Beyond Sleep

by Willem Frederik Hermans

  ‘What happens when a Lapp falls ill?’

  ‘They can go to Alta, or to Kautokeino, or Karasjok, whichever is nearest. But the majority of Lapps no longer lead a nomadic life in tents, they have jobs in fish factories and so on. The Lapps still keeping reindeer tend to be very rich, with herds running to several thousand animals. Plenty of children and plenty of reindeer, that’s what they want. The way people cling to tradition sometimes makes me despair of rational arguments ever improving the lot of mankind.’

  *

  We have been going for about two hours when we arrive in Skaidi. There is a wooden stall selling lemonade, chocolate and hot sausages. The bus stops just long enough to allow the passengers to stretch their legs. This is the highest point in the region.

  I go for a stroll, hands in pockets. All the passengers are wandering about, in different directions. The sky is now thick with dark clouds and it’s as chilly as a cold winter’s day in Holland. I look out over the rounded hills, some topped with large, smooth boulders. Pools and small lakes in the low-lying areas. Some distance away, by the largest of the lakes, I spot a tent made of reindeer hides wrapped tepee-style around poles.

  An old Lapp emerges in full regalia, holding a pair of reindeer antlers in each hand. From his mouth hangs a curved pipe, and although he is unshaven you can tell by his sunken cheeks that he hasn’t a tooth left in his mouth. He ambles along, doesn’t come towards us and doesn’t engage anybody in conversation.

  The Lapps travelling with us ignore the old man, but another passenger, a youth in the traditional white student’s cap, buys an antler from him.

  The bus starts up again, makes another halt in Russenes, then continues its journey.

  It is half past ten by the time Arne and I get off at Skoganvarre.

  15

  A stretch of calm water. A river widening into a lake. A few spruces, none of them tall. Dark slopes.

  The driver clambers onto the roof of the bus to pass down our rucksacks, which we set at the side of the road. Lastly, he hands us the wooden tripod.

  The bus departs, then silence. The rain has lifted, the clouds have dispersed, the sun is low but blazing in full force. At home, when the sun shines like this at the end of a summer’s day, we know dusk will soon fall. As it is, it’s going on for midnight, and this is as dark as it will get. I rest the tripod against my shoulder.

  A wooden house designed like a villa with conservatory stands at some distance from the road. In front of the house, slightly to one side, is a green tent.

  Arne says:

  ‘Qvigstad may have gone to sleep already, or else he’s gone off somewhere.’

  The tent is zipped up all round. Arne goes up to it and I hear him call Qvigstad’s name as well as some other words. Arne sinks onto his haunches. Straightens up again.

  ‘Gone fishing, I suppose.’

  To keep myself occupied, I take both our rucksacks, one in each hand, over to the garden.

  ‘Mind the grass. It’s even rarer here than in Alta.’

  ‘What’s next?’

  We cover our faces and hands with mosquito oil, then we both have a cigarette.

  ‘Since we’ve got to be off again in the morning there’s not much point in pitching our tent.’

  ‘So where will we sleep?’

  ‘I’ll ask if we can spend the night on the porch.’

  He means the conservatory, which is admittedly little more than a glassed-in porch.

  While he goes to ask permission, I retrace my steps, taking care to avoid the patches of grass. I cross the road and sit myself down by the lake.

  Nothing grows in the water here, which is so clear you can see the rocks on the bottom. The larger ones rise up above the surface. Whether the very largest qualify as islands is a matter of opinion.

  I try to imagine what it must be like to spend all your life in Skoganvarre. There have always been people here, who did nothing but eat, drink, sleep, hunt and fish. What about the winters? The first snow falls towards the end of September, as far as I know. Their winters are devoted to staving off calamities. They have to ensure they have sufficient food and fuel. They have constantly to be on their guard, to know immediately what to do when someone falls ill. Or when a woman goes into labour.

  Plop. A fish leaps from the surface and drops back into the water.

  Snow in winter and thick clouds of mosquitoes in summer. Concentric ripples fan out from the spot where the fish jumped. Should I take a look at my mother’s letter? It can wait.

  On the far side of the lake I catch sight of two men with fishing rods walking on either side of a threesome – no, foursome – of little girls, all holding hands. Their high-pitched voices gain a faint echo by the time they reach me. I hear a cuckoo calling. And also, intermittently, a sound like hedging shears snapping open and shut. But there are no hedges here, no shears either. Arne appears at my side, holding something resembling a small aluminium pan without a lid.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he says, ‘we can use the conservatory.’

  He carries the pan by a rod jammed between the sides. Coiled around the exterior is a long nylon fishing line with a shiny spoon and a hook attached to one end.

  ‘Feeling sleepy yet?’ he asks.

  I stand up, shake my head and laugh.

  ‘This far north,’ Arne says, ‘no-one feels like turning in when it’s summer. It’s impossible to get children to go to sleep. Anyone living here is exhausted after ten years. Too much sleep in winter, not enough in summer.’

  The shears come closer.

  ‘What’s that sound?’

  ‘I expect it’s a fjelljo, but I don’t know anything about birds.’

  I listen again to the sound, which is now further away. The most amazing thing about birds is their ability to produce noises like machines.

  Arne positions himself at the water’s edge with one foot in front of the other. I take out the bottle of mosquito oil and sprinkle some drops on the backs of my hands. But the mosquitoes are also attacking my scalp behind my ears, right through my hair. I haven’t got my hat with the head-net – left it back at the house. Wearing a hat is torture if you’ re not used to it.

  Arne holds the pan in his left hand, using his right to unwind a few metres of line. Then he whirls the hook round and round and suddenly lets go. It describes a high arc in the air, trailing the line, which unwinds easily from the pan. The thin line, blown to one side by a breeze I can’t feel, slices slowly through the water, dropping tangents on ever-fresh circles, each one bigger than the last. Arne starts rewinding straightaway. The spoon dances brightly among the rocks, then vanishes. The line tautens.

  ‘The hook’s got caught.’

  Moving up and down the bank, Arne jiggles the line, slackening and tightening it by turns as he struggles to free the hook.

  16

  He has been at it a full three quarters of an hour. I get up and saunter about, without straying far from his side.

  I don’t dare sit down again, afraid it will look like leaving him in the lurch. After all, if he made a catch he would share it with me. But I don’t know how to be of assistance. Now and then I mutter directions, offer advice I don’t believe in myself.

  I haven’t been to the lavatory all day. Behind the house is a copse that would do very well, a hillock with a few trees. But I feel obliged to wait until the hook has come loose.

  Finally Arne takes a running jump and lands on a big stone jutting out of the water. From there he can exert more upward pull. Bingo! He immediately casts back the line and lands a fish, but it is far too small.

  The anglers and their offspring come past with the squelching sound of damp feet in rubber boots. The clouds thicken, but are still rimmed with pink. Our shadows dissolve. I am seized with an absurd craving for total darkness. Sleeping when it’s still light seems to diminish each hour of sleep by half.

  When Arne finally heads back to the house, I climb the hillock. Between the trees I loosen my trousers, slide t
hem down along with my underpants and sink onto my haunches. The mosquitoes make for my calves, thighs, buttocks, balls. I see Arne stepping onto the porch, while I frantically brush my hands along the parts of me that are exposed. It has to be a very quick business, as they say. My eyes are popping. Primal instincts stirring in man, as when a dog or cat marks territory far afield. I have to laugh as I wipe my backside with moss.

  In the conservatory.

  Arne has opened a box of knäckebröd, a packet of margarine and a tin of minced meat.

  I roll out our sleeping bags on the floor.

  The door is clad with wire mesh, in which rust has corroded several holes. Flies now enter as well, attracted by the margarine.

  We sit on our sleeping bags munching our crackers, with our maps spread out on the floor.

  ‘How kind of these people,’ I say (no sign of them yet), ‘to let us use their porch. Any chance they might be able to find us a horse, d’ you think?’

  ‘I doubt it. But perhaps Qvigstad has come up with some idea.’

  ‘What if he hasn’ t?’

  ‘In that case we’ll just have to carry everything ourselves.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any horses around at all.’

  ‘Not a horse for miles round.’

  ‘Couldn’t we get a helicopter to drop us supplies on the way?’

  (I say this in a joking tone of voice, but why should it be just a joke?)

  ‘Good idea,’ Arne says, ‘we’ll ask the Rockefeller Foundation, shall we? By the way, have you got any aerial photographs?’

  ‘No, have you?’

  ‘I don’t need them myself. But for the kind of research you’re doing … If it had been me, I’d have made sure I had some.’

  ‘I asked Nummedal for them. Before I left Amsterdam, Sibbelee said Nummedal would let me have them. But when I spoke to Nummedal he told me I should apply for them in Trondheim, from Direktør Hvalbiff. Hvalbiff wasn’t there, but I told you all that already. They did have aerial photographs, but the catalogue hadn’t been unpacked yet and might still have been back in Oslo. I didn’t dare tell you at first, I feel a right idiot not having them.’

  ‘You can always pick them up in Trondheim afterwards, on your way back. Then you can examine them at leisure when you get home. Reverse order,’ he says with a chuckle.

  Through my clothes I scratch my thighs, my buttocks. The mosquito bites make my balls feel as if they’ re stubbled with horsehair. Arne fishes the last scrap of meat out of the tin and brings it to his mouth on the tip of his knife.

  Could I be right in thinking he has not entirely dismissed the aerial photographs from his mind? Why do I have the feeling he is still pondering the subject? Maybe I am imagining I can read his mind simply because my own is so pre-occupied with the photographs. I really ought to have them with me now, to be able to compare pictures taken from a plane with what you see on the ground. Arne just said that to keep me happy. He licks the blade with the kind of discretion only found in those unaccustomed to using a knife in this manner. He puts it down and, keeping his eyes lowered, wipes his mouth with a paper handkerchief, or rather dabs at it gently.

  Abruptly, he raises his eyes and fixes me.

  ‘Tell me, Alfred, what’s your main field of interest? What specifically, I mean.’

  I trace a circle on one of the maps with my index finger.

  ‘These holes … They are generally taken to be dead-ice holes, aren’t they?’

  Arne leans over for a closer look.

  ‘Yes, well, there are claims nowadays that some of them could be pingos.’

  ‘Ah, pingos, the last word in geology! But do you know what Sibbelee thinks? That they’ re meteor craters.’

  ‘Meteor craters?’

  Arne’s jaw drops, making his face even longer than normal. His eyes, however, are steely.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, ‘meteor craters – a new perspective, and one I find very appealing. Especially in a landscape like this …’

  He is so astonished by what little I have said that he can’t stop himself interrupting:

  ‘But this landscape consists entirely of rocks and sand deposited by glaciers in the Ice Age. When the climate improved and the glaciers melted, this place turned into a mash of stones and sand and clay with the occasional wedge of ice. The ice-wedges thawed eventually as well, creating the holes we see now, which are usually filled with water. Such depressions are to be found wherever there was once land ice – northern Germany, say, or North America. What reason is there to think of meteors?’

  ‘Surely not everything need be attributed to the ice?’

  I sigh, but haven’t finished yet:

  ‘One of the striking things about those holes is that they’ re always more or less round.’

  ‘Anything that melts becomes more or less round. Ice-wedges and meteors both become round.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Why would a large meteorite be any rounder than a wedge of ice?’

  Why indeed? After a pause I say:

  ‘Still, it’s a very interesting hypothesis. I’m going to do my utmost to prove that some of those holes are meteor craters. I get palpitations just thinking about it.’

  ‘Better not think about it too much then.’

  ‘I’m ambitious. I can’t help it, even though I know where I got it from. My father was a promising botanist when he was killed in an accident, just before my seventh birthday. He fell into a crevasse, in Switzerland. A few days after we heard of his death, a letter arrived saying that my father had been given a professorship. The speakers at his funeral weren’t sure whether to refer to him as Professor Issendorf or as Mr Issendorf. My mother brought me up to believe I was destined to make up for his broken career by being successful in my own. In other words, it would be truly sensational if I were able to prove that some of those holes are in fact impact craters. And also interesting for the layman, now that there’s so much stuff being written about craters on the moon.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Arne gives me a tight-lipped smile, and then, while his eyes continue to smile more from pity than from derision, he opens his mouth the way people do when they are about to share a secret (this is a special way).

  ‘Your professor, Professor Sibbelee, he’s been advancing this idea for quite some time. Were you aware of that?’

  ‘Of course. But how did you know?’

  ‘I don’t want to discourage you, but Sibbelee told Nummedal about that meteorite theory of his ages ago. Nummedal was in the habit of mentioning it during his lectures, when he thought the moment had come for a bit of comic relief.’

  ‘Oh well, I suppose that’s because Nummedal himself wrote a book on the subject, in which he interprets the holes as dead-ice formations. Nobody contradicted him for fifty years. So what good would it do Nummedal to take a different view in his old age? Why would he abandon his own life’s work?’

  ‘If that’s how you see it, why bother to ask him for those photos in the first place?’

  ‘Why not? Surely Nummedal wouldn’t be so mean-spirited as to deliberately stand in the way of my research?’

  ‘Perhaps … He probably saw you as a supporter of the meteorite hypothesis right from the start.’

  ‘But I’m going all the way there to do proper research! If Nummedal turns out to be right, I wouldn’t go and claim that he’s not, now would I?’

  ‘I’d be careful if I were you. It’s Sibbelee you’re writing your thesis for, not Nummedal. Sibbelee will be none too pleased if you don’t come up with some shred of evidence for his theory.’

  Arne strips down to his underwear and crawls into his sleeping bag.

  ‘Most of the holes have never been explored,’he mutters. ‘So you never know.’

  I too get into my sleeping bag, and follow his example of using his rucksack for a pillow. Provided you position it so the buckles don’t get in the way, a rucksack makes a fine pillow.

  I shut my eyes, but keeping them shut takes an eff
ort. The light of the midnight sun shines crimson through my lids. A last glance at my watch. One o’clock. The fjelljo shears its hedge, the cuckoo proclaims its triumph.

  17

  I yawn. I am tired, but unable to sleep. My down sleeping bag is much too hot, even though I have left the zipper undone.

  Arne’s asleep and snoring.

  I am wide awake. And, yet, lying on the wooden floor without a mattress isn’t as uncomfortable as I had feared. The trick is to maintain a position for as long as possible, it’s just the shifting around that hurts.

  The sweat pours from my limbs. I crawl out of the sleeping bag, whereupon scores of mosquitoes settle on my bare shins. I sit there with drawn-up knees, rubbing my legs, staring into space.

  At the far end of the porch are two broken wicker chairs, one on top of the other, next to a sewing machine on an ornate cast-iron base. This is as good a time as any to ponder how they make those wooden covers that protect sewing machines from dust. An oak panel curved cylindrically against the grain. Extraordinary that the wood doesn’t split or crack. Indestructible. Great craftsmanship.

  The top half of the door to the rest of the house is glazed, and curtained off on the inside. I haven’t set eyes on the occupants. Odd, considering they are putting me up. If you can call this putting up.

  When I sit up straight my nose is level with the window ledge. The panes are stippled with thousands of mosquitoes: cobwebby legs, slimy bodies. I stare at them while I scratch one mosquito bite at length, then press a sharp thumbnail into it crosswise. Itching submerged by pain.

  No harm in another cigarette. I pull my jacket towards me, fumble in the pockets and come across my mother’s letter. If I read it now I can write her back saying: I read your letter by the light of the midnight sun.

  By the light of that heavenly body I read:

  As we won’t be able to send you any post for weeks and won’t be hearing from you for a long time, which I’m dreading, I thought I might as well write to you now.