ICEHOTEL

by Hanna Allen

  A murmur passed through the group. Jane Galloway gave me a look that said, ‘This can’t be right.’

  ‘You mean we go outside?’ said Jim.

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘What happens if we get cold at night? I mean so cold we can’t sleep?’ He tried not to look at his wife.

  Marita smiled indulgently. ‘It’s a psychological thing. You might think you’ll be cold but you’ll be surprised how quickly you will warm up. There is hot lingonberry juice in the Locker Room, and in the morning Karin and I will bring some to your room.’

  I felt sorry for Jim; the holiday must have been his wife’s idea. But others seemed to be having their doubts. Liz was speaking earnestly with Mike and Harry, and Jane was frowning, listening to a group of men, the Danes I’d seen taking over the restaurant at lunch. Well, we were here now. It was too late to worry about the cold.

  Marita stopped outside the Icehotel’s entrance, an arch-shaped opening carved into the ice. The double doors, also of ice, were hung with reindeer skins, the interweaving of brown and cream in the coarse hair making them look dark from a distance. Ice columns, so smooth they might have been carved from a single block, stood on either side.

  Marita was in full flow again. ‘The Icehotel is not only a hotel, but also an art gallery. The rooms house ice sculptures of the highest quality. Between the hours of 10.00am and 5.00pm, it is open to visitors but, for the rest of the time, it is a hotel.’ She smiled dreamily. ‘But an unusual, in fact a unique, hotel.’

  She gripped the antler handles, and pulled. The doors opened smoothly and silently. We followed her inside, pushing and treading on each other in our hurry.

  ‘This is the foyer,’ she said, pride in her voice.

  There were gasps of amazement from those in the front. I looked past them, unbelieving.

  Two rows of fluted ice columns, like giant sentinels, stood on either side of the foyer, frowning down at our intrusion while challenging us to enter. An ice chandelier hung suspended from the vaulted ceiling by an impossibly thin cord, the cream candles, still unlit, protruding at all angles like crooked teeth. Through the far wall, where the ice was thinner, shafts of blue light streamed in, stamping their colour on the room. An emptiness, reminiscent of an ancient cathedral, lay on the place. Yet, despite the stillness, the air shimmered, like fabric about to be drawn back by an unseen hand.

  ‘Would you look at this place?’ Mike said, breaking the silence. ‘So, are the candles ever lit?’

  ‘They are, at night,’ said Marita.

  ‘Won’t they melt the ice?’

  ‘They are special candles which give out little heat. Look closely. They are arranged so their flames point away from the ice.’

  Liz was crouching, examining the ground. ‘Gosh, I don’t believe this. There’s snow on the floor.’ She glanced up. ‘It’ll turn to slush, won’t it?’

  Marita removed a glove and scooped up a handful of snow. ‘The atmosphere in the Icehotel is too dry for condensation to form. The snow therefore doesn’t get wet. It is more like sand.’ She let it fall, and turned her hand to show us her dry palm. ‘It’s like this everywhere in the Icehotel. The exception is the bar where the heat and perspiration from many bodies can raise the humidity level.’

  ‘And what happens then?’ said Harry.

  She kept her expression blank. ‘The ice on the ceiling melts and drips into your drink.’

  I smirked. Harry seemed less than amused.

  Marita indicated we should look around, so we wandered amongst the columns. Jim poked a suspicious finger into the snow. Robyn, who’d been watching, yapped so loudly that heads turned. She stomped away. He straightened and followed her like an obedient puppy.

  Liz was turning in a slow circle, a frown of concentration on her face.

  ‘You’ll get dizzy doing that,’ I said.

  ‘This place is like a rabbit warren. If I need a pee in the middle of the night, I just know I’m going to crash into these ghastly columns.’

  ‘The lights in the chandelier will be on, didn’t Marita say?’

  ‘You think they won’t burn out?’ She looked at the candles doubtfully. ‘If you run into one of these columns face on, it’s goodbye Vienna.’

  ‘Good point. I’m staying in my sleeping bag and crossing my legs.’ After a quick glance around, I said in a low voice, ‘Liz, you know things about drugs. What’s Coumarinose used for?’

  She seemed surprised by this sudden shift in the conversation. ‘It’s an anticoagulant. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Wilson Bibby swallowed some on the plane. Why would he need an anticoagulant? To prevent deep vein thrombosis while flying?’

  She hesitated before speaking. ‘Anticoagulants are prescribed to people who have abnormal heart rhythms. They either reduce the risk of strokes, or of heart attacks. Or perhaps both,’ she added vaguely. ‘But don’t quote me, I’m not a doctor.’

  ‘You’re saying Wilson might have a heart problem?’

  ‘And if he’s taking Coumarinose, he really shouldn’t be drinking or smoking.’

  ‘Why do you think he appears to care so little about his health?’

  ‘Because the rich do rather believe they’re immortal.’ She shrugged. ‘Anyway, why are we talking about him? Let’s explore.’

  We moved deeper into the foyer, following the tinkling sound of running water. A circular ice fountain, decorated with leafy ice grapes, stood beneath the chandelier. The plump bunches curled around the stand, climbing to the rim of the basin where they spread thickly. The water was pumped through an arrangement of ice lilies. It flowed out through the stamens, swirled around the basin, and drained away.

  Jane Galloway held a finger under the stamens. ‘Why doesn’t the water freeze?’

  Marita’s lips twitched. ‘Partly because it is constantly moving, and partly because it is almost one hundred percent industrial-strength antifreeze.’

  ‘Yikes.’ Jane pulled her hand back as though she’d been stung.

  Mike nudged her and smirked. She nudged him back harder.

  Marita raised her voice, in tour-guide mode again. ‘The Icehotel is built from ice harvested from the nearby river, which is frozen at this time of year of course. When you’re on the river, you’ll see workmen removing next year’s blocks for storage.’ She paused for effect. ‘That means there are areas of the river which will not be frozen over. You must take great care on the ice. If you fall in, even with a snowsuit, at these temperatures your chances of survival cannot be guaranteed.’

  ‘I read that the river Torne is particularly fast flowing,’ Jane said.

  ‘Not at the moment. It is’ – she frowned, trying to remember the word – ‘sluggish. However, when the snows melt in spring, the current is strong. Objects in the river, including those on the river bed, are swept into the Gulf of Bothnia.’

  She waited for this message to sink in. We looked suitably impressed. Even Harry managed to keep a straight face.

  ‘You may have noticed there are no windows in the foyer. When the Icehotel is constructed, low voltage cables are buried in the ice, and tiny lamps are fixed to the walls to provide illumination. A few rooms have a glass ceiling window, and light comes in that way also, although the ceiling windows are intended primarily for viewing the aurora borealis from the comfort of your room.’

  ‘Are we likely to see the aurora?’ I asked eagerly.

  She fixed me with her gaze. ‘We are in a period of maximum solar activity, so there is a high probability of seeing the aurora this week.’

  ‘Where’s the best place for viewing?’

  ‘The easiest to reach is probably the river.’ She hesitated. ‘But there is another place, a viewing platform at the top of the church tower. You have to climb the steps as there is no elevator. I haven’t been up there myself, but I am told that it is worth the effort.’

  ‘The rooms aren’t identical, then?’ said Jim. His good spirits had returned; his wife was busy examining the ice l
ilies.

  Marita smiled appreciatively, evidently pleased that this question had been asked. ‘The rooms are unique. You will see in what way shortly. Now, shall we continue?’

  Behind the fountain, a low ice table and chairs stood around casually, like a group of old friends. Marita motioned to the chairs but, although reindeer skins covered the seats, no-one seemed prepared to sit down. There was a single object on the table: an ice vase with ice roses, some in bloom, others in bud. Snow, pressed onto the ice, frosted the roses like sugared fruit.

  ‘Now it’s time to visit the bar,’ she said.

  Harry, who’d been stroking the reindeer skins, perked up. ‘Excellent. May we have a drink now?’

  ‘If you must,’ Marita said brusquely, ‘but we are not staying there long.’

  She turned sharp right. We bustled after her through a bottle-shaped entrance into a high-vaulted room.

  The bar was open for business. The guests stood at tall ice tables, drinking from chunky-looking glasses. Low tables and reindeer-strewn chairs, like those in the foyer, were dotted around the room. A mock fireplace, complete with mantelpiece, fender, and leaping flames, was set into the wall. Behind the icy flames, a flickering reddish-orange light was designed to give the impression the fire was lit. Although it was impossible to be fooled, the flames threw their false warmth at us, lightening the chill in the room.

  ‘Tomorrow, your first night at the Icehotel, the management will be holding a reception here. Karin and I are the hosts. We will be giving you a Purple Kiss.’

  ‘A kiss?’ Mike flashed Marita a smile that showed his even white teeth. ‘I’ll be first in the queue.’

  She eyed him coldly. ‘Purple Kiss is a cocktail. You would know that if you had read your dossier.’

  A faint titter ran through the group.

  I whispered into Liz’s ear, ‘There’s always one.’

  She pretended she hadn’t heard and smiled prettily at Mike, keen to show she’d appreciated his remark.

  I caught her eye. ‘You’re such a tart, Liz,’ I murmured, smiling.

  We were back in the foyer. Marita ran a hand across one of the red velvet curtains hanging against the walls. ‘These lead to the sleeping areas. We will visit them now.’ She pushed the curtain aside and disappeared.

  We followed, nearly running to keep up. After the vaulted spaces of the bar and foyer, the ceiling seemed too low. And it was darker here.

  Marita stopped abruptly, causing a minor pile-up. She motioned to a ceramic plaque embedded in the wall. ‘Please look closely. This is the room number.’

  Harry, like a giant baby in his powder blue suit, brought up the rear. I hung back to walk with him, slipping a hand through his arm. He was like a boy on a school trip, his face shining with excitement.

  ‘I love her to bits, don’t you, Maggie? When she’s not a tour guide she must be a Rhine maiden. Do you think she sings Wagner?’ He put on his glasses and peered at the nearest wall plaque. ‘This might be my corridor. Yes, I’m in room 15, further along.’

  ‘It’s my corridor too. I’m in room 16.’ I tugged at his arm. ‘Come on, or we’ll get lost.’

  Marita had stopped outside room 20. ‘We have time to see only two or three rooms, but this is one of the more interesting. We call it the Chess Room.’ She drew back the curtain.

  Behind it was an arch-shaped entrance.

  It was Robyn who voiced my thoughts. ‘But there’s no door,’ she said shrilly. ‘It’s just a curtain.’

  Marita was ready with the reassurances. ‘Please don’t be alarmed. Your valuables will be safe in the lockers.’ She stepped into the room and, holding back the curtain, ushered us through.

  Robyn had opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it. Looking prim, she followed the others inside.

  Harry held back, signalling to me to stop. ‘I bet she and her husband were planning a night of passion,’ he whispered. ‘But not now they know anyone could burst in on them.’

  I tried to picture the Ellises writhing under the reindeer skins, and failed. Harry, shaking with laughter, took my elbow and guided me into the now-crowded Chess Room.

  Miniature lights hung high across the walls, winking rhythmically and throwing faint splashes of colour onto the ice. In the centre of the room lay the double bed, a block of ice buried under reindeer skins. I fingered them carefully, remembering Jim’s doubts, and wondered how effective skins were as insulation.

  It was then that I saw the ice statues: huge chess pieces, a king, queen, and knight, standing proudly around the room. Carved into the pressed snow on the wall behind them was a chessboard. The Danes crowded in front of it, arguing loudly.

  Marita was watching, curiosity in her eyes. ‘Can you see who will win? And in how many moves? Each day we carve a different puzzle onto the wall and invite our guests to solve it.’ She paused. ‘It is black’s turn.’

  The Danes moved away, still arguing. I studied the board, biting my lip in concentration. It was an unusual play but, after a minute, I had it. ‘It’s now impossible for white to win. Black will win in three moves, but only if he sacrifices his queen.’ I moved my finger to show Marita. ‘But if black keeps the queen, he’ll take a minimum of two – no, three – further moves to win.’

  She gawped. ‘That is absolutely correct.’

  A murmur ran through the group. I glanced around in surprise; Mike was smiling, clapping his hands soundlessly; Jane, beaming, gave me a thumbs-up.

  ‘You solved it so quickly,’ Marita said.

  I shrugged, puzzled by her remark. ‘It was obvious.’

  ‘Golly, Mags, I didn’t know you played chess,’ said Liz.

  ‘My father taught me when I was a child.’ I grinned. ‘I used to bunk off sports to play in the chess club. I was school champion. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘You bunked off sports?’ Mike said in amazement. ‘To play chess?’

  ‘We have a chess set in the Excelsior,’ Marita was saying, ‘although we find that our guests prefer outside activities.’ She turned to the group. ‘There is time to visit one more corridor. Please stay close or we will become separated.’

  We filed out through the curtain and followed her back the way we’d come. Jim Ellis mouthed a hurried, ‘Well done’, as he overtook me to join his wife.

  As Marita passed room 15, Harry stopped and said, ‘Oh, wait, please. Can we go in here? It’s my room.’

  She hesitated. It was clear she wanted to avoid this room. But Harry pushed back the curtain, and we trooped in.

  ‘Aha,’ he said triumphantly, ‘I’ve got a ceiling window.’

  The room was plainer, if brighter, than the Chess Room. The double bed lay in the centre, but there was nothing else; I wasn’t surprised Marita didn’t want to waste time here.

  ‘Holy Mother o’ God.’ It was Mike.

  I wheeled round. Behind us, set into a deep alcove, was a huge ice statue of the god, Pan.

  His conical horns grew through shaggy hair which curled thickly over his head and fell in ringlets below the lightly-pointed ears. Hair sprouting from the cheeks tangled into a beard, ending in two strands like a goat’s. His eyebrows arched like pointed moustaches and, below the flared nostrils, his lips were drawn back into a demonic grin that I found disturbing. He was holding a set of pipes to his mouth, the fingers so long they touched above the reeds. Matted hair covered his neck and chest.

  I looked down his body, expecting a goat’s legs and hooves, and then saw what had shocked Mike. The sculptor had given Pan an erection. But this was no ordinary erection. The enormous penis wasn’t human, it was an animal’s, buried in the belly hair, only the tip visible. It ran the full length of the abdomen to the waist.

  ‘Good Heavens!’ Harry said, breaking the silence. He pushed his glasses further up his nose and openly scrutinised the penis. ‘Now we know why he was called The Great God Pan.’

  The tension was broken, and peals of laughter echoed through the room. We crowded around the stat
ue, examining it, marvelling at the detail. I touched the penis. It was so lifelike that I half-expected it to throb under my hand. As I turned away, I saw Mike watching me, his eyes steady.

  Harry drew me to one side. ‘Maggie, I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep with that thing grinning at me. There’s a lamp behind it. Do you think I’ll be able to switch it off?’

  I peered into the alcove. Light was filtering through the statue from a lamp high in the wall, but I could see no way of turning it off. ‘Marita, is that light on all night?’ I said.

  She seemed grateful for the change of subject. ‘In the early hours of the morning, all the Icehotel lamps are switched off from the master switch in the Excelsior.’

  ‘There you are,’ I said to Harry. ‘It’ll be too dark to see him. That means he won’t see you, either.’

  ‘I suppose I could get used to it . . . ,’ he said, eyeing the erection.

  Mike clapped him on the back, laughing. ‘Now you know where you can hang your clothes, Harry.’

  Jane, standing with the Danes, sniggered loudly. Robyn, tutting softly, eyed Mike with a look of disapproval. Jim had his back to her, probably so she couldn’t see the expression on his face.

  We visited one more room. In the Scottish Room, we found Macbeth seated on a crude ice throne. Stretched across his lap was the dead king, Duncan, staring sightlessly at his murderer. Macbeth’s left arm was under the corpse, cradling it as a mother would a child. His right hand was removing the crown from Duncan’s head. Scratched into the snow-covered wall, three witches danced in a frenzy around a bubbling cauldron, their arms flung back, beards billowing about their faces. Behind them, Birnam Wood marched to Dunsinane.

  ‘This brings our tour of the Icehotel to an end,’ Marita said, in her sing-song voice. ‘I should mention two further buildings that may interest you. Adjacent to the Icehotel is the Ice Chapel, where we hold services, including christenings and weddings. And behind the Icehotel, on the river bank, there is an Ice Theatre, a replica of London’s Globe Theatre. I should remind you that every Sunday there is a performance in the Sami language of one of Shakespeare’s plays. This Sunday, it will be Macbeth.’