around.

  Then he froze. His eyes widened as though he'd discovered a poisonous snake, and he screamed. His brothers scattered. A word, whose significance I didn't know but could easily guess, echoed through the palm trees and across the whole village.

  Laurids froze too, and the lethargy in his eyes gave way to terror.

  I can't explain how, but I knew instantly what was going on in his addled brain. The boy had found Jim—and Laurids now believed that I was a ruthless killer who wandered about with his victims' heads in his sea chest. Maybe he even thought I'd come to wreak revenge.

  It was so ludicrous that I started laughing. If I hadn't, I'd have howled like a wounded animal.

  My father gawked at me, paralyzed with fear. Then he started to crawl backward in the dust like a crab. He thought my laughter was triumphant, that I was about to get my own back. He shook with fright, the poor shadowy creature.

  In the hot midday sun the sight of him had stirred up all sorts of feelings in me: anxiety and panic, bafflement and rage. For a brief moment I was even prepared to feel sorry for him. Now any compassion I might have felt turned into contempt. I got up and went over to my sea chest. A fiendish impulse made me grab Jim by his hair and dangle the shrunken head in the air. I took one menacing step toward the man who'd once been my father.

  Papa tru was still crouched in the dust. A wet patch appeared on the sand between his legs. In his petrified state he'd lost control of his bladder. His children pressed themselves against him. Had I known their language, I'd have yelled at them that they shouldn't seek comfort in a father as miserable as this. The boys' mother, big and heavy
, appeared in the doorway. Her eyes were wide with fear like her children's.

  I put Jim back in my sea chest, tucked it under my arm, raised a finger to my cap in farewell, and went on my way. The first few steps I took were measured. Then I started to run. As I ran, I felt the tears cascading down my face. The natives watched me cautiously. I'd interrupted their midday rest.

  Laurids must have got his courage back at the sight of my retreat, because behind me I heard the sound of his voice one more time.

  "My boots!" he shouted.

  But I didn't turn back.

  I never saw my father again.

  I WENT BACK to Hobart Town, where this cursed voyage had begun. It was no happy return, for there was nothing in this wretched place that could inspire joy in anyone. But this was where it had all started, and so this was where it must end.

  I went to the Hope and Anchor to say hello to Anthony Fox. When I left, he was black-and-blue. That was my conclusion to the story.

  Fox hadn't been pleased to see me: he had no reason to rejoice at our reunion. But he did his best to conceal it. To him, I must have looked like someone back from the dead.

  I told him that I was like him: I never forgot a debt. That wiped the fake welcoming smile from his face. He reached for his revolver, which he kept under the brass bar counter, the smartest in Hobart, but I'd anticipated that, and I was quicker than he was. We ended up in the backroom. He fought well. He was an experienced fighter who knew plenty of dirty tricks from his prison days. But I was younger and bigger and I finally floored him. He stayed down for a long time. I kept pounding him even after he'd given up. My rage demanded it.

  When I'd kicked and broken his last rib, I said, "And Jack Lewis says hello."

  Not because I owed Jack Lewis anything, but to finally balance the books. We'd both been victims of the same fraudster. It was Anthony Fox who'd sold the guns to the natives on Jack Lewis's island, and when he told me his name, he must have calculated that I wouldn't be coming back alive.