We, the Drowned

by Carsten Jensen

  "Oh, it's way past his bedtime!"

  Klara leapt to her feet. She'd just remembered her boy. It was time for Albert to leave, but before he managed to stand up she'd disappeared through the door to the kitchen. He brought the chairs back inside and put them by the dining table, then waited in the parlor until she returned with Knud Erik.

  "I've taken up far too much of your time," he said apologetically.

  "But you haven't even had your coffee!" She led him to the table and pushed him down in one of the chairs. Her movements had acquired a new freedom. "Now you stay here while I make it." Pulling out a drawer of linens, she made up a bed for Knud Erik on the sofa and then left. The boy undressed and crept under the covers.

  "Are we going fishing tomorrow morning?" he asked.

  "No, not tomorrow. We can row to Langeholm and swim there, if you like."

  But there was no reply. The boy was already asleep.

  Klara appeared from the kitchen with a pot of coffee in her hand.

  "It's been a long day."

  She sat down in front of him and filled his cup. The lamp in the parlor had not yet been lit, and in the dusk her pale skin shone above the neck of her dress. They sat for a while in silence as the dark intensified around them. They could hear Knud Erik breathing from the sofa, in the undisturbed rhythm of sleep. Somewhere nearby a clock struck ten, deep and sonorous. In the growing darkness her features grew indistinct and began to swim before his eyes, as if making strange grimaces.

  "Thank you for a lovely evening," he said, and got up.

  She was as startled, as if she'd been suddenly wakened.

  "Are you leaving now?"

  Her face was a white spot in the dusk, and he couldn't read its expression. Was she tipsy? She'd drunk the first glass and he'd poured her a second. She'd had no more than that, but women have less tolerance for it than men. He felt a sudden misgiving about the whole situation. He wanted to get away.

  She rose to her feet and accompanied him to the hall. But she didn't turn on the light, and she closed the parlor door behind them. His heart was hammering at the wall of his chest like a prisoner begging for release. Again he felt the sharp shooting pain in his head. Then he felt her. Her hands fumbled on his chest, apparently unaware of his pounding heart. Then, abruptly, she flung her arms around his neck.

  "I need to say goodbye to you properly," she mumbled.

  Her lips moved searchingly across his face until they found his mouth and pressed against it. The pounding of his heart grew stronger. A black wave surged inside him and rendered him helpless. He wanted to push her away, but he couldn't. She leaned into him with all her weight; he could feel the soft pressure of her breasts. Her hips rubbed against his. A moan escaped from her, like the prelude to a fit of tears.

  "Ma" came a voice from the parlor.

  She froze and held her breath.

  "Ma, where are you?"

  Klara gasped, then flinched.

  "I'm here, in the hall."

  "You sound so strange. Is anything wrong?"

  "No, go back to sleep. It's late."

  "What are you doing, Ma?"

  "I'm saying goodbye to Captain Madsen."

  "I want to say goodbye too."

  They heard him shuffle across the floor. Then he stood in the doorway, a dark silhouette.

  "Why isn't the light on?"

  Klara found the switch and flicked it. Albert ran a hand through the boy's hair.

  "Good night, son. I think your mother is right, it's time to turn in."

  He turned to Klara but avoided looking at her face.

  "Good night, Mrs. Friis, and thank you for a lovely evening."

  He shook her hand. Her palm was hot and sweaty. Even this formal contact suddenly felt too intimate. He withdrew his hand and took his straw hat from the coat rack. Then he opened the door.

  He heard it close behind him. Too agitated to go straight home, he headed toward the harbor. Turning into Havnegade, he saw a figure get up from the skipper's bench across from Sønderrenden.

  "Good evening, Captain Madsen."

  Albert nodded briefly from under his straw hat. He had no desire to strike up a conversation. But the other man caught up with him and began walking beside him along Havnegade.

  "You're out late."

  Albert recognized Herman's thickset shape.

  "I don't believe I need to account to you for my movements," he said curtly.

  "Nice clothes," said Herman, ignoring the hostility in Albert's voice. Albert increased his pace. Herman did the same. "You seem quite youthful tonight." He smirked, making no attempt to hide the falseness of this remark. Albert stopped abruptly and turned to face the young man.

  "Tell me, what do you want from me?"

  Herman flung out his hands. "Want from you? What do you mean? I don't want anything from you. I just thought I'd keep you company for a while. But perhaps you prefer to be alone?" Albert made no reply, but turned and continued along Havnegade. He passed the slipways and the shipyard. "Pleasant dreams!" Herman called out after him. "You could probably do with a good night's sleep after this evening's exertions."

  Albert jumped, and tightened his grip on his walking stick. He briefly considered going back and punishing the scoundrel, but dropped the thought instantly. Those days were long gone. They were roughly the same height and breadth, he and Herman, but there was half a century between them. It wouldn't be an equal match. Not only would he lose the fight, he'd lose his dignity too. The realization knocked him flat. He might as well already be lying on the ground, bleeding.

  He walked up the stone steps to the house in Prinsegade and let himself in. He entered the drawing room without switching on the light and sat down heavily on the sofa. How could that rogue know what had occurred at the widow's? Had he been spying on them, or was he just guessing? Was it so obvious what was going on? But the events of the evening had surprised even him. Had others seen things that he'd failed to spot himself?

  Yes, he'd toyed with a few notions when he was getting ready for his dinner with her, he'd admit that much. But he realized too that he hadn't really wanted it enough. He'd entertained the possibility that something might happen. But now that it had, he suddenly felt exposed. If Herman could see it, then the whole town could. He had to stop it now. He understood what it was he'd felt in the hall, when Klara Friis surrendered to him. It was fear, fear of his routine life being knocked out of its orbit, fear of life's unpredictability, fear that everything he'd parted from in preparation for his twilight years would reclaim him. And Klara, he knew, had more strength than him. Just as Herman did. And for the same reason: they were young.

  A panting embrace in a darkened hall, a street fight: those were the prerogatives of youth, not of age, and God help the old man who came too near youth and thought he could warm himself by its fire. The price for that was ridicule, and he'd have to pay.

  The old should stick to their dying sun. This house, in which he'd built up and managed his business—this was the sun he circled. He shouldn't try to rebel against the laws of gravity that controlled life's end. During the war he'd earned a reputation for being strange. Now perhaps he was stuck with that reputation; well, he could live with that. But he didn't want to be thought of as a fool. To walk around the town fully dressed and yet appear naked to the world was a shame he couldn't bear.

  The next day he slept late and didn't venture out. The following day he rowed to Sorekrogen, alone, to tend to his shrimp nets. They were full as always: almost ten pounds. He emptied the nets into the container of the boat well and sat contemplating the myriad tiny creatures. He remembered how proudly Knud Erik had walked home to his mother in Snaregade with his bucket full of them. He heaved the container back onto the rail and tipped it into the water. For a brief moment the shrimp swarmed in a brown cloud, then vanished.

  Being on the water brought him no peace. He missed the boy. But there was something else, something stronger, tearing at him: an inner pressure that swell
ed the more he refused acknowledge it. It hadn't just been fear he'd felt when Klara had pressed herself against him in the hall. There'd been a physical stirring too, one that he hadn't felt in years. Now the mere thought of that episode in the hallway gave him an unexpected erection.

  An old man in a boat on the sea on a summer's morning, with an erection. He was furious with himself. And he needed relief at the same time. He'd reached the critical stage of an illness. The only cure for it was time. And distance.

  AFTER TWO WEEKS he came home and found Klara Friis in his drawing room. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa when he entered, wearing the same dress she'd worn on that fateful evening. He could see the contours of her body beneath the thin, loose-fitting fabric.

  "Your housekeeper let me in. I told her I had an important messag."

  He remained standing in the doorway, looking at her guardedly. He knew his behavior was rude, but he was held back by the fear that he might do something impulsive if he took another step. The urge he'd refused to name in his restless hours on the water took hold of him again, just as it had that night in the darkness of the hallway. Fear and excitement at the same time.

  "It's Knud Erik," she said. "He doesn't understand why we don't see you anymore. He asks after you every day, but he's afraid to visit you. Have you dropped him completely?" She directed her gaze at him. At the mention of Knud Erik his fear seemed to evaporate.

  "My dear Klara," he said, and went over to her.

  He took her hands in his. She looked at him, and her eyes suddenly reddened.

  "There's something else. I miss you terribly too!"

  She freed her hands and flung her arms around him, pressing her lips against his. Suddenly he was overcome by rage. He grabbed hold of her waist to push her away, but his hands did the opposite. He pressed her to him as he kissed her hard, without tenderness. She buckled, and he pushed her down onto the sofa. Landing heavily on top of her, he tugged at her dress.

  "Wait, wait," she breathed.

  She pulled her dress up around her waist and got herself ready for him. His anger hadn't left. When he entered her, gasping, he struck her hard across her face. In the excitement of the moment it seemed to him that he was hitting her in self-defense, in protest at her youth and what she'd lured him into. Then he collapsed, panting, already done, both with his own violence and with her surrendering body, which he'd barely seen or felt. She clung to him, apparently unaffected by the blow, which had left her cheek burning red.

  Albert's head lay on her chest. He felt its softness and resented it. In her arms he was a defenseless child. He already knew that he was trapped. He'd come back to her and then he'd hit her again. He grew red with shame. He freed himself from her arms and started rearranging his clothes. She came up to him and rested her cheek on his shoulder. The mark of his hand was still visible.

  "Are you fond of me?" she asked. "Are you really fond of me?"

  "Yes, yes," he snapped. "Now let me get my clothes in order."

  He didn't recognize himself. He felt no triumph in his conquest. Instead, the feeling that a disaster had occurred was slowly spreading through him.

  Klara got up and went over to a mirror hanging above a chest of drawers to fix her hair. When she'd finished, she turned to him.

  "What do you want me to tell Knud Erik?" He shrugged and turned his head away. "He knows I've been to see you. He'll be very disappointed if you drop him."

  "I'll be there to pick him up tomorrow. We'll go out and catch some shrimp."

  In the hall they grew formal again, shaking hands when she left. The small dark room was like a lobby entrance to the town outside, and to its ever-curious eyes. Albert remained in the doorway as she stepped into the street. Across the way Mrs. Jensen, the draper's wife, was going up the granite steps to the bank. He nodded to her. She threw a critical glance at Klara from underneath the brim of her black lacquered straw hat and returned his greeting with a curt nod. His public undressing had begun.

  When he turned up to find Knud Erik the next day, the boy wasn't there. He'd been sent to fetch milk and was due to return soon, his mother said. Little Edith was having her midday nap. To his horror he saw that one side of Klara's face was swollen and her cheek had turned yellow and blue.

  "Don't look at me like that," she said. She took his hand and held it against her cheek affectionately. "It doesn't matter."

  Leaning against the kitchen table, she stretched her hands out to him as if to pull him toward her. He turned his face away, but his body gave in to her invitation. He felt it once again, his unmentionable old man's erection. He hated himself as he tore at her dress to get it up around her hips. He entered her again, but this time he quickly grew limp and slid out. He'd forgotten all about the boy, then suddenly remembered him and realized how rash and irresponsible their frantic coupling had been.

  But she kept holding him close. He hadn't hit her this time, but he tore himself away with a violent movement. He didn't know what they wanted from each other, and he told her so.

  "Nothing good will come of this." She didn't reply, but rested her head against his chest in a kind of deaf-and-dumb surrender, which only increased his anger. "Do you hear?" he said, shaking her.

  Her head lolled as if she were barely conscious. Then they heard the boy at the door and quickly let go. Knud Erik carried the milk pail into the kitchen and put in on the table.

  It seemed to Albert that the boy's manner was guarded, but soon he realized that the awkwardness was his own. They'd walked down to the harbor and rowed the length of its entrance before he returned to his familiar ease. He'd imagined that he might need to explain his long absence, but the boy didn't ask about it. Instead he sat on the thwart and showed off his rowing skills, his face red with eagerness and exertion.

  Albert suspected that the mother had used her son's distress as a pretext for coming to see him. If only he could keep the two emotions separate—love of the son and fascination with the mother. But she wouldn't leave him alone. Who had started it? Should he be honest enough to admit that it wasn't her, but something in him, that had ruptured his tranquility? And what was that? Desire? Or the memory of desire? Was it longing for that part of life he'd failed to grasp before, which was now reoffering itself a final time, in the shape of Klara Friis?

  Whatever it was made no difference now. He couldn't endanger his bond with the boy. But how was he to stop it?

  Klara and Albert didn't speak much, and when they did it was mostly about everyday matters, as if they'd known each other a long time, and all the important things had already been said. He thought that perhaps they had little to say to each other. In the beginning there'd been a coziness to their silent companionship at the dining table or over a cup of coffee, the four of them. Now their meetings were filled with a tense, electric impatience while they waited to be alone, without the boy.

  Little Edith toddled around the floor and spoke her first words. He was always uncomfortable when she yanked at his trouser leg and looked up at him expectantly. He would lift her onto his knee and bounce her up and down. But his face stayed rigid and he didn't know what to say to her. Gallopy, gallopy, he supposed. But he remained silent.

  "Daddy," she said one day.

  He looked over at Klara, who smiled, embarrassed.

  "I don't know where she got that from. It's not from me."

  Did language grow in a child like milk teeth? Was Daddy a natural part of her budding vocabulary?

  He stopped bouncing her. No more gallopy, gallopy. He looked sternly at the child in front of him. "No," he said. "Not Daddy. Albert."

  Edith began to cry.

  No intimacy ever developed between them. They never spent a whole night in each other's company; indeed, they never even lay naked together, exhausted in a moment of tender calm after lovemaking. On the contrary, their encounters were always hectic and semi-hostile. Every time he held her, his chest became a battlefield: he was filled with reluctance, but his attraction won out, and the
result was inevitably that he took her with a ruthlessness that he later regretted. When she moaned loudly as he thrust into her, he was never sure whether it was from ecstasy or pain. He would come with the sound of a man being punched in the stomach.

  He hadn't hit her again, but he knew that this was only because his first blow had left evidence on her face, which would be visible to the whole town. Only fear for his reputation stayed his hand when the urge to hurt her overwhelmed him. Oh yes, his stiff member could have the same effect as a punch, and be used to inflict pain, but here he was betrayed by his age. He didn't have the stamina he once had.

  They made love like two people who are tied to others and can only meet illicitly, briefly, and breathlessly. And that was indeed their situation: he was married to his old age, and she to her youth. The bridge where they were supposed to meet cracked the moment they stepped on it. He didn't understand himself, he didn't understand her, and he knew that if he asked her to explain her feelings for him, he'd get no reply.

  Knud Erik returned to school, and a rainy autumn forced them to abandon the trips, but their meetings continued. They thought of other things to do. Knud Erik would visit him frequently in the afternoons, and they'd go through his homework together while the light faded outside. Sometimes Albert would go over to Snaregade, but Klara never came to his house. It hadn't been agreed on formally, but the understanding lay in the air between them. He could enter her world, but she couldn't enter his.

  Albert stopped visiting the marine painter's widow, and it felt like final proof of his shame. Did the whole town know what was going on? He was sure it did. He couldn't put his finger on one thing in particular, but the signs were all about him. A passerby would give him a stare, a conversation on a bench would suddenly stop when he passed, a shopkeeper whom he'd long been familiar with would greet him with a new reserve.

  Sometimes he'd run into Herman. After their confrontation, the young man no longer spoke to him, but wryly lifted a finger to his hat, or grinned coarsely, as though they were fellow conspirators. Albert ignored him but worried about how often he encountered him on his way to or from Snaregade. Did that layabout have nothing better to do than spy on him?