I couldn’t tie up to the bridge because all the moorings were occupied by beginner Optimist-class sailing dinghies. Their regatta would be one of the high points of the beach party. So we simply ran on the beach and grounded there. Sven jumped out and went off to the hotel ahead of us, very full of himself, a messenger whose mission was successfully accomplished.
Waiters were carrying out chairs and tables, a drinks cart was being maneuvered into position under a windblown pine tree. Wires supported on poles were stretched right across the sandy beach, with colored lightbulbs dangling from them. A small mound had been raised for the band. Old men were sitting on navigation marks that had been hauled in for a fresh coat of paint; they didn’t talk much, but cast an expert eye on the preparations for the event, probably remembering parties of the past. None of them responded when I said hello.
Since Stella didn’t come back out to the beach, I went into the hotel.
A uniformed doorman at the entrance either couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me anything except that Ms. Petersen had made a phone call, and then had gone to her room. She didn’t want to be disturbed.
I returned on my own to the barge, where they were already waiting for me, and they sent me down right away to check the way the stones were lying. There wasn’t much to adjust. Now and then, but not often, I lowered the grab bucket over a rock, signaling to Frederik which way to move it and where to bring it down again. Just once, when I had a blurred view of a huge boulder in the jaws of the grab bucket over me, I got myself to safety fast, without giving a signal. This particular boulder didn’t want to lie in its predestined place; my father had wanted it to rest on the breakwater like a kind of copingstone, but instead it tipped sideways, turned right over, and did not reach the bottom but stuck fast between two dark rocks of the same size. Frederik and my father now inspected the results of their labors, and when one of them pointed to the beach and asked, “What do you think?” the other replied, “No, it won’t be like the storm back then.” He was referring to a beach
party five years ago, when darkness unexpectedly fell, a squally wind blew in from the sea, playing havoc with the decorations, and the boats in the harbor basin were slammed against the pier.
I scanned the hotel and the beach cafe through Frederik’s binoculars, and I wasn’t surprised to see people sitting at some of the tables already. Inside one window of the hotel, which was painted pale green, I saw Stella, still in her swimsuit, talking on the phone. She talked; she perched on the window seat and went on talking, meanwhile looking out at our bay in the still evening light, seabirds drifting on the gentle swell.
Once she jumped up, took a few steps away from the window—her movements suggesting protest, disappointment—then returned to where she had been sitting, and I saw her holding the receiver at arm’s length, as if to dissociate herself from whatever she was evidently being asked to do. Suddenly she put the receiver down, sat there thoughtfully for a while, then picked up a book and tried to read. As you sat there reading, Stella, I couldn’t help thinking of one of those window pictures that invite the viewer to look beyond what the picture actually shows and indulge in speculation.
I kept the binoculars focused on you, until Frederik nudged me and repeated what my father had just said: time to quit work for today.
There had certainly been no plans for Mr. Kugler to speak during the hour of remembrance, but suddenly there he was in front of the podium, bowing to Stella’s photograph and staring at her intently, as if that might conjure her up in person. He dabbed his face with a white handkerchief, he swallowed, and then he turned to you with a helpless gesture. “Why, Stella?” he asked. “Why did this have to happen?” I wasn’t surprised to hear him call her by her first name and ask, in genuine distress, “Was there no other way out for you?” Neither our principal nor the other staff members seemed to find the intimacy in his voice unexpected. Their faces still wore the bereft expression of mourning.
I found myself thinking involuntarily of our beach party, the three-man band trying to play cheerful, entertaining tunes, and I saw the Hirtshafen locals coming down to the beach, hanging back a little but curious to see the festivities.
They walked across the small park with its sparse trees, trudged through the sand on the beach, obviously
wondering who would attend the party and who would stay away, and after some hesitant greetings they made their way to vacant tables and signaled to the waiters. Orders were given for beer and apple juice, and shots of schnapps at the table where three young men in sailors’ jackets were sitting. I found a seat next to an old man who was dozing as he stared into his beer glass, the frothy head slowly subsiding. He was pleased when I confirmed that yes, I was indeed Wilhelm the stone fisher’s son—that was all he wanted to know. Suddenly I felt a hand on my back, heard a subdued giggle, the hand continued to softly caress me as if wondering when I would notice. I turned swiftly, grabbed, and found that I had hold of our neighbors’ little girl, Sonja. She wriggled and squirmed, but I held tight and got her to calm down by admiring her dress, which had a pattern of ladybugs in flight, and the little daisy-chain wreath she was wearing on her head.
“Are you going to dance, Christian?” she asked.
“Maybe,” I said.
“With me too?”
“Who else?” I said.
She confided that her father was going to come to the party with his eel rake, the five-pronged one,
so that people would think he was a sea god with a trident.
When Stella appeared in the hotel doorway, and very slowly came down the few steps to the beach cafe, conversation died down at some of the tables, the men in sailors’ jackets turned their heads—someone might have been pulling a string to work them—and as if Stella’s appearance had given them their cue, the band struck up “La Paloma.” I didn’t need to wave to her; she came straight over to us, I fetched a chair and left it to her to chat with Sonja.
Sonja was sipping her fruit juice. When a bonfire was lit down on the beach and some of her friends went to feed it with driftwood—the wood wasn’t quite dry, so it crackled and sputtered and sometimes sent out a shower of sparks—she didn’t stay with us; she wanted to go and look at the fire and find twigs and bits of plywood.
“Your neighbor?” asked Stella.
“My little neighbor,” I confirmed. “Our fathers work together, they’re both stone fishers.” Stella said she’d like to see the underwater stone fields, and I asked when we could go out to look at them together.
“Anytime,” she said, and we made a date for next Sunday.
The electric lightbulbs went out, but came on again the next minute, went out once more, and after a moment stayed on, casting plenty of light on the space cleared for dancing. This lighting effect was a sign that it was time to try out the dance floor, where the sand had been rolled to make a flat, firm surface. And no sooner had the first two couples taken the floor than two thin little arms were flung around me, and Sonja whispered, close to my face, “Come on, Christian, you promised.” She was light on her feet, very agile, eager to keep pace with me, catching up with little hops and skips now and then. Her small face was serious. When we danced past our own table she waved to Stella, and Stella watched us appreciatively. After that Sonja didn’t want to leave the dance floor with me, but stayed there alone, dancing by herself, and looking so relaxed and involved as she danced that she won applause from some of the lads in sailors’ jackets, who had come over from the merchant navy training center on the neighboring island. But it seemed she wasn’t satisfied with her own performance; either that or she thought she needed to learn more, because when I
danced with Stella she crouched down and watched us very attentively. She seemed to be counting our steps, taking note of the way we turned and twirled on the dance floor; sometimes she jumped up and imitated a movement, or the way we separated and then came together again. Now she couldn’t wait for my dance with Stella to be over; once or twice she showed her impatience by patting the ground with the flat of her hand or tracing a line in the air, telling us it was time to stop. But we, Stella and I, didn’t break apart just yet, not until we realized that Sonja was in tears, and then we took her hands and led her back to our table, where Stella picked her up, sat her on her lap, and comforted her by promising to dance with her.
The band took a break, and at a word of command the men in sailors’ jackets stood and formed a line on the dance floor, to the accompaniment of a bosun’s whistle. One of them uncoiled a rope so that everyone in the line could hold it. They stood still for a moment, then bent down, bowed to each other, and braced their legs apart to make it look as if they were putting all their strength into lifting a huge weight. Only when they sang could everyone see it was just a pretense. The song was deep and rhythmic, with something
forceful about it, it seemed to guide them, and instinctively you assumed that they were miming the hoisting of a sail, a heavy mainsail. After this interlude they mimed exhaustion, formed a circle, and sang two well-known shanties, with our own Hirtshafen locals joining in. Waiters brought them beer donated by an anonymous patron.
As was the tradition at every Hirtshafen beach party, the local sea god known as the Kraken Man put in an appearance. Sonja’s father came up from the water carrying his eel rake, his shirt and pants clinging to his body, a garland of seaweed around his neck. He was welcomed with applause and a show of great deference. He had been carrying his five-pronged rake like a scepter. Now, when he jammed it into the ground, children ran to their parents. He stared grimly at the company around him, growling, and I knew he was looking for the girl he would choose as mermaid. Then he walked slowly from table to table, smiling, stroking and patting, assessing the girls, bowing apologetically when he decided against one of them. He passed our table at first, but only steps away he suddenly turned, seemed to freeze, struck his forehead, strode quickly back, and bowed to Stella. Offering her his arm, he led
her to the dance floor as if to display her or show what a good choice he had made. And you happily played along, Stella: when he took you around the waist and twirled you, when he removed some of the seaweed from his neck and adorned you with it, when he drew your head down and kissed your forehead, you showed amusement and understanding for it all. Only when he was about to lead you down the beach and into the water did you resist, turning cheerfully back to Sonja, who ran over and clung to you.
Sonja made Stella return to our table, and after I’d ordered rum and cola and straight cola, Sonja asked something that seemed to be weighing on her mind: Did Stella have a husband, and if so why wasn’t he here? Was she really a teacher? Christian had said so when he was dancing with her, Sonja added. Was Stella a very strict teacher? Stella answered all her questions patiently, even when Sonja asked whether I would have to repeat a year at school for not working hard enough. She said, “Christian can do it—if he takes the trouble to try, he can do anything he likes.” In reply to that, Sonja announced, “Christian is my boyfriend,” and Stella stroked her hair with a gentle gesture that moved me.
When the band played “Spanish Eyes,” some of the young men in sailors’ jackets ventured onto the dance floor themselves, and a big fair-haired lad who had been turned down by the local girls came over to our table, walking unsteadily, sketched a bow, and asked Stella to dance. He was swaying, he had to hold on to the table top. Stella shook her head and said quietly, “Not today, thank you.” At that the young man straightened up and inspected her with narrowed eyes, his lips quivering. An expression of hostility swiftly formed on his face. Then he said, “We’re not good enough for you, is that right?” I was going to stand, but he pushed me back, his heavy hand pressing on my shoulder. I looked at his bare toes, and was about to raise my foot when Stella jumped up and pointed to his friends, her arm outstretched. “Please go away now—look, they’re waiting for you.” That stopped the young man in his tracks. He puffed out his cheeks, but then moved away with a dismissive gesture. Stella sat down and sipped her drink, the glass trembling slightly in her hand. She smiled, she seemed surprised by the effect of her reproof, and perhaps amused by her successful performance. But suddenly she stood, gave Sonja a swift good-bye, and walked to the hotel
entrance, knowing I was following her. At the reception desk she asked for her room key. She did not explain anything.
All you said was, “I’m looking forward to Sunday, Christian.”
———
The two boys who came into the hall late must have been among those who had to travel to school by public transportation; maybe they had missed their bus, maybe the bus had been delayed. Anyway, there they suddenly were, at the doors of the hall: two ash-blond boys in clean shirts, both carrying bunches of short-stemmed flowers. They made their way forward very carefully. If they noticed a glance of disapproval, they put a finger to their lips or gestured apologetically. One of them was Ole Niehus, who had won the Optimist-class dinghy regatta at the beach party. Ole was a friendly dumpling of a boy; no one would ever have expected him to win. They put their flowers down in front of Stella’s photo, made a little bow, and then walked backward away from it to stand with the members of the school choir, Ole looking as pleased with himself as if he had won another victory.
The way he climbed into his dinghy on the day of the regatta, it had looked as if he wouldn’t even reach the starting line of the race. His plywood boat rocked and heeled over so far that it was almost shipping water. By comparison with the other young sailors, Ole had difficulty getting away from the wooden bridge to which they had all tied up. The wind had risen. Our
Katarina
, the old excursion boat my father had said I could take out that day, was lying ready; the race umpires, three men in white, each with a pair of binoculars dangling in front of his chest, came on board, and before we cast off Stella appeared on the bridge, Stella in her beach dress and wearing her green swimsuit under it. She asked me with a great show of formality whether she could watch the regatta from the
Katarina
, and I helped her up to the high seat behind the wheel. The armada of lightweight dinghies, yellow and brown and piratical black, sailed up to the starting line; the wind caught and rocked them, giving the young sailors some work to do. One of the umpires fired a flare, which went off before falling into the water; flocks of seabirds rose in the air, screaming, flew around, and then, still screaming, settled again. Sudden gusts of wind caught the sails. It wasn’t easy
for the sailors to keep on course toward the buoy where they had to turn, and sometimes the sails flapped so vigorously that a sound like the crack of a whip echoed over the water.