Barbara (12 page)

Some of the officers gathered around him, talking and laughing. Captain Montgaillard made some suggestion, but the admiral looked sceptical. Then the admiral began to give him assurances and became quite serious.

Gabriel had gone across to Barbara, who suddenly found herself on her own, and said something foolish to her. She smiled and only appeared pleased to hear it. At that moment, Montgaillard came and led her to the admiral, and Barbara curtseyed as elegantly as she was able.

Orders were given to the orchestra. The musicians bent over their music and turned the pages. Wax candles burnt on all the music stands, the yellow glow from them shining on white wigs, blue velvet coats and huge lace cuffs.

Then the conductor struck up. A complete silence fell over the cellar. Outside, the waves broke heavily.

The tone of a flute began to tremble in the room and another replied; it was like two lonely birds talking to each other; then, suddenly, the beautiful voices of the violins joined in with a flowering melody. This was the admiral’s minuet, and he danced it with Barbara.

A moment later, it was all over, and it was not repeated. But the elegant sun of Versailles had shone on the salt cellar out on Tinganes, where breakers were wont to lash the windows of a winter’s night.

Pastor Poul went outside; he was completely superfluous. Fancy that he had ever been able to flatter his heart with the idea that there should be any link between him and this woman. He now saw the chasm that existed between them. God had taken the veil from his face and shown him his own foolishness.

But he felt no gratitude to God. His body was on fire.

He walked and walked. The night was not completely dark. But everything he saw, houses and gables and windows, only reminded him of the joy that had been his when he last came this way.

Finally, he had returned to the festivities. Most people had gone down to the point to see the admiral go on board again.

At that moment, Barbara came across to him, warm and radiant, and whispered in his ear: “Should we two not take a little walk together?”

Her voice was close and childlike.

They went. But Gabriel was left behind. He turned pale and completely sober. This was more than anything he could work out. The bitch!

The houses, the gables and the windows in town reminded Pastor Poul of a joy that had been lost, but which was now found again. They spoke but little.

Suddenly, Barbara said: “You are not enjoying yourself at all this evening.”

She almost sounded a little humble.

Pastor Poul felt her hand. He grasped it passionately, but she merely played with his fingers. She looked at him, briefly, with uncertain eyes, and then she slowly lowered her gaze.

“No, but the Frenchmen are having a wonderful time,” he replied at last. He was not in control of his voice.

A little smile spread over Barbara’s lips. She still stood looking down: “Yes… but…”

Suddenly, her voice rang out: “They’ll be gone tomorrow, won’t they.”

She looked at him. There was again an almost comical uncertainty in her eyes. She pressed his hand quite gently and said it again: “Won’t they?”

Pastor Poul was quite dizzy. When Barbara said that she wanted to go home, he went with her. Then he, too, went home. Instinctively he kept away from the festivities. He had to take care of his happiness; he felt it was made of extremely brittle glass.

But Barbara went straight back to the ball.

The entire cellar was a dark confusion of drunken folk. The oboes were still speaking their strange seductive language, but no further seductiveness was needed: it was all breaking up; the law speaker alone was sitting immovable in the place he had made his own. He once put his hand to his forehead as though to wipe something away. That shawm! His head reverberated with the unpleasant sound it was making.

Johan Hendrik, the judge, came staggering towards Barbara. Never before had she seen him so humiliated. She avoided him and made for Montgaillard, who was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His powerful lips broke into a smile; he took her arm and spoke. Barbara did not understand the words, but she understood the melody. She looked at his face, quite close to hers; his smiling eyes were golden and as it were full of light; she felt his lips, he kissed her powerfully and passionately.

Gabriel saw it. He went outside and without beating about the bush told Beach Flea that he had now, once and for all, abandoned all hope of making a decent person out of Barbara, for she was simply not worth it.

Then he went in again. He saw Barbara in Montgaillard’s arms. They sat down together by a barrel and started to drink.

It was all a cauldron of shouting and tramping. Some fresh air came in through the door. The lanterns swung slowly in the air, the shadows from their frames crossing each other and dancing on the walls. Gabriel went down into the storage cellar nearby. It was almost dark, but the entire cellar was alive. All around, between hides, barrels of tallow and casks of butter the couples all sat. He felt his official dignity rise – he was responsible for this cellar – he staggered around on a tour of inspection. But who cared about Gabriel this evening? All around, he heard gasps and sniggers, murmuring in French and howls in Faroese. He saw his girl, Angelika, blind drunk and sinfully naked among a chorus of Frenchmen. He recognised a skirt. He had himself sold it to Suzanne Harme. It was incredible what that proud Suzanne was allowing a young French officer to do to her. But what did he care about Suzanne? She was only Suzanne after all. He was drunk; he was tired; he was in despair; his eyes were extinguished, his hands were numb.

He went back, again passing Montgaillard and Barbara. He pulled himself together. He could say something to her, of course. Of course – what was more natural? But he could simply not find his own voice, and when he finally did manage to control it, he did not recognise it. Nothing at all came of it. But then the judge arrived and he was better able to express himself.

“Well, Barbara,” he said, “are you sitting by a barrel? I thought you had had enough of
barrels
.”

“It depends what’s in them,” blethered Gabriel coarsely.

Barbara stared at them, tipsy and scornful. Montgaillard did not understand what the drunks were saying.

Gabriel and Johan Hendrik walked out to the point. They suddenly discovered they were the best of friends. They had otherwise not been able to stand each other.

No. Who the hell should be bothered about Barbara? They were both agreed on that. They confirmed this with numerous embraces, and they looked deep into each other’s eyes. And the new Vágar minister. If he had any ideas, ha, ha, ha. Gabriel had to laugh. He was in the middle of Tinganes, laughing at the top of his voice at the new Vágar parson. The bloody fool.

And thank God that neither of them – Johan Hendrik or Gabriel – was married. Thank God for that. They were just about the only ones here in Havn this evening who were not being cuckolded. So thank God for that.

But then Johan Hendrik said that that was all right, but that in the eyes of God he was nevertheless a miserable cuckold. And Gabriel admitted that if he was to be honest, so was he, in his heart of hearts, into which God could see, a miserable, pitiful cuckold. Even if he was Gabriel on the outside.

They were both very down, and the night was long.

When they returned to the cellar, the festivities were over. The candles had burnt down and one of the lanterns in the ceiling had started to flicker. There were no musicians and no dancing. Only a few people were wandering around like shadows on the deserted floor. Someone came up from the cellar store. It was Captain Montgaillard and Barbara. She was staggering as she held on to his arm, unbuttoned and in shameful disorder. The red silk ribbons on her dress hung there, crumpled and dead like crushed roses. There was the sound of wine squelching in her shoes.

Suddenly, she stopped, threw back her head and laughed. She took off one shoe and poured its red contents over the floor. And at that moment she caught sight of Johan Hendrik. She quickly hid her hot face on Montgaillard’s shoulder and uttered a prolonged sound half way between a laugh and a sigh. Her wet, shiny stocking foot sought the shoe that had fallen on the floor.

Gabriel and Johan Hendrik stood watching this. But then Montgaillard lost patience. He wrapped his cloak around Barbara and carried her out. One of her stockings had slipped down to her ankle and her bare leg hung there swinging to and fro. Wine dripped from her feet.

Johan Hendrik had collapsed on a wine barrel with his face hidden in his hands. He suddenly looked up. In a dreadful falsetto he suddenly sang out:

And what is this frame

Adorned by the world with so wondrous a name

Gabriel leant against the wall in a violent fit of drunken tears. He joined in at times. In his hand he held a garter. He had found it on the floor. It was one of the pair he had once sold to Barbara.

The singing continued its uneven progress. At times they were on the point of coming to a standstill, and at times it unexpectedly progressed well. It was like sailing a ship in heavy seas. But they helped each other out, the two of them, often looking deep into each other’s eyes – they understood each other so well, and their souls wept together as they sang and confessed:

Black envy is ever now ready to chafe,

In secret you hurt and so seldom feel safe

And often you wonder at others’ profanity –

Aye, vanity

Aye, vanity.

But Gabriel held on to the garter. It was
that
to which he often addressed his singing. He grumbled at it and punished it:

Your matches, your kindling, your fast flying spark

So many have sent into ne’er-ending dark…

The plaintive tones slowly died away in the stone cellar. Gabriel and the judge went home. Everything was deserted now and the last lanterns were burning down. There were sounds of gentle movement in a corner. It was the law speaker, Samuel Mikkelsen, rising from his barrel. He was so ungainly – even a little more than usual. But there was a tender smile on his face. From up in the town the singing could still be heard:

Then now fare thee well, now farewell,

No longer deceit shall you heap on my soul…

The big boat from the Redoubt had been launched and was now close to the Hoist, waiting for the law speaker and Pastor Poul, who were to be conveyed to Vágar.

It was a long and difficult journey they had before them. On the first day they were to go by boat to Kollafjord and then by foot through the valley to Kvívík. The following day they had to go over the sound to Futaklett on Vágar and then across the mountains to Sandavág. The law speaker was not keen to choose this route; he was not fond of walking and preferred to sail all the way. But it was wintertime and sailing south around Kirkjubónes was not to be advised.

The ten soldiers in the boat from the Redoubt had a long wait. This was something to which they were accustomed when they were to convey the law speaker. They sat there saying they hoped not to miss the favourable current. That was a regular subject of conversation. For the current did not wait for the law speaker’s tardiness even if everyone else did. They had discovered this on a couple of occasions.

It was two days after the visit by the French ships and everyday life had returned in abundance. The town had slept throughout most of the Monday. People had talked and talked that evening, and many curious things had been revealed. But today it was Tuesday and the skies were overcast.

The minister came walking along. Shortly afterwards the law speaker appeared, obviously in no hurry.

“Oh, by the way,” he remarked as though referring to some very unimportant matter, one almost designed to awaken the other’s sympathy: “Barbara has asked if she could come along. I’m sure she’ll be here soon.”

He turned away and it looked as though he had not said anything at all.

A hint of exasperation could be seen on the men’s faces. “The east flow will soon be over,” commented Niels the Punt in a surly but irascible voice.

Samuel Mikkelsen made no reply. The crew mumbled discontentedly. Waiting for the law speaker was one thing. But waiting for a woman! They knew this one. There would be no end to it. In general – women and boats! Women shouldn’t be allowed in boats; women were a nuisance in a boat, a bother to all with their scarves and shawls and their endless cackling. Worse than a cartload of poultry.

Gabriel came out of the store, pasty and rotund. Nothing to do today. He chatted with the law speaker and the minister. There was something or other he ought to have told Pastor Poul, but the law speaker was there. Besides, Gabriel didn’t care; if Pastor Poul wanted to make a fool of himself, then let him. He
had
been warned.

It was half an hour before Barbara came. The east flow had probably finished ages ago, and there had been a lot of spitting in the East Bay on that account, some of it deep and philosophical and some truculent and angry. There was no doubt now that they would have to row against the west flow. But Barbara came along quite cheerfully. She held out a hand to Niels the Punt and asked him to help her down into the boat. Her voice was bright and light-hearted.

The Redoubt boat lurched heavily when the law speaker stepped aboard; it rocked vigorously after the shock, but the law speaker’s face was completely unaffected. He settled in the stern. Then they put off. Gabriel was left alone on the jetty, becoming smaller and smaller as they moved away.

The oars creaked and squeaked against the thole pins. The boat moved forward quickly and jerkily. The river, the judge’s residence and Nýggjastova disappeared behind the tongue of land holding the Redoubt. Gongin followed; then came Reyn with the black church tower and after it the Royal Store buildings out in Havn and then the furthermost area where the festivities had taken place and finally the low spit of land on which Tinganes stood. The town was gone. They were rowing along a desolate coast.