The Christmas Hypothesis

by Anna Blix

  Niklas shut the door.

  3

  Niklas sank to the floor. He could hear Tom laughing on the other side of the door, and then there were footsteps, leaving. But the question lingered — what was he going to do with his correspondence?

  He looked around the room at the stacks of letters piling up all over the place. On the floor, under the bed, in the cabinet, on the shelves, in the wardrobe, on the desk. Everywhere. Reaching for the ceiling like his own towering metropolis. Paper skyscrapers, rocking dangerously back and forth after the door banged shut. There must be thousands of letters. All of them unopened and unread.

  Well, he had read them in the beginning. Opened them and skimmed through them. Recycled them, even — hah. But seriously, what was he expected to do? There was not a recycling bin in the world big enough for this quantity of misdirected post.

  It always started in August. A slow trickle of letters each week that increased exponentially until December, when they arrived by the barrel load — sacks of them, bursting at the seams. Dropped off by the pilot and dragged to his door by one of the other researchers. Tom was currently the leader spurring them on, but there had been others before him. It had been going on for years. At first, Niklas had objected. Why should he take responsibility? Let somebody else deal with it, he’d said. Oh no, the letters were for him, they insisted. Who else had a name like Nicholas around here? See — there was even a bank letter with his full name; the whole sack had to be for him.

  The sacks kept appearing, and in the end, Niklas buckled. He took them into his room and poured the letters out on the floor. Ploughed through them for the odd piece of mail that was actually his. Then, not knowing what else to do, he stored the letters in his room. Crammed them into any space they would go. Stacked them high. What else could he do? Send them back? Return to sender? They never came with a return address. At first, he had tried dragging the sacks back to the plane, but the pilot refused to take them, and he ended up having to haul them back inside again. Now here they were, his very own collection of Christmas wish lists.

  Niklas shifted closer to one of the teetering stacks near the desk. He tickled it with his toe, gave it a nudge, and tipped it over. It avalanched across the floor, stirring up a cloud of dust.

  He picked up one of the letters. The address read: “Saint Nicholas, North Pole, The Arctic Ocean”. That was a good one, Saint Nicholas. Where did they get these ideas? Saint. There were no saints here, as far as he’d noticed. Only scientists. Ordinary, earthly scientists. And not even very nice ones.

  He pulled a folded piece of paper out of the envelope and read,

  Dear Santa, please can I have:

  A pony

  A popcorn maker

  A unicorn

  Thanks in advance, Lila

  Niklas laughed. “You’ll get your popcorn maker, Lila. There’s one right here.” He grabbed the kettle from under his desk and shook the remaining water out on the floor. “There you go. I’ll just fire up the sleigh, then I’ll come flying.” He laughed so hard that tears welled up in his eyes. “I’ll drop it down your chimney.” He tossed Lila’s letter on the floor and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

  He picked up another one from the heap. It was addressed to “Father Christmas, Santa’s Workshop, North Pole”.

  Father Christmas. Niklas was fairly certain he wasn’t anybody’s father, not even in the spiritual sense, but he went ahead and opened the envelope anyway. It turned out to be from someone named Theo, and it read,

  Theo’s Wish List:

  Nintendo

  Games for Nintendo

  New iPad

  Short and to the point. He liked it. Theo clearly knew how to get his message across without unnecessary waste of ink. This child was destined to go far in life. Maybe he would be a manager one day.

  Niklas threw the letter back on the floor. Who did they think he was? Some kind of mythical demigod? A jolly old red-nosed patriarch sitting here with his elves? Lovingly handcrafting popcorn machines and iPads, while whistling a cheerful tune? Grooming his reindeer and polishing the sleigh?

  And what did they think this place was? A blooming toy factory? Who in their right mind would build a toy factory at the North Pole? Just think about the logistics. What a nightmare. He knocked over another stack of letters, which collapsed across the floor, and then another.

  There was a knock at his door.

  “Get lost, Tom!” he shouted.

  “It’s just me, Nina.”

  Niklas didn’t recognise the name or the voice. Was it the second Italian student? He thought her name was Anna. That was what he’d been calling her. Anyway, it didn’t matter much now. “Come in.”

  The door opened, pushing a bank of letters in an arc across the floor. It was the pilot who had flown the plane that morning. And at her feet was a postal sack, bursting at the seams.

  Niklas stayed in his room for the rest of the day. Lying on his bed with his eyes open. Staring at the grey ceiling, flask in hand, letting the vodka numb his senses. He thought about Pekka Aho. Strong and clever, always correct — a real man, who liked his vodka. That was Pekka. No wonder he’d become the head of the whole faculty. Niklas tried to picture Pekka with a piña colada in his hand — like Santa Claus on his Christmas card. Pekka Aho on a beach with a tropical drink, dressed in a silly costume. He’d like to see that.

  So this was it, then. Time to go home, wherever home was. Maybe Helsinki? Go to Pekka Aho’s office and beg him for a job. Pekka would probably give him one, just to have a good laugh. Shut him in a cleaning cupboard somewhere. Have him sort paper clips for the rest of his career. He would like that, Pekka.

  No. Niklas would rather live in the woods than go back to the university. Besides, what would the rest of them say? He had lost all the respect of his peers — if there ever was any. A failure, that’s what he was.

  He pulled his parents’ Christmas card down from the wall. Beach-Santa grinned at him, raising his piña colada.

  “Shall I come and spend a sunny Christmas with you, Mum? How about that? Fly down to Tenerife? Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise for everybody?” He sighed. “Do you still have the house in Helsinki, Mum? Can I go back and stay there?”

  No. No, he couldn’t. He lowered his hand and rested the card on his stomach. Eventually, he must have gone to sleep.

  4

  It was eleven at night when Niklas woke up, hungry. He decided to venture to the kitchen and cracked the door to check if anybody was in the corridor. The coast was clear, and he made his way down the dark passage, past Tom and Vlad’s closed doors, to the communal kitchen.

  The fridge was still well stocked from today’s delivery. He grabbed a sandwich and a Coke and sat at one of the tables, brushing someone else’s crumbs onto the floor. There was a low humming from the station’s electrical transformers and a higher-pitched humming from the fridge. He opened his laptop and keyed in “science jobs in Helsinki”. Via the polar station’s satellite connection, he was taken to a job-seeking site, which prompted him to upload his CV. He dutifully submitted his personal details and qualifications:

  PhD in physics from University of Helsinki

  15 years of unsubstantiated polar research

  That’s it

  Niklas chuckled softly and closed the laptop. He’d better go charge up his old Nokia, for when the offers started coming in. Crank up the ring volume, so he didn’t miss any calls. If only he could find it. He scrunched up the sandwich wrapper and tossed it in the bin. Who was he kidding? He was completely unemployable.

  The following morning, he woke up with a nauseating headache. He sat up in bed and rubbed his eyelids, got to his feet and dressed with slow movements. When he stepped out in the corridor, he immediately encountered Tom.

  “Morning, Nick! Do you have a minute for a quick meeting? I thought we could discuss the handover.”

  No. Niklas didn’t want to have a meeting with Tom. Not this morning. Not any morning, but espec
ially not this morning. He looked around for an excuse, but couldn’t find one.

  “If you’re not busy?” Tom smiled. “I thought it could be useful to get started right away. Go over a few things, while you’re still here.” He stared at Niklas, waiting for him to speak. “We can always do it later, if you’d rather?”

  Niklas shrugged. “I’m not busy.” He licked his thumb and rubbed a stain on the wall. It didn’t come out. “See you in the lab.” He turned away without waiting for Tom’s answer and headed for the washroom.

  Half an hour later, he opened the door to the laboratory, where Tom was sitting at a table, keying on his laptop, with a notebook on the side. Niklas took the seat opposite and glanced at Tom’s notes. “Handover meeting with Niklas Heikkinen”, they read. And today’s date.

  Tom picked up his pen. “Okay… shall we begin? I think this transition will be fairly straightforward.”

  Niklas stared at the ceiling.

  “I mean, I’ve been here for two seasons already, so I pretty much know what there is to know.”

  “You’ve never stayed a winter,” Niklas murmured.

  “Pardon?”

  “I said you’ve never stayed a winter.”

  Tom’s eyebrows rose. “Um okay… That’s one thing we can go over now, then. Any tips?”

  “Tips? Do you want a tip?” Tom wanted a tip about living alone on an island in the black of the Arctic night. With icy winds tearing at the roof and hailstones lashing the windows. Maybe he wanted a little tip on what to do if the generator broke down. Or perhaps he wanted to know how to survive when the weather was so bad there were no deliveries for weeks on end? Or what to do if he ventured outside and a polar bear wandered ashore? Tom wanted a tip, and he would give him one. Niklas turned Tom’s notebook around and wrote, “Tip: Spend the winter south of the Arctic Circle.”

  Tom shook his head and blew air through tight lips. There was a pause before he said, “Okay. I can see you’re not taking this seriously.” He breathed hard through his nose. “And frankly, I don’t think this handover will be necessary.” Then he stood up, cheeks red. “I promised myself I wasn’t going to say this, but I will: They’ve let you freeload on government funding for way too long, and I’m glad Juha is finally putting an end to it. Good riddance when you’re gone. There’s nothing you could teach me I haven’t already figured out myself.” He turned to leave and muttered over his shoulder, “A bit of guidance in the beginning might have been more appropriate, but I guess you were too territorial to help anyone new.”

  Niklas noticed his hands were shaking. He was normally a calm man, who rarely displayed outbursts of anger or emotion, but at that moment, he snapped. “Territorial?” he shouted. “Territorial? People like you don’t understand a thing about science. You can take your smooth talk, and your fancy clothes and… And you can…” Niklas pushed his chair back, but as soon as he stood up, the room started spinning around him. He leaned forward and supported himself on the tabletop, looking down at his hands.

  Tom walked away casually, calling back, “Don’t worry about the handover, Nick. We’ll do just fine without you.” He stopped at the door. “I’m sorry it had to end this way. You always wanted to do everything yourself. But you can’t. Nobody can.”

  Niklas stayed leaning against the table for another minute and let the laboratory finish spinning. Was it true what Tom had said? Was he really that difficult to work with? Territorial? He had never thought of himself as territorial. He’d always shown the new students around the station when they arrived in spring, and taught them how to use the instruments. Sometimes he even went over basic physics they should have known from university. And he had been patient with them. Extremely patient. What was Tom talking about? It couldn’t be right.

  He straightened himself up and left the room. He struggled to hold his nausea on the way back to his room and it was with relief he reached his door. But there was already somebody inside.

  One of the Italian students, Giulia, was busy heaping his letters into plastic sacks. She stepped back with a guilty look on her face. “Juha told me to do it.”

  Niklas looked around the room. There were more refuse bags, tied at the top and lined up against the wall. “I don’t understand. Did he tell you to take my post?”

  “No… well, he just said to clear the room, so it’s not all left when you go.”

  “But… These are my things! What are you doing?” Niklas rummaged through one of the bags. Amongst the hundreds of envelopes, he found his mother’s Christmas card, with Beach-Santa and his drink. “These are my personal belongings!” Niklas pushed the card into the back pocket of his jeans and grabbed his wallet and passport from a drawer. “Why are you throwing away my things? I’m still here.”

  He couldn’t hold back any more. Lurching away from the Italian student, he leaned forward and threw up into the corner over two piles of letters. Then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  Still turned to the wall, he said, “You have no right to take them. Please, can you leave now?”

  The Italian student took a step back, and then she darted out of the room.

  Niklas heard her running down the corridor. “I’m sorry,” he called after her. “I didn’t mean to…”

  He sat on the floor and grabbed a handful of letters. White envelopes with childish handwriting and an abundance of stamps. He opened one of them. It was scented. Some kind of flower smell. Violet. It smelled just like a sweet he had eaten as a child. His stomach heaved again, but he managed to keep down whatever was left. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Then he read the letter.

  London, England

  Dear Santa,

  How are you? You must be very busy making presents for all the poor children in the world. But if you have time, I’d really like a red scooter. Turn the page to see what my house looks like.

  Love,

  Sophie

  Niklas turned the letter over. On the back was a drawing of what must be the house where this Sophie lived. It looked like a typical English house, nothing special. A two-storey red masonry building with sash windows. It had a little porch with a slanted roof and a blue door. A thin line of smoke rose up from the chimney, as if someone had left a fire to die out. In the background was the London skyline.

  He put the letter back in the envelope. Why did they keep sending these letters? What were they expecting? Was it really just about getting presents? Deep down, they must know their parents bought the presents for them. And what was it about England? They all seemed to come from England, judging by the postage stamps. England must either be where the greediest children lived, or it was the country with the most dedicated postal service. Both could of course be true.

  He felt the nausea rise again. The room was unbearably hot. He got up and stumbled out to the corridor with a bunch of letters in his hand. He passed the kitchen, and there was Tom with the two Italian students. They stopped talking when they spotted him, and stared. Niklas kept his eyes fixed on the floor as he walked past them, as straight and upright as he could manage.

  He pushed the handful of letters into his coat pocket, pulled on his snow-boots, and rushed out into the darkness. He took a deep breath of sub-zero air. That felt better.

  The air was thick and saturated with humidity. It muted the deep resonating sounds of ice settling out at sea — the low musical tones of ice grinding against ice.

  But there was another sound as well. A shrieking noise from somewhere out on the pack ice. Birds, calling. They sounded like some kind of gull — Arctic skuas maybe? But that couldn’t be right. He’d never seen skuas this late in the year. They only ever stayed a few months in the summer to breed. He decided to investigate and headed out towards the sea, not bothering to go back inside to get the station’s rifle out of its cupboard. Instead, he descended the steep slope to the shoreline and continued outwards onto the snow-covered ice.

  The birds circled an object in the snow. He’d been right. They were de
finitely skuas. Aggressively chasing each other away while sneaking bits of whatever it was they were fighting over.

  Niklas walked closer. He raised his arms and waved them above his head. The birds took little notice of him.

  “Why are you still here?” he shouted. “Fly away!” He ran right up to them.

  Then, the birds spread their wings and took off, all at once. Dark bodies against the dark sky. Wings, beating rhythmically. The birds disappeared in the fog, shrieking.

  Left behind on the ice were the remnants of a seal. By now, nothing more than a pile of bones and dark stains in the snow.

  Niklas drew back and sank down on a block of ice. He stared at the dark spots. The seal must have been left by a polar bear. He thought about the rifle back in its cabinet and wished he’d brought it with him. What if the bear came back for more? Niklas had spotted bears many times in the Arctic, and they always gave him the shivers.

  He noticed how tired he was. Tired of the dark and the cold. Tired of struggling against the current. Tired of pretending. Those skuas were not the ones who had overstayed their welcome. It was him. He should have left this place years ago.

  “You silly old bear,” whispered Niklas. “There’s nothing left for you here.”

  He’d already given fifteen years of his life to this place. Maybe he was not cut out to be a scientist. Then what was the use in trying? At some point, it had to be time to cut his losses. For the first time, Niklas had a feeling that point had passed some years ago.

  He wondered how long the others had been laughing behind his back. He knew he was a source of great amusement to them, but when did it start? After how many years of trying to finish his paper? Or was it because of the letters? He ran his hand over his bulging coat pocket. The letters. And just why had those little kids been writing so tirelessly? Were they mocking him too?