Like that time when a scene at home ended with Mom smashing a pan of mashed potatoes down on the oven so hard that the whole ceramic surface cracked. After observing the performance in silence you made your only comment:
— Next time you buy powdered mash, Dad, buy two packets in case Mom gets angry.
BY LATE AFTERNOON, sated with sun and grilled food, we were ready to head for home. Mom had climbed up a rise to have a look around and see where you were, and called me to join her. Somewhere behind our house a thick grey bank of fog swayed, in complete isolation. It couldn’t be possible.
But it was. When we got home we saw that the fire engines and the police were back, and the spectators in their places. A small, overlooked cinder somewhere up under the roof, and the draft from a broken window, had been enough. Seeming this time playful and teasing, the flames licked again across the walls as embarrassed firemen hosed and chopped away at the charred timbers.
WE LOSE WHAT WE MUST LOSE, Gabriel — because time is finished with it, because time is up, because nothing lasts after it is over. Not houses, not friends nor people, not even old trees last any longer than they should, than their allotted span of time. Sometimes I miss you already. I miss your time, the one that is gone and lives on in memory, and the one to come, the one that is anticipation, the one you shall fill with your own losses when you yourself have lost and have been lost.
We are only unlosable to ourselves, my son. Everything else loses us.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I sit here and look at my hand, Gabriel, at all that is written down there. Most of it is illegible. It is scribbled in haste, in languages I don’t understand, a line here, a scar there, a mark and a hollow. Some people would have us believe that hands are ready-written books we are born with, two volumes in which our lives are chronicled in creases and wrinkles even before we have lived, reference books that we can consult to learn who we are and that can tell us what will become of us. But it isn’t so. Our hand-books are written by ourselves, or life writes them for us day by day, so that nothing shall be forgotten, so that each blow and each caress shall be retained and remembered. Just as the sole of your foot carries on it the impress of every grain of sand and soft carpet it has walked on, every door it has kicked in, so is carved into your hands the stem of every flower, every coin, and every bar you have grasped.
That is why it’s so good to hold someone else by the hand, for then two stories talk to each other. Like when we’re driving the car, me in front and you in the back, and one of us suddenly just has to hold out his hand and take the other’s for a moment, and a transmission takes place of something we never speak of, but which is good and great and strong. In the library of the body only the eyes process more information on our lived lives than the hands, but they cannot be read, as the hands can. If God exists when we die, I imagine that it is our hands he will ask to see. Then he will smile or grieve, for the hand-writing cannot be rubbed out, it is the journal we keep throughout our life, and we shall be judged upon it.
I sit here and look at my hand, and it is like a treasure map. Had I been able to decipher all the signs and read them in the right order, I might have uncovered my whole history. But that I cannot do, that would be like living life over again. We never quite manage to find ourselves, Gabriel; it is a futile and fruitless search.
We can, however, be found, and we can ourselves find others. That is the real miracle of the hands — that they let us receive and that they let us give. All the rest is finally just reading matter to pass the time.
Now I offer you my hand in support. With the other I hold on to the rusting chain that stops the boat from drifting so far away from land that it would make your clambering jump up onto the pier too long and too difficult. And then it’s your turn to hold, hold on tightly to the rope as I lift the chest from the bottom of the boat, from the depths of this unreasonably low tide, raise it up above my head like a sacrificial offering and shove it carefully onto the edge of the pier. Finally I follow up with the rest of the equipment.
We’re on Treasure Island. It has another name, but we don’t use that now. Places have many names; they’re called houses, fortresses, castles, or palaces, all according to time and usage. Today this place is called Treasure Island, for today we’re off on a treasure hunt, so it can’t have the same name as when we’re only going for a walk, or to visit Jon Ivar in the lighthouse. Names are important. Without them we don’t know where we are or what we’re doing there. Without names we wouldn’t even have treasures to talk about, only rocks and metal. Names make things genuine and valuable, and false treasures are worthless, they’re not worth collecting. No one knows that better than you.
Gradually we have developed a certain routine. We know what we’re searching for, and where it’s most likely to be found. Before, you remember, when we were beginners, we dug our spades into any old patch of ground, chipped away at random rock faces, and dived down aimlessly to arbitrary seabeds. It wasn’t always easy to hide the disappointment when we did not immediately come across buried chests, when diamonds and nuggets of gold did not fall away of their own accord from the rock, when schooners laden with precious loot didn’t appear to us among the forest of kelp. You thought it was unjust and unfair, and that we had better move to Africa or America, since it was obvious others had been here before us and found whatever was to be found. When I objected that this might possibly present difficulties, you thought me stupid and frivolous, and that I didn’t understand much about what was really important.
After numerous unsuccessful expeditions we gradually came to an agreement that the important thing was to find. How what we found happened to be located just where we had chosen to look was a matter of secondary importance and something we could safely disregard. It was none of our concern whether it had been left behind by pirates of old, or overlooked by earlier gold diggers, or even put there so that it could be found later. All that mattered was our finding it.
And we certainly did begin to find, one gem after the other. Opals and lapis lazuli, which are normally found only in Bolivia or Afghanistan, miraculously cropped up in a corner of the garden, and crystals and copper coins glinted in the sunlight between the rocks on the shore. Now we were able to make reliable treasure maps, certain in our knowledge that beneath the sign of the crossed bones at the end of the track, there would lie an amethyst or two.
On your own account you experimented with a variation that didn’t prove quite as successful, because it isn’t always easy to tell the difference between a smart game and being simply outsmarted. You realized that after you had been out on one of your expeditions and found the skeleton of a sheep’s head. You pulled out the teeth, placed them in a glass of water on the bedside table, and then were mightily irritated to discover next morning that nothing had happened. The teeth had not turned into money. Not until you were given a thorough explanation of the fact that the tooth fairy probably can’t be fooled, and is well able to tell the difference between human teeth and sheep’s teeth, did you accept the fact that this was not a shortcut to riches.
TODAY WE’RE NOT SURE what we might find. Perhaps we won’t find anything at all, perhaps rascals and bandits have been here before us and run off with everything of value. We mention this possibility to each other, this outrage that in no way seems unthinkable to us. We dwell on it in silent unease as we make our way across the uneven island terrain, carrying your heavy treasure chest between us. It would be almost too good to be true if other treasure hunters hadn’t discovered the grotto we’re on our way to explore, which previous visits have shown to contain so many wondrous things. But we don’t talk out loud about such things, because you never know — hidden behind every rock may be a wrongdoer with cutlass and musket at the ready, eavesdropping and spying on us. We don’t breathe a word about our real destination, but drop loud and misleading hints about a notorious treasure-free cave on the other side
of the island as we glance about on all sides in search of telltale signs of fiendish charlatans and unspeakable buccaneers.
On the slope below the lighthouse we decide to take a break — not only because waffles and cocoa would taste good, but also because our pursuers then will think we’re just taking an ordinary walk, and go back home in frustrated resignation. The treasure, which has already been awaiting us since time immemorial, can wait a few more minutes. But not too many! Though you have never admitted to having butterflies in your stomach — the thought repels you, those poor butterflies — it’s easy to see that your whole body is tingling with excitement and anticipation. Before I’m halfway through my drink, you just have to go on ahead.
I remain behind, sitting on a rock. I light a cigarette, and before I’ve smoked it you’re back gasping for breath, disturbed, your gaze flickering about. It was too dark, it was too scary, you don’t dare on your own. Because it might be that not all the villains have gone home, perhaps some are still waiting in there where you can’t see them, hatching the most sinister and wicked plans to trick you into telling them where the treasure is.
AT PLAY YOU ARE a master in conjuring forth fear, you who in everyday life know no fear. Even the police have experienced this. One day, when Mom’s car broke down on the way home from work, and she knew that the taxi was due to drop you off at home any minute, she was driven there at top speed by a friendly patrol-car officer. But it was too late; you had already come home from school and found the house empty. When you then heard Balder begin to bark at the sound of an unknown car approaching, you resolutely made your way down into the library and pulled a heavy Mexican machete out of its sheath, even though you weren’t allowed to: this was an emergency, the house had to be protected, and you had to protect yourself against unknown intruders. The policeman who was with Mom was met in the doorway by a fearless youngster with a jungle sword raised high over his head, ready to strike, and had to back away in alarm . . . An imaginary peril, on the other hand, of an encounter with wily villains in a treasure grotto, you daren’t face that without someone to cover your back.
To be afraid is not to know. Sometimes I think the only thing you really fear is yourself, about whom you know the least. Is that why you sometimes ask, cautiously as always when you want to talk about your problems:
— Are they dangerous?
No, Gabriel. Your problems are not dangerous, at least not in the same way as, for example, cancer or a heart attack, illnesses you can die of. Nor are they dangerous in the sense that they can cause you physical pain, like a wound. And they are definitely not dangerous to others — you cannot “infect” other people.
The only time your problems can be dangerous is when no proper account is taken of them. A person who feels himself systematically misunderstood, ignored, and ridiculed, and who doesn’t understand why, nor is given any help to understand why, can with time develop a strong strain of aggression that affects other people. On the other hand, there is nothing at all to suggest that you have a greater likelihood than others of turning to violence. Rather the opposite: when you’re driven into a rage, into shouting and punching and screaming, I can see by the tears you don’t even try to hide that it is as much yourself you are punishing as us. But I don’t know why.
OUR TREASURE GROTTO was hollowed out and lined with reinforced concrete by German soldiers during the Second World War. It lies facing the shipping lane; the Germans needed the position to attack and then to protect the approach to the town. They did a thorough, Germanic job and left behind a construction that is virtually inviolable from sea and invisible from land, and on which neither wind nor water have managed to scratch their traces in fifty years. Today it is used — at least we hope and believe so — only by us, when we are out on a treasure hunt.
You lead the way. That is to say, you walk behind and give me precise instructions, for as any experienced expedition leader knows, it is tactically important to have an advance guard. The entrance to the grotto lies hidden under a jutting outcrop of rock, and it is dark even before we have set foot inside. But we are well prepared. By the glow of a lighter I find the tallow candles that we have placed around the floor on previous visits and light them, and I am soon able to confirm that the grotto is suitably illuminated and free from villains. I walk out to you. You stand with one foot on top of your chest, as though on a lion you have just bagged, and listen as I make my report. Then in we go. This time you walk in front.
Deep inside the grotto a loose rock leans from the wall. You ease it out by the flickering light, which imparts an eerie life to our shadows, but you pay them no mind. Then you stick your hand inside and presently your whole arm. You don’t spend a second worrying about scorpions and snakes, and . . .
— Yes, I know, Gabriel, spending is something you do with money, but believe me, you can also spend time.
. . . and with a face that lights up in surprise and joy, outshining the flames, you pull out a fist full of pearls and gold chains and coins and coloured gemstones.
— Look what I found, Dad! Isn’t it fantastic?
And then at once an afterthought that you need to have clarified:
— Do you think they’re genuine?
WHAT IS A GENUINE TREASURE?
I could begin by throwing a question back at you:
— What does it mean, genuine?
You would simply tell me to stop asking stupid questions:
— Everybody knows what genuine means! It means things that aren’t fake, things are real. Diamonds, for example.
And yet I might insist:
— Yes, but pine cones and mussels are real. Does that mean they’re genuine?
You would immediately dismiss this:
—But they aren’t rare!
— Maybe not — but what if in the whole world there was only one pine cone?
You would have to think about that for a few moments, and reply with a question of your own:
— Would that make it valuable?
— Yes, because if enough people wanted a pine cone, and in the whole wide world there was only one, then it would be very valuable.
You’d think a good deal more before trumping me:
— No, because genuine treasures actually exist, and only one pine cone doesn’t, and so it can’t be genuine!
WHAT IS A GENUINE TREASURE?
You have several criteria, but what is common to most of what you call genuine is that it must be created in and by nature, not by people. Among metals, you dismiss steel and brass. The main metals should also — if they are to be approved by you — have a carat stamp, or demonstrably be so old that age makes them rare and therefore valuable. In questions of valuation you adhere uncompromisingly to the gold standard — a treasure that cannot in principle be exchanged for gold does not deserve to be called a treasure. You give plated and gilded objects the benefit of the doubt, if they look good, but not if they show any signs of verdigris or rust.
Precious stones must above all be precious. However, here we are in murky waters, for apart from the obvious ones — diamonds, rubies, emeralds, turquoises, and sapphires — there are many types of stones that can seem precious without definitely being so. Agate, opal, amber, amethyst, tiger’s eyes, rodomite, obsidian, jade . . . who could say with certainty if they are all precious and therefore genuine and valuable and rare? On this score you lack an authoritative reference book. Crystals are an especially tricky case, and you can never quite get to the bottom of it. Rock crystals are genuine, as is pink quartz from Argentina, but on the other hand you’ve learned that crystals are the building blocks in everything from salt to snowflakes, and it confuses you, for that has nothing to do with treasures. Crystal balls, on the other hand, and a crystal glass that rings against a damp finger drawn round the rim are genuine, even though they are not found in nature. They ar
e at least valuable. Porcelain too, if it is thin enough. And fossils and corals, for they are millions of years old and so must be valuable.
As for materials and rugs, you accept only velvet and silk, genuine silk, mind you, unless some more common material has woven threads of gold or silver. It’s hard for you to understand why Persian rugs should be collectible — they’re just made of wool, and wool is as common as pine cones, even if it occurs in nature and consequently can’t be valuable.
You have little time for things made of leather, but hides and furs are treasures, including sheepskin and goatskin; but the finest one you have is a reindeer hide, and you dream of a tiger skin. Your reasoning here is a little diffuse and above all related to the fact that furs are soft to the touch, and that kings and emperors usually go around wrapped in the skin of some animal. This criterion — pure luxury — is the most recent addition. Among other things it led you to suggest, when our old car finally had to be junked, that now we should get ourselves a limousine.
— Or a normal car, if you can’t afford it, only make sure it’s long, as you put it.
You have, thank goodness, not yet begun to take an interest in antiques, though you count Buddha statues, pill boxes, Egyptian scarabs, and miniature Turkish sabres as treasures, though they are made by people and of brass, and don’t even have real jewels inlaid in them. Pearls too, it goes without saying, and shells and conches, but they should preferably be overlaid with mother-of-pearl, or come from a sufficiently distant ocean, or be big enough.
Size is otherwise not an absolute condition. You made that clear after we had been to see the silver mines in Kongsberg, and among other things I had bought you a lovely amethyst. You were perfectly happy and had no need at all of something bigger. Or as you put it during dinner at the camping site that evening:
Somewhere Over the Sea Page 8
