He empties his glass. Madame Kragstedt fills it up. He drinks half. She downs several in succession and does not shy from slamming the empty glass down hard on the table. Now and then she disappears behind the screen and he hears vigorous rubbing and much splashing of water.
Magister Falck, she says when she appears again. Do you sense something?
Sense what, Madame?
A smell, she says. A foul smell.
Now he sees that her nostrils vibrate.
No, Madame, he says in a firm voice. I smell nothing.
I cannot refrain from thinking there is a smell of smoke. It has become a nervous obsession.
Understandable, he says, relieved that she has not referred to the smell of the latrine. And now it is as if he, too, can smell it, though he knows it is surely his imagination. It must have been hard on you, Madame.
I shall most likely come to terms with my fate.
She sits down opposite him. They smile to each other, but say nothing.
They have always been good at being silent together, he thinks to himself. We should have done away with the Trader while we were at it and then married. We could have been silent together for the rest of our days and none of this would have happened.
He rises and crosses the room to study some copper engravings and gouaches hanging on the rear wall, ten views of Copenhagen: Rundetårn, Vor Frue Kirke, Nytorv with the Rådhus and the fountain, Børsen, Knippelsbro, Toldboden, the palace square with its colossal new edifice, a mountain of stone, at once ethereal and imperishable. Moreover a couple of prospects from the rampart and one from the hill of Valby Bakke.
Madame Kragstedt comes over to him. They were in the storage house, she says over his shoulder. He feels her fingers flutter upon his arm. A gift from my husband’s brother-in-law, a copperplate engraver. We hadn’t found the time to unpack them.
How fortunate, he says. They consider the works together. The Madame slips her hand under his arm and holds his elbow tight.
As you know, I spent much of my youth in the royal city, she says.
It is a grand city, he says, with beautiful buildings. Such lovely pictures bring back memories. Especially the large gouache with the panorama of Frederiksberg. I have sat many a time at the exact spot where the artist must have stood, and painted his work.
Let’s have some fun, Magister Falck, if you will humour a poor woman who is far from home. Let us imagine these engravings to be windows. We are husband and wife and this is our residence in Copenhagen.
He squints at her. He sees that her hands are shaking. Very well, he says. She rewards him by replenishing his glass, sweeping by in her long dress. He takes on the role, addressing her in a jovial, gentlemanly tone. Haldora, my dear wife, I thought we might promenade in this fair weather. Would you care to accompany me?
Oh, yes, she says, and grips his arm, rather overdoing her part and continuing theatrically, her face turned to an imaginary audience: But the sun is so strong, dear husband. Allow me to fetch my parasol. She scurries away into the bedroom and comes rustling back with a bamboo cane that she holds against her shoulder. Where will you take me, dear husband?
The Madame is a sorry sight with the scarred skin of her burns and her eye that cannot be closed, and the half-manic looks of play that she sends him. For a moment he almost regrets having come here, but dismisses the thought from his mind.
We shall stroll in the countryside, he says in an actor’s voice, to see the good peasants tending their fields and harvesting their crops.
They walk around the parlour several times, arm in arm, sweeping out an occasional hand to indicate to each other the rural idylls through which they pass. The Madame laughs, a laughter over which she does not have complete control. It is an old game of theirs, which they played often prior to the accident, but Falck realizes he no longer finds pleasure in it. However, their promenade seems to have calmed the Madame somewhat, and when they return to the table and seat themselves some natural colour has returned to her cheeks, as if they really had been in the countryside.
I wonder if I will ever see my beloved Copenhagen again, she says rather sadly, appearing at once to be quite normal.
You are young, Haldora. Naturally you will see it again.
In this country days move slowly and the years quickly. I feel each winter to be like entering a long period of confinement from which I may never again emerge. She sends him a melancholy smile, though remaining calm and contemplative.
It is a country that takes its toll, he concedes.
And gives little in return, she adds. At least if one happens to be a woman. As a man you may go wherever you please, over the land, upon the sea, into the fords. I saw you just before on your way to the savages. I cannot even imagine what it must be like. It is a world that remains closed to me, like many others that are closed to us women. Tell me what it is like, Morten. Tell me what you saw inside the ford!
I thought we agreed that we would not mention it, Madame Kragstedt, he replies rather primly.
Indeed. Forgive me. I shall not speak another word of it. But then tell me something else instead. Tell me about the savages you visit.
He describes their conditions fairly precisely, though omitting the peculiarly erotic atmosphere that so often resides in the communal dwelling house, and how he is affected by it. He tells her of their nakedness, of the warmth inside, and provides a vague description of their odours.
Her eyes consume him greedily as he talks. But what do they do when they wish to be together as man and wife? she ventures, her voice trembling noticeably.
They are uncivilized, Madame Kragstedt. They live in accordance with their nature and not with Christian modesty.
So they hide nothing, she says, and all is nakedness and physical urges without shame?
They are most decent, whenever I visit. They are not stupid, not at all like animals. One does well not to underestimate them. He tells her of a discussion with one of the native men, who believed the Danes could learn from the Greenlanders and quickly had him on the defensive. The story makes her laugh.
It would appear they are no easy match, she says.
They are cunning and say what they mean. They can be ruthless. A person could easily fall foul of their ways.
How strange, she says. If only fate had decreed that one should be born among them, one would be sitting there now without a thread and gnawing on a bone. What of their women, Morten? Would you say they were more liberated than us, their European sisters?
You ought not to make the mistake of envying these people, he says. They live a hard and brief life, and often suffer an unnatural and untimely death.
But their freedom, she says. Surely freedom is worth some years of life, do you not agree, Morten?
What freedom? Freedom to do what? To copulate at will, without hope of any afterlife? Do not forget that we ourselves rose up from savagery some hundreds of years ago, to find freedom in the Lord Jesus. We ourselves were once at the very stage from which we now as good Christians strive to save these native people.
Hm, she says, and studies his face. You are right, of course. There is the afterlife to consider. But sometimes a woman may feel her life to be without purpose. As you may recall, in the time after my arrival at the colony here I took part in many practical tasks. I gave instructions to the crew, kept the servants on a short rein, and taught their children. I supervised the soap-making, the cleaning, the laundry and the bluing of the clothes in spring. I arranged excursions to the fells, where we gathered berries and angelica for winter. It was a happy time. But now I do none of it. I cannot, for I sense their eyes upon me and it is a trial merely to receive them when they come to eat.
I know, he says. I remember how busy and glad you always were.
And now I potter about here, confined within a cage of Pomeranian fir or whatever it may be. Only seldom
do I venture out. I am stuck here, a rarity about whom the people talk. I feel they can look in and observe me through the timber, with all their unsavoury thoughts about me.
The crew hold you in esteem, Haldora. I have never heard them utter anything but respectful opinions about you.
If only one had been blessed with children, things would have been easier. I have drawn the Lord’s attention to their absence, but my prayers remain unheard.
Heard, certainly, if not fulfilled, says Falck. The ways of the Lord are unfathomable.
Do you think it has something to do with what happened? With what we did? Can a person be punished with eternal barrenness for such sins?
There are certain physical changes, he says, that may occur after an accident of such nature. But there is no question of punishment, and you, Madame, have nothing for which to blame yourself. We have spoken of this many times already.
Yes, we have spoken on a number of occasions. But the reason is that I cannot expel it from my mind.
The Lord is forgiveness, he reminds her. Do not forget.
But who would even bring children into the world in this place? The poor creatures would not survive the first winter. And afterwards, when the child had been taken back again, one would be lonelier than ever before. So it was when my maid’s boy passed away. How terrible it was. I was so fond of him and would have taken him as my own, but it was not to be. Alas, Morten, this country is so unmerciful. I have a premonition that I shall not leave it alive.
There, there, he says comfortingly. Have you taken your laudanum today?
I have stopped. The drops make me lethargic.
But you must take them, he says admonishingly. After all, there is a reason for my prescribing them in the first place.
Yes, she says. I do feel I need them. I will take some straight away. She goes over to the bureau and takes out the little bottle containing the laudanum and imbibes a measure. Then she fills their glasses once more and returns to the table.
Madame Kragstedt’s bustle creaks beside him as she seats herself on the bench. He has been thinking about his mother. His sister. And the widow. She is down there, he tells himself, in the warehouse. I can go and see her whenever I choose. Then he looks up and pushes his thoughts aside, focuses once more on the Madame.
You are pensive today, he says. For what reason? Is it that novel?
Yes, the novel, she says, abruptly seeming to shake off her gloom. She becomes enthusiastic. It is an interesting novel, quite singular. Whether it is a good novel, I do not know, though certainly it is thought-provoking. It is about freedom, of which we have just spoken. The woman in it is – how should I put it?
Moll Flanders? A whore, yes.
Well, indeed. You are forthright, Magister Falck. And yet she is free. Can one say that a person is free in her situation?
It is many years since last I read it, he says, avoiding the issue.
She believes herself to be free. She is a strong woman. And she ends up rich and apparently contented.
She is a character in a novel, he says. The product of a male author’s imagination.
This Defoe, is he French?
No, I believe he is English. The edition I gave you is translated into German from that language.
I see. That would explain why much of it appears so nebulous. I shall read it again. I wish I had mastered the English language, then perhaps many things would be so much clearer to me.
I will send you an English dictionary and the novel in the original, he promises. It will make a healthy diversion in the dark months.
Thank you for your concern, she says, rather curtly. I shall expect to receive it in a year’s time.
She places the pipe rack in front of him. He thanks her and picks up a small pipe whose bowl is of whalebone, the long stem and bit of amber. He loosens a sheet of tobacco from the thick block, tears it into strips with his fingers and twists them into the chamber. Madame Kraagstedt asks if she may be allowed to light it for him. She strikes the tinderbox and holds the burning char cloth over the hole. He puffs. The flame dips, rises, dips again. He blows smoke towards the ceiling. Madame Kragstedt extinguishes the char cloth. She laughs.
Has the Madame considered taking up smoking? he asks. It is healthy for the constitution and makes good recreation.
I think I have had enough fire and smoke, she says curtly.
Forgive me, Haldora.
No matter. It was not your fault.
He pretends not to have heard. If he answered he would inevitably give himself away, he imagines. They say nothing for some time. The Madame disappears behind the screen and makes splashing noises. He lets his gaze follow the smoke to the ceiling, where it spreads outwards and remains in a cloud beneath one of the joists. He thinks of what is above, a store full of groceries, tea, coffee, tobacco, ale, aquavit and salted hams. He has been up there several times, that is to say in the previous colony house. It was reached, as it is in the new one, by a steep ladder and a hatch in the gable end, where a pulley has been fixed to the wall, so that wares may be hoisted to the loft. He thinks he can smell the sweet aroma of hops, the pungent whiff of ammonia from the legs of lamb that hang from the beams there. If only he could get hold of the key. He dismisses the thought from his mind. He has been to the loft for the last time.
Madame Kragstedt brings him yet another glass. She squeezes by and seats herself. The irregular ticking of the chronometer reminds him of the warbler at home in Lier.
Magister Falck must know that I am rather displeased with him.
He looks at her, ridden with guilt. He feels his pulse pounding in his neck. He swallows. With me, Madame? For what reason?
Her cheeks redden. Oh, please do not play innocent, Magister, she barks irritably. I am displeased because you are abandoning me. Leaving me here in this wilderness.
I see, he says with relief. I was not aware that you knew of my plans.
If you thought it a secret, Magister, then I must correct you. The whole colony knows that you are waiting for the ship like a lecherous youngster waiting for his sweetheart. Oh, forgive me, my tongue!
He places a comforting hand on her arm. My time is done, he says. My present circumstances, my health, my finances, are not such as to allow me to remain. If I can get away with body and soul intact, I may still be able to secure a living at home.
Oh, Morten, what about me, how shall I survive without you? Perhaps you think I, too, can apply to be released? But I am stuck here in this filthy whore hole! She clasps her hands together, her knuckles white. The scar on her face is almost violet.
Oh, dearest! He rises and sits down again beside her on the bench. Cry as much as you wish, my dear.
She puts her head to his shoulder and sobs. He holds her, feels her skin through the fabric of her dress, her ribs shaking with tears, chest heaving, the quivering flesh of her abdomen, her trembling spine.
Thank you, she says, and dries her face in her handkerchief. She smiles, then laughs a little. You are the only man I have met who is not afraid of a woman’s tears.
Do you mind if I pour myself one last glass? he asks.
Please, take as much as you want, she says in a thick voice. Drink from the bottle if you so wish. But pour me a glass, too.
In the hall, which is not spacious enough for two, she stands and studies him.
Madame, he says in anticipation.
She does not move, but stares at him with a look on her face as if she is considering where and how hard to strike him.
He reaches for the door, but her hip is in the way of it opening. She moves aside, but in the wrong direction. It is as if she is playing a game, and part of the game is that he is not familiar with its rules. If he opens the door now he will force her against the wall. He turns slightly, so that she may squeeze past him into the parlour. They exchange glances. She presses her lips to
gether. He laughs nervously. But she does not move. Her face is vacant, her mouth without expression, eyes empty and black as coal from the laudanum.
Is something the matter? he asks.
Kiss me, for goodness sake, she hisses irritably.
He leans forward and kisses her on the cheek. Not so much a farewell as an au revoir, he says.
She has placed her hands on his shoulders. They rest gently upon the muscle. He feels a slight warmth from her palms. Then she kisses him on the mouth. He laughs and tries to push her away. Her tongue protrudes from between her lips. She looks grotesque.
They change places. She edges past him and stands in the doorway of the parlour.
Go now! It is almost a scream.
All will be well, Madame Kragstedt. Have faith in the Lord and all will be well. He stands for a moment at the door before stepping out. She sends him her twisted smile, the tip of her tongue protruding inappropriately from between her lips.
Jesus Christ, our Heavenly Father!
It gushes from him the moment he pulls up his cassock and sits down on the privy seat, a mud-like mass, almost without smell, an inexhaustible landslide of brown. His intestines writhe in agony, and yet there is a considerable element of joy at being able to release, to discharge this spray of filth and empty the bowels. He groans, bites his hand and chuckles. His sphincter blares and squelches, and then there is silence. He feels more is to come and shifts his weight from side to side, bent double, his head between his bony knees, his hands massaging his stomach, but nothing is forthcoming. It is as if something is stuck inside him, a thick log of excrement blocking his passage. But most likely a fold of the intestine, he considers. He recalls images of the corpses he dissected and drew as a young man, and he sees now his own colon in his mind’s eye and the blockage that has occurred. He imagines its slow release and the sudden slop that comes with it. The thought of it helps. A new deluge is evacuated and his anus trumpets a fanfare.
The Prophets of Eternal Fjord Page 16
