We, the Drowned

by Carsten Jensen

  They sought out Ivar's company because they knew they needed protection.

  Ivar hadn't been on board long before he expressed indignation at the food. He found their evening meals, in particular, entirely inadequate. Twice a week, on Wednesdays and Saturdays, they were given a cheese, a salami sausage, a tin of liver pâté, and a tin of sardines : this was to be shared among four men. The upshot being that they'd always wolf down the cold meats, cheese, and sardines the first evening and survive on rye bread until the next handout.

  "But it's not my fault," Helmer said, spreading his arms helplessly.

  Ivar went to the captain and on behalf of the crew complained about the small portions. By the crew he meant the three boys he shared the fo'c'sle with.

  Miss Kristina was in the cabin when Ivar arrived. She was tall and slim, with a mane of chestnut hair, and she had the frank, energetic nature typical of most girls from Marstal. It was in their upbringing; they knew that one day they'd have absolute rule of the home. She also had dimples and a beauty spot by her right nostril, which always made her look as if she'd just dressed up for a party.

  At first Bager said nothing. He glanced furtively at his daughter, as if he wanted to ask her opinion. He was clearly caught between his own meanness and the desire to make a good impression on her.

  "Just because you've worked on a steamer," Herman snarled. He was present as well and considered himself the captain's spokesman.

  "I know maritime law," Ivar said calmly. "We're not getting the food we're entitled to. In the future I insist on seeing the food weighed out." He turned and smiled at Miss Kristina. "You might think it strange to attach such importance to a few grams of food, miss?"

  She shook her head and returned his smile, unaffected by the tense atmosphere in the cabin. Herman looked from one to the other with a watchful eye. It was obvious what he thought. Ivar was trying to influence the captain through his daughter.

  "Please don't think that we're afraid of hard work, miss," Ivar continued. "We work hard, but most of us have yet to turn twenty. Just take a look at the cook and the two crewmen: they're only fifteen, not even fully grown. And then we work in the fresh air all day. You've probably noticed yourself that the sea air gives you an appetite."

  Herman cleared his throat menacingly. Ivar's eloquence had paralyzed him, and he needed to gain time. But Ivar wasn't even looking in his direction. He was still smiling at Miss Kristina, and she was I returning his smile as though they had a secret bond.

  Bager didn't seem to notice any of this. But now he spoke—and what he said was so striking that it should have been clear even then that something was bound to go wrong on board the Kristina.

  "Five loaves and two fishes," he said. He seemed to be trying to make his voice sound firm, but it was strangely insubstantial, as though his thoughts were somewhere far away.

  "Sorry?" Ivar made an effort to be polite. "I don't think I understood you."

  Bager raised his voice. "I said five loaves and two fishes. That was all Our Lord Jesus Christ needed to feed five thousand people. Are one cheese, one salami, a tin of liver pâté, and a tin of sardines not enough for you, though you are only four?"

  "We're not talking about Bible history. We're on board the Kristina of Marstal, and maritime law states—"

  "Do you deny the Lord your God?" Bager said in a sharp tone, giving Ivar an accusing stare. "How is it possible, after God has borne you, clothed you, and kept you for so many days, for you to doubt that He can and will continue to do so?"

  Even the articulate Ivar was left speechless by this outburst from the normally taciturn Captain Bager. He gave Kristina a questioning look. She spread her hands, at a loss. You could expect just about anything from a Marstal skipper. He could be unyielding and harsh, unreasonable in his demands, unfair at times. First and foremost he could be stingy. Thrift was essential for his survival. But no one had ever heard a captain back his actions with religious quotations, and certainly not in such foggy terms.

  Herman suppressed a brutal laugh. This was promising to be truly entertaining.

  "I'm talking about maritime law," Ivar said again, firmly.

  Miss Kristina leaned toward Bager and placed her hand on his. "Be reasonable, Father. It's no skin off your nose if the crew gets a bit more to eat."

  Bager clutched his chest, like a man suffering some deep inner turmoil. "As you wish," he said finally, in a weak voice.

  "Father, are you feeling unwell?" Miss Kristina asked anxiously.

  Back in the fo'c'sle Ivar told the story to the crew. Then he looked at Knud Erik.

  "You've sailed with him the longest. Is he normally like this?"

  "Stingy, yes," Knud Erik said. "But speaking like Pastor Abildgaard?" He shook his head.

  "What did he say again?" Vilhjelm asked.

  "It was that bit from the Bible about the five loaves and the two fishes." Ivar thought a moment. "Then he asked me how we could doubt the Lord who'd clothed and kept us."

  "It's from the Book of Sermons," Vilhjelm said. "Seventh Sunday after Trinity. A sermon for the poor and for the rich. By Jonas Dahl, a seamen's priest in Bergen. Bager seems to have memorized it. He must be in a really bad way."

  From time to time Miss Kristina invited the whole crew for pancakes or went around the deck with the coffeepot. In the galley Helmer was constantly beaming. She came in often to help with the cooking. It was so narrow there that they had to stand close to each other, and the rustling of her dress and her female presence intoxicated him. She praised his skills, and he made an extra effort. They all did. It was good to have a woman on board.

  Miss Kristina would often sit down next to the helmsman and chat while he kept one eye on the rigging and the other on her.

  One evening as they approached the coast of Portugal, she strolled the deck in the moonlight with Ivar. Herman stood by the rail, trying without success to eavesdrop on their muted conversation. She'd turned her back on him after he'd told the story about Ravn in Nyborg and kept him at a distance, though she wasn't generally reserved. Since the confrontation about the food, his stock had been lower than ever.

  He felt Miss Kristina's presence like something poisonous and something infinitely sweet mixing together in his blood. Inside him, a lack of willpower and a colossal tension battled it out. He felt both weak and furious at the same time. He went around with his fists clenched, ready to fight, yet what he wanted most of all was to hold and be held.

  The Kristina cut up against the south wind that always blew along the Portuguese coast. When Ivar was on duty, Miss Kristina would sit at the helm next to him. Herman went over to them, stiff and haughty, relishing his role as the first mate. "The helmsman is not to be distracted," he said curtly, and remained there, with his hands folded behind his back until she got up and left.

  Yes, she had to yield to him there. However, he was uncertain whether her yielding had been a victory or a defeat. He got no closer to her and was beginning to think of her and Ivar as "the couple." After all, that was what they were becoming.

  One afternoon a shoal of dolphins broke the monotony. "Springers!" the helmsman cried out, and the crew bustled to arm themselves. Ivar led the way. He jumped out on the bowsprit and hurled the harpoon into the water just as the ship dived, shortening the distance to the nearest leaping creature. The dolphin struggled powerfully as Ivar pulled in the line. Then Knud Erik came over and managed to get a hawser around its tail.

  Herman disappeared down to his cabin and reappeared on deck with a revolver in his hand. The crew formed a circle around the dolphin, which arched its smooth, elegant body in dying spasms while its strong tail beat the deck rhythmically, its blood pouring out and flowing in a greasy stream across the planks. Miss Kristina watched from a distance, with her hands over her mouth. Someone had to deliver the deathblow to the convulsing animal.

  "Move!" Herman shouted.

  They turned to look at him. He waved the revolver at the circle of men as if he'd not yet decide
d on his target. They stepped back. He walked up close to the dolphin, aimed carefully, then fired twice. The dolphin's eye exploded in blood. Its tail slammed against the deck a final time, and then it lay still.

  He looked up and saw Miss Kristina huddling against Ivar. Both were staring at him. He grinned at them. Then he stuck the revolver into his belt and returned to his cabin.

  He sat on the edge of his berth. He was still smiling. This had been a perfect moment. No one had known he had a revolver. They were surprised when he came up holding it, and he'd seen the fear in their eyes. They'd turned from the dolphin to stare at him. He'd been in control. That was how he wanted it.

  Early one morning the wind fell, and after that their progress was slow. Around noon they saw Setúbal ahead of them: large whitewashed villas sitting atop steep cliffs; lush, green vegetation hanging like a veil over the rocks. When the sails were down, Miss Kristina served each man on deck a glass of wine. It was an old custom.

  Her eyes lingered on Ivar, but when she reached Herman, she turned her face half away, as if she couldn't wait to move on to the next man in line.

  There was already one Marstal schooner in the port. Over the next few days, more arrived and soon there was a small flock: the Eagle, the Galathea, and the Atlantic, all veterans of the route, loading salt in Setúbal for Newfoundland, then sailing back across the Atlantic with salt cod for Setúbal.

  Not that they were short of fish here. The port teemed with fishermen who caught sardines as big as herrings. The men were small and sinewy and their chests were bared to the sun, the muscles clearly defined beneath their tanned skin. Spotting Miss Kristina, they called out and waved, their white teeth gleaming beneath their black mustaches; she waved back to them and they raised their huge baskets of glittering fish as though offering a joyful tribute to her sex, so rarely sighted on the deck of a sailing ship.

  Bager was rowed ashore to buy provisions, but he came back empty-handed. There were neither potatoes nor bread to be had. Setúbal was in the grip of a strike—or was it a lockout? At any rate, some sort of uprising or revolution. A nine o'clock curfew had been imposed, and anyone found in the street after dark would be shot.

  "Why is there a revolution?" Miss Kristina asked, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

  Her father shrugged. "I suppose people are starving," he said. "There's a lot of poverty here."

  "But that's awful," Miss Kristina said. "Those poor, poor people."

  "Don't fret about it," Herman interjected. "It's nothing unusual. There's always some fuss going on here. They create havoc and shoot at each other. They say they want change, but the next time you visit, everything's the same as it always was. It's the way they are. They can't control their tempers and they never get anything done."

  The word revolution went around the deck. Everyone wanted to taste it, like an exotic fruit bursting with a strange, tantalizing flavor. Revolutions were a part of the south. Now they'd be able to return home and say that they'd witnessed one—though as far as they could see there was nothing to witness. The sardine fishermen seemed unperturbed by the revolution—if that's what it was—and heavily laden I ships arrived every day. Then the uprising spread farther, and it was rumored that the sardine factories were striking too.

  For the next few days the fishermen stayed in port, and the docks around the Kristina fell silent. The Nauta and the Rosenhjem showed up, and soon a tiny floating Marstal was established, with plenty of traffic between the ships. Visits were paid, coffee was drunk. Miss Kristina stopped strolling around with Ivar in order to meet the other skippers, who were all friends of her father and used to visit their home in Marstal. One day she went with them to see the town, which seemed peaceful enough despite its revolution. Like the proper skipper's daughter she was, she rowed the boat that ferried them all to shore.

  She returned with a bunch of flowers that a park gardener had given her, and treated the crew to a lively description of the large café in the town square where a military band had been playing. "Lovely to hear a brass band again," she said.

  Herman shrugged. A woman of the world probably spoke like that, but he couldn't recall a brass band ever playing in Marstal. She'd been to the cinema too, where the film had been accompanied by a string orchestra. Twenty men at least, she said, and her eyes sparkled.

  Several of the crewmen on the Marstal ships had brought instruments with them: two accordions, three harmonicas, and a violin. Off duty, they made up an entire orchestra themselves. That night there was music and singing. Ivar had a very fine voice, but it was his radio, in particular, that made him popular among the other crews. They were proud of him on the Kristina. He was theirs; no other ship had a man like Ivar. He'd switch on the radio, and voices came zooming in from all over the world, and music too, including the Portuguese fado. Ivar was the only one who knew that word, and he explained the mournful music to them. But even stranger sounds came from the radio—such as Arabic music from a station in Casablanca. Ivar had to admit defeat there. He couldn't put a name to it or tell them anything about it.

  When Ivar turned on his radio, even the skippers couldn't resist, and came out of the cabin, where they'd been enjoying their Dutch gin and Riga Balsam. Miss Kristina did her round with the coffeepot and asked if anyone fancied pancakes, and a chorus of "Aye, aye!" rose from the men.

  IN SETÚBAL Herman found himself among his peers again. They were sailors, and they were from Marstal. He'd beaten up a man in a doorway in Nyborg and claimed he'd done it for the sake of his town—but now he felt like an outsider. The trouble wasn't simply his jealousy. Perhaps it wasn't jealousy at all, but the fact that he didn't know where he belonged: he only really felt at home when he was in charge, treated with respect and fear.

  The wind and the waves had a lawlessness and unpredictability that felt familiar to him. He sensed it the moment he embarked. On land, life became lilliputian again, and he stumbled around like an awkward, homeless giant, unable to squeeze through the doorways that bid others welcome.

  There was a gentle feel to the evening, an intimacy that came from the warm air of the south—the way the stars were mirrored in the calm sea, the enigmatic quiet of the town, and the caress of music and voices. The skippers broke their habit and turned up together to mingle with the crew, amid the smell of pancakes that spread from the galley.

  He was with his own, but he didn't belong among them. It stung him suddenly, a terrifying feeling of not being whole, but crippled. In one horrifying flash he observed himself from the outside and saw a monster. He wanted to hide, to flee this world he couldn't cope with, where he was on a lonely track that led nowhere.

  He felt no urge to drink or fight. He just had to get away.

  He went down to his cabin to get his revolver. Then he climbed over the rail and into the lifeboat that was moored to the side of the ship. He pushed off and began rowing.

  Where was he going? He didn't know. He stopped and rested on the oars, at a loss. The port was deserted. No lights were lit, and the silence of the empty town seemed to fall from the night sky, as though Setúbal had been sucked into the vast vacuum of the universe the moment the curfew descended.

  Suddenly he realized what he wanted. He wanted to walk the darkened streets. This was his territory: a forbidden zone where being spotted could cost you your life.

  A moment ago a storm had raged within him. Now the tide in his veins turned, giving way to the dangerous silence of the ebb.

  Making his strokes as noiseless as possible, he rowed slowly toward the nearest wharf. Only the faintest splashes were audible, and they were instantly swallowed by the dense darkness. The music and voices coming from the Kristina were now so far away that they seemed the echoes of another world, a world he'd left behind and could never return to.

  He didn't know what awaited him in the abandoned streets, nor did he care. A magnet was pulling him: he abandoned his will and obeyed. It was there, in the magnet's powerful stillness, in its deadly metallic cold, tha
t he belonged. He felt the weight of the revolver in his pocket and readied himself.

  He moored the boat and climbed up onto the wharf. There was no moon, yet the town hadn't been completely absorbed by the dark. Here and there, light streamed from a window or slid through the slats of a shutter. He could hear voices, then the sound of a piano—a delicate music protesting against the silence, only to be engulfed by it.

  He stood between two rows of houses and tilted his head back. He could see the Milky Way running parallel with the street, a celestial track of shining pebbles forging through the wasteland of the night. He recalled the first time he'd seen it. He had been a boy then, alone in the night. He'd stood on the beach and cocked his head the same way, bursting with impatient hope. But now, tonight, he turned his back on everything. He was alone with the Milky Way and a gun.

  Did he want to survive this night? Was this a test he had designed for himself, or was it something else? He didn't know. He didn't understand the language of the stars well enough for that.

  He stood in the middle of the street, looking upward. The white walls of the houses glowed blue as if reflecting the starlight. Gates and doorways pulsated black. Was it wise to be standing in the middle of the street?

  His peculiar intoxication, which had been generated not by drink but by his loneliness beneath the night sky, evaporated. He ran across the sidewalk and pressed himself against a wall. Here he was likely to be just as visible: a dense black mass against its glowing blue.

  He hadn't come here to hide. He returned to the middle of the sidewalk and started walking.

  Suddenly he heard steps. He stopped. They sounded measured. Was it one or more men who were approaching? He listened again. It certainly wasn't a group, he decided. Perhaps there were only two of them? Soldiers on night patrol? Who else would be out and about after dark in a town with a curfew? He looked behind him, then ahead. It was a wide street, and palm trees blocked the starlight: he had to be on a boulevard. He ought to head for the narrow, winding lanes where it would be easier to escape. He wavered, but stayed put. Then he raised his gun and turned around slowly. Darkness: nothing but darkness. He could still hear the measured footsteps. Were they coming closer or moving away?