Yes, he heard it, and he also saw the yellow glow in the sky.
What did he think it was? A plane crash? Did he hear the roar of engines before it happened? I didn’t.
No, nor did he.
The Karasjokka is very wide. Is this a river? More like a huge body of shallow water, barely navigable by canoe, with branching streams and gravelly sandbanks which are too low to qualify as islands.
I sit in the canoe, facing backwards. Not a building in sight, nor any other craft.
The river meanders across the plain, and we must meander within the meanders. The wooden hull scrapes over the bottom with a hollow, growling sound. From time to time, when the motor fails to propel us forwards, the Lapp motions me to stand up and rock the boat to dislodge it.
Karasjok. Timber houses on the waterfront. The Lapp steers the boat onto the bank near a steel arch bridge. We both step ashore.
A herd of brown cows troop across the steel bridge, baulking and jostling. Not far from the bridge rises a reddish-brown timber structure, all of three storeys high, with a pitched roof. Out in front there is a tall flagpole flying the Norwegian flag. This is the state-run hotel.
The Lapp takes me to a small shop where I buy myself a shirt and a pair of rubber boots. I take off the biologist’s boots, give them to the Lapp to be returned to the owner at the first opportunity, and pull on the new ones.
At the hotel I take a hot bath, shave off my beard and climb into a bed with clean sheets.
Next morning someone from the police comes to see me. He asks how long I had been separated from Arne when I found his body. I tell him exactly what happened and show him Arne’s notebook. He reads the page with my name on it with interest, nods, hands the notebook back to me and asks whether I want to see Arne.
Together we walk to the clinic where his body has been taken.
A doctor receives me, after which the policeman leaves.
‘Are you a relative?’ the doctor asks.
‘No, a friend.’
‘Are you acquainted with his family?’
‘No, never met them.’
‘Would you like to see him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t advise it, sir, I really don’t advise it.’
‘Then I’ll be off.’
‘No, don’t go yet. Why are you having such difficulty walking?’
The doctor examines my legs, then rings for a male nurse. He cleans my wounds, ties a neat bandage round my knee and sticks plasters on the cuts.
Half an hour later I am on a bus. It begins by going north to Russenes, then turns west to join the coastal road to Alta, after which it continues southwards.
The bus halts for a good half hour at Russenes, because it’s a port of call for the North Cape ferries.
At the stop I see a girl in a headscarf and long trousers, with a small cardboard suitcase on the ground at her feet. I hobble around her. Her right trouser leg has been mended on the knee, and her eyebrows are unevenly plucked. She returns my look, but that may be simply out of pity for my limp.
When the bus starts up again I wait for her to get on first so that I can occupy the seat beside her.
‘Are you going to Alta?’ I ask.
‘No, further than that.’
‘Did you come from the North Cape?’
‘No.’
‘So what brought you here?’
‘I live in Honningvå g.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘On the same island as the North Cape.’
‘That’s very far north.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘So your winters are very dark.’
‘It’s dark all winter.’
‘So what do you do to pass the time? Go to parties?’
‘No. I do my lessons.’
I have no doubt she does, because her English is excellent, but I put the question anyway:
‘Are you still at school then?
‘Of course.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Fifteen? You’re joking. Nineteen.’
‘No, fifteen,’ she says, glancing away.
I wish I hadn’t asked! She’ll think I look down on her, which will make her even less willing to talk to me. It’s a while before I dare to break the silence.
‘I’m from Holland.’
‘Oh.’
‘I was in Finnmark for a long time.’
‘What were you doing? Fishing?’
‘No. Studying soil conditions.’
‘Are you a student?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it interesting?’
‘So so.’
She puts out her hand and points at the compass case hanging from my belt.
‘What have you got in there? A gun?’
‘No, nothing.’
I open the case, show her it’s empty and say:
‘It’s my compass case. I dropped the compass into a fissure between some rocks. Stupid of me.’
‘Shame. Such nice leather. It looks quite new.’
‘Would you like to have it?’
‘Of course not!’
‘It’s no good to me any more.’
‘You could buy a new compass.’
‘You can have it as a souvenir.’
‘What could I do with it?’
I have no idea what she could do with it either. A souvenir? Of me? She doesn’t even know my name.
*
Now I am truly stumped, and for the next couple of hours I sit next to her more or less in a daze, not saying a word, as if our conversation had never taken place.
Skaidi. A stop on the mountain plateau, by the wooden stall selling snacks. I get off the bus and hobble about aimlessly. She gets off too, and, somewhat to my surprise, walks along beside me, on the side of my bad leg. So she does want to be friendly after all. She even seems eager to support me.
The touristy Lapp emerges from his tent, brass-bowled pipe clenched between his teeth, reindeer antlers in his hands. An exact reprise of his appearance on the scene when I stood here with Arne, shivering under a dark wintry-looking sky. That was before everything started to go wrong. Before Arne died.
I stop in my tracks and take the girl’s arm. She’s smiling.
‘Why are you smiling?’
‘Why aren’t you?’
Moved by fatherly emotion, I buy her a bar of chocolate at the stall.
When the bus sets off again I rack my brains for something we could talk about, but can’t come up with anything better than:
‘You still haven’t told me your name.’
‘I’m Inger-Marie.’
The only response left for me is to tell her my own name: one word. So much for having a conversation.
After a pause I take out Arne’s notebook, look up the page with my name on it and pass the book to her.
‘There,’ I say, pointing, ‘can you read that? Can you tell me what it says?’
She reads slowly, moving her lips and tracing the lines with a nail-bitten index finger. When she reaches the bottom of the page her finger goes back up to my name, and she translates:
‘Alfred headed off in the wrong direction. I thought he was joking. Fifteen minutes later he still hadn’t come back. Spent the whole afternoon looking for him. Went back to the ravine. I will wait for him here.
‘Some gabbros crumble easily into loose debris.33.P.234 …’
Inger-Marie’s voice falters.
‘Oh, you can skip that part.’
She skips a few lines, then goes on:
‘Alfred not back yet. Have decided to stay here, a week if necessary. I noticed he was having trouble with the rough terrain, which he isn’t used to. I admire his perseverance. Never complains, although he has had some nasty falls. And I keep him awake at night with my terrible snoring. Anyone else would have packed it in long ago.
‘Gradient …’
I nod, take back the notebook and shut it, lost for words.
The bus drives on through clouds of dust.
‘Are you Alfred?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Is your leg very painful?’
‘No, it’s much better now,’ I lie.
‘I hope I translated it properly. I want to go on to university, but my father says I’m mad. By the way, did you know there was an incredibly loud bang yesterday? Somewhere around Karasjok. It was on the news this morning. First they thought there had been a plane crash, but nothing was found. I wonder what it could have been.’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘I don’t believe in flying saucers. Do you?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Maybe it was ball lightning. Have you ever seen ball lightning?’
‘No, never.’
‘I have. Once. I was sheltering from the rain and there was house nearby with a pitched roof. It was as if a ball of fire came rolling down the roof. But there was only a hissing sound.’
We arrive in Alta. I get up and put out my hand, but she ignores it. Instead, she throws her arms around my neck and gives me a long kiss. My hand is on her back and I can feel her thin shoulder blades. Finally I kiss her twice on each cheek and get off the bus in a daze.
The driver has alighted too. He climbs onto the roof to unload my rucksack.
Inger-Marie is watching me from her window. She isn’t smiling, in fact her expression is quite blank. I wave feebly, without any particular hope or expectation. The driver gets in again.
When the bus drives off, she goes to the window in the rear door and watches me from there with the same blank expression on her face. The last thing I see of her is that she’s gesticulating. Waving? Blowing a kiss? There’s also the possibility that seeing me framed by the window reminded her of a shape chalked on a blackboard, and that she was wiping me out, so to speak. That would be by far the best for her.
43
Arne’s friends are still on holiday. I call at the neighbours for the key and find the house in exactly the same state as we left it. My suitcase under the sofa in the living room, and so forth. I undress and put on my ordinary clothes again: shirt, tie, jacket. When I’m done, I ring the Geological Survey in Trondheim. Direktør Oftedahl isn’t in, nor is Direktør Hvalbiff or whatever his name is. But the secretary has a message for me. She tells me that the aerial photographs have been loaned to the university in Oslo. They do not have copies, but they do have the negatives. A fresh set of prints? Yes, that would be possible, but no, there is no point in calling round tomorrow. I cannot count on the prints being ready for a very long time. It will be two, three months at least, and there is considerable expense involved. Do I want her to make a note of my address?
Next I phone the university in Oslo and ask for Professor Nummedal. Oh. Professor Nummedal? He’s not here. He’s gone to Hop, which is a suburb of Bergen. When he’ll be back? He didn’t say. Not for some time anyway. Are you on your way back to Holland? Then you could try in Bergen. Shall I give you his address? Hop: Troldhaugensgate 5, phone number 3295.
Finally I ring for a taxi and leave two ten-kroner notes by the phone. My feet are too swollen and thick with plasters to get into my shoes, so I’m still wearing the rubber boots.
I take my suitcase and rucksack and get in the taxi that will take me to the seaplane dock. In the cramped ticket office I dictate a telegram to my mother, telling her I’ll be back in three days’ time.
44
Blue skies, bountiful sunshine. Here I am not surrounded by sounds, but by fragrances, and there are no mosquitoes at all, nor bloodthirsty flies. The gardens have jagged rocks erupting from lawns and beds of flowering rhododendron.
Troldhaugensgate number 5 is on a narrow asphalt road so steep that cars have to climb it in first gear. The path leading up to the house is even steeper – part of it is stepped, roughly hewn out of rock.
Once again I find myself having to climb before I can speak to Nummedal, which seems full of significance. What the significance might be, though, I can’t imagine. I clamber up the steps and ring the doorbell.
‘Professor Nummedal,’ I blurt to the maid. ‘He’s expecting me, I spoke to him on the telephone this morning.’
She smiles – only speaks Norwegian probably – and takes me through to a conservatory where Nummedal is sitting in the sun. He is not wearing his ingenious spectacles, the ones with the extra lenses that can be flipped up and down. Just ordinary sunglasses.
Nummedal has not risen, but mutters something in Norwegian. The maid utters a long string of words, of which I catch only ‘professor’, then leaves.
I limp towards him.
‘Herr Professor Nummedal …’
‘Bitte, bitte. Take a seat. Why are you walking with such difficulty?’
‘I fell.’
‘You too? Did you both fall at the same time?’
‘No, I wasn’t there when it happened. I had got lost, and didn’t find Arne until afterwards.’
The chair nearest to Nummedal is still quite far away – at the other end of the conservatory. I seat myself facing him. Beside me stands a potted palm with fronds pressed up against the ceiling.
Pondering what I shall say, I stare at my feet. Ludicrous, those rubber boots under pale grey flannel trousers.
Nummedal has fallen silent. The vertical wrinkles are now so deeply etched as to give him a sliced appearance, and his skin has the dingy shade of old newspapers. At last I say:
‘I have Arne’s notebook.’
‘So you told me on the phone. How did you get on in Finnmark?’
‘I wasn’t very successful, I’m afraid.’
‘What do you mean? Success cannot be measured until one has processed one’s findings.’
‘I believe that my starting-point was wrong. I also believe that I lack the proper training for research into my subject. I was trying to follow up a suggestion of Professor Sibbelee’ s, but have come to the conclusion that it’s not leading anywhere. I would like to carry on the research Arne was engaged in. I want to learn Norwegian. Redo my courses where necessary. I would like to study with you in Oslo, for two or three years maybe, and then go back to Finnmark. For a foreigner like me, being so unfamiliar with the polar terrain, that is the only way forward.’
‘Is that what you think? But then you are far too pessimistic. I can understand you being distressed. But before you came to Norway Professor Sibbelee sent me a letter expressing his high opinion of your abilities. Surely you are not saying you found Professor Sibbelee’s teaching lacking in any way?’
‘Perhaps Professor Sibbelee’s expectations of me were too high.’
‘That is the most preposterous thing I have heard in years. Why would Professor Sibbelee recommend you to me if you were insufficiently prepared for your task? I don’t know what you are talking about, sir.’
‘Before my departure Professor Sibbelee told me about certain ideas he had. Suppositions he wanted me to verify.’
‘They must have been very interesting suppositions!’ Haltingly, I reply:
‘I didn’t find anything to substantiate them.’
‘But my dear fellow! There’s nothing unusual about that! What would the world be coming to otherwise? You seem not to have the faintest idea of the number of suppositions people work on.’
I make an attempt at polite laughter, but fail to produce the proper sound.
Nummedal doesn’t laugh either.
‘After the holidays,’ he says, ‘I will not be returning to Oslo University. My successor has not yet been named.’
Holding Arne’s notebook in my hand, I go up to him and say:
‘Here is the notebook. It might be interesting to know how far Arne progressed with his research. Maybe you have another pupil who could continue his work. I would like to have kept it as a souvenir, but then I don’t know Norwegian. Besides, the information might be useful to someone.’
Nummedal reaches out to take the notebook, but his hand gropes wide of the mark.
He is totally blind! I have to take his hand and press the book into it. Then I say:
‘I’m awfully sorry that you will be leaving the university.’
‘Did you ever get those aerial photographs from Direktør Hvalbiff?
Yes, that’s what he said, I heard it clearly.
‘I didn’t get the photographs, and I discovered later that your student Mikkelsen had them. That was another setback, but I’m not blaming anyone. I realise that I was an outsider, there was no way I was going to belong. Which is why I want to study in Oslo. I want to start a new life.’
‘Start a new life, you say?’
He gets up from his chair with great difficulty. He doesn’t seem able to tell where I am by ear, either. Addressing the palm tree more than me, he continues:
‘There were no aerial photographs at my institute. Hvalbiff has them, Geological Survey in Trondheim, as I told you. The Geological Survey, that is the place to go for aerial photographs. Direktør Hvalbiff. But that man has been getting in my way ever since his appointment there! You should be grateful you don’t live in this country! Such a big country and fewer than four million inhabitants. But all they do is quarrel! Start a new life? Here in Norway? Starting a new life is always a continuation of the old life! I challenge the whole Salvation Army to prove that I am wrong! I suggest you think about that long and hard before you take up residence in this country!’
Clutching Arne’s notebook, he gestures in the direction of the potted palm. As if it were me standing there, me pressed up against the ceiling!
Why did Arne ever make me jealous? He was such a good draughtsman, his notes were so meticulous, he could climb the steepest slopes without effort and cross rivers without getting his feet wet. Now his work, unfinished, is in the hands of a blind man.
Hvalbiff, was what Nummedal said. No doubt about it.
Nummedal hates the man. Blind hatred – surprise, surprise.
Damn! It could just be a nickname Nummedal invented for the director of the Geological Survey. How they must have laughed behind my back … Hvalbiff. That means whale meat, Arne had said. Funny eh, Qvigstad had said, not a trace of fat in it, just like beef.
Like a crash of thunder, it comes to me: the pink, fleshy face of the man I spoke to in Trondheim and who, when I asked for Direktør Hvalbiff, introduced himself as a geophysicist by the name of Direktør Oftedahl.
Beyond Sleep Page 23
