by Stef Penney
.
He awakes to a weak, dreary light. Not knowing if Clara and Lucille are still in the apartment, he dresses quickly, feeling ill and ashamed. He peels back the bed covers to inspect them: as far as he can tell, there is no trace of his misdemeanour. He can’t quite believe he did that last night; perhaps he only dreamt it – yet the shirt tail convicts him. He feels wretched.
He puts his ear to the door, wondering if he should slip away unannounced, but that seems too cowardly and low, even for him. Then quick footsteps and a rap on the door make him leap away to the middle of the room.
‘Jake?’
It is Clara’s voice.
‘Yes! I’m up.’ He smoothes down his hair, panics for a moment, and opens the door. Clara stands in the hall. She looks smart and fresh: as groomed as always.
‘I’ve made coffee.’
‘Thank you. I don’t want to put you to any more trouble. I’m terribly sorry about last night.’
Clara regards him levelly, nods.
‘Lucille told me what you said to her last night. You shouted a name in your sleep. “Flora!” Was that the name of your friend?’
‘Um . . . Cora.’
‘Perhaps that was it.’
.
In the kitchen, they light cigarettes and Clara pours coffee. Lucille has left for work. Clara has the day off; she is due to go to her parents. Jakob can’t tell how much she knows about last night.
‘Please pass on my apologies to Miss Becker. I’m afraid I made an awful fool of myself.’
‘You did, rather. Don’t look so miserable; I’m not angry. I’m worried about my parents, and about Anna. Can you believe, she’s been dragged into this awful spiritualist thing with Marion. She’s become quite evangelical. It’s . . . unhealthy. I could always talk to Frank about things like this. God, I miss him.’
‘I do too.’
‘I know. I’m sorry about your bad news – Lucille told me. Was she your mistress?’
She says this carelessly, as she would ask if she was fair-haired. Jakob gapes in astonishment. ‘W . . . er . . . yes. I mean, it was long ago . . . at college. But it was a shock.’
‘Frank used to tell us what a reprobate you were, that you had a mistress in the city. We didn’t know if he was serious. I thought perhaps he was warning us against you. Of course, he was wildly jealous.’ She smiles, although her voice has become tremulous.
Frank’s presence is suddenly a palpable thing, as though he were just out in the hall. There is something else, as well; it never occurred to Jakob that Clara might have needed warning against him.
He looks at the clock with a show of surprise. ‘Goodness, I’d better be going. I’ve bothered you quite long enough.’
‘Yes. I have to go if I’m to be there for lunch.’
‘Should I wait, or . . . ? I’ll be discreet as I go out.’
‘It doesn’t matter. All sorts of things go on in this building. That’s why we can afford it.’
Chapter 23
New York, 40˚42’N, 74˚00’W
May 1893
In the course of the following week, Jakob receives three letters. The least troubling is from Anna Urbino. She describes in breathless terms a visit to Mrs Jupp’s, and the wonderful experience of being ‘in the comforting presence of dear Frank’s spirit.’
Jakob wonders why she is bothering to write to him, until he gets to the final page, where he is surprised to be invited to accompany her to Mrs Jupp’s; apparently Frank’s spirit (in the person of Mrs Jupp) announced that he has a message for him. Anna knew immediately that it was for Jakob because Mrs Jupp – ‘who knows nothing of Frank’s life!’ (other than what she gleans from the papers, Jakob presumes) – described him in detail, even down to his grey hairs, and said it was his friend in the icy north. The message is for him alone, and will only be disclosed in his presence, so Anna fervently hopes that he can lay his scepticism aside in order to hear it.
.
The second letter is in an unfamiliar handwriting, but postmarked locally. He opens it to find a single page:
Dear Mr de Beyn,
I hesitate to be so forward as to write to you after what passed between us the other night, yet I fear I will find no peace until I do. I have been thinking of all you said and did ever since, and I want to tell you that, although our actions were, of course, improper in the extreme, I bear you no ill will. In fact, on the contrary, I have long held you in high regard, and was – I dare to admit it! – happy to be the recipient of your impetuous declaration. Sometimes I think that under the loosening influence of alcohol we are most ourselves, and if it has enabled you to express sentiments that you previously hid for the sake of propriety, I welcome it. Please don’t regret what you did. I don’t.
Affectionately yours,
Lucille (Becker)
For some minutes after reading this, Jakob sits slumped in his chair, cursing. His hope that the shameful episode would be decently forgotten is dashed. What an idiot he is. He hates the idea of hurting Lucille. He likes her, has always enjoyed talking to her, but . . . does he like her more than he thought? Thinking about her now, even making himself think of her in a sensual way, he feels no trace of the desire that ambushed him in their kitchen.
.
The third letter, which arrives the same day, is also in an unfamiliar hand, but he guesses instantly, from the Nova Scotia postmark, what it is, and tears it open with a mixture of excitement and trepidation.
Siorapaluk, April
Dear Mr de Beyn,
I write partly in response to your request, last autumn, to be informed of Ayakou’s progress after the meteorite accident. As you know, Dr Seddon set the broken leg, and after some weeks we became hopeful that he would recover the use of it. He is walking again, but Dr Seddon is of the opinion that he will always be lame and troubled by pain. I enclose a summary of his prospects from Dr Seddon, for the attention of Mr Armitage, in the hope that he might see his way to providing some compensation, since the injury was sustained in his service. That would be a very small thing to Mr Armitage or his backers, but could make Ayakou’s life much less of a hardship. I regret to tell you that his wife has left him for another, since Ayakou is not able to hunt. The nature of life here is such that I cannot blame her – and last winter has been exceptionally hard.
Now for other, perhaps more important, news. In March, Meqro gave birth to a daughter. As you know, Meqro was the faithful companion of Dr Urbino while he was in the north, and, as the child was conceived last July, it is undoubtably his – it has pale skin and rather Caucasian features. Her name is Aamma. The position of widowed mothers can be perilous, but her father and mother have kept her with them, and Meqro is determined to raise her child. Shall I tell you how dangerous the child’s position could be? If a hunter dies and his wife has a child young enough to be carried in the hood, she is expected to smother it. This will not happen to Dr Urbino’s daughter. There is our presence, and I hope, once we are gone, the thought of ‘kallunat’ interest will keep her safe. I have told everyone that the Americans are coming back – and that they expect to see the girl. I wonder whether Mr Armitage would consider her another case deserving of compensation?
Forgive me – this is beginning to seem like a begging letter. I should perhaps address this to Mr Armitage, but I know you and Dr Urbino were great friends, and I would rather pass to you the choice whether or not to tell his family of Aamma’s existence. I apologise if it is a difficult one. These things are not always simple.
I will not detain you with all that we have been doing since last year, but work has been progressing. I have made some interesting observations of the aurora in relation to earth’s magnetic field, and long desperately for a magic camera that could make a proper visual record of it. Will that ever be possible? Next time, perhaps! (This is our constant refrain here.)
I hope that you are well and that your finger gives you no trouble. I think of you whenever I see a particularly fine arrangement of ice, light and shade – the photographs of yours I saw at Neqi seemed to me very fine.
Respectfully yours,
Flora Athlone
Once he has read the letter through several times, Jakob simply sits with it in his hand, looking at the abstract shapes made by her writing. Out of all the difficulties and ramifications that arise from its contents, and from the other letters, he finds he has fixed on that last sentence. She thinks of him.
Chapter 24
Philadelphia, 39°57’N, 75°9’W
May 1893
Erdinger says, ‘Haven’t you heard?’
‘Heard what?’
Jakob arrived in Philadelphia yesterday evening, having left New York, Lucille’s letter still unanswered, with a guilty feeling of relief.
‘About the meteorite? I thought that was why you’d come.’
‘No. What about it? Has he donated it, then? I haven’t read a paper for a couple of days.’
‘Donated it? Hell, no – he sold it to them.’
‘To . . . the Museum of Natural History?’
‘No! To the Academy of Natural Sciences, here. It’s quite a coup for Philly. I guess they outbid the others.’
‘But Armitage was going to donate it in Frank’s name! He said . . .’
Erdinger shrugs. They are sitting in a small park near Erdinger’s university. It is hot in Philadelphia, hotter than New York, and Jakob is sweating in his coat. Erdinger is sweating too; he has put on weight since they returned.
‘I guess, if you’re fundraising for another expedition, every dollar counts. They only said they bought it for “an undisclosed sum”.’
‘He was going to name it the “Urbino meteorite”. Has he?’
‘I don’t know about that. The paper I read said it had an Eskimo name – “Uttukalualuk”.’
‘That means, “the old man”. What am I going to tell his family?’
‘It’s not your fault. I’m with you. I think, if you say you’re gonna do a thing, you should do it.’
Jakob sighs. ‘Actually, I came to talk to you about the book. Armitage’s book. Have you read it?’
Erdinger hesitates. ‘Parts.’
‘Did you read the part about discovering Dupree Land?’
‘Yeah, I read that.’
‘And? What did you think? “There’s a surprise”?’
‘I suppose so. I wasn’t there. Maybe they saw something and didn’t tell us.’
‘Come on, Erdinger. Is that the way people behave? Frank told me they didn’t see a thing. The fog never lifted. He was there, and he wasn’t asleep. Armitage didn’t even know where they were. He took two longitude sightings the whole trip.’
Erdinger looks across the park.
‘Have you thought maybe Urbino made a mistake? Or maybe he was embarrassed to admit he fell asleep.’
‘He was talking to me, Erdinger! If he’d fallen asleep, he would have said so, but that’s not what happened. You saw what Armitage was like afterwards; depressed, almost desperate. Does that fit with discovering a new land?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t claim to understand him. I know that, if he wants to raise funds for another trip, he’s got to have something to show from the last one.’
‘He’s using Frank’s death to do it! He’s profiting . . .’ Jakob bites off the rest of the sentence.
Erdinger picks at a piece of fluff on his trouser leg. ‘I don’t know. Does it matter? Urbino doesn’t care, where he is. Armitage wants to go north again. Say you come to the coast, and the fog’s so thick you can’t see anything . . . Who’s to say there isn’t a new land there?’
‘Come on. Is that how you do physics?’
‘Well, this way, Frank shares the credit for discovering a new land. Aren’t his family happier for thinking that?’
‘And when the truth is discovered and Frank looks like a fool – or a liar?’
Erdinger shrugs. ‘I guess Armitage knows what he saw better than anyone else.’
‘I’m going back,’ Jakob says at length. ‘Next year.’
Erdinger nods. ‘Thought you would. I’ve done my bit for geography. I have two years left to make history. Although . . . did I tell you, I’m getting married?’
‘No!’ Jakob is astonished. ‘Congratulations.’
Erdinger makes a face. ‘I know: probably a mistake. I have to concentrate on my work while I still can, and women can be distracting. But she has money, so it seems too good an opportunity to miss. That’s what it comes down to, right? That’s why Armitage is making a fuss about some so-called island that’s never going to be any use to anyone.’
‘So you do think he’s lying?’
Erdinger shrugs and smiles – a disconcerting sight, especially as he has a fragment of greenery lodged in his upper incisors.
‘I don’t know. Neither do you.’
New York, 40˚42’N, 74˚00’W
Back in New York, he finally writes to Lucille. He rewrites the letter several times, but even then it does him no credit. Well, she may rail to Clara about him, or (if he’s lucky) she may keep her humiliation to herself.
He also writes to Clara, saying there is something important he needs to speak to her about, regarding Frank; could they meet? He names a rendezvous and arrives at the cafe early, with a trepidation induced by guilt.
As soon as he sees her face, he realises that Lucille has told her everything. She sits opposite him without speaking, and plucks savagely at her gloves.
‘I have absolutely no desire to speak to you.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, Clara . . .’
‘It isn’t me you need to apologise to.’
‘I tried to say how sorry I was to Miss Becker. I know it was unforgivable. I’m truly sorry to have been the cause of upset or embarrassment.’
‘You took advantage of her kindness in the most disgusting way, and then humiliated her!’
‘Yes . . . and I’m—’
‘Perhaps you don’t know, perhaps you can’t imagine, but Lucille has had little admiration in her life, and any attention of that sort is apt to be overwhelming to her. And she’s always admired you – God knows why. So to be told that making love to her was a . . . horrible, drunken mistake – can you see how cruel that is?’
Jakob shrinks in his chair. ‘All I can say is that it was a mistake. I didn’t mean to be cruel. I was in a sad state. It was night, and—’
‘Don’t make out that it was her fault! She said you were crying when she found you! What was she supposed to do?’
‘Of course it wasn’t her fault; it was all mine. I’m ashamed of myself. Other than apologise, what am I supposed to do? Propose marriage? Nothing happened, really. I know that doesn’t . . .’
Clara glares at him with contempt.
‘You have made my dear friend terribly unhappy.’
‘Nothing you say could make me feel worse than I already do.’
This is not true. He wasn’t proud of himself, but had managed to classify his behaviour as an understandable lapse under the circumstances. Now she is ruining that. He tries to quell his irritation – surely, having apologised, she should let him be?
‘We think you’re so harmless and easy to talk to. But you’re not harmless. You’re a brute. A brute in disguise, which is worse.’
‘All right. We’ve established beyond doubt that I’m a brute. My faults aside, can I tell you what I came to tell you?’
‘Go on.’
‘I’ve had a letter. Perhaps it would be best if you read it.’
He takes Mrs Athlone’s envelope out of his pocket. Clara looks alarmed.
‘Who is it from?’
‘It’s from the leader of the
British expedition in Greenland. They arrived before we left. They’re still there.’
She seems to have some premonition of the import of it; her hands are unsteady as she takes the pages and starts to read. Jakob gets out his cigarettes and offers one to her.
Clara reads, without reaction, to the end. Then, as he had done, she reads it again. Then she folds the letter carefully, puts it back in the envelope and holds it out for him to take. He waits for her to speak. She smokes her cigarette down and stubs it out. Her eyes are big and bright with tears.
‘I wish you hadn’t shown me that.’
‘I couldn’t keep it from you. I realise that you can’t tell Marion, but your parents perhaps would—’
‘My parents would be devastated!’ She looks down and says, in a voice that vibrates with feeling, ‘God, I hate men! What is the matter with you all?’
‘Hate me, but don’t hate Frank. He was the most pure-hearted man I’ve ever known. He was afraid he wouldn’t come back from the northern journey. When death is that close . . . things are very simple . . . stark.’
‘He was engaged to Marion! He loved the stupid little idiot!’
‘Yes. He did.’ Jakob is unable to hold back a smile. ‘He begged for her forgiveness with his dying breaths.’
Jakob has never seen Clara cry, not even when the news of Frank’s death was fresh. Always so composed and polished, to see her undone is awful. She sobs loudly, drawing censorious looks and mutters from the other customers. Jakob supposes that, to the people around them, they look like actors in a familiar, sordid drama. He holds out his handkerchief – fresh this morning, thank heavens.
‘I don’t know what to do!’
Her wail is so loud that people stare. Well, let them. He waits for the storm to subside, and she carefully dabs her face until the worst traces are gone.
‘I must look a fright.’
He shakes his head. ‘I had no idea about this. Frank didn’t know. You need time to think it over. If you want me to break the news to anyone, I will. Otherwise I won’t say a word.’
Clara sniffs. ‘Can I have another cigarette, please?’
