Smilla's Sense of Snow aka Miss Smilla's Feeling for Snow

by Peter Høeg

  Thirty feet down there's a fire.

  The smoke is coming from a room adjacent to the stairs, a cement shell reinforced with beams. Several sacks are spread on the floor. On top of the sacks there's an oil barrel filled with burning, chopped-up wooden crates.

  Against the opposite wail, instruments and equipment are piled on a wide table. Chromatographs, microscopes, large crystallization jars, an incubator, and an apparatus I've never seen before, built like a big plastic box with glass on the front. Underneath the table there's a generator and more wooden crates like the ones burning in the barrel. Nowadays everything goes in and out of style, even laboratory equipment, and these instruments remind me of the seventies. Everything is covered with a layer of gray ice. They must have been left behind in '66 or '91.

  Tørk places his hand on the plastic box. "Electrophoresis. To separate and analyze proteins. Loyen brought it along in '66. When they still thought they were dealing with some form of organic life."

  He gives a small nod. Everything he does is pervaded with the knowledge that these small signs and gestures are enough to make the rest of the world fall into place. Verlaine is standing at a tall worktable with a dissecting microscope. He adjusts it for me, the ocular on 10 and the objective on 20. He moves a gas lamp closer.

  "We're in the process of thawing out the generator." At first I don't see a thing. Then I adjust the focus and see a coconut. "Cyclops marinus," says Tørk. "Water flea. It or its relatives are found everywhere, in all the oceans of the globe. The threads are organs of equilibrium. We've given it a little hydrochloric acid; that's why it's so still. Try looking at the back of the body. What do you see?"

  I don't see anything. He takes over the microscope, moving the petri dish under it and adjusting the focus again.

  "The digestive system," I say. "The intestines."

  "Those aren't intestines. That's a worm."

  Now I see it. The intestines and stomach form a dark field along the underside of the animal. The long bright channel goes up along its back.

  "The primary group is Phylum nematoda, roundworm, and it belongs to the subclass Dracunculoidea. Its name is Dracunculus borealis, the Arctic worm. Known and described since at least the Middle Ages. A large parasite. Found in whales, seals, and dolphins; it penetrates the musculature from the intestines. The males and females mate, the male dies, and the female wanders to the subcutis, where it forms a nodule as big as a child's fist. When the mature worm senses that there are Cyclops in the surrounding water, it perforates the skin and releases millions of small living larvae into the sea, where they're eaten by the water fleas, forming what is called a host, a place where the worms can go through a process of development lasting several weeks. When the flea, via seawater, gets into the mouth cavity or intestines of a larger mammal, it disintegrates and the larva gets out and bores into this new and larger host. There it matures, mates, makes it way to the subcutis, and completes the cycle. Apparently neither the water flea nor the mammal suffers any harm from it. One of the world's most well adapted parasites. Have you ever wondered what prevents parasites from spreading?"

  Verlaine puts on more wood and pulls the generator over to the fire. The radiant heat burns one side of my body; the other is cold. There's no proper ventilation. The smoke is suffocating. They must be in a hurry.

  "Some kind of obstruction is what always stops the parasites. Take, for instance, the Guinea worm, which is the closest relative of the Arctic worm. It's dependent on heat and stagnant water. It's found wherever people are dependent on surface water."

  "Such as on the border between Burma, Laos, and Cambodia," I say. "For instance, in Chiang Rai."

  They both freeze. In Tørk it's a barely visible pause. "Yes," he says, "in Chiang Rai, for example, during the relatively rare periods of drought. As soon as it rains and the water begins to flow, as soon as it cools off, the conditions become more difficult for the worm. That's the way things have to be. Parasites have developed along with their hosts. The Guinea worm has developed along with human beings, perhaps over the past million years. They are mutually compatible. Every year 140 million people are exposed to the risk of being infected with the Guinea worm. There are 10 million cases annually. Most of those who are infected endure a painful period of several months, but then the worm is expelled. Even in Chiang Rai only half a percent of the adult population, at the most, suffer any permanent damage. This is one of the primary rules of nature's delicate balance: A good parasite does not kill its host."

  He moves slightly, and I involuntarily step back. He looks in the microscope.

  "Imagine their situation in '66-Loyen, Ving, and Licht. Everything has been planned. There are problems, of course, but they're mere technicalities and solvable. They've pinpointed the stone, constructed the entryway and these rooms; the weather is good, and they have plenty of time, relatively speaking. They realize that they can't bring the whole stone back, but they know they can take home a piece of it. There are photographs of their saws, a brilliant invention, a hardened steel band that ran across rollers. Loyen was opposed to cutting the stone with blowtorches. Then just as the Inuits are putting the saw in position, they die. Forty-eight hours after their first dive. They die almost simultaneously, within an hour of each other. Everything changes. The project has failed and time is running out. They have to improvise an accident. Loyen is the one who does it, of course. He has enough presence of mind not to destroy the bodies. At that point he already has a feeling that something is wrong. As soon as they reach Nuuk he does an autopsy. And what does he find?"

  "Look at the time," says Verlaine.

  Tørk ignores him. "He finds the Arctic worm. A widespread parasite. Big, twelve to sixteen inches long, but quite ordinary. A roundworm whose cycle is known and understood. There's only one thing wrong: it's not found in human beings. In whales, in seals, and dolphins, and occasionally in walruses. But not in human beings. Nearly every day infected meat is eaten, especially by Inuits. But the moment the larva enters the human body, it's recognized by our immune system as a foreign object and is devoured by lymphocytes. It has never adapted to our immune system. It has always been limited to certain large sea mammals with which it must have developed simultaneously. It's part of the balance of nature. Imagine Loyen's astonishment when he finds it in the corpses. And quite by accident, too. Because at the last minute he was forced to take X-rays to identify the bodies."

  I don't want to listen to him or talk to him, but I can't help it. And besides, it stretches out the time.

  "Why did it happen?"

  "That's the question Loyen couldn't answer. So he concentrated on a different question: How did it happen? He had brought samples home from the water around the stone. Aside from the meltwater, the lake is fed by another lake higher up, on the surface. There's some bird life up there. And quite a lot of trout. And several kinds of fleas. The water around the stone is full of them. All of the samples Loyen brought home were infected. So he decided to graft the larva onto living human tissue."

  "That sounds lovely," I say. "How did he manage to do that?"

  As I ask the question, the answer comes to me. He did it in Greenland. In Denmark the chance of being discovered would be too great.

  Tørk sees that I realize how it was done.

  "It took him twenty-five years. But he found out that the larva had adapted to the human immune system. As soon as it's in the mouth it penetrates the open mucous membranes and forms a kind of skin, created from the person's own proteins. In this camouflage the parasite is mistaken for the human body itself and the defense system leaves it in peace. Then it starts to grow. Not slowly, over a period of months, the way it does in seals and whales, but rapidly, hour by hour and minute by minute. Even the mating and wandering through the body, which can take up to six months in a sea mammal, now take only a few days. But that's not the decisive factor."

  Verlaine takes him by the arm. Tørk looks at him. Verlaine removes his hand.

  "I w
ant to ask her about something," says Tørk. Maybe that's what he believes, but that's not why he's talking. He's talking in order to win attention and recognition. Beneath his self-confidence and apparent objectivity there is a wild pride and triumph at what he has discovered. Both Verlaine and I are sweating and have started to cough. But he is cool and at ease; in the flickering light of the fire his face is utterly calm. Maybe it's because we're standing in the middle of the ice, maybe it's because it's so obvious that we're nearing the end, that he suddenly seems so transparent to me. As always when an adult becomes transparent, the child inside him steps forth. I remember Victor Halkenhvad's letter, and suddenly, irresistibly, the words spew out of my mouth of their own accord.

  "Like the bicycle you never had when you were a child."

  The remark is so absurd that at first he doesn't understand it. Then the meaning sinks in, and for a moment he staggers as if I'd hit him. He almost loses it, but then he pulls himself together.

  "You might think we've discovered a new species. But that's not the case. It's the Arctic worm. But with a vital difference. It has adapted to the human immune system. But without adapting to our equilibrium. The pregnant female does not make its way to the subcutis after mating. It enters the internal organs, the heart and the liver. That's where it releases its larvae. The larvae that have been living inside the mother, that aren't familiar with the human body, that aren't covered with a protein skin. The body reacts to them with infection and inflammation. It goes into shock. There are 10 million larvae in a single release. Inside the vital organs. The person dies on the spot. There's no way to save him. No matter what else has happened to the Arctic worm, it has upset the balance. It has killed its host. It's a poor parasite, in terms of human beings. But an excellent killer."

  Verlaine says something in a language that I don't understand. Tørk again ignores him.

  "Verlaine grafted the larva onto all the fish we could get hold of: saltwater fish, freshwater fish, big ones and small ones, at varying temperatures. The parasite adapts to every single one. It can live anywhere. Do you know what that means?"

  "That it's not fussy?"

  "It means that one of the most important factors restricting its dispersal is lacking: the limitation of the hosts that are capable of transmitting it. It can live anywhere."

  "Why hasn't it spread all over the world?"

  He gathers up several coils of rope, picks up a bag, and dons a miner's lamp. His sense of time has returned. "There are two answers to that question. The first is that its development in sea mammals is slow. Even if the parasite from this lake and from other lakes on this island as well is washed out to sea, it has to sit and wait for some passing seals to carry it farther, if it's still alive when the seals come by. One answer is that there still haven't been enough people here. The development process doesn't pick up speed until there are human beings involved."

  He leads the way. I know that I'm supposed to follow him. For a moment I hang back. As he leaves the room, I'm struck with a feeling of powerlessness. Verlaine looks at me.

  "When we were working for Khum Na," he says, "twelve police officers arrived. The only one who escaped was a woman. Women are vermin."

  "Ravn," I say. "Nathalie Ravn?"

  He nods. "She came over as an English nurse. Spoke English and Thai without an accent. At that time we were at war with Laos, Cambodia, and, in the end, Burma too, with support from the U.S. There were many casualties."

  He holds the petri dish between his thumb and forefinger and lifts it toward me. My body instinctively tries to shrink away from the worm. It must be sheer stubbornness that keeps me standing there.

  "When it penetrates the skin, it pushes its womb out and emits a white fluid full of millions of larvae. I've seen it.

  Disgust contorts his face.

  "The females are much bigger than the males. They burrow into the flesh. We followed them with ultrasound scanners. Loyen had grafted them onto two Greenlanders who had AIDS. He had them flown to Denmark and admitted to one of the small private hospitals where they don't ask about anything except your account number. We could see everything-how it reached the heart and then emptied itself out. The womb and everything. All females are that way, even humans, especially humans." He carefully puts down the petri dish.

  "I can see that you're a fine connoisseur of women, Verlaine. What else were you doing in Chiang Rai?" He's not unaffected by the compliment. That's why he answers the question. "I'm a lab technician. We were making heroin. At the time the woman arrived, they had sent the army after us, from all three countries. So Khum Na went on TV and said, `Last year we put 900 tons on the market, this year we'll ship 1,300, and next year 2,000 tons, unless you call your soldiers home.' The day he made that announcement, the war was over."

  I'm on my way out the door when he speaks again. "Human beings ate the parasites. The worm is an instrument of the gods. Like the poppy."

  3

  Tørk is waiting for me. When we reach the bottom, we've descended about sixty-five feet. The tunnel, which now runs horizontally, has a rough, rectangular concrete reinforcement. It ends in black emptiness. Tørk goes first. We stop in front of an abyss.

  At our feet there's a drop of eighty feet to the floor of the cave. Stalagmites of ice stretch up toward us from the ground, glistening, rainbow-colored.

  Tørk breaks off a piece of ice and tosses it into space. The abyss is transformed into a series of rings and then fog; then it ceases to exist. We've been looking at the ceiling of the cave reflected in a lake right at our feet; water so still that it could never exist above ground. Even now, as it's traversed by ripples, my eyes refuse to believe that it's water. Calm slowly returns, and the underground world is reestablished.

  The growth patterns of stalactites and descriptions of their crystal formations were outlined by Hatakeyama and Nemoto in Geophysical Magazine, no. 28, 1958. By Knight in the Journal of Crystal Growth, no. 49, 1980. And by Maeno and Takahashi in their article "Studies on Icicles," in Low Temperature Science, vol. A, no. 43, 1984. But the most viable configuration to date was proposed by myself and Lasse Makkonen at the Laboratory of Structural Engineering in Espoo, Finland. It demonstrates that a stalactite grows like a reed, a hollow tube of ice that closes around water in its liquid state. That the mass of the stalactite can be simply expressed as:

  where D is the diameter, L is the length, OQ is the density of the ice, and Tr in the numerator of the fraction is, of course, a result of the fact that we are calculating based on a hemispheric drop with a diameter set at 4.9 mm.

  We proposed our formula out of fear of the ice. At a time when there had been a series of accidents in Japan with stalactites falling from the roofs of railroad tunnels and boring right through train cars. Here, above our heads, there are more stalactites and larger ones than I've ever seen in my life. Instinctively I want to move away, but I can sense Tørk next to me and give up the attempt.

  The room is a cathedral. Overhead, the ceiling forms a vault at least fifty feet high, reaching almost to the surface of the glacier. All around the dome there are fractured areas where pieces have broken off and fallen, and where the ice has covered the floor, filled the grotto, and then melted again.

  During periods when Moritz was gone and we couldn't afford kerosene, or when supplies were short because the ship hadn't arrived, my mother would set paraffin candles on top of a mirror. Even with only a few candles, the effect of their reflections would be overwhelming. It's the same way with Tørk's miner's lamp. He holds it steady to give me time, and the light is seized by the ice, magnified, and thrown into the air like beams raining upward.

  The long spears of ice seem to be floating. Gleaming with prisms, they drip down from the ceiling, stretching toward the earth. There could be ten thousand or even more. Some of them are intertwined, like chains of cascading Gothic cathedrals; others are small and densely packed-pincushions of quartz.

  Beneath them is the lake. Maybe a hundred feet across. In t
he middle lies the stone. Black and motionless. The water surrounding it is slightly milky with bubbles dissolving in the glacier ice. The room has no odor except for the light sting of ice in my throat. The only sounds are drops falling at long intervals. The ceiling is such a distance from the stone that an equilibrium has been established. Very little freezes or melts in this room. Water circulation is minimal. The place is lifeless.

  If it hadn't been for the heat, that is. It's exactly like the heat in the igloos of my childhood. The cold radiating from the walls makes the heat seem inviting. Even though the temperature is between 32° and 41°F.

  A pile of gear is lying near us. Air tanks, coveralls, flippers, harpoons, and a crate' containing plastic explosives. Ropes, flashlights, hand tools. No one is here except us. The ice creaks once, as if someone were moving a heavy piece of furniture in an adjoining room. But there are no adjoining rooms. There is only compact ice.

  "How will you get it out?" I ask.

  "We'll blast a tunnel," he says.

  That's possible. It will have to be about a hundred yards long. But they won't have to reinforce it. And the stone will roll through the tunnel by itself, if it has the proper slant. Seidenfaden could take care of that. Katja Claussen will force him to do it. And Tørk will force her, and the mechanic. This is how I've experienced the world ever since I left Greenland. As a chain of force.

  "Is it alive?" he asks quietly.

  I shake my head. But that's because I don't want to believe it is. He cups his hands around the miner's lamp. Its beam is now directed at the snow beneath us. From there it's reflected upward. In this way the individual stalactites are obscured but a cloud of hovering reflections is visible, like gemstones defying gravity.