Read Online The Prophets of Eternal Fjord by Kim Leine Martin Aitken - Free Book Online

Miss Schultz. Beloved Abelone. My beloved Miss Schultz. Dear friend. He feels his mind to be unready after his illness. His judgement cannot yet be trusted to strike the proper tone and form of address that will reveal to her his intentions without being inappropriate.
    The mistress encourages him to touch her. She demands payment for placing her skin at the disposal of his trembling fingertips. He draws her rags aside and his fingers explore. He whimpers and cannot find what he is looking for. He does not know what he is looking for. Love, perhaps? A quintessence of the female principle, concealed at the point where her legs meet? A wild animal? He looks up at her, but her face is like water, indistinct in the dingy corner of the serving house. He grabs her harshly, tears the rags from her body and forces his member inside her. Her buttocks part, and he feels her warm anus thrust against his pelvic bone. She looks up at him over her shoulder and laughs shamelessly. She lies spread across a table, her hands fumbling to grip its edge. He studies her closely. It is Miss Schultz, not the other one. Or is it? Is this love? he asks himself, then falls on the floor and wakes.
    Dear Miss Schultz. I am now sufficiently restored as to be able to sense once more what is occurring and what has occurred during this recent time.
    My gratitude to you is greater than I can express in words. I wish, therefore, to do so in action!
    What then? What action? He crumples the paper in his hand. There are no more sheets. The ink pot is nearly dry and broken quill nibs lie all about, together with his crumpled attempts at formulation. He goes outside, crosses the yard and knocks on the door of the printer’s house. The maid ushers him in. He stands and waits in an anteroom on the ground floor, then is led upstairs to the printer’s office. He has no idea what intention has brought him here.
    Schultz sits behind his desk, surrounded by heavy folios and stacks of books with gilded letters on the spines. He issues a sound to convey that he is aware of Morten’s presence and requires him to wait, but does not look up from his papers. Morten goes to the window and looks out. The view is an altered version of his own. The same walls, the same rooftops and chimneys, the steeple of Vor Frue Kirke protruding from the bare branches of the sycamore. He sees the window of his room, a surface darkened by reflection and allowing no view inside. The yard is white with snow, circular tracks of horse-drawn carts wind around the tree. Faintly, he hears the sound of the press.
    It gladdens me that he has risen, says Schultz behind him.
    He turns, then seats himself on the chair to which the printer’s hand is extended.
    I feel nearly fully restored.
    We were worried about him. The printer’s eyebrows are raised high on his forehead, as though he has uttered something amusing or else expects Morten to do so. My eldest daughter especially has been con ­cerned for his well-being.
    I hope I have not been the cause of unnecessary anxiety.
    Not at all! Solicitude is in a woman’s nature and it is only healthy for young girls to be given a proper sense of life’s realities, to learn of the harshness that exists outside the protective walls of the home. Nevertheless, it is a good thing Mr Falck did not succumb. It would not have been beneficial to my daughter’s aspect on life.
    Nor to my own, says Morten. The printer nods. They laugh. Morten makes note of two things: the printer has called him Falck and referred to his daughter as a woman.
    No, I am genuinely happy to see him, says Schultz. It pleases me, really. We have become used to having him here with us. If he were no longer here, something would feel amiss. Anyway, was there something he wished to ask?
    I have run out of paper and ink, he says. And quill nibs.
    Aha! The student is at work on his thesis? When does he intend to conclude his