Of other notable perceptions regarding my discourses with the Greenlanders on matters religious, I found in them a great eagerness to listen and be instructed therein. In particular they found much delight in considering the biblical illustrations I had taken with me in order to explain to them in a rudimentary way what I could not say in words. They declared a complete belief in what I told them about God, taking pleasure above all in hearing of how God’s son was to return and resurrect the dead who believed in and loved and feared God, and take them with him into Heaven.
FROM HANS EGEDE’S JOURNAL, 1723
Monday, 19 April, early in the morning, Hyskenstræde, Copenhagen. Claus Enevold Pors, forty-five years old, formerly major with the free company at Trondheim, farm owner from Vendsyssel, who, with immediate effect, and completely out of the blue, has been named Governor of the planned colony in Greenland, lies in his bed, massaging the feet of a young wench he picked up on his way home a couple of hours before. He stares at the rich cunt which seems almost to glow darkly as a lump of coal where her fleshy thighs meet, and approaches it, crawling up the mattress on his stomach. Normally it works. But not today. He groans in despair.
Skård! he calls out. Help me, Skård!
The woman hears this as an exclamation of excitement and says something come-hitherish and wenchlike, which only makes him even more limp.
Pors groans impatiently. Skård, are you there?
But his servant is not there.
He pulls on his member, inhales the sweet, vinegary odour of the woman’s feet, bends her legs backwards, she willingly drawing them up underneath her to spread her cunt, which opens to send him a vertical grin, her buttocks parting to reveal her anus. Dark star, he thinks to himself and touches it with the tip of his index finger. No, more pinkish perhaps. An odour of ambergris and musk wafts towards his nostrils. His finger slips inside her and the woman gives herself to him. It ought to help, and yet it does not. Her cunt smells of seaweed, warm and inviting. He grunts ill-temperedly. What’s wrong with me? he wonders. I, who am always erect in the mornings, even without a woman. It is, in fact, at this time Skård must come.
On the staircase an elderly man with long white hair and frosty eyebrows is on his way up to the bel étage from the ground floor with a sealed envelope in his trembling hand. The man is the Major’s manservant, an Icelander by the name of Skård Grimsson, a servant of the Pors family for some twenty years, firstly to the former gentleman of the house, the now deceased bankrupt, subsequently to his son. He has not heard that his master was out this night and has come home with a wench, and assumes that he is in his bed asleep. Skård is accustomed to assisting the Major with his morning toilet, comprising, besides washing and towelling and the application of ointments, a hasty tossing off. The latter act has been recommended to him by a physician, so Pors has explained, a hygienic precaution in order to avoid confluence and acidification of the fluids, and since masturbation is a sin that may lead to all manner of calamity, including both consumption and melancholy, it has been bestowed upon Skård to ensure his master’s relief. He has little against it. Work is work, and achieving excellence in one’s chosen field will forever be a matter of part discomfort, part satisfaction. Besides, for this particular service Pors remunerates him with a commission.
But now there is an envelope, sealed with red wax, delivered only shortly before by a messenger from the palace.
Skård reaches the landing and pauses outside the door, gasping slightly for breath, evacuating his nose methodically, index finger against first one nostril, then the other, narrowing his eyes and peering with satisfaction after the globs of mucus that have been expelled to the floor and smearing them into semi-oblivion under the sole of his boot. Then he knocks hard on the door.
A letter for the Major!
Pors groans despairingly from within. Can it not wait?
It’s from the King, I reckon, Skård says to the door.
He rolls out of bed, his member at last come to life. Promptly it has reacted to the sound of Skård’s voice, like a small dog which hears his master’s call and eagerly springs in the air. He crosses the floor with it bobbing in front of him and opens the door.
Skård, long since used to seeing the Major in his present state, is not the slightest bit embarrassed by the sight. He leans forward and peers into the room to see the woman lying naked on her back.
Ah, I see, he says. But there was this letter. He puts out his hand with the sealed envelope balanced on his upturned palm.
He should not have been so frivolous. Pors realizes immediately that the sight of Skård’s calloused hand is more than his member can endure, and before he can take the letter he has splashed it with sperm.
///
Skård fetches water and assists him in dressing. Amid his manservant’s meticulous attentions, Pors tears open the letter and reads. For the first time, he is addressed in writing as Governor. Splendid! His member almost rises again. The letter summons him to the Garnisonskirke at noon in full uniform. The offenders who are to make up his crew in the colony these next many years are to be brought together in matrimony.
Go in and wake Titia, he says to Skård. He wishes her to go with him to the church.
Skård enters the adjoining room, but returns almost immediately.
The jomfru is risen, he says. However, she seems to be unwell.
Pors’s young housekeeper appears in the doorway.
Well, come in, then, he says. No reason to be shy.
The girl enters and sits down on a chair. She looks sideways at the as yet half-naked Pors, then at the woman in his bed.
Good morning, she says.
Slept well, my girl? says Pors.
There’s too much noise from the street, says the jomfru Titia. I’m not used to it. The watchman has kept me awake with his hourly verse.
Noise is a part of the city, Pors tells her. Enjoy it while you can. You’ll miss it where we’re going.
Who’s that? Titia asks.
My betrothed, says Pors. What was your name again?
Sise, says Sise from the bed. My father’s name was Hans. But they call me Sise Petticoat.
Do they indeed? Well, Sise Petticoat Hansdatter, allow me to introduce my housekeeper, Titia. She is from Køge, and before that from darkest Germany. She is new in the city. You could teach her a thing or two, I should imagine.
Nothing that’d do her any good, says Sise.
Pors feels a need to boast of the letter he has received from His Majesty. He waves it in the air. Do the ladies know what this is?
I can’t read, says Sise.
Then let me tell you. This, he says, is grand politics. Are you aware of who I am?
Isn’t he an admiral or something? Sise ventures in the formal third person, resting her foot on top of her bended knee and scratching her ankle. Titia glares at her but says nothing.
Admiral! he repeats with a good-natured chuckle. The girl is ignorant indeed, Titia. Though not without her charms, certainly. No, my fine friend, this is a letter from the King. He hands it to Titia. It is His Majesty’s most gracious wish that I shall be master of a new land. Greenland. Do you know of Greenland, my girl?
I might have heard of it, Sise says obligingly.
You will know of it presently, I assure you. We are writing history today, little Sise. You and I, and Skård, and young Titia here.
Not me, says Sise. I can’t read or write.
Then you may tell your grandchildren of it.
He paces back and forth a moment, washed and smelling of ointment. Titia sits poring over the letter. He halts in the middle of the floor.
I am to be a kind of king myself, you see. King of Greenland! A fine thing indeed to tell the grandchildren, that you, Sise, were betrothed to the King of Greenland, and you, Titia, were his housekeeper. Quite something, eh, wouldn’t you agree?
Sise sits up on the edge of the bed. I want my five marks.
For what? says Pors. For lying in my bed and doing nothing? No, spare me the looks. He cannot help but laugh at the sight of the sour face she puts on. You shall have your five marks and more besides.
He considers himself in the great mirror. Skård dances about him and hums as he attends. Titia shifts on the chair. The sun of morning falls into the room. It looks like a lovely spring day, the manservant says.
A good day to be married, says Pors.
Are we to be married? Sise says. I tell you I won’t.
Not to me, you foolish girl, Pors replies.
My poor old father, bless his soul, always said the best day for a marriage was the thirtieth of February, Skård says.
Ha ha, most amusing, Skård, says Pors.
February hasn’t got thirty days, Titia points out.
Exactly, says Skård. To me, every day is the thirtieth of February.
The old man lies down on the bed, Sise rising to make room for him. He lies on top of the covers with his boots on, folds his arms behind his neck and proceeds instantly to snore.
Poor old fella, says Sise. He must be exhausted.
Rather like an old hunting dog with no use left in him, says Pors. One hasn’t the heart to put him out of his misery.
I don’t think it’s allowed, says Titia.
Pors turns to face her. You look like a street girl who’s been working all night, he says, discontented. What’s the matter with you?
I don’t feel well, the jomfru says. I think I’ll go to bed again.
You will not, you’re going to church, Pors tells her. He looks at Sise and explains to her: the jomfru Titia is a kind of papist, you see. She doesn’t much care for the Danish churches.
That’s not why, Titia says, staring darkly into the air in front of her.
I see, says Pors curtly. Moral despondency, then?
I really don’t feel well. I need to go to bed.
Then get you to bed, Pors snaps, turning away from her. But you, he says, his eyes now on Sise. You are a pretty one this morning. Such delightful colours. He holds her face between his hands and turns it to the window. Apple cheeks, golden hair, and such a fine, red and pouting mouth. In this light I can properly see you now. In fact, I may not be finished with you at all.
Goodnight, says Titia. I’m going for a lie down.
The gentleman can go down the Dragoon and find me when he wants, says Sise. That’s where I am.
No, I have other plans for you now. Your presence is called for. Put your clothes on and come with me to the church.
The church? On a Monday?
Have you something more important to be getting on with?
I need to find my fiancé. I’ve lost him.
You mean someone like you is engaged? To what kind of a fellow, one wonders?
He’s a soldier.
Soldiers come by the dozen. We’ll find you a new one.
But he’s mine. We’re getting married. He said so himself.
Come on, Pors says impatiently. Put on your petticoat, Sise, and no more splitting hairs. The King himself has asked me to find you.
The King? she says. I don’t know no king.
Well, it seems the King knows you, says Pors. And he wants to see you at the Garnisonskirke in an hour.
///
Sise has been looking for Johan since last Friday when they let her out of the gaol. A couple of days it came to before they threw her out for lack of room. Since then, she’s been going about the city asking after him in places she knows he frequents. It’s been like chasing a shadow. He was here not long ago, they tell her, he was here last night and was asking after you. But then on the Saturday night she loses the scent. She was scared something had happened to him, and so she went to the Dragoon in Vestergade. Someone came and called her name out, an old man with a mane of white hair. Sise Petticoat! Is there a Sise Petticoat Hansdatter here?
That’s me, she said. Am I to be taken to the Spinning House again? Can’t they make up their minds?
You’re a lucky girl, said the man. You’ve been chosen.
For what?
You’ll find out soon enough. My gentleman wants to speak to you. Come with me.
And so she came here to the house in the Hyskenstræde. She hadn’t a clue what was going on. And then all it was was a fine gentleman who wanted to lie with her. But she still hasn’t got a clue what’s going on. Something’s happening that’s got something to do with her. And there’s nothing she can do about it.
Now she accompanies the fine gentleman through the city. She is clad in a loosely hanging dress. On her head she wears a cap of flax with a brown bonnet tied under her chin. On her feet are a pair of well-worn clogs. The man in front of her is in a golden uniform with braid and a very splendid three-cornered hat from whose top a feather bobs. At his side he wears a sword that drags and hops along the cobbles in his wake. He resembles mostly a king’s cavalryman. People turn and stare. Here and there, she is recognized. Has Sise found herself a new sweetheart? they enquire. She picks up her skirts and stumbles on at the man’s heels. Occasionally he glances over his shoulder to see if she is still there. She could quite easily slip down a side street and be gone, for finding Johan is still foremost in her mind. Yet she is gripped by a doggish kind of submissiveness that compels her to follow along with this man she barely knows.
Outside the church, an astonishing throng of people and carriages is gathered. Fine carriages, too, among them, and immediately she spots the King and Queen only paces away, walking arm in arm towards the entrance. Someone shoves her forward and all of a sudden she finds herself before the royals. She lowers her eyes to the ground. The King speaks. Ah, a good job we found her, Pors. Otherwise we’d have been forced to take another. Lord knows, there are plenty, but I promised the young man I’d find this Sise, and I should very much like to be a man who kept his promise. She doesn’t understand a word of it, and before she can ponder the matter she is nudged inside the church and steered to a seat on the left along with some other women. She recognizes several from the Spinning House. They greet her gladly. So, you’re here too? What’s happening, do you know? Why have they sent us to church? Are we to repent our sins again? Sunday was yesterday, wasn’t it?
I don’t know, she says. I don’t know any more than you. They forced me here.
To the right sit the men, soldiers all. They seem rather dishevelled. They’re from Bremerholm, says the woman on Sise’s left. Convicts. Terrible scoundrels. They could certainly do with a sermon.
There is a rustle of skirts all around as the King and his entourage enter the church, the Queen with a long train trailing behind her, the King in uniform. The priest receives them with a deep bow, then kneels to kiss the hand of the Queen. The royal couple seat themselves in front of the altar, and again the skirts rustle among the congregation. A service begins. The organ plays. A hymn is sung. The priest speaks, his voice thin and feeble in the church’s great interior. He says a prayer.
Sise sees none of it, and hears nothing, for she has noticed Johan on the other side of the aisle, with the other convicts.
Johan! she exclaims. The men turn and look at her. Desperately, she waves. Johan! His neighbour nudges him, and now he turns and sees her. His jaw drops.
You, here? he mimes.
Someone shushes. She looks at him questioningly. What’s going on? He shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head.
She looks up at the altarpiece, where the Saviour is nailed to the cross, knees together as if he needed a pee. She wonders if there is anything under the loincloth. A wooden dick? She shakes her head and feels completely out of sorts. Do the King and Queen do it with each other? She’s been with so many men, more than she can count. And she doesn’t even like it. To her it’s a job. When she lies down to sleep they come somersaulting, one after another. They never leave her alone. In a way it was a relief to be sent to the gaol. There, at least, she can escape having to lie with all these men. But the food is not good. The Dragoon is better on that count, she must concede. Dear Jesus, she prays. Help me. And she folds her hands together and feels herself crying.
The woman on her left, Maren Black-hat, digs an elbow in her side. Dry your tears, love. We’re to be coupled with the scallywags over there. A mass wedding.
Who?
The Bremerholm lot. Didn’t you hear what the priest said? They’re sending us to the colonies, two by two. Like the animals.
Oh, she says. But I won’t.
Try saying no, Maren says with a grin.
Sise presses her face to Maren’s shoulder, and Maren pats her cheek. They hold hands. She looks sideways towards the male convicts. Soldiers, all of them, redcoats with whom the city is brimming, many of them regulars at the Dragoon. They glance about and look just as perplexed as the women.
Now it begins. A woman, a lady-in-waiting perhaps, plunges her hand into a leather pouch held out by the verger and pulls up a scrap of paper. She smiles gleefully and calls a name out into the church. One of the men gets to his feet slowly and approaches with hesitant steps. Are you Johan Furst? the priest asks. Yes, mumbles the soldier. The priest takes his arm and stands him with his face to the congregation. A young man of the court dips his hand into another pouch. He shouts out a woman’s name: Johanne Nielsdatter. She steps up and is placed next to Furst. The next woman to be called out is Maren Black-hat, to be coupled with one called Franz Glitker, a German. She pulls a grimace and gives Sise a pat of encouragement as she gets up. Jauntily, she strides down the aisle, stands next to her man and places her arm in the crook of his elbow to rapturous shouts from the pews. One couple after another is brought together in the same way. The pews to the left, where Sise sits, become empty. She looks across the aisle and sees that Johan too remains. And now the man and the woman who have been drawing the names seat themselves again. We’re not going, she thinks to herself with a mixture of relief and disappointment. But then what are we here for?
The King rises, the Queen also.
Will Sise Hansdatter now approach? he says.
She sits there as if paralysed and gapes at the King.
No, thanks, she croaks, though fortunately no one hears.
Step forward, my child, says the King. He holds out his hand. Someone nudges her from behind and she gets to her feet and walks forward, her clogs clacking against the stone. The King takes her hand.
She is Sise Hansdatter, called Sise Petticoat?
Yeah?
Do you know that your king loves you, Sise?
The King knows me, then?
The King loves all his subjects, even the lowest of the low.
She stands with her head tipped back, staring up at the sovereign who gleams with gold and braid. Behind his shoulder hangs Jesus on his cross.
But there is another who loves you, says the King.
Is there? she says, her head quite empty. Who in the world can it be?
The King turns towards the Queen, who calls out: Approach, Johan Hartman.
Johan springs to his feet and edges his way into the aisle. He comes towards her and she reaches out her hand and holds onto him.
Where have you been, you swine? she whispers. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.
Shh, he says.
Let the wedding begin! says the King.
The priest commences the ceremony. He addresses each couple in turn. The offenders utter their I do’s and one after another are declared man and wife until death them do part. But when he comes to the end of the row, to Johan and Sise, she is no longer sure. She feels all eyes are upon her, even the King’s and the Queen’s. She feels her legs will give way beneath her. Johan tugs discreetly at the sleeve of her dress. But she cannot speak the words. They’re stuck.
Do you not want me? Johan asks.
I don’t know, she says. It’s all so sudden.
But the priest makes short work of it and declares them married nonetheless, the same as the others. Sise feels relieved that there is something greater than herself which has made the decision on her behalf. But leaving the church, Johan must almost drag her with him. And when the bells begin to peal in the tower, she feels everything go dark.
///
The twelve newly wed couples are driven out of the city by farmer’s cart to an inn on Vesterbrogade called the Hope. Places have been set for them at a long table. Busy waiters come in, the steam from their serving dishes and tureens whirling in the air behind them. At the head of the table sits Claus Enevold Pors. His housekeeper, the jomfru Titia, has been collected by carriage and is seated further along. She is bleary-eyed with fatigue, or whatever is the matter with her. As long as she causes no trouble, Pors thinks to himself. I promised the apothecary to take care of her. He brings a toast and surveys the men and women in front of him. Most are only half his age. My God, he thinks. What a rabble.
To his right sits Ole Lange, one of the two missionaries who are to be deployed. He too looks exceedingly young, newly fledged and with blooming cheeks, he looks more like a candidate for the confirmation. To Pors’s left sits Jørgen Fleischer, the Paymaster, a man with red hair beneath his wig and oblique, piercing eyes, for which reason he is known as Fox. He looks dishonest, Pors thinks. Look out for him. Diagonally across from Fleischer is Jürgen Kopper. Kopper has been appointed Trader of the new colony. A face like a horse’s. Has he got a bad stomach? An abject-looking man, if ever there was one, though at least reliable.
Some soldiers from the garrison are present to keep order among the released offenders. Technically, the King still retains the power of life and death over them and they are to be returned to the garrison and locked in as soon as the feast is over. They sit outside, in a closed courtyard. The sun angles down on the food, on the men and women. Pors holds them in his gaze, studying them one by one and repeating their names. There is Peter Hageman, now married to the one they call Cellar-Katrine; there, Christopher Falck and his new wife, Filthy Ane; Johan Hintz and his Ane Woollen-sock; Frantz Glitker and Maren Black-hat; Christian Peyn and, what was her name again, Jewish Karen; Hans-Henrik Wiencke and Maren of the Pots; Bernhard Meyer and Screaming Margrete; Georg Weerback and Wispy Kirstine; Johan Furst and Johanne Long-stocking; Johan Bretel and his Ane of the Muck-heap; Peter Mogensen and Stiff Lise; and there, Johan Hartman and the prettiest of all the girls, Sise Petticoat. I am not finished with you, Sise Petticoat, Pors says to himself.
///
Sise still feels weak after her fainting in the church. She wishes she could rest in a bed.
I’ve not said I do yet, she says.
But the priest wedded us, you heard him, says Johan.
You’ve got to say I do. To God. It doesn’t matter what the priest says. Don’t you go believing you’ve got me just because the priest said so.
Johan shakes his head. I don’t understand women. It was all you could talk about for weeks.
Sise looks down the table. Many of the men are already groping their women, who don’t seem to be minding much. She glances at Pors at the table end. He sees her, lifts his glass and smiles. She winces, yet lifts her own and toasts. She thinks of the old manservant with the lovely white hair and his eyebrows like the morning frost. What’s he doing now, she wonders. Maybe still snoring in the Governor’s bed. The lucky devil, she yawns.
Congratulations on your lovely wife, Pors says to Johan. You can hardly be dissatisfied there. Are you not going to kiss her?
He tries to extract a kiss from her, only she twists away from him.
Hard to get, eh? says Pors. Kiss him, for goodness’ sake. He’s your husband! Otherwise I’ll come and do it myself.
She gives in, and Johan’s soft, moist mouth touches hers. She bursts into tears and the women from the Spinning House, her friends, cheer.
A long and happy life! Pors declares, getting to his feet.
They repeat the toast all down the line: A long and happy life!
Hurrah for King Frederik the Fourth!
Hurrah for the King!
Hurrah for Greenland!
Skål!
Pors gives a rather lengthy speech of which Sise understands little, only that it concerns them being the first inhabitants of a new country, a splendid country, bigger than Norway, unfathomably large and rich, where there will be garrisons, castles and towns, thousands of people, hundreds of thousands, but we, he reiterates, we are the first, we are the pioneers, argonauts embarking on this very first expedition, and I, Claus Enevold Pors, have been appointed Governor to begin with, though I shall be a father for you all, a loving father, and you shall come to me with your sorrows and joys, as to King Frederik, for indeed I shall be your king, and by my mother’s sacred memory I shall be a loving king. Skål!
Skål! And they raise their glasses.
Somewhere, a cow lows.
///
I am Aappaluttoq. I am red as fire, red as blood, red as the iron that glows in the forge, red as the sea when the sun descends, red as death. My name is Red.
It is not easy to be far from home. The body and spirit lose touch with each other. Afterwards they must become acquainted again. It takes time, and will not always succeed. I have known shamans unable to bring themselves together again, who have lain dormant for weeks until dying. Sometimes I meet their homeless, tormented spirits. They float about, confusedly and without purpose. The easiest thing to do when travelling afar is to have a physical object in which to materialize oneself, for example the carved figure of bone carried by the King in his pocket. I can feel his sticky hand about my body. It is a familiar and comforting feeling. When I lie there in his pocket, I know I can always come back to the groaning body in the peat-hut.
Yet sometimes I release myself from that figure of bone and go out into the streets of Copenhagen. I wander about there. I see things I cannot or will not talk of. Crimes, nameless horrors. If you think yourself a bearer of a benevolent and elevated culture, Dane, then you should follow me on one of my wanderings in this royal city between the hours of twelve and six in the morning. I am fond of it. I enjoy being the invisible guest who sees what should never be seen. And I hate myself for liking it.
But I am fond of your king. I understand him. His weaknesses are mine, the weaknesses of us all. He is a man. And I am his subject. This is how it must be.
///
The released inmates have been quartered in a dormitory inside the garrison. Here they will remain until their departure. Sise lies next to Johan, though head to toe so as to find room in the narrow bunk. The light is extinguished. It is dark. She lies listening to the sounds from the other bunks, moaning and sniggering.
Skål, you old slag, says Peter Hageman to his wife, Cellar-Katrine. Theirs is the adjacent bunk.
Skål, and goodnight, says Katrine, planting a sloppy kiss on his mouth.
You’ve an ugly face, but a lovely arse, says Peter. And a person can’t have it all.
You can help yourself, says Katrine. But I’m going to sleep if it’s all the same to you. It’s been a long day.
Fine by me, Peter says. I’m so horny I could shag a corpse.
Sise shudders. She wonders if it feels different when you’re married. Perhaps it’s nice, though she finds it hard to imagine. She has never felt anything but discomfort. Fetid smells and discomfort. Perhaps that’s something God takes away once you’ve said your I do. Now she regrets not having spoken the words in the church. In truth she is not yet properly wed. Maybe she can visit the priest, Ole Lange, and ask him to repeat the ritual. But for the time being she’s as unmarried as ever. She gave Johan a kick when he tried it on just now. He sighed and turned his back on her. He’s asleep now. His feet in their threadbare socks lie pointing into the air beside her.
She has realized by now that they are to be moved somewhere far away. But where it is she has no idea, nor if it will be hot or cold there. What if I die on the journey, she wonders. Then I will die without being married. Her bleeding was several days ago. She is clean and ready. She thinks of Pors, the ‘admiral’, who wanted her last night, but was unable. So much has happened since then. But she has not been wed. She is the only one unwed in the entire dormitory.
A hand touches her in the night. She pushes it away, half in sleep. Yet it returns, and grips her shoulder. She stirs and sees the old man, his long white hair, the frost of his eyebrows, his pale eyes in the light of a lamp. He puts his finger to his lips.
The gentleman wishes to see you, he whispers.
She gets up and follows him out of the dormitory in her stockinged feet. They walk down a long corridor, up a flight of stairs and around several corners before she is shown into a room that smells of bed chamber and leather. The Icelander nudges her forward.
Pors is lying on the bed. He is naked. His long member hangs limply between his thighs, but when the Icelander approaches it begins to swell and rises into an arc that juts from the hair of his pubis.
Come, my girl, says Pors with a smile. Now I shall claim my jus primae noctis.
He wants to lie with me, Sise says matter-of-factly.
What, does she understand Latin? Pors replies somewhat surprised.
I understand what I want to understand, says Sise. As my mother always said.
I see, says Pors. But let us now finish what we started last night.
When Pors is finished with her, the Icelander returns her to the dormitory.
Johan is awake as she climbs into the bunk beside him.
Where have you been? he asks.
An errand.
Couldn’t you use the night pot?
I’d rather the latrine.
They lie for a while without speaking. She can tell he’s awake.
It’s not my fault, she says.
What?
That I’m so coy. Only I can’t do it unless I’m forced or paid money for it.
Do you want me to force you, is that it?
No, thanks.
Shall I pay you money?
You haven’t got any.
Then I don’t know what to do.
Tomorrow we’ll go to the priest, she says. I’ll say I do.
He turns over. He puts his arms around her legs. She can feel his mouth through her stockinged feet.
Thanks, he says, thanks, my darling.
Only I doubt it’ll make a difference, she thinks to herself.