We, the Drowned

by Carsten Jensen

  He didn't want to get to know another human being too well. He was afraid that what he discovered might destroy him.

  He put the whiskey bottle in the cupboard and didn't take it out again. He overcame his contempt for Herman and started turning up in the mess. Bluetooth was the attraction. Though Knud Erik wasn't his father, the boy wouldn't be in this world if it hadn't been for him. He'd stood on the threshold between life and death and pulled a newborn into life. No, he didn't know whether he'd saved himself. But he'd saved Bluetooth, and that mattered more. Suddenly he felt his own lack of children as the greatest absence in his life. Bluetooth wasn't his, but his death-defying leap into two-degree water had won him a parental right.

  It was pure coincidence that he'd run into Miss Sophie again. But it was no coincidence that he'd saved Bluetooth. Life had singled him out and found a use for him.

  AROUND THE MESS TABLE, Anton told them about a man called Laurids Madsen, who nearly a hundred years previously had fought in a battle on Eckernförde Fjord and had been standing on the deck of a ship when it blew up. Like Moses Huntington, he'd come back down alive. He also told them about a schoolteacher called Isager whose students had tried to kill him by setting fire to his house, and about Albert Madsen, who'd searched for his missing father across the entire Pacific and returned home bearing the shrunken head of James Cook.

  Knud Erik, who'd heard the same stories—indeed, he was Anton's source for most of them—interrupted. There were some things he had better knowledge of. He told them about the First World War and about Albert's visions. Then Anton cut in, saying that he wasn't telling it quite right, and Knud Erik realized that when his friend had got hold of Albert's famous boots, he'd also purloined his notebooks and read them.

  Anton told the story of how he'd found Albert dead, and together he and Knud Erik told everyone about the gang named after the old captain. Vilhjelm brought up their discovery of the skull of the murdered Jepsen. Knud Erik looked over at the man the crew called Old Funny to see what effect this story had on him. He'll change the subject, he'll deny everything, he thought.

  Herman looked distant for a moment, then said pensively, "Vilhjelm is talking about me," as if this was the first he'd heard about his stepfather's murder. "Yes, I killed my stepfather. He was in my way. I was young. I was impatient."

  He started telling how, at the age of fifteen, he'd sailed a topgallant yard schooner back to Marstal single-handed, as though his first murder was merely the beginning of the story and the best part was yet to come.

  The crew stared at him. They were gripped by the tension of his tale. Old Funny was a born storyteller. All right, so he was a dangerous killer as well. All right, so the captain had been right about him after all. But take a look at him now. He'd certainly been punished.

  Knud Erik understood that Herman's pathetic state, legless and one-armed, was a ticket to a free pardon, already granted. There was no need for him to ask for his audience's pity: they gave it to him voluntarily. Old Funny had once been a man. A man capable of killing other men. But what was he now?

  Anton, Knud Erik, and Vilhjelm exchanged a glance. They hadn't been expecting a confession and they wanted to investigate further. But Herman's Marstal Adventures were now in full flood and the audience wanted more. "Then what happened?" they asked, and Anton had to tell them about Kristian Stærk and the killing of Tordenskjold. "Did you really kill his seagull?" Wally asked Old Funny accusingly.

  Knud Erik couldn't suppress the triumph in his voice when he told them how they'd driven Old Funny out of town simply by staring at him, and how most of the gang members didn't even know that he was a murderer but thought the whole thing was about the death of a bird.

  Old Funny looked irritated, as if he regretted his departure all those years ago. Then he winked at Knud Erik and laughed. "You really got me there," he said. Then he started talking about the Copenhagen stock exchange and Henckel, and how he'd lost the inheritance he'd waited to get his hands on for so many years. His life had had its ups and downs.

  Vilhjelm talked about the loss of the Ane Marie and about the Book of Sermons, which he still knew by heart. They were welcome to test him if they wanted.

  "So you've been in the ice before; you know what it's like," one of the British gunners said. "You practically had a dress rehearsal for convoy sailing."

  "Bloody Marstal sailors," a Canadian said. "You poke your noses into everything and you've been everywhere."

  Miss Kristina and Ivar entered the story, and Knud Erik recounted their chapter in a tone that grew increasingly condemning.

  Old Funny defended himself. "I confess to nothing," he said. "Ivar's death wasn't murder. Some men can take it, others can't. I was just testing him and that's all there is to it." He looked around the company, and several men nodded.

  "And Miss Kristina?" Knud Erik persisted.

  Yes, that had been stupid. He was happy to admit it. He flung out his jerking-off hand as if to say, all things considered, it was a trifle.

  "You've ruined lives!" Knud Erik was angry now.

  Well, he supposed he had, Herman admitted. He didn't add: Look at me now. But his body did, and that was enough. It was all in the past. No more evil would come from him.

  Knud Erik got up and left, but the story continued. Nothing could stop it now.

  Old Funny told them about the night he broke the curfew in Setúbal. Was he boasting or telling the truth? It was hard to tell. He'd certainly been one hell of a guy once. Anyone could tell that his audience thought so, just from their faces.

  The story spread in every direction and contracted again until it formed a protective ring around the Nimbus.

  Bluetooth lay awake in his cradle and his telescope eyes wandered from face to face. He was exploring the universe as usual, and he looked as if he understood it all.

  The crew had found true fellowship around the table in the mess, however reluctantly and unwillingly at first. Old Funny had helped them become the "us" that every ship needs. Even Knud Erik conceded it.

  WHEN THEY ARRIVED at Liverpool, Herman asked to see the captain. Their meeting took place on the deck where Knud Erik had introduced him to the crew and Herman had first revealed that his trouser legs were empty. He hadn't come to say goodbye and thank you. Instead, he requested permission to stay on board the Nimbus. After all, they were fellow Danes, from the same town. He believed he could be useful around the mess and as a lookout. And he'd like to remind the captain that on one occasion he'd saved the ship from a torpedo.

  Knud Erik shook his head. At this, for the first and only time, Herman seemed to crack.

  "Look at me," he said. "They'll shove me into some home."

  "They can lock you up and throw away the key, for all I care."

  "What's going to become of me?" Herman looked down. He was pathetic now, and his misery only heightened Knud Erik's rage.

  "As far as I know, nothing stands in the way of hanging a man with no legs and only one arm."

  The crew was standing some distance away, whispering. They could tell, from Old Funny's slumped figure, the way the negotiations were going. Absalon came up to them.

  "Captain," he said, "we've drawn up a petition." He handed Knud Erik a piece of paper. Knud Erik cast his eyes over the list. Practically the entire crew was demanding to keep Old Funny on board; the only ones who hadn't signed were Anton and Vilhjelm. Sophie's signature was missing too; he assumed she didn't want to get involved. Besides, she didn't count as a crew member.

  "I'll think about it."

  He asked Anton and Vilhjelm to come to his cabin.

  "Will you sign off if I keep him?"

  They both shook their heads. "We'll stay," Anton said. "The Nimbus is a good ship, and though I hate to admit it, I think Herman has a share in that. We knew you'd say no. We just wanted to show you that we're on your side. I hate the bastard, but sometimes you have to rise above your own feelings."

  Knud Erik pondered this for a while. "All right, I'll
let him stay," he said. "For the sake of the ship."

  The crew celebrated his decision by taking Old Funny on a trip into town. The next morning he was back in his usual place in the mess, with bloodshot eyes and an even redder complexion than usual. When he spoke, it was with biblical solemnity.

  "There shall come a day when all the women in the world will lie in the gutter screaming for cock," he intoned. "But not an inch shall they be given!"

  "Am I to understand," Knud Erik asked, "that nobody wanted to screw you?"

  It was Knud Erik who invited Sophie to stay.

  "I'm pleased that you're asking," she said. "I was going to ask if I could."

  "You can carry on in the mess. I've spoken to Helge about it."

  They were silent for a while. He felt relieved, but he had no idea how to express his joy at her decision. "The crew will be pleased to hear that," he said instead. "They all love Bluetooth."

  "I don't know if it's irresponsible to sail with a baby during a war. But if I stayed ashore, I'd be working all day in a munitions factory and I'd never see him. He's only two months old. I wouldn't be able to stand that."

  "There are bombs everywhere," he said. He realized that they were discussing Bluetooth the way a married couple would discuss their child.

  "I don't know what I'd do with myself if I couldn't sail," she said. "It's my whole life. I can't live in any other way."

  He knew what she meant. He'd chosen to be a sailor himself, but at some point the sea had chosen him too. It was something that could no longer be undone. He and Sophie had seemed so very different the first time they met, but since then, they'd lived parallel lives. That said, something seemed to be holding him back and he sensed the same in her too. He wasn't physically impotent. So the impotence must lie in his soul. Finding oblivion in a moment's ecstasy was all he could manage. He couldn't look into someone's eyes while making love.

  "I'm like my grandmother," she said. "She was one of those crazy people who can't be with anyone. She couldn't fit in. She needed her independence too much. She had the ice and I have the sea. But it comes down to the same thing."

  "You've got a child now. You have to fit in. You're all Bluetooth's got."

  "He has us," she said.

  He was uncertain if by "us" she was referring to him or the crew of the ship, which she was now a part of. He wanted to ask but feared the question might spoil something. It was she who broke the increasingly tense silence.

  "I do know who Bluetooth's father is," she said. "He's not, as most of you probably think, some sailor I happened to meet on shore leave. I know his name, I know his address, I've met his parents and his friends. We were engaged to be married."

  "So what went wrong?"

  "What was wrong was that he looked like Jimmy Stewart. You know, the American actor. Six foot something, with the face of a boy."

  "But Jimmy Stewart's handsome!"

  "Yes. And he was so damn nice, I didn't know whether to cry or throw up. He was sweet and decent and reliable and he loved me. He had a flourishing law practice in New York. Plenty of money, plenty of everything. We'd have lived in Vermont and our children would've grown up in the country and the war would've been so far away, we wouldn't have heard it even if they dropped the biggest bomb in the world."

  "And you couldn't stand that?"

  "I wanted it more than anything. But I was promised to another. What was his name again, the ugly little manikin, Rumpelstiltskin? No prince can save me. I briefly believed Jimmy Stewart could. But the reality is that I prefer life with Rumpelstiltskin. Do you know what I ended up hating about him, my Jimmy Stewart boyfriend? It was his damned innocence. I ended up seeing it as dishonesty. He took me out to dinner. We raised our glasses and looked into each other's eyes. We planned our future. The war might just as well never have happened. We just sat there enjoying ourselves in our nice, quiet way, and afterward we went home and slept in our soft bed, and I knew we'd carry on doing that until the day we died. I couldn't bear it. So one evening, instead of clinking glasses, I threw my drink in his face. It wasn't his fault. He can't help it that he hasn't seen a ship blow up and a hundred men drown in front of his eyes. At bottom, I guess I'm the one with the problem. But his innocence came across as an insult." She flung out her hand. "It's not that I love all of this. I can't even explain why I'm here. I don't fit in anywhere. Unless it's here. Or, rather"—she smiled from sudden relief, as if all that talking had finally led her to the right word—"it's the k'ivitok in me."

  The trust between them grew, but the distance was still there too, and it didn't decrease. She was right, he thought. It was the war. It was inside them both. Nothing could happen between them until the war was over. But when would the war end? Would they be there when it finally happened? He wanted to have a child with her. It was a blind urge in him, but how long could they wait? She was a couple of years older than he was, thirty-four or thirty-five. When was a woman too old to have a baby?

  He gave up. There was Bluetooth. Bluetooth was his child—and the whole crew's.

  They celebrated Christmas somewhere north of Ireland. In Halifax, Wally had gone ashore and come back with a fir tree slung over his shoulder: he'd lashed it to the bow, so it didn't start to lose its needles until they put it up in the mess. Helge had managed to obtain a bag of hazelnuts from somewhere, and the crew got four each. He'd wrapped them in pink tissue paper and handed them out as gifts. Meanwhile other presents were piling up under the Christmas tree. They were all for Bluetooth, though he was still far too young to appreciate them. Sophie unwrapped the packages on his behalf. Inside them was a world he'd not get to know until the war was over: cows and horses, pigs and sheep, an elephant and two giraffes. Most were hand-carved in wood and then carefully painted with any available paint—though the colors tended to be those of the world of war they were trapped in: black, gray, and white.

  Bluetooth took the cows, the horses, and the elephant, put them in his mouth one by one, and gnawed at them tentatively.

  BLUETOOTH WAS ABOUT a year old when Sophie went ashore with the crew in Liverpool one night. She left him asleep in the seamen's fo'c'sle with Wally, his special pal, who'd volunteered to babysit. Knud Erik didn't know what she was looking for. Was it something they couldn't give each other, something they could find only with strangers?

  He went ashore alone. He'd put the whiskey bottle back in the cupboard and never taken it out again. But he couldn't give up his shore nights. They ran into each other in a pub in Court Street. She was wearing a dark red dress and her lips were painted. He was reminded of the first time he met her, in her father's house in Little Bay. They both looked away as if by mutual agreement and pretended they hadn't seen each other.

  He went straight back to the ship and turned in immediately. Half an hour later the door to his cabin opened, and an unfamiliar scent of perfume filled the narrow room. Had he deliberately forgotten to lock his door?

  "We can't go on like this," she said, and began to undress in the dark.

  "I've killed a man," he said. "He was kneeling down, pleading for mercy, and I shot him."

  She snuggled up to him in the berth. She cradled his head in her hands. He could barely make out her features in the dim light from the skylight. "My Knud Erik," she said, and her voice was thick with a tenderness he'd never heard before.

  He freed himself from her embrace and stepped out onto the floor. "I need light," he said. He switched it on and went back to her. "The red distress lights."

  He didn't know why he'd said that. Those words were taboo: they conjured forbidden memories he must keep at bay if he wanted to survive. But deep down, he understood that if he wanted to be able to love, he must speak them aloud.

  "There isn't one of us who doesn't think about them," she said.

  "I sailed over them."

  "We," she said. "We all sailed over them."

  He let his hand glide down her face and he noticed that her cheek was wet. He pulled her to him and looked in
to her eyes.

  All was completely quiet around them. No air-raid warnings shrilled, no bombs thudded, no waves splashed across the deck, no thunder roared from exploding ammunition ships. There was only the sound of the generator working away deep in the bowels of the Nimbus.

  He kept holding her tight.

  "My Sophie," he said.

  IN AUGUST 1943 the Danes rose up and built barricades in Copenhagen and other towns. The government ceased working with the German occupying forces and resigned. Naval officers scuttled their own ships and sent them to the bottom of Copenhagen's harbor.

  The Dannebrog once again became a flag that could fly from a ship in the service of the Allies. By now, however, the crew had grown used to their Red Duster, so they kept it. Besides, there were almost as many nations on board as there were crew members, and the Danes on it were a mixed bunch. Bluetooth had been born in the Atlantic Ocean and was an honorary citizen of the sea. The Nimbus was a sailing Babel, at war with the Lord.

  "We could fly one of Bluetooth's diapers from the mast," Anton suggested.

  "Clean or dirty?" Wally asked. He was the Nimbus's champion diaper changer.

  They all scrubbed the deck and soaped down the bulkhead. It was cleanliness, sailor-style, just as it had been on board the old Dannevang, may she rest in peace. And it was all in honor of Bluetooth.

  Now they could go ashore and visit a pub as Danes, with no one calling them "half-Germans" or "Adolf's best mates" anymore. When other seamen heard they were from the Nimbus, the next question would inevitably be "And how's Bluetooth?"