Far Afield (16 page)

“You could fall right in and die. You could get taken away by a wave.” Assured of comprehension, the ticket taker went on a tear. “Nobody would ever know. Do you know this happened only last year? A little boy, it was Páll
bjá
Jørgen’s youngest, he was washed overboard—we think. It was a July storm just like this. Nobody saw because nobody with more than a herring’s brain would be out here.” He shook his head. “Go.”

Jonathan scrambled back to the cabin with the ticket taker on his heels. Drawing in his last real breath, he opened the door.

It was worse than he remembered it, or perhaps it had worsened in his absence. Something sweet yet horrible had been added to the brew. Within moments, a sound identified it for him: vomit.

The woman who had insisted she would be sick was being sick, profusely, into a paper cone. And she was not the only one. Mothers were holding cones for children, husbands for wives, sons for fathers who looked like fishermen impervious to seasickness. Full cones were held at arm’s length, carried to a window, and thrown into the sea. But the pitching of the boat and the juiciness of the cones’ contents made this a hazardous operation. Mishaps dotted the floor.

Vomiting, like yawning, is contagious—nearly irresistible. Jonathan felt that strange dissociation of head from stomach that is the harbinger of nausea. A gulf several miles wide seemed to have opened between his throat and his belly. And yet they were connected—too connected, in fact—by what felt like a thick rubber band that stretched and contracted with the movement of the boat. He
clamped his teeth together and defied fate. Gushes of bile flooded his mouth, black dots danced before his eyes, he swayed against the door and then, unable to stop himself, puked all over his sneakers.

Tears of embarrassment and pain (his vomit had been acrid and harsh, probably because he’d eaten leftover fried fish for lunch) sprang to his eyes. What was he to do now? He looked disconsolately at his shoes. What a foreigner! He couldn’t even vomit into a cone. What must they be thinking, these green-faced, sober people who sat quietly chucking up their lunches without any fuss.

One of them, less green than most, a fisherman, Jonathan figured by his slicker and his vacant expression, lurched off the bench and approached him with a handful of paper towels. He thrust these into Jonathan’s hand and was replaced on the bench by a sudden heave of the sea. “Bad storm,” he said to Jonathan; he imitated the motion of the boat in the waves with his arm and then mimed throwing up. He pointed to Jonathan’s spattered shoes. “Clean, clean,” he said, wiping the air in front of him with another pile of paper towels, which were stacked on the ledge behind him.

Jonathan was touched by this interest. “Thank you,” he said, smiling as best he could. The fisherman repeated “Clean, clean,” in a commanding tone, so Jonathan bent over and got to work. The paper towel reminded him of toilet paper in France: shiny, brown, slippery, unsuited to its task. The whole handful wasn’t enough to clean half of one sneaker. “Can I have more of those?” he asked.

The fisherman was impressed. “You speak very well,” he said. He turned to a retching fellow beside him and said, “You know, that’s an American man. He lives in Skopun. But listen to him speak!” The retcher filled his cone, made his way to the window, disposed of it, sat down, and looked at Jonathan, who was still waiting for more paper towels.
“Fucking asshole,” he said, in English. He smiled broadly. Jonathan bristled. “Fuck, shit, stick it in your ear,” he continued. He was showing off, Jonathan realized.

“You worked in America?” he asked, in Faroese.

The curser nodded. “Shit, damn,” he said, grinning. “New Bedford. Goddamn son of a bitch,” he concluded.

The first fisherman handed Jonathan another pile of towels. “He speaks your language well, no?” Jonathan, busy with his shoes, only nodded. What his sneakers required was a bath; perhaps he would wear them into the shower. If they ever reached Tórshavn.

They spent another half hour on the choppy sea before the boat again changed direction and rode with rather than against the waves. The ticket taker signaled their imminent arrival by opening the door to let in some fresh air. The passengers started straightening themselves—combing hair, wiping pale, sweaty faces with handkerchiefs, adjusting clothing rucked up during vomiting. Jonathan made a few more passes at his sneakers. He looked at his watch: only four o’clock. If he hurried, he might be able to buy a non-Faroese sweater.

In his palatial room at the Hafnia—two beds, view of Tórshavn’s main street, wall-to-wall carpeting, a heartening list of breakfast choices laid on his down pillow—Jonathan unwrapped his packages: a Shetland sweater, navy blue; four new murder mysteries; a pair of Nikes, black and white; a package of airmail envelopes; a small watercolor set; the
Herald-Tribune
, six days old; two long-sleeved T-shirts; an overpriced and weighty picture book about the Faroes; a second Faroese sweater, light brown with dark brown designs; a pot of geraniums, pink.

He had spent a fortune. He didn’t care. He piled his purchases on one of the beds and looked at them from the other bed. The watercolor set made him especially happy. Jonathan couldn’t remember painting since he was in grade
school, but the moment he’d seen the little red box in the stationery store, he’d coveted it. He would go off walking with his paintbox in his knapsack, out to the bird cliffs, and sit there, in the mild sun, painting the sea and the sky. He got up and moved next to his piles of stuff, fingering his sweaters, his T-shirts, his crisp, thin, blue envelopes. The second Faroese sweater had been a wild extravagance, but it was much more beautifully made than his first one, and he knew he’d be happy to have it in the future, when Faroese sweaters would be unavailable. Other anthropologists came back with spears and shields, drums made of human skin, wooden statues that required elaborate crating; he would return with sweaters.

And now, the shower. Jonathan regretted he hadn’t bought new pants as well. All his clothes had an aura of vomit. He opened the window and hung his old Faroese sweater and his blue jeans over a chair to air. Then, sneakers in hand, he went into the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, faint from too much steam and heat, he reeled out and flopped onto the bed. Naked and with hot moist vapors rising from his body, he read the
Herald-Tribune
. The crackle of the pages recalled Paris and made him wish for the croissant and café au lait that had been his daily accompaniment to the news. Perhaps he would go to Paris. It wasn’t that far: a boat to Copenhagen, then a plane. He could be there in three days. He could be there in one day if he took a plane to Bergen, in Norway, but he feared it would be the same sort of plane—and the same sort of trip—as the one that had brought him to the Faroes. The boat would be nice; he would take the boat. Perhaps spend a few days in Copenhagen, where the food was rumored to be good. No, better go straight to Paris, where he knew the food was good. He could buy an old map on the bank of the Seine. He could have a Pernod, he could have steak au poivre, he could go to an American movie on the Champs-Élysées.

A cool wind blowing the smell of fish in the open window brought him back to reality: he was in the Faroe Islands doing fieldwork; he was chilly; he was not going anywhere.

Maybe he’d be better off never going out of Skopun. Jonathan remembered dreaming of leaving the country the last time he’d been in Tórshavn. Something about the place provoked the urge to get out. In Skopun, the rest of the world seemed to fall away; he was stranded there, but the exigencies of living so occupied him that he didn’t have time to think about being stuck. Or perhaps it was merely that nothing in Skopun reminded him that he was, technically, in Europe, whereas here everything was a sad, bedraggled version of life in a European city. Like Rome or Paris, Tórshavn had too much traffic, but a hundred cars were enough to qualify as too much; as in Marseilles, sailors on shore leave roved the streets looking for excitement, but here they found none and were sober while looking; the weather patterns that made London a mystery of mists and fogs made Tórshavn a muddy, soggy hole: all Ireland might be washed in the Gulf Stream, but Tórshavn was drowning in it.

Jonathan folded the pernicious
Tribune
with its memories and its advertisements for villas on the Riviera and Swiss watches. He told himself he was lucky not to be in Sarawak with malaria and a shortwave radio and nothing else, but this had never been a convincing argument for happiness in the past and it failed to raise his spirits now. Every anthropologist gets the culture he deserves, had been the wisdom in Cambridge. To the pacifist, the warlike tribe; to the squeamish, the aboriginal bug- and snake-eaters; and to the sophisticate, evidently, the fourth-rate, hopelessly provincial, downright grubby Faroes.

Only half an hour earlier he’d found his room charming. Looking around it now, Jonathan failed to see what had appealed to him. The prospect of a shower, doubtless,
but now that he’d had one, there seemed nothing in the world to look forward to or enjoy. He picked up the breakfast menu. It was a list of cereals and methods of egg preparation; no grapefruit, pancakes, blueberry muffins, or anything else Jonathan craved. And he noted that it did not proclaim the availability of room service. He would have to go to the dining room to get his morning coffee. Jonathan loathed drinking his coffee in company and was always willing to pay the surcharge for room service in the morning. Not only in the morning; he would happily pay it at this moment to avoid seeing and sitting with the people who were destined to be his dinner companions.

If this were Italy, he could bribe a maid or bellboy to bring him a plate of food. If this were France, room service would be available. But in the obedient, unhedonistic north, his only choice was to go downstairs or to go hungry.

He put on some of his new clothes and went downstairs.

Dinner was a smorgasbord, a fairly extensive and appetizing one, laid out on a long table near the windows. Jonathan helped himself and indulged in the luxury of an orange soda, which for once he would drink during dinner. He couldn’t accustom himself to the Faroese practice of not drinking until after the meal. As he ate his herring and his Havarti, he sized up his fellow diners. There were a couple of families with young children, out to dinner on a Saturday night; the inevitable sprinkling of middle-aged men who every night eat dinner alone in hotel dining rooms throughout the world; three Danish Navy recruits (from the early warning station, perhaps); and a slight, pale man with a large head, who looked about Jonathan’s age and was reading a book while he ate. Jonathan always wanted to know what other people were reading, so he made a detour past the pale man’s table on the way back from refilling his plate. The book was T. E. Lawrence’s
The Seven Pillars of Wisdom
.

Chewing his second helping, Jonathan chewed also on
the puzzle of this person and his book. It was in English, so he was at the least an English speaker; probably he was a native speaker, because Lawrence’s swashbuckling yet self-denigrating account of his adventures would be incomprehensible—and uninteresting—to a foreigner. As an American, Jonathan had found it dull, suggesting that the pale man was English and aspired to be a suntanned, intrepid version of himself.

Jonathan debated going over to his table to say hello. He wished he’d brought a book also. Then they could peek at each other’s books and determine that they had a language in common. He could have brought the
Herald-Tribune
. But did he really want to meet this person? He looked over to find the pale man looking his way. Jonathan smiled. The pale man put his book on the table, with a spoon to mark his place, and walked over to Jonathan.

“Swithin,” he said, extending his hand. “Frank.”

“Jonathan Brand,” said Jonathan. They joined hands for a moment.

“You’re an American, aren’t you?”

Jonathan nodded; Frank Swithin had a full-blown upper-class accent, something Jonathan enjoyed.

“I thought so when you walked in, and then, of course, the way you were eyeing my book—have you read it?”

“I did, yes.” Jonathan paused. The English didn’t mind contentiousness. “I thought it kind of went on.”

“Um.” Swithin was noncommittal. “You must be the anthropologist living on Fugloy. I’m glad to meet you, because I’m heading up there soon and I was hoping to stay with you.”

“I’m living on Sandoy,” Jonathan said. “I’ve got lots of room, though.”

“Sandoy? I was sure—” He rummaged in a pocket. “Here. Fugloy.” He had a piece of paper. “Oh, hold on, this fellow’s name is Jim. You did say your name was Jonathan? Perhaps they’ve got it mixed up.”

“Let me see.” Jonathan held out his hand. The piece of paper read
Jim Wooley, Fugloy
. “That’s not me.”

“Well, you’ve got a double, then.” Swithin emitted a short laugh.

“Where did you find out about him?”

“At the Folklore Institute.”

The Folklore Institute was news to Jonathan. “Are you an anthropologist too?” he asked.

“Oh, no, ornithologist. But I am somewhat curious about the bird legends, so I stopped over there. I also hoped they would be able to tell me the best observation spots, and as it turned out, there was a most helpful fellow who does a bit of amateur watching. At any rate, he recommended Fugloy—you know the name means ‘bird island’—and mentioned this Jim Wooley, who’s been living here since last winter.”

“Last winter?” Jonathan was not feeling well.

“You don’t know him? Surprised. I wouldn’t think that two American anthropologists in this place could miss each other.” He shot out another little laugh.

“How long have you been here?”

“A week.” Swithin glanced over at the food table. “Why don’t we have some tea,” he said. He was looking at a tray of cakes that had appeared at one end.

Settled down at the table again with cakes and tea, Jonathan said, “Tell me about this Folklore Institute.”

“Hardly lives up to its name,” said Swithin. “Two old chaps and the spry assistant who helped me out. They’re working on a collection of Faroese legends and ballads. They’ve done one volume; took them ten years. Magnus Mohr and—I can’t remember the other one’s name. Jens Pauli something. The assistant’s name is Smith. Isn’t that funny? Marius Smith. Told me he’s just a secretary, really. Spends most of his time transcribing the old fellows’ scrawls and jottings.”