Beyond Sleep

by Willem Frederik Hermans

  The boat is left behind, deserted.

  So this is it. Where do I go from here? There is a wooden staircase leading up from the beach to the road, which has a low boundary wall of stones.

  I load my rucksack, grab my suitcase and have just started climbing the stairs when I catch sight of someone on the road trotting in my direction. I can only see his top half. No hat of any kind. He vaults over the boundary wall and runs down the slope. I am struck by how thin his legs are, but also by his agility and sure-footedness. I stop and wait. All the time he looks straight at me, smiling, but not waving.

  Arne is wearing tall boots and an anorak. The strings of his down-turned hood dangle on his chest.

  ‘Hello!’

  ‘Hello, Arne!’

  Arne immediately takes hold of my suitcase and goes up the stairs ahead of me.

  ‘The plane is usually an hour late,’ he says when we are up on the road, walking side by side. ‘I still had some shopping to do, I did not expect it to be on time today.’

  He speaks a cautious form of English, picking his words carefully, keeping things simple.

  ‘We will leave the suitcase at the house. You can change there. The bus leaves at three o’ clock. Plenty of time. Okay?’

  *

  Arne is about a head taller than me. His hair is very fair and quite long. It is already thinning at the back and greying at the temples. Everything about him seems old, although he is only a year older than me: twenty-six. His clothes are decidedly old, with patches on his trousers as well as on the elbows of his anorak. I saw him glancing at his watch when he said the bus would be leaving at three. It is not a proper wristwatch but an old pocket watch mounted on a leather strap, the way they were sold ages ago when wristwatches first came into fashion.

  ‘A long journey, isn’t it, all the way from Amsterdam?’

  The platitudes I offer in return (How is he? When did he arrive in Alta?) do nothing to convey my relief at our meeting having gone to plan.

  It suddenly comes to me that I live in constant fear of having to survive in a world where everyone is out to fool everyone else. Intent aside, though, there’s no reason why Arne couldn’t have had an accident half an hour before my arrival. Run down by a car. Or a heart attack – how strange, the family would think, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with his heart. So young, too! Or he could have had a fall. Lost his footing on an apparently innocuous rise and come crashing down, possibly slamming his head against a crag.

  I break out in a sweat, constantly brushing mosquitoes from my hands and face. Glancing at Arne, I see that his head is also under attack.

  ‘I could have got here two days ago,’ I tell him, ‘if I had travelled straight here from Oslo. But I went to see Nummedal, and Nummedal said I should call at the Geological Survey in Trondheim on the way.’

  ‘Who did you talk to over there? Was it [unintelligible]?’

  ‘Hvalbiff wasn’t there.’

  ‘[Unintelligible] is Nummedal’s sworn enemy.’

  ‘So I gathered in Trondheim.’

  ‘It’s Nummedal’s chauvinism that gets to everyone in the end.’

  ‘Chauvinism? Nummedal did mention …’

  ‘He talks about it to every foreigner he meets, and goes on and on about his fellow Norwegians’ lack of patriotism.’

  ‘I did meet some Norwegians who were somewhat apologetic, saying everything was much better in London than in Oslo. But the Dutch attitude to foreigners is the same. I was on a train once and there was this Dutchman showing a Spaniard the Dutch royal coat of arms on his passport. See this? he said. Dutch lion. Now only dog. This was in Spain, mind you. And it took the Dutch an Eighty Years War to get rid of Spanish rule.’

  ‘Well,’ Arne says, ‘the longest spell of independence for Norway has been the last sixty years. First it was the Danes, then the Swedes. Our language is of no consequence in the rest of the world. Every student has to know English, French and German. Without them you can’t complete a degree. Because of this our own language has sunk to the level of some sort of patois, a medium for apprentices. The most advanced studies are written in foreign languages. The great minds come to us in English by way of English textbooks – a language we can read quite easily, but which we can seldom speak or write without making mistakes. I notice it even now, as I am trying to explain this to you. If I were speaking Norwegian, I could be more subtle, more precise.’

  ‘I understand you very well.’

  ‘Still, having to speak a language that is not your own means having to step back, there is no doubt about that. Why do you reckon colonised peoples like Negroes, Indians, and so on have a reputation for being like children? Because they were forced to communicate with their masters in languages they did not know too well.’

  ‘Don’t any good books get translated into Norwegian?’

  ‘Of course they do, there are plenty of translations. But you can’t get away from the fact that you’re not reading the real thing. Some people find that depressing.’

  ‘Depressing? Why? It’s only depressing if you think in terms of nations, and each of those nations wanting to be top dog. But the world is one big conglomerate. You know that.’

  ‘Know?’ Arne retorts. ‘Yes, I know here’ – slaps his forehead – ‘but not there.’ He stabs a finger at my chest. ‘And do you know why that is?’

  I tell him I have no idea.

  ‘It’s because deep inside everyone, however sensible, lurks a madman. A raving lunatic, a lunatic who may not be clinically insane but whose condition develops from the same source: from the child we were when we were one, two, three years old. That child, you see, learns only one language. The mother tongue.’

  Arne says all these things quietly, not too fast, not too slow, in a clear, even voice. Which is remarkable given that we are going up a steep, sandy incline. No huffing and puffing from him, and yet he is climbing at the same steady pace as he was walking before.

  ‘If you’re a small country,’ he says, ‘where politics and fashion and films and cars and machines and practically everything else is imported from abroad, and if beyond that practically all essential books, that is to say the books that are right, books that contain the truth, books that are better than most local books, the “founding books” so to speak – if those books are all foreign, then the countries producing them will regard you the same way as colonial powers regard their colonies, and city folk regard the provinces. Colonies and provinces, they’re on a similar plane – not up to date, unsophisticated, always getting the wrong end of the stick, ignorant, backward, and so on.’

  We have now reached the top of the sandy rise, where we join another road, unmetalled, but nevertheless a main road. Modest timber bungalows stand among the trees on either side. There are no gates and no fenced-off properties.

  A little girl on a tricycle rides alongside us for a time, not using the pedals but pushing herself along with her feet. She calls out to a boy launching a toy glider in the air with a catapult. The glider gets caught in the top of a spruce.

  ‘What did she say?’ I ask.

  ‘She said “watch out!” But children don’t listen to what other children tell them. Children are more likely to believe their fathers than someone their own age. We do the same, we’re always more inclined to believe a foreigner than a Norwegian, even if the Norwegian knows what he’s talking about. Whenever someone comes up with a new idea here in Norway, people say it can’t be any good because it hasn’t been written about in American books. But if an American makes some nonsensical claim and a Norwegian contradicts it, they say: What does he know? He’s from the sticks! Let him go to America for a year! In a small country it’s always the copycats who get the acclaim. That applies on all levels. Now that Ibsen and Strindberg are dead, everyone is convinced they were the greatest writers Scandinavia ever had. But not when they were alive! Any old woodcutter qualified for the Nobel prize … but Ibsen and Strindberg never got it!’

  Arne halts
.

  ‘This is the house,’ he says, ‘mind you don’t step on the grass. Grass is a rare plant as far north as this, so people are very careful with it.’

  A screen door twangs shut behind us.

  ‘The owners are away in Olso. They have lent me the house.’

  Arne puts my suitcase down in the middle of the living room. I unload my rucksack and clap my hands to my cheeks, swatting the mosquitoes that followed us inside. Arne takes a spray can from the mantelpiece, and a mist released by the pressure of his index finger spreads a smell of camphor.

  It is clear that Arne is using this place to camp in. This is no exaggeration: he has turned the living room into his first bivouac. The furniture has been pushed back to the wall. On the floor lie a tent, tent poles, a half-packed rucksack, a folding spade, boxes of knäckebröd, tinned food, a theodolite and a hefty wooden tripod with adjustable legs.

  I stoop to pick something up.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A fishing net. To catch fish on the way. Otherwise we won’t have enough to eat.’

  ‘What about the horse? Did you have any luck hiring a horse to take our gear to the first camp?’

  ‘Not yet. Maybe later. We’ll see how we get on in Skoganvarre.’

  The net is one metre wide by fifteen metres long, coarse-meshed and made of pale blue nylon. There are corks attached along one side, and little weights along the other.

  ‘How is this used? Do you drag it through the water?’

  ‘No, you just let it hang upright. The fishes get their gills caught in the mesh.’

  I open my suitcase, take out a pair of corduroy trousers, thick woollen socks, a dark blue cotton shirt, my hiking shoes, a jumper and a windproof jacket with a zip.

  I take off my tie, shoes, grey flannel trousers, nylon socks and shirt. I put on the other clothes. I slip a belt through the loops of the corduroy trousers and attach my compass case to the belt in such a way that it hangs to the right of my stomach. Into my pockets go cigarettes, matches, handkerchief, penknife and the measuring tape I remembered to buy in Tromsø. Before stowing it away I pull it out to arm’s length; fine quality steel tape, two metres long, nice and flexible, white on the side with the markings. Well! Not everything has gone wrong, then! My meeting with Arne has gone exactly according to plan, and I didn’t forget the measuring tape, either!

  Fifteen minutes later we slip our arms through the straps of our rucksacks and set off.

  A frayed string hangs round Arne’s neck with the ends tucked into his right breast pocket. I am intrigued by what he’s got in there. He doesn’t seem to own anything that isn’t old and worn. Take his camera – a case that’s so scuffed the leather looks inside out, a badly cracked shoulder strap about to fall apart and a loose buckle which has been reattached with a bit of bent wire. Not only is his anorak patched, even his rucksack has been mended: with squares of canvas in different shades.

  14

  Before Arne shoulders his rucksack I furtively heft it to check how heavy it is: much heavier than mine.

  When we are outside I say, more out of concern about not pulling my weight than out of politeness:

  ‘Look here, you’re carrying more than me. That’s not really fair.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll make up for it later on, once we’ve stocked up on all the food.’

  I gladly take his advice not to worry, in so far as the prospect of having to carry even heavier loads permits.

  We make our way between the bungalows and spruces back to the main road. The ground is almost completely bare, and every single spruce around here is stunted. I am carrying the tripod, which is heavy, switching it from one shoulder to the other at intervals. Mosquitoes keep settling on my face and on the backs of my hands. Even cigarette smoke doesn’t keep them away.

  Arne points to the leather case hanging from my belt:

  ‘What have you got in there?’

  ‘A compass. Care to take a look?’

  I open the case and hand him my compass.

  ‘Jesus, what a beautiful instrument. Did you buy it specially for this trip?’

  ‘No, I’ve had it since I started at university.’

  ‘It looks brand new,’ he says, with what I take to be a guarded look.

  ‘My sister gave it to me seven years ago. She’s always afraid I’ll get lost.’

  Feeling discomfited for some reason, as if I’m telling a lie, I return the compass to its case.

  ‘So you have a sister?’

  ‘Yes, six years younger than me. She’s an odd girl. Pretty, but very dim. Because she’s religious, you see, superstitious even. Were you brought up a believer?’

  ‘Fortunately not.’

  ‘We weren’t either. I wasn’t even baptised, nor was Eva. But she’s considering having it done now.’

  ‘There’s a book called The Face of God after Auschwitz,’ Arne says. ‘A fine face that must have been …’

  We both break into nervous laughter at the thought of what God saw when He pulled that face.

  Can this be Alta’s high street? At any rate the bus station is here, with the post office across the way.

  We set down our luggage beside that of the other prospective passengers. Arne crosses to the post office, I stay behind.

  Among the people waiting at the stop are several Lapps. I study them intently, comparing their clothing with the postcards I have seen. No two are dressed alike. Standard European dress has crept up on them in fits and starts.

  One old man still wears the home-made boots of soft reindeer hide. Some of the women have changed to wearing ordinary shoes and flesh-coloured nylons, which clash horribly with the rest of their outfits: the bright blue blouse gathered at the waist with a belt, the red cap with ear flaps.

  They sit huddled together on the edge of the pavement, talking in low voices, their faces wrinkled and waxy, wreathed in smiles. Their hands are blackened by ingrained dirt, which almost makes the skin gleam. Suspended from a strap over their shoulders they carry a sort of swag-bag encrusted with a variety of metal objects: medals, figurines, coins, I can’t tell what all of them are. The men also have enormous knives hanging from their belts, in leather sheaths curved at the tip.

  The sole inhabitants of the land I am heading towards. What would I ask them if I could speak their language? Whether they’re happy? But that isn’t something you’d ask someone whose language you do speak, either. Whether they feel their life is better than ours? Whether they ever wish they were ordinary Norwegians? They’d probably say they never stopped to think about it.

  Arne emerges from the post office, waving a letter as he crosses the road to join me. A letter? Who from?

  The letter is from my mother. I wish she’d get off my back. A letter already – she must have written it the moment I left or it wouldn’t have got here so soon. I don’t feel like reading what she’s got to say just now, so I stuff the envelope in the breast pocket of my windproof jacket and trail after Arne.

  He goes into the bicycle shop next to the bus station. The salesman and Arne exchange elaborate, formal greetings. Then the bicycle man smiles at me and says:

  ‘How do you do, sir?’

  Arne, it turns out, has decided we need cloth hats (American Army Surplus) with a flap of mosquito netting all round. I put mine on at once and tie the net under my chin. Another essential purchase is Finn-Oljen, an extra strong mosquito oil, which we promptly smear on every bit of exposed skin. FORSIKTIG! Warning! Harmful to mucous membrane, it says on the label.

  We busy ourselves with the oil until the bus arrives.

  The rucksacks are loaded on the roof. We board the bus, and just as the driver makes to shut the door a Lapp woman comes hurrying towards us, carrying a toddler with a leg in plaster. The driver rolls forward a short way towards her and stops to let her in.

  ‘Tell me, Arne, are the Lapps discriminated against, on racial grounds, I mean?’

  ‘They used to be treated a bit like second-class citi
zens, but not any more. We do all sorts of things for them. But it’s difficult to get them to send their children to school.’

  ‘Do the Lapps speak Norwegian?’

  ‘Most of them do. They don’t speak it among themselves.’

  ‘Can a Lapp achieve any position in society he chooses?’

  ‘I’ve never heard of a Lapp having that kind of ambition. All it takes is a change of clothing – once they take off their traditional costume they’re as Norwegian as the rest of us.’

  ‘So why don’t they?’

  ‘Because they feel different. I reckon the sense of difference is primarily connected with language. That alone is enough to make them think along different lines. Lapps probably think: Why bother, we will only be seen as fake Norwegians anyway. They would become estranged from all their relatives. And why should they want to do that? Being a Lapp is nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘Hardly a comfortable lifestyle, though.’

  ‘Most people get their self-respect from forgoing comforts of one kind or another.’

  *

  The bus rides over a long narrow bridge. There are no cars, and trees are becoming a rarity too. The road is of compacted earth, because there is no kind of surfacing material that can withstand the sub-zero temperatures.

  Now and then we go past a bulldozer levelling a section of the road that has become rutted in the past winter. The bus rolls along at a steady, slow speed, most of the time in clouds of dust.

  Arne and I sit with our maps spread out on our knees, making notes of such features as catch our attention. Hills, lakes, rapids, ravines. The sky is clouding over. The sun sparkles in the wide, shallow rivers as though celebrating the last of its victory over the rain.

  When we’re in the middle of an open plain covered in heathery shrubs in shades of dark green, pale green and red, the woman with the toddler tells the driver to stop. She gets off the bus into the driving rain; it’s raining so hard the water coursing down the windows distorts the landscape. The woman heads into the wilderness carrying the child. Not a footpath or even a track to be seen.