We can debate till the cows come home whether Klara Friis caused Isaksen to fail or whether it was the vanilla cookies. His knowledge of the female sex was certainly incomplete. He'd imagined that a woman paralyzed by anxiety needs to be rescued by a man bursting with the urge to take action. That was how he saw the three widows, the shipping company, and in fact the whole town: we were the bride and he was the groom. He would release us from our state of paralysis. But sometimes a whirlwind of energy can do just the opposite: it can whip up female anxiety.
When their husbands met unexpected and pointless deaths within three weeks of one another, the sailor's wife in each of them, along with what little courage and endurance she possessed, left through the front door. And in the through back door came a woman who, no matter how long ago her family had abandoned the soil, was a farmer's wife to the core. This woman was suspicious, brooding, gloomy, and passive, and she clung tenaciously to her ordained place in life.
***
Isaksen understood nothing of this. He believed he'd got the widows on his side. After all, hadn't they stood there cheering his speech, along with the entire staff of the shipping company? Of course, he'd heard of their inability to make a decision even before he came. The skippers he'd been negotiating with in Casablanca had made no secret of the fact that the women were "difficult" and "tricky to deal with," but they'd concluded unanimously that "all they needed was a firm hand"—and that he was the man to wield it.
Though Isaksen had previously regarded the women as the least of his problems, they were now proving themselves the greatest. They sat there with their coffee and their stale vanilla cookies, dipping and munching endlessly, testing the texture with their front teeth just like beavers. And that was what they were: a family of beavers, building dams around the flow of his ideas and blocking him from getting anywhere.
Out of sheer frustration he turned up for one meeting with a bag of fresh cookies from Tønnesen, the baker in Kirkestræde. But this gesture had precisely the wrong effect. Emma and Johanne exchanged looks. So he was spurning their home-baked treats. That made him wasteful. And then to bring cookies from the Seagull Baker! Did he really think they didn't know that Tønnesen bought seagull eggs from the boys in the town, who collected them on the little islands outside the harbor? What did he take them for!
Those cookies were a diplomatic disaster. Soon Isaksen noticed other signs of discontent.
"It's too risky," Ellen Boye said, when he suggested building a new steamship at the steel shipyard.
He explained that the freight market was recovering and the investment would quickly pay for itself.
"Isn't that terribly uncertain?" Emma repeated, after a long pause, during which they all resumed munching. He could hear that it wasn't a question, but a no. He made his voice firm and said that if they wanted a reward for the trust they'd shown by hiring him, then they'd need to allow him free rein.
"But you do have free rein," Ellen said authoritatively. "Only the times are so uncertain."
"I need power of attorney."
Power of attorney? The three women looked at one another, not following his drift. Again they were on shaky ground. Did he not trust them? "Klara Friis says that—"
"Klara Friis?" Isaksen woke from the lethargy that overpowered him more and more often these days when in the company of the three widows. He'd suddenly spotted a connection.
"What does Klara Friis say?"
It wasn't clear precisely what Klara Friis had said, but she'd said something and it had left an impression: that much was evident. Words like uncertain and risky were much in her vocabulary. Words like that fed the farmer's wife in them, nurtured their suspicions, and strengthened their simple philosophy that in this life you know what you have, but you don't know what you might get, and so it's better to stick with what you have.
"But that philosophy doesn't hold here," he said in desperation. "If you stick to what you have, you'll lose that too. Such are the times. Only by risking the unknown do you have a chance of achieving anything at all."
"I don't understand," said Ellen, the tall one, in a wounded tone. "We haven't said anything about philosophy!"
He realized that he'd been thinking aloud, and that for a moment he had actually let them hear the inner dialogue he constantly had with them, trying to persuade them to let him get on with the job they'd hired him to do.
He stood up and made his excuses: he suddenly felt unwell. He needed fresh air. He knew they'd be staring after him as he left; the moment he was out the door, they'd begin a discussion far livelier than any they'd ever let him be party to.
He went down Havnegade, turned on to Prinsegade, and knocked on Klara Friis's door. A maid in a starched apron showed him into the drawing room. Klara Friis rose from her sofa, and he saw more than surprise in her eyes. He saw fear, as if he'd caught her, red-handed, being someone other than the person she'd pretended to be.
"What do you want?" she exclaimed involuntarily.
He watched her struggling to assume the vacant expression she'd worn the last time he visited her. But her face signaled vigilance and her eyes stayed alert, confirming his suspicions. So he came straight to the point.
"I want to know why you are working against me," he said. "I don't understand your motives. Do you think of us as rivals? As a shipowner you surely ought to have the town's best interests at heart."
He spoke to her as to an equal and hoped this would make an impression and convince her to abandon her mysterious games.
"You talk like a mayor," she said. "But we've already got one of those."
She gave him a defiant look. Her mask had fallen. Well, that's something, he thought. Now I don't have to put up with the usual feminine subterfuge. Now she can't get her own way simply by pretending not to understand mine.
Aloud he said, "A mayor doesn't have much power. But I would, if you'd just allow me to get on with my work. And you would too. I understand that you inherited a shipping company of your own and that you're managing it quite expertly."
"I'm just minding my own business," she said. "You ought to do the same."
Ah, there it is; the thought rushed through him. We're back where we started. If you won't fight openly, then obstinacy's your last defense.
"That's what I'm trying to do," he retorted. "But every time I try to get the widows to approve one of my proposals, I hear the same things. Times are too uncertain. It's too great a risk. Some say it would be wise to wait. And the same name keeps cropping up. Yours."
He could feel himself growing angry. He thought about the plots of land that she'd bought along Havnegade, sitting unused. A vibrant harbor front could have been built there, buzzing with enterprise. Instead, the plots looked like a wasteland of ideas, destroyed before they'd had a chance to flourish.
"Every day I walk past the plots that you've bought, lying vacant. Shamefully so. Perhaps they reflect all too aptly what you have in mind: laying the whole town to waste. But let me tell you this, Mrs. Friis." His voice betrayed months of frustration. "What you call minding your own business, I call neglecting the business of others. We're talking about a whole town. Its history and traditions."
"I hate the sea," she burst out.
If he'd been listening properly, he'd have understood she'd given him a vital clue, and seized his chance. But anger had got the better of him: he now had no doubt that at last he'd come face to face with the cause of his problems and the increasingly inevitable failure of his plans for Marstal. It would be the first failure of his career. And, he hoped, the last.
"What a strange thing to say," he snapped at her. "It's like hearing a farmer say he hates the soil. In that case I can only tell you that you're in the wrong place at the wrong time."
"No, on the contrary. I'm in the right place at the right time."
She was now just as angry as he was. But he heard something more than indignation in her voice: he heard his own wasted opportunity. He heard the bitterness of someone who feels rejec
ted. He'd failed to listen properly.
"If I've accused you unfairly, I regret it," he said, trying belatedly to rectify his mistake by striking a conciliatory tone. "Please, can we try talking sensibly to each other? I think we have a great deal in common."
"I must ask you to leave," she said firmly.
He nodded briefly at her, turned, and left the room. It wasn't until he was back on the street that he realized that she'd never even asked him to sit down. During the entire confrontation they'd been standing up, facing each other. She had a shocking lack of manners, he decided.
Isaksen went back to the widows a second time to request power of attorney, so he could finally carry out his plans for both company and shipyard.
"I must advise you that my demand for power of attorney is an ultimatum."
They asked him what an ultimatum was. Relations between them were becoming so strained that he'd abandoned his much-admired powers of persuasion and was increasingly resorting to the cold formalities of legal language. He explained that an ultimatum meant that if he did not get what he wanted, he would have to hand in his resignation and look for a post elsewhere.
"But good heavens! Aren't you happy here?"
He replied that yes, thank you, he was happy here, but no, he was at the same time most unhappy. He cared about the town. He could see that the shipping company possessed considerable promising potential, but his work was being sabotaged daily. As he spoke, his anger resurfaced. "I understand that you prefer to take the advice of Klara Friis. But I'm warning you. She does not want what is best for the company."
Ellen shot him an outraged look, and he knew that he'd lost.
"Klara Friis, that poor girl. If you only knew what she's been through. How dare you talk about her like that!"
The verdict had been pronounced. It was written all over their faces. He was a bad man. All right, he'd done his duty. Now he could leave. But actually, he'd failed to do his duty, and that was precisely what stung him. He'd spotted an opportunity and he hadn't been allowed to develop it. This was a challenge to his most deeply held values: he'd not carried out his task to the best of his abilities. He'd failed. He'd failed the shipping company, the town, and himself. His persuasive skills had been inadequate. His psychological insight had been found wanting. He, the only one among them who knew which course to follow, had been prevented from taking the wheel and steering the ship, and he had no one to blame but himself. He wasn't the type to need scapegoats, though the town had offered him several.
The following day he submitted his resignation.
When Isaksen left town, he took the ferry, like any other traveler.
He didn't fit in—that was the general verdict.
But not all of us agreed. There were those who realized that the prophecy of doom he'd made in his appointment speech during the gala dinner at Hotel Ærø would now be fulfilled. The only person who could have prevented it was the one who'd made it—and he was leaving. It wasn't only Frederik Isaksen's back that was turned on us when he boarded the ferry. It was the world's.
He left on an autumn day of pouring rain. He was clutching an umbrella, but there was a fierce wind blowing from the west and the shoulders of his cotton raincoat had already darkened. A deputation of skippers and first mates had assembled on the wharf to see him off. They'd all been there that night at Hotel Ærø when he gave his grand speech.
Their spokesman, Captain Ludvigsen, stepped forward. He'd been Isaksen's keenest supporter. Personally, he'd never dreamt of setting foot on a steamship. But he regarded himself as a man of vision.
"A damn shame that it had to end like this," the Commander said.
"Don't feel sorry for me," Isaksen said with an encouraging smile, as though it wasn't he but the Commander who needed consoling. "It was my own fault that it turned out like this. I should have been a better listener."
The Commander wasn't sure he understood what Isaksen meant. "Damn women" was all he said.
"You mustn't blame them," Isaksen said. "It's an unusual position for women to be in. They're just doing what they think best."
The ferry gave a warning hoot. It was time to go.
"Where are you off to?" the Commander asked. He'd prepared a short speech, but he'd forgotten the words.
"New York. Møller's opening a new office. Drop by if you're ever in town. There'll always be work for a man from Marstal."
Isaksen shook the Commander's hand. Then he went around and said goodbye individually to each of them. The ferry gave a last warning blast. He raised his umbrella and lifted his hat. Then he disappeared up the gangway.
There was no longer anyone around to prevent us from becoming what Isaksen had predicted we would become: those left behind.
THE SEAGULL KILLER
"WHERE DID ALBERT bury James Cook?"
Anton was making big plans. He'd become the leader of North, but that wasn't enough for him. As far back as he could remember, there'd been just the two gangs, North and South, and they'd divided the town between them. But now boys from Niels Juelsgade and Tordenskjoldsgade had started forming their own gangs. These had yet to split from South, but Kristian Stærk in Lærkegade had already made the break. His surname, which means "strong," had proved apt, and he named the gang after himself: the Strong Gang.
This trend worried Anton. He liked being at the forefront of everything, and now he feared being "left astern," as he put it. He talked Knud Erik into stealing Albert's sea boots, which were waiting in the attic in Prinsegade for someone to build the museum they'd been be-quested to. His idea was that his new gang would be named after Albert and it would accept only those of us who were willing to swear that they were prepared to die, like Albert, with their boots on. He laid claim to the first tryout of the historic, rather battered Madsen footwear, but the boots were far too big for him. Still, he planned to don them whenever a new gang member swore his oath of allegiance, before ordering the initiate to kneel down and kiss them on the toe.
Knud Erik and Vilhjelm protested that he'd never get a self-respecting kid to do that, and if the gang was to be worth joining, he'd need decent kids. Personally, they'd both refuse. They surprised even themselves by this sudden defiance. Finally Anton gave in, and together they agreed that instead of the boot kissing, new gang members would just wear them for the swearing-in. It was more dignified; even Anton could see that. The shrunken head of James Cook would be the group's mascot. Knowledge of its secret existence would cement them all as a gang.
There was just the one problem: James Cook's head lay at the bottom of the sea.
Helmer, who lived in Skovgaden and belonged to North, got permission to borrow his grandfather's smack. Seven boys piled on board, but only Anton, Vilhjelm, and Knud Erik knew what the mission was. Anton told the rest of us we were sailing to the part of the sea called Mørkedybet to go treasure hunting. He described the wooden casket but didn't say what it contained—only that it wasn't a sight for the faint-hearted.
Tordenskjold sat on the thwart next to him, surveying us with his beady, inscrutable eyes. From time to time the bird would take off, soar into the blue sky, and dive into the water without warning. Returning to the boat, he'd settle on the thwart again and fling back his head, his sharp beak tilted skyward. We'd see his throat flex beneath the feathers as, oblivious to our presence, he swallowed the fish he'd caught.
"Well done, Tordenskjold," Anton would say. He always addressed the gull as if it were a dog.
"Does the treasure have to do with the English?" Olav asked. He was a big, burly boy whose hair hung low over his brow.
"In a way," Anton said. "That's all I'm going to tell you."
Knud Erik and Vilhjelm exchanged a look.
We started diving in the Mørkedybet. It was a cloudless day in the first week of June. There were no waves, so you could see far down into the water, though not as far as the seabed, which lay hidden beneath an undulating canopy of green and dark blue. One after another we plunged off the side, but the deepe
r we dived, the harder it became to see anything: the bottom was an impenetrable shadow. It was creepy to feel the seaweed caressing our stomachs; it was as if the water had grown long, soft fingers and was tentatively reaching for you. A swaying colony of jellyfish kept us company, and at one point a flounder suddenly flipped out from its camouflage in the sand. But there was no sign of any treasure. We rowed from one place to another and kept diving, while our limbs got colder and colder. Anton held out longer than any of us, but every time he broke through the mirror of the water, his lips trembled.
Tordenskjold took off and floated high in the blue sky, as if keeping an eye on us.
It was a hopeless enterprise, and soon it was hard to believe we'd ever imagined finding the head of James Cook at the bottom of the sea. We began to lose our enthusiasm along with our breath and our body heat. The sun was shining, but the sea was still tinged with the chill of winter.
The only one who wasn't shivering with cold was Helmer. He sat warm and dry on the stern thwart, picking at the places where his sunburned skin had started to peel and staring skeptically at the water. "Well, the boat's mine," he said. In his opinion, that was contribution enough.
"Chicken!" we yelled at him.
This offended his manly pride, and he swung himself out on the forestay. But when he realized how cold the water was, he forgot's all about saving his honor. He grabbed hold of the stay and tried to scramble back into the empty boat, which promptly keeled over.
No one panicked and no one tried to climb onto the capsized vessel. It was too heavy to turn over, so we started pushing and dragging it toward Birkholm, where we'd be able to right it and bale it out in the shallow waters.
Knud Erik and Vilhjelm stayed behind to fish out everyone's clothes—shirts, sweaters, and trousers that floated on the water like a blanket of algae. They hung some things up to dry on the perches that marked the channel; other items they brought ashore. Only Anton kept diving, determined to find Cook's head. It wasn't until the rest of us were lying naked on the sand on Birkholm, trying to warm up, that we saw him heading in toward the beach. He was swimming on his back and clasping something in one arm, as if he was rescuing a drowning man.
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