The skipper looked at the barometer. "This is going to last awhile," he said darkly, and put a hand to his chest as if fearing his heart couldn't hold out that long.
Knud Erik never would have believed it, but mortal danger can bore a man stiff. The storm continued, day in and day out, ceaselessly battering the hull of the Kristina, howling in the rigging, tearing at the wheel, and putting them under constant strain. But paradoxically, the state of alarm anesthetized their nerves, leaving them with a sense of infinite emptiness.
The deck was constantly flooded by the onslaught of the waves, giving the impression that only the stern and the bow remained afloat, like two severed pieces of wreckage that stayed inexplicably equidistant amid the chaos of breaking waves and raging foam.
The low-riding clouds chasing one another across the sky; the ranks of waves rolling endlessly toward the shore; the black, menacing barrier of a coast that represented death rather than salvation if they came too near: all this emptied his head of thought.
The storm endured, but so did the Kristina. Even his fear of drowning took a back seat, ceding to the tedious grind and the constant pain from the saltwater blisters, which spread furiously up his arms and around his neck. The only reason the open wounds didn't become infected was that they were permanently wet.
They pitched up and down like that for thirty days. Sometimes the black coastline sank into the horizon until it was nothing but a pencil line between sky and sea; at other times it would rise up and tower over them, an anvil against which the sea could hammer their frail hull.
It didn't make any difference whether the coast was near or far: to him, the black cliffs represented neither destruction nor salvation. They weren't even land. They were just another aspect of the monotony, as real or unreal as the rain-laden clouds above their heads. Day and night came and went.
When he was off duty during the day he'd stagger, dazed, to the bow of the ship, clinging to the ropes the crew had suspended from the rigging for support as they crossed the flooded deck. He'd be waist-high in water already when a wave hit directly amidships and tugged at his legs, spume rampaging all around. He felt like a tightrope walker who has lost his footing and is hanging by his arms on a line suspended between two points in the sky. As if he wasn't aboard a ship at all, but swinging himself across the empty sea.
He'd tumble down the ladder into the dark, foul-smelling fo'c'sle, with its flooded floor and its stove, which remained unlit for fear of carbon monoxide poisoning. He'd climb into his berth fully clothed, because what was the point of undressing, and where would he dry his clothes? They were saturated with salt, which attracted moisture and spray. He'd curl up there like a baby and give way to unconsciousness until a hand shook him and he'd tumble out of his berth, barely awake. Splashing across the floor in his boots, he'd haul himself up the ladder again and meet either darkness or gray light. It was irrelevant which. He'd become a single-purpose being: a servant of the ship, its blind tool in the storm. He no longer considered the matter of his own survival. His only thoughts were of sails to be reefed or taken in, and ropes to be fastened.
Finally the wind died down. The sea still moved in heavy swells, but the rigging no longer shrieked, and the ominous froth disappeared from the waves. The sun broke through the clouds; the big-bellied sharks were gone. The black coastline became land again, a place one could reach, the fulfillment of an impossible dream: firm ground underfoot, an amazing notion that it took time to get used to after thirty days on a convulsing sea.
Two black mountains with almost vertical sides appeared ahead of them. Between them was an opening.
"The Black Hole," Bager said, paler than ever. "The entrance to St. John's."
He turned to Knud Erik, who was at the wheel. "Seems you'll get your way after all," he grinned. "We'll call at St. John's to take in supplies."
IT WASN'T MISS SOPHIE so much as himself he'd forgotten: the monotony of the storm had swallowed everything. But the skipper's remark and the sight of the Black Hole brought her back. It was more important than ever to see her again. He'd been given a second chance, and it couldn't be a coincidence. Meaning returned to everything, and all the signs pointed in one direction: Miss Sophie.
He forgot about his blisters and his soaked clothes. The tension that had stiffened his body for thirty days and nights, making it ache more than any physical exertion could, disappeared. The storm had passed, only to make way for a new, internal one. The skipper's words had prompted more cursed blushing. An impatient wind whipped his blood and made his heart race.
Bager took the wheel and they passed through the Black Hole. Behind it the narrow entrance to St. John's opened, teeming with fishing boats, schooners, and small steamers. Wooden houses stood on the rocky slopes, and along the harbor front, dense rows of buildings faced the water, with warehouses and ship's chandlers packed cheek by jowl. The wharves were crowded with people and horse carts. The din from the street mingled with the screeching of seagulls, and the stench of fish and fish oil pervaded everything.
He could tell right away that St. John's wasn't a major city. Copenhagen was bigger, but compared to the life here, the wharves along Frederiksholms Kanal seemed deserted. Knud Erik had imagined St. John's as a slightly bigger version of Little Bay: somewhere behind the town Mr. Smith would have a house much like his other one. He could simply stroll up to it, knock on its door, and meet Miss Sophie again. Looking around now, his heart sank. He'd never find her here. There were sure to be hundreds of other Mr. Smiths. And—the thought almost paralyzed him—perhaps hundreds of other Miss Sophies too.
They lit a fire in the fo'c'sle stove to dry their clothes, they washed in buckets of warm water and put on clean clothes from their sea bags. For a while they sat around the table at the center of the fo'c'sle like something on display, before one by one they began to nod off.
"I feel like a damn chicken. Not a single bone left in my body," Rikard said.
The next morning the skipper announced shore leave that same evening, and they all headed into town together. Even Helmer was als lowed to join them. The storm had been his baptism; the punctual coffee service he'd provided throughout its duration had earned him membership in the group. They made for Water Street, right behind the harbor front.
Dreymann winked at Knud Erik.
"You'll probably find Miss Sophie there."
They went into a pub and ordered beer. The place was full of women; one of them came over to their table. Her face was painted and she laughed at them with a big, red mouth.
Algot put his arm around her thick waist. "You're better off with this one," he said to Knud Erik. "You'll get more for your money than with that skinny Miss Sophie. Isn't that right, Sally, or whatever the hell your name is."
"Julia. My name's Julia," the woman said in English.
She was used to Scandinavian sailors and understood a little of what was being said. She leaned provocatively toward Knud Erik. She smelled of perfume and sweat: close up, he could see that the floury powder on her face had cracked, revealing wrinkles underneath. She made as if to kiss him: he instinctively turned away, but she grabbed hold of his neck and tried to shove his face deep into her cleavage.
"A pretty boy like you shouldn't sleep alone."
He squirmed free and turned his back on her while the others roared with laughter. He took a swig of beer to cover his embarrassment: its bitterness made him wince. He took another, hoping it would taste better on the second try. It didn't. Did he really have to drink this stuff?
He turned to the others. The woman was now sitting on Algot's lap, a bottle to her lips. The rest of the crew were deep in a discussion.
"Wait till we get to Setúbal; this is nothing," Rikard said.
"Setúbal!" Algot snorted. "Give me Martinique any day. The girls there dance on the tables naked."
"And give you syphilis," Rikard retorted. "We had this bosun once. Spends one night with one of them: three months later he's a goner. Priciest cunt in the wo
rld, that one. So no nigger bitches for me, mate."
"I suggest you enjoy it while it lasts, boys," Dreymann said indulgently. "When we get to England, we pick up the skipper's daughter. Once Miss Kristina's on board, you'll need to start watching your language."
Knud Erik looked across to Helmer, who sat clasping his bottle in silence. He hadn't drunk much of his beer, either.
"Don't you have something else to drink here?" Knud Erik said, trying to sound like a man of the world.
"You mean soda pop?" Rikard called out, laughing at his own wit.
"Gin," the woman said. "Give him some gin."
Dreymann sent Knud Erik a warning look. "Watch out," he said. "It's as strong as schnapps."
"Rubbish," Algot shouted. "Looks like water, tastes like water, even has the same damn kick as water." He pushed a glass of clear liquid toward Knud Erik. "Down the hatch."
Relieved to escape the bitter taste of beer, Knud Erik took a large gulp. The others looked at him expectantly. The taste was strong, but it wasn't sharp. Tentatively he took another swig. The gin filled his mouth with a pleasant softness, but rather than sliding down his throat, the sensation seemed to run the other way and creep into the walls of his skull. It felt like someone was stroking the inside of his head.
Algot nodded in approval. The woman grinned and presented her lips to him again, then turned to concentrate on Algot, who had one hand up her skirt.
Knud Erik looked at the others: pleasure was nudging at him. His gaiety needed an outlet. He laughed in the direction of Helmer, who returned his smile, glad of the attention. "You should try gin," he said knowledgeably. "It's much better than beer."
Helmer shook his head. "I'm not thirsty."
"It's not about being thirsty. It's about getting drunk!"
Helmer shook his head again, and Knud Erik decided to ignore him. "Well, what the hell. Cheers!" He raised his glass with a flourish and spotted his reflection in a large mirror with a gilded frame. A blond lock fell across his forehead. His eyes were brown. His mother's eyes. Perhaps he really was a pretty boy.
The world seemed to be in motion, but unlike the rolling of a ship, its movements were unpredictable. The floor kept finding new and surprising angles of tilt, and though he quickly learned that his chair was the safest place to be, he kept wanting to get up and stagger about on the floor. There was a playfulness in him that was too big for the company around the table: he wanted to watch the dancers, perhaps steady himself against a table and rock a bit to the music himself, or fling his arms out to embrace them. From time to time a woman's hand would glide tentatively across his chest or touch the seat of his trousers. But the look on his face soon told them that he wasn't heading in that direction tonight, and they'd push deeper into the crowd, their hips swaying.
He surrendered to the pushing and shoving: the sheer pressure of the bodies around him prevented him from falling flat on his face. Suddenly, through the blissful tickle of the gin, the thought struck him that Miss Sophie was out there waiting for him. All he had to do was walk out the door. He'd definitely find her. He contrived to get himself jostled toward the entrance, found the door, and disappeared into Water Street.
He had no idea how late it was, but the street was still teeming with people. Most of them were men swaggering heavily and unsteadily across the sidewalk or in the middle of the street, with whinnying horses and hooting cars navigating around them. But there were also a few women who sized him up with kohl-rimmed eyes.
At the end of Water Street the crowd thinned. He backtracked a few steps and turned off into a side street. Then, on the corner of Duckworth Street, he recognized her neck. She was walking ahead of him, dressed in a winter coat with her boots just visible beneath, and carrying a handbag. He could be wrong about anything else, but not her neck. That bare, exposed neck, suntanned against the winter fur collar: it was hers!
He ran after her, and then lost her. He got tangled in the crowds on the sidewalk, and when he and a hefty woman attempted a mutual sidestep, they bumped together instead. Stumbling again, he felt her sharp alcoholic breath on his face, and darted back onto the street, where a coachman cursed at him and lashed out with his whip. He started running along the gutter, and when he reached the crossing at King's Road he spotted Miss Sophie, on the opposite side of the street. He soon lost sight of her, but now he was convinced that he was on the right track. He stopped running. It was part of the game. He didn't want to reach her too soon.
They'd kiss again. And afterward? Nothing. The kiss would be enough. Inhaling the air from her lungs into his just one more time.
He started jogging, to test the steadiness of his feet on the pavement. His body had a floating feeling of lightness. Never before had he had such faith in himself.
The street ahead was now completely empty. Signal Hill Road started its long, slow ascent, crowned by Cabot Tower, a black silhouette against the swirling belt of the Milky Way. The whole starry sky seemed to be moving in the same direction he was, like a shimmering flock of birds migrating south through the night.
He spotted her some distance up the slope, a black figure against a road white with frost. She seemed almost to glide, as if pulled by an invisible string.
He started running again but ran out of steam and had to stop to catch his breath. Then he sprinted on past a lake and some trees. Everything was silver, covered with crystals of ice that shone like the stars high in the frosted sky. Below he could see the black forest of masts in the harbor and the illuminated pubs along Water Street.
By the time he caught up with her, she'd reached Cabot Tower. Her back was turned to him, and she was staring out across the Atlantic, which stretched beyond the harbor in all directions, a matte black surface that sucked up all light. For a moment he stood too, completely lost in the sight of its vast expanse.
"Sophie," he called out, then suddenly felt a prick of doubt.
When she turned around, she showed no surprise. "Yes, Knud Erik" was all she said. Her lips were black in the faint starlight. "What do you want from me?" His drunkenness restored his courage. He flung out his arms and prepared to embrace her.
"Are you drunk? Have you been pub-crawling on Water Street?"
He was mortified. "I'm not drunk. I just want a kiss." A smile spread across his face. He'd already forgotten his resentment. He was in a place where the only thing that mattered was the joyful song in his head.
Grabbing her with unexpected force, he leaned forward and found her lips. She didn't move. He'd closed his eyes, but now he opened them again. She was staring straight ahead and didn't appear to see him. Carefully he pressed his lips against hers, hoping to rekindle the magic of their first kiss. But nothing happened.
Then she pushed him away. "Leave me alone," she said. "Do you hear me! Go away!"
Knud Erik stood open-mouthed and uncomprehending.
"Leave me alone!"
She was shouting now, and her eyes glittered. She stamped the frozen ground with her boot. "Stop chasing after me like some dog!"
He was overcome by a sudden anger as intense as his infatuation had been. "Don't you dare call me a dog!" he shouted.
He clasped her shoulders and started shaking her. She was taller than him, but he was stronger. Even with her head jolting, she kept up's her defiant glare.
"Dog!" she said again.
All at once he let go of her. He was panting angrily.
"Bitch!" He spat on the ground between her boots, then turned on his heel and started running down Signal Hill.
"Knud Erik!" she called out after him.
He didn't stop. Sprinting wildly over the frozen ground, he nearly crashed several times, but his drunkenness made him strangely light-footed. The cold slapped his face.
At the foot of the hill he found a changed town. The pubs along the harbor front had closed, and the dense, heaving crowd that had filled Water Street had vanished. A fine layer of hoarfrost covered the street, and its cold sheen underscored the unnatural silence th
at replaced the din. The masts along the wharves were plated with silver and stood like a forest burned to white charcoal: ghost trees that at the slightest gust of wind might turn to dust.
He found the Kristina and stumbled down the ladder to the fo'c'sle, where his drunkenness finally overcame him. He collapsed dizzily onto his berth, and his eyes closed instantly.
The next morning Rikard's swearing woke him.
"Where the hell did you get to, boy? What makes you think you can run off like that?"
But the men's grins told him that they'd been too drunk themselves to be seriously worried. He remembered the maelstrom of people in the pub, but his hunt for Miss Sophie through the streets of St. John came back to him only in fragments. Their encounter on Signal Hill was equally blurred. If a door exists between dream and reality, that episode had occurred on the wrong side of it.
He was still stung by a sense of having been jilted. He vaguely recalled the vertiginous feeling that a void had suddenly opened, but he didn't know why. The memory kept churning away, but he remained none the wiser.
The frost had set in. It was ten below zero, and a thin crust of ice was already forming on the water in the harbor. In the afternoon the skipper came over to him. He was expecting a beating, but instead Bager asked him to join him on a visit to town the next day.
"Find a clean sack," he said. "We're going to the butcher's in Queen's Road tomorrow to get fresh meat."
As they walked through town the next day, they noticed clusters of people talking together in the street, where there was a strange, electric atmosphere, a kind of rippling unease. Strangers stopped to address one another, then peeled away toward the next agitated group. Bager, who spoke some English, asked the butcher what was going on. He was a giant of a man in a bloodstained rubber apron, busily chopping his way through heaps of red meat on a white scoured block. He took his time before answering. Finally, putting down his cleaver, he spoke, throwing his arms about and shaking his red-veined head sadly. Knud Erik didn't understand the words, but he recognized the name Mr. Smith.
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