Henckel had built lodgings for the workers at the shipyard at the end of Reberbanen, where the village idiot, Anders Nørre, had once had his hut. Compared to the miniature proportions of most of the town's houses, it was an impressive structure, with two stairwells, eight apartments, and a mansard roof. And instead of crouching in a narrow street as though sheltering from the wind, it stood on a bare field, open to all sides, with a view of the Baltic, as if the engineer meant to challenge both wind and sea. After the school in Vestergade and the stately post office in Havnegade, with its granite foundation and swirling cement garlands below each window, Henckel's workers' house was the biggest building in Marstal. Here, ordinary people would live one on top of another, with no back gardens or front doors leading directly to the street.
"It's for an army of working men," said Mr. Henckel, who was a fiery soul. "It's just the beginning. The day will come when we'll tear down all the old rubbish in this town and make proper use of the space." In addition to the shipyards in Marstal, Korsør, and Kalundborg, he also owned a brickyard. "I've enough damn bricks to build a whole new Marstal if you want one. Just say the word," he bragged in the bar at Hotel Ærø, as his eyes grew bloodshot and large patches of sweat formed on his shirt. Then he'd buy another round, and we'd toast the new era that was storming in. We'd grown accustomed to champagne. The bubbles rose to the surface and burst in little pops that tickled your lips. There was no end to them, just as there was no end to the engineer's ideas.
Herman raised his glass too. He no longer went about with his sleeves rolled up, and he wore cuff links on his shirt these days. We'd all heard about the two spelling mistakes on his tattoo.
All we'd had before in Marstal was a savings bank: now we got a proper one. The Commerce and Credit Bank from Svendborg, on the island of Funen, opened a branch. The building stood across from Albert's broker's office and it was even taller than the school, the post office, and Henckel's workers' accommodation, with a large façade facing Prinsegade. Broad granite steps led up to a big varnished oak door with a brass handle. It looked like the entrance to a castle.
From time to time you might hear the noise of a rivet hammer from Marstal Steel Shipyard, but no ships had been launched yet.
Albert nodded to Peter Raahauge, the boat builder, as he made his way home through Buegade at the end of the day. Raahauge raised a finger to his cap and stopped.
"When do we finally get to see one of your ships?"
Raahauge set his toolbox down on the cobbled street. He folded his strong arms across his chest and snorted contemptuously into his mustache, before he shook his head. "Damn strange way they do business," he said. "If laying down the keel is the same as building a whole ship, then I've built an awful lot of ships lately. I've yet to see any frames or shell plating."
"So how does that work?" Albert asked. "It doesn't make any sense to me."
"Or to the rest of us mere mortals. But that's because we're not as smart as Henckel. You see, Captain Madsen..."
Raahauge leaned close to Albert. His voice became a confidential whisper. "He's arranged it so that the Norwegians pay the first installment as soon as the keel's been laid. Then he invites them down here, offers them champagne, and shows off the keel, and they think the ship's as good as built. How are they to know that the last set of customers were shown the same keel? It's the same one we show all of them."
"So Henckel's taking large sums of money for ships he'll never deliver? But that's fraud!" Albert was outraged.
"You might say so, Captain Madsen. I couldn't possibly comment. Still, I'll be having to look for new work soon. Because there's no way in hell this can last."
Peter Raahauge touched a finger to the brim of his cap once more and disappeared up the street.
FOR SOME YEARS now, Albert had gone out fishing for shrimp. Many of us did that when we came ashore. Some did it out of necessity, but for Albert, it was a way of passing the time. The local waters belonged to boys and to old men. He'd learned his way around the archipelago as a child, exploring all its islands, bays, points, sandbanks, and invisible currents. In between childhood and old age he'd sailed the world's oceans; now he'd returned to the smallest print of the sea chart, seeking out the old familiar places. He'd begun in the good years before the First World War, and when his prophetic nightmares descended on him, he escaped their reign of terror by fishing for shrimp. Tending to his nets beneath the drifting clouds, he'd found, if not peace, then at least a ceasefire.
Albert was thinking about shrimp one evening after he'd left Knud Erik and his mother and was strolling along Nygade to his house in Prinsegade. Shrimp. He'd take Knud Erik with him the next time he went to check on his nets. He'd teach the boy how to do it and give him a bucketful to take home to his mother. They could sell the rest at the harbor, and Knud Erik would get a bit of money in his pocket and bring in some earnings like a good little man. It would be half play and half real help for the hard-up widow, who was unlikely to accept assistance in any other form. Normally he'd just give his shrimp away to anyone who happened to turn up at his office or to Lorentz across the street.
That summer he'd laid his nets along the coast of Langeland, starting at Sorekrogen and working his way toward Ristinge. In the light summer nights when he fished, the water's surface was like a mirror. The first glow of the sun blazed northeast as he rowed out through the entrance to the harbor, and the sound of the oars traveled far across the water.
He asked the boy if he wanted to come along.
***
The summer holidays had started. With school over, Knud Erik hung about during the long, empty days when the weather didn't tempt him to swim at the beach. After some hesitation, Knud Erik's mother consented to a shrimp outing. A bond had grown between Albert and Klara. He felt it keenly but he didn't explore its nature, though he found himself spending more and more time in front of his mirror, and sometimes a smile—one of recognition—would appear behind his dense, graying beard. It was an old friend he was greeting in the mirror, one he hadn't seen for many years: his own younger self.
He was to pick up Knud Erik in the evening and take him home. The boy would sleep on the sofa in Albert's drawing room until three in the morning, and then he'd wake him and they'd head for the harbor. Klara was baking thick pancakes when he arrived. They were a local specialty; as she made them, she brought them directly out from the kitchen, so they could be eaten piping hot. He stood in the doorway, watching her as she deftly poured batter into figure eights in the hot pan, where they quickly rose into small compact mounds. When they turned golden, she placed them on brown paper to drain. Knud Erik stood next to her, eagerly awaiting the first pancake, which he immediately sprinkled with sugar.
No words passed between them as she worked on the pancakes, but the silence was a comfortable one. Standing in the doorway with his arms folded across his chest, Albert realized he felt at home in the presence of this young woman.
She'd tied a scarf around her hair to protect it from the greasy fumes: when a lock came loose and fell over her eyes, she blew it out of the way and shot him a cheerful glance. He smiled back at her.
She served gooseberry compote with the pancakes and he asked if it was homemade. She nodded. There were gooseberry bushes in their little back garden. Even the most wretched hovels in the town had a garden. She'd made far more pancakes than they could eat, and she gave them the remaining ones, wrapped in a tea towel, along with a jar of compote.
"In case you get hungry tonight," she said.
She turned to Knud Erik and handed him a woolen sweater.
"It can get cold out on the water."
"I won't be cold," Knud Erik said, in a tone that implied that his newly acquired manhood had been offended.
"Well, I'll be bringing my sweater," said Albert. He placed his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Say goodbye to your mother."
Klara stood in the doorway, waving after them as they walked toward Kirkestræde.
When he roused K
nud Erik at three and handed him a cup of warm coffee, the horizon was glowing, but the sky above was still dark, keeping the last stars alive.
"This will help you wake up."
The boy scratched his head with one hand and took the cup with the other.
"Blow on it."
The boy blew and kept his lips tentatively pursed as he slurped his first mouthful. He made a face. Albert took the cup from him and added a teaspoon of sugar.
"Now try it."
The boy took another sip and smiled. Albert pulled the woolen sweater over the boy's head. He'd already put on his own Icelandic one.
They slipped the mooring at Prinsebroen and started rowing out of the harbor entrance. The boy huddled on the thwart, shivering with tiredness and cold. Albert passed him an oar.
"Lend me a hand, will you?" he said.
The boy positioned himself on the aft thwart, then stuck the oar into the water and started moving it between his hands with a rolling motion, twisting it in the water like a screw. He was sculling, a technique Albert had taught him.
They passed Dampskibsbroen and headed for Ristinge. Knud Erik had warmed up and they made good speed across the bright, glassy water. Theirs was the only boat out this early. An hour later they reached Sorekrogen. The nets were brimming with shrimp.
"There'll be some for your mother too," Albert said.
They made themselves comfortable on the thwarts with the pancakes. The sun was now clear of the horizon, igniting a low-hanging stripe of cloud. Apart from that the sky was clear.
"It'll be beach weather today," Albert declared.
"Tell me about the shrunken head," Knud Erik said.
A few hours later they were back at the entrance to the harbor. The sun was higher in the sky and Albert could already feel its warmth, though it was still early in the morning. They passed Dampskibsbroen and approached Prinsebroen. Knud Erik went to the bow and readied the boat for mooring with accomplished ease. Albert filled a bucket with shrimp, then took the boy home to Snaregade. The boy raced through the door with the bucket in his hand.
His mother appeared in the doorway.
"Thank you for the shrimp, Captain Madsen. Now, why are you standing outside? Do come in, please."
She stepped aside to allow him to enter through the narrow doorway. He tried making himself small, but he brushed her with his arm all the same. He knew his way around and walked to the sofa. A cup had already been put out for him. She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with the coffeepot.
"Shrimp fishing is a good business," Albert said. "Knud Erik will be a prosperous man."
Her face tightened. "We can't accept money."
"It's not a gift, Mrs. Friis. He's worked hard and it's only fair that he should get his share."
Knud Erik started jumping up and down in excitement.
"Go find your swimming trunks and a towel. And then you can run over to the beach."
"Really, can I, can I?" By now his jumping had built up a rhythm.
"Yes, of course. Now be off with you."
He rushed to the kitchen and returned a moment later with a rolled-up towel. He was about to tear through the hall with his hand raised in a goodbye gesture, when he stopped abruptly, went over to Albert and stuck out his hand. He bowed stiffly and thanked him for the day. Albert placed his hand on the boy's head and ruffled his hair gently. "You're welcome."
"He's a lovely boy," he said, once Knud Erik was out the door. "Take good care of him."
"You already do that for me."
She smiled again and he looked up. Their eyes met and he couldn't decide if it had been by chance. He felt that he ought to look elsewhere but seemed paralyzed. He was aware of a smile spreading uncontrollably across his face. Klara Friis's cheeks slowly reddened. She too seemed unable to break away from the moment, which kept expanding, from seconds to minutes to what felt like wondrous weightless hours. At last she looked down. He felt a sudden shame, as if he'd molested her. He had to stop himself from apologizing, even though nothing had happened.
He cleared his throat. "Thanks for the coffee."
She gave him a confused look, as though he'd woken her from a reverie. Her cheeks were still red.
"You're going now?"
"Yes, I think I'd better," he said, and hoped his words sounded neutral, so that his leaving didn't become a verdict on the awkward situation they'd just found themselves in.
"Oh," she said, as if his going surprised her.
He remained sitting and waited for her to continue. She stared at her hands.
"Well, I don't mean to impose on you. But would you like to come to dinner tonight? After all, we have the shrimp," she said, looking up at him.
"I'd like that very much. I'll bring a bottle of wine."
"Wine?" Her awkwardness grew.
"Ah, perhaps you don't drink wine?"
She wiped her forehead. Then she suddenly laughed behind her hand.
"I've never tasted it."
"There's a first time for everything. And that time is tonight."
When he left the house, he noticed the thickset figure of Herman striding briskly toward the harbor, with his flat cap pulled down over his forehead. Looking up, Herman gave the Friis house a quick once-over, glanced back at Albert, and touched one finger nonchalantly to his cap. Albert returned the greeting, but there was no exchange of words.
Albert kept walking in the direction of Kirkestræde, pondering the look the young man had just given him. Was he checking up on him? Was he aware of something? Then he shrugged. What kind of nonsense was this? Nothing had happened between him and Knud Erik's mother. But the invitation for tonight? The wine? Not long ago he'd held a weeping widow in his arms. When they'd talked about the wine just now, their tone had been almost coquettish. Her laughter behind her hand. Was she falling in love with him? Or was it the other way around? Was he interpreting everything in a certain light because he'd fallen for her?
He shook his head at himself. The mere thought was inappropriate. He didn't know the exact age difference between them, but it was huge. He couldn't just be her father; he could be her grandfather.
He had his own life and habits. He didn't want them disturbed. He'd seen and heard more than he needed to: his dreams had shaken him to the core. He'd experienced them as a cruel and vicious halting of his life, inflicted by a God whose savagery repelled him, who inspired in him neither the urge to believe nor the impulse to beg for mercy. His faith had been faith in mankind, and he'd lost it, ending up in the darkness, a badly injured, shipwrecked man on a shore of bones at the end of the world.
But, unexpectedly, his life had restarted. A seven-year-old boy had restored his faith. And now the boy's mother had become part of it too, and the appeal of this new life grew stronger all the time. He couldn't deny that he felt strangely exhilarated in the presence of Klara Friis. Knud Erik had knocked the first hole in the wall of loneliness he'd lived behind. But now, when Klara was there, he felt the entire wall was on the brink of collapse.
Yes, it was inappropriate. And yet he couldn't stop smiling.
It was late in the afternoon and he was sitting in his bathtub in preparation for dinner when he felt something like a shooting pain in his mind. A man with a character less proud and stubborn would have called it anxiety. Once again, his thoughts were circling around Klara Friis. Human beings are afflicted by a need to judge. So what might people think if they suddenly saw him in the company of a much younger woman? Some men, like the monstrous O'Connor, lash out with their fists, but there are other ways to do damage, and the tongue can be the most vicious weapon of all: in the courtroom of gossip, there's no appeal. But why should he care? He'd done his duty in life. He'd earned respect and built up a fleet of ships. His work was done, yet he carried on living. What was left? Might there be new, unexpected freedoms awaiting him in these closing years?
He got out of the bath and dried himself. He went over to the mirror and with his towel wiped a porthole shape on its ste
amy surface so he could inspect himself. He'd rarely viewed his body through the eyes of another. For him it was a tool. Strength and endurance were the yardsticks he measured it by, whether he was on deck fighting the sea or using his thick muscles to enforce his authority in front of an insubordinate crew. How long could he stay awake when a storm demanded his constant presence on the deck? How much power did he exude?
In the mirror he could see that his chest was sunken and long stretch marks ran from his shoulders down to his pectorals, which sagged under their own weight. The curly hair that covered his chest had been gray for many years. Yet once he was dressed, his body seemed as impressive as it had ever been.
One summer evening long ago he'd made love with Cheng Sumei in her large suburban villa in Le Havre, not knowing that it would be for the last time. It had been an evening like many others. Wax candles, flames that stood straight up in the calm evening, the scent of incense. She'd leaned over him and let him loosen her silk kimono, which fell open and exposed her naked body, as white as the petals of a tree peony, with a faint hint of something that was not yellow exactly, but more like cream. Her skin was as smooth as a polished jade figurine. He didn't understand it, the mystery of her agelessness, which he associated not with the Orient, but with her. In all the time he'd known her, only the few lines that appeared around her mouth betrayed her as the mature woman she was. They were like lines drawn on a picture. They only enhanced her beauty.
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