Beyond Sleep

by Willem Frederik Hermans

  ‘Yes, I know. Arne Jordal wrote to me that Qvigstad would be coming along. They both studied under Professor Nummedal.’

  He nods, and I grin, because at least he’s heard of the expedition I’m joining. No fear of him taking me for some impostor, then.

  We arrive in another section of the building, which is for the most part finished: concealed neon striplights in the ceiling, rosewood panelling, parquet floor. Oftedahl opens a door.

  The room is unfurnished and still smells of new wood and paint. There’s a telephone in the middle of the floor. Oftedahl strides towards it, crouches down, lifts the receiver, dials a number. I wander off to the glass curtain wall, on which someone has painted two large Os with whitewash, and beneath: Jane Mansfield

  A white ship steams across the fjord. White steamer, blue water, blue sky, slopes with black fir trees like wet raven’s feathers stuck in the ground. The white steamer has a yellow-banded smokestack.

  Behind me I hear Oftedahl saying something in Norwegian, pausing, saying some more, pausing again.

  ‘Mange takk.’

  He replaces the receiver. I turn round to face him.

  We leave the room together. I hope his telephone conversation in Norwegian was about the aerial photographs, expect him to broach the subject at any moment, but he keeps silent as I accompany him down the corridors, to what purpose I don’t really know.

  ‘Your new institute is wonderfully situated. The view is terrific.’

  ‘This sort of view is fairly common in Norway. Do you know Professor Nummedal well?’

  ‘I only met him yesterday, I had a letter of introduction from my professor in Amsterdam.’

  ‘I see. Nummedal is a nationalist, a chauvinist, you know. You don’t speak Norwegian, so you wouldn’t have noticed, but he speaks Nynorsk. He comes from the Bergen area.’

  Oftedahl laughs, a bit like the way people in Holland laugh whenever partisans of Frisian have their say.

  Yet more concrete stairs.

  ‘Nynorsk,’ Oftedahl says, ‘is one Norwegian language. There are two, and that with a population of under four million. As if two languages weren’t enough, there is a campaign underway to promote the use of Samnorsk as a third.’

  I have lost track of which level we are on now. My shoes are covered in white dust. The windows are still missing up here, and I shiver in the cold air. We step over loose planks and beams, avoiding puddles of rainwater.

  ‘Direktør Hvalbiff and Nummedal do not see eye to eye. It is probably just as well Hvalbiff is not here to receive you. Because if he were here I doubt he would have given you the photographs you want, even if he knew where to find them.’

  Once more we arrive at a section of the building that is finished. The doors to the offices are open. Some desks are already occupied by secretaries. A grey lady comes towards us, as if summoned by Oftedahl.

  They talk. She must have been the person on the other end of the telephone earlier. Oftedahl steps aside and introduces me to her.

  ‘We are very sorry,’ he says slowly, ‘but we are in the middle of organising our archives. I do not know my way around yet, and besides not all the material has been moved here.’

  I feel my cheeks flush with joy. Aha! A glimmer of hope! So not everything has been moved yet, but my photographs are bound to be here already. I can’t imagine Nummedal sending me all the way to Trondheim for nothing. Of course he must have telephoned. Hvalbiff just wasn’t there to receive the call, and thank goodness for that, if he hates Nummedal so much. On the other hand, there could be any number of people already working in these wonderful premises. How can Oftedahl, head of a different department altogether, know whether anyone took a call from Oslo yesterday?

  The three of us proceed down a corridor. Scatterings of chairs, ranks of steel filing cabinets. Towers of crates which we have to squeeze past. The grey lady ushers us into a room furnished with two desks and littered with boxes.

  She takes a box from the top of a pile and opens it.

  The photographs are stored upright.

  ‘Go on, take one.’

  I try to do so. But the box is so tightly packed with them that I can hardly get my fingers in. When I get hold of one at last I cause a tear in the corner as I pull it out. Flustered and stammering, I study the photograph feeling as if I’m committing an indiscretion.

  Sure enough, it is an aerial photograph. I recognise the ocean, with a snippet of coastline, a serrated stripe in the lower right. There’s a little clock to be seen in the upper right, indicating seven past three. In the upper left an altitude meter the same size as the clock indicates the height at which the photograph was taken. Impossible to decipher without a magnifying glass. There is also a number in the margin. I turn it over to look on the back. Stamped: Ministry of Defence. Nothing about the location.

  ‘Isn’t there a list corresponding with the numbers?’ I ask.

  In the meantime I inspect the label on the box. Just as I feared: only numbers, no names.

  Oftedahl says:

  ‘A list corresponding with the numbers? That will be an entire card index, I expect.’

  ‘Quite possible,’ the grey lady says. ‘This has never been my department. I didn’t notice any filing systems when I unpacked the cases. And Frøken [unintelligible], who is in charge of this, is in Oslo.’

  ‘Ah, problem solved,’ Oftedahl says. ‘I suggest you give Frøken [unintelligible] a ring in Oslo, ask her to take a look in the catalogue so she can give you the numbers of the Finnmark photographs, then you will know which box they are in.’

  Starting back to the corridor, he says something in Norwegian, then motions me to accompany him.

  He draws me into another room on the same floor. Inside, on an oak table, stands an old-fashioned display case, likewise made of oak, containing a large scientific instrument with elaborate brass fittings.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’ Oftedahl says, as if he’s forgotten completely what I’m here for. Instead, he launches into an enlightenment session for my benefit.

  ‘The great Heiskanen! I know geophysics is not your speciality, but I am sure you know of him.’

  *

  Only now do I notice the Rotary cogwheel on the lapel of Oftedahl’s jacket, and then, on his right hand, a wedding ring as well as a signet ring set with a stone the same colour as his bow tie.

  ‘It was with this gravimeter,’ he says, ‘that the great Heiskanen conducted his fundamental research into the isostatic uplift of the Scandinavian Ice Sheet. The great Heiskanen! Surely you’ve heard of him? Ah, geophysics is up and coming! Gravimetry, seismology, magnetic field measurements! In a word, geophysics is the earth science of the future! As for geology, it is, in a sense, becoming outdated. As there are dead languages, there are sciences that will one day become dead sciences. You know, once the basic principles had been discovered, there were not that many more discoveries to be made. It became an applied science, a bag of tricks enabling us to find out, or rather to guess, what the invisible substratum looks like. But along with the new geophysical techniques we have developed a sort of radar, as it were, which allows us to see right through the strata of the earth’s crust. So why go to all that trouble with tents, hammers, maps and notebooks? An interesting life, yes, but less so for someone who knows he is wasting his time, who is aware that far better methods exist. When it comes down to it, the traditional geologist is little more than a glorified bookkeeper. Compared to a modern geophysicist he is just about as up-to-date as a bookkeeper using pen and ink instead of a computer! Without geophysics the supplies of oil and natural gas would long have run out. Or, on a simpler level, consider how aerial photography has revolutionised our knowledge of this planet! Not only can you see everything a hundred times better on an aerial survey, you can see a hundred times more than someone standing on the ground in the middle of the bushes or up to their knees in mud. Ah, here’s Frøken [unintelligible],’ he says, and switches to Norwegian.

  She must have slippe
d in through the door which Oftedahl left ajar. I didn’t notice her at first, so I’m a bit taken aback.

  She holds her hands piously folded in front of her chest. But her hands are empty – no catalogue, no aerial photographs either.

  When she has finished replying to Oftedahl she steps up to me to shake my hand: ‘Goodbye, sir.’

  Oftedahl escorts me in person to the main entrance, which, since I missed it on my way in, is from my perspective the main exit.

  As we go down marble staircases, Oftedahl explains that, unfortunately, he cannot be of any further assistance to me. His secretary called Oslo and was told the catalogue has already been packed and could even now be on its way to Trondheim. It is definitely not in Oslo.

  ‘Is there anywhere else,’ I say, and I know I’m only saying this not to lose all sense of hope, ‘I mean, do you think I could get aerial photographs anywhere else around here?’

  ‘Anywhere else? You do know that aerial photographs are classified material, don’t you? It’s the same all over the world. Only exceptionally are they are made available, under very strict conditions, for specific scientific purposes. Besides, the ones you want are of Finnmark, so close to the Russian border! A load of nonsense, probably, because why would the Russians want to steal our photographs? They can take their own. But that’s the way it is. I recently met a professor of economics who thought you could buy aerial photographs at the newsagent’s, just like postcards, ha, ha. People can be so ignorant.’

  He laughs, sighs, and concludes with:

  ‘So sorry your efforts have been wasted. I hardly dare suggest you return in a fortnight. The catalogue will certainly have arrived by then, and we will have unpacked the cases, too. But yes, of course, I realise that your time is limited. Well, well. Goodbye to you, sir, it has been a pleasure. Good luck. Have a good time in Finnmark!’

  The hallway is lined with mirrors on every side. Pressing one after another to see whether they resist or give way, I leave my sweaty fingerprints all over the glass. Once I have located the door I turn round for a final look.

  Oftedahl is nearing the end of the passage. He turns to the right, and I see him in profile against an illuminated stairwell. The lower jaw and the missing throat.

  One day his whole head will be reduced to a fleshless skull, but for now not even his voice betrays that part of him has gone already.

  10

  I am curious about what my neighbour is reading.

  Swivelling my eyes, twisting my upper body as unobtrusively as possible (has he noticed? … No I don’t think so …) I try to make out what sort of book it is.

  In between short bursts of reading he puts the book face down on his lap and spreads his hands on top. He has an anchor tattooed on his right hand, his white shirt is creased, but clean. His cheap tie is roughly knotted, his suit old-fashioned but seldom worn. Spotless, but badly pressed. Obviously a sailor. Wears sweaters and overalls on board, so his good suit lasts for years.

  When he’s not reading he stares into space, chewing a wad in his cheek.

  There’s another tattoo on his left hand, but I can’t tell what it represents. The hand slides off the book. It’s a Teach-Yourself-English book for Dutch learners.

  ‘Are you going to Tromsø?’ I ask him.

  ‘Are you Dutch?’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘On business, are you?’

  ‘No, no, I’m heading further north. Family visit.’

  *

  This untruth escapes me before I know it, which I regret, as I don’t fancy telling lies any more than going into details about my trip to the high north.

  ‘Seaman, are you?’ I ask quickly.

  ‘I’m replacing a cook who jumped ship in Tromsø. I hate flying, you know. It’s the shipping line – they send you.’

  He turns the book face up again.

  ‘English is so difficult. Can you make sense of that?’

  He points to a line. It says: ‘Does Alfred go to the races? No, he doesn’t.’

  ‘Why is it “does” and not “goes”?’ he asks. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘It’s only a manner of speaking,’ I explain. ‘When the English ask something, they use “do” to activate the verb. Not like the Dutch.’

  ‘Where’s the sense in that?’

  ‘Well, I can’t help it, that’s just the way it is. In English, when you ask a question like that you begin with “do you …” or “does he …”, followed by the verb in the infinitive.’

  Infinitive … I bite my lip the moment I’ve said it. Why can’t I explain anything without sounding pedantic?

  ‘Right,’ he says, ‘know all about it, do you? I can tell you’ re an expert.’

  ‘The English say “do you smoke?”,’ I continue (he did ask, after all), ‘they don’t say “smoke you?” like in Dutch. They see smoking as something you do, they make you do the smoking, as it were.’

  ‘Well, you’re wrong there,’ he says, ‘what they say is “have a smoke”.’

  He takes out a packet of North State, which he waves under my nose.

  I accept his offer and light up.

  ‘North State,’ he says. ‘Here in Norway they call them South State.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You do smoke. Me not smoke. Me tobacco,’ he says pointing to his cheek.

  I grin.

  ‘How do you say this in English?’ he asks.

  I may have all the answers, but I don’t have aerial photographs.

  ‘To chew tobacco,’ I say.

  ‘Too choo tobbacko,’ he echoes slowly. ‘Do me a favour and write that down for me, will you?’

  I write the words down, first in the correct spelling, then in a Dutch phonetic version.

  ‘I can see you’ve had plenty of schooling,’ the seaman says. ‘If I’d had half the education you had, do you reckon I’d be up in this plane being taken somewhere I don’t want to go? Not likely! I’d be my own boss. Can’t sleep at night for thinking about stuff like that. How I’d feel if I’d had the opportunity to do a bit of learning.’

  He turns to his book again. Flips the pages.

  He keeps asking questions. Eager.

  All those little things he doesn’t know and I do – they are so much part of me that it is years since I felt any satisfaction at knowing them. But that doesn’t alter the fact that I haven’t got the photographs, and that there’s no-one I can get them from now.

  The sailor is unrelenting in his praise of my prodigious knowledge. My gloom lifts a little. It is the first time in my life that I feel pride at knowing English.

  He doesn’t let up until I’ve accepted all his remaining cigarettes.

  Hearing the stewardess making the landing announcement over the intercom, I suddenly realise that I forgot to buy a measuring tape in Trondheim.

  11

  As plant cover diminishes and forests peter out the further north you go, buildings become lower and settlements more scattered. Is this a general rule? Perhaps. Perhaps not. What business is it of mine?

  I must wait until tomorrow to continue my journey, and have nothing better to do than dwell on such truths.

  Here in Tromsø you hardly notice when it’s evening. At this time of year the light never fades completely. This is the empire on which the sun never sets. Hold on, I think to myself, that’s a sentence I can use when I write my mother a postcard.

  I walk down a street with pale blue wooden houses. It’s broad daylight, it’s not a public holiday, yet no-one’s at work because it’s half past ten in the evening.

  People are out and about, roaming the streets, no-one seems ready for bed. Youths just like the youths in a Dutch backwater grope the same sort of girls, who comb their hair as they walk. What is different here is that their ice creams come in big cones, much bigger than the ones at home. There are very few cars, if any. A tranquil dream-town, where the sound of footsteps prevails!

  There is a souvenir shop with reindeer hides, traditional Lapp
costumes, reindeer antlers, doilies, boat-shaped sleds, postcards of Technicolor Lapp families, bear skins. A stuffed polar bear stands guard by the door.

  Everyone strokes its fur in passing, me too.

  A father hoists his young son onto the bear and aims his camera.

  The ironmonger is shut. Mustn’t forget where it is. I’ll come back in the morning for that measuring tape. It’s easy to locate – the shop is on a square that slopes down to the water.

  In the middle of the square is a bronze statue on a rectangular base, a bluish figure in arctic clothing.

  I’m looking at the statue from behind. Who is it? I walk up to it and read the name on the plinth:

  ROALD AMUNDSEN

  Facing the fjord, the conqueror of the South Pole looks over the water to the black mountains beyond, their peaks laced with white snow even at this time of year.

  He stands with his feet wide apart, as though permanently braced against the storm. Bare-headed, though. His hood rests in ample folds around his neck. His anorak is as long as a nightshirt and the thick tubular trouser legs overlap the tops of his boots.

  His forehead is high, the hair on his bony scalp cropped short. His moustache is bushy and dignified, and it is hard to visualise it encrusted with icicles, which would make the explorer look far less serene. Maybe not so hard, after all.

  The stories about explorers I read as a boy come floating back to me in gory detail. Amundsen surviving by eating his own dogs. The dogs, in turn, eating each other. Shackleton eating ponies. He used ponies instead of dogs, which caused insurmountable food problems; the more ponies he took with him, the more insurmountable.

  And then there was Scott.

  Scott. Battling to reach the South Pole in his frozen thermal underwear, his toes frostbitten, but his heart pounding in his throat at the idea of treading on ground that had never been trodden by man … Ground? Snow then. And treading on snow heretofore untrodden by man is something anyone with a back garden can do in winter.

  What else was new?

  A gaze cast skywards to a zenith never before observed by man? What sight would meet those eyes? Not stars, because in January it never gets dark in Antarctica.