Read Smilla's Sense of Snow Online
Authors: Peter Høeg
Smilla's Sense of Snow (45 page)
I think about my mother. Whatever is thrown into the Arctic Ocean never comes up again. But Verlaine wouldn't know that.
The mechanic still doesn't say a word.
“Jakkelsen followed Verlaine onto the docks. He got caught. The best solution was to make room in the cases and put him inside one of them. Load him on board and wait until we were free of the platform. And then let him slip overboard.”
I try to keep my sense of desperation out of my voice. He has to believe me.
“We're far out at sea now. Every second he's on board is a risk for them. They'll come in a few minutes. They'll have to bring him up on deck. There's no other way than over the side. That's why we're sitting here. I thought you should see for yourself.”
There's a soft sigh in the dark. It's the cork coming out of the bottle, which he hands to me. I take a swallow. It's dark, sweet, strong rum.
I put the woolen blanket over us. It's about 14°F, but I'm burning hot inside. Alcohol makes your capillaries expand and the surface of your skin ache slightly. It's this pain that you have to avoid at all costs if you don't want to freeze to death. I take off the woolen cap to feel the cold against my forehead.
“Tørk would n-never have permitted it.”
I hand him the letter. He glances up toward the dark windows of the bridge, leans behind the hull of the motorboat, and reads the letter in the beam of my flashlight.
“It was with Tørk's papers,” I say.
We take another drink. The moonlight is so bright that it's possible to distinguish different colors. The green deck, my blue thermal pants, the gold and red of the label on the bottle. It's like sunlight, falling with a tactile warmth across the deck. I kiss him. The temperature is no longer important. At some point I straddle him. We are no longer two bodies, just patches of heat in the night.
Later we sit leaning against each other. He's the one who pulls the blanket over us. I'm not cold. We drink from the bottle. It tastes strong and fiery.
“Are you from the police, Smilla?”
“No.”
“Are you from some other corporation?”
“No.”
“Have you known all along?”
“No.”
“Do you know now?”
“I have an idea.”
We take another drink and he puts his arms around me. The deck must be cold under the blanket, but we don't notice it.
No one comes past us. The
Kronos
seems lifeless. As if the ship had wrenched itself off its course and were now carrying us away, just the two of us.
Kronos
seems lifeless. As if the ship had wrenched itself off its course and were now carrying us away, just the two of us.
At some point the bottle is empty. Then I stand up, because I realize that something is wrong. “Aren't there any other openings in the hull?” I ask. “Some other way to get rid of him?”
“Why are you talking about death?”
What should I say?
“How is the anchor dropped?” he asks me.
We climb down to the between decks. The case is now full of life vests. Jakkelsen is gone. We go down the stairs, through the tunnel, the engine room, another tunnel, up the spiral stairs. He throws two bolts and opens a door that's three feet square. The chain of the anchor is stretched taut in the middle of the room. Up near the ceiling it passes through a pipe; on either side the moonlight and the silhouette of the anchor windlass are visible. Then the chain disappears downward through a hawser hole the size of a sewer cover. The anchor is pulled up just below the hawser hole. That doesn't leave much room. He stares at the opening.
“A grown man wouldn't fit through there.”
I touch the steel. We both know that this is where Jakkelsen was shoved out during the night.
“He was fashionably slim,” I say.
Captain Lukas is unshaven, he hasn't combed his hair, and he looks as if he has slept in his clothes.
“What do you know about electrical currents, Jaspersen?”
We're alone on the bridge. It's 6:30 in the morning, an hour and a half before his watch begins. His face is sallow and covered with a thin film of sweat.
“I can change a light bulb,” I say. “But I usually burn my fingers.”
“Yesterday, when we were docked, we lost power on the
Kronos.
And a section of the harbor area did, too.”
Kronos.
And a section of the harbor area did, too.”
He has a piece of paper in his hand. His hand is making the paper shake.
“On ships all the wiring goes through circuit breakers. As a result, all power outlets are directly connected to a fuse. Do you know what that means? It means that it's damned hard to create electrical havoc on a ship. Unless you're too smart for your own good and go straight for the main feeder. That's what someone did yesterday. During the brief periods when Kützow is sober, he has his clever moments. He tracked down the source of the accident. It was a darning needle. Yesterday someone stuck a darning needle into the supply cable. Presumably with an insulated pair of
pliers. And then broke off the needle afterwardâan especially clever touch. The insulation would contract over the needle, making it impossible to pinpoint the problem unless you know a few tricks like Kützow does, with a magnet and a voltage sensor. And if you have some idea what you're looking for.”
pliers. And then broke off the needle afterwardâan especially clever touch. The insulation would contract over the needle, making it impossible to pinpoint the problem unless you know a few tricks like Kützow does, with a magnet and a voltage sensor. And if you have some idea what you're looking for.”
I think about Jakkelsen's excitement and the tone of his voice. “I'll take care of this for us, Smilla,” he said. “Tomorrow everything will be different.” I feel a new respect for his resourcefulness.
“During the blackout one of the sailorsâBernard Jakkelsenâapparently disobeyed orders not to go ashore and left the Kronos. This morning we received this telegram from him. It's his resignation.”
He hands me the paper. It's a telex sent from the
Greenland Star.
It's quite brief, even for a resignation.
Greenland Star.
It's quite brief, even for a resignation.
To Captain Sigmund Lukas:
Effective immediately, I hereby resign my post on the
Kronos
due to personal reasons. Go to hell.
B. Jakkelsen.
Effective immediately, I hereby resign my post on the
Kronos
due to personal reasons. Go to hell.
B. Jakkelsen.
I look up at Lukas.
“I have a strong suspicion,” he says, “that you were also on shore during the blackout.”
His demeanor cracks. Gone is the officer, gone is the sarcasm. The only thing left is anxiety bordering on desperation.
“Tell me whether you know anything about him.”
Everything that Jakkelsen didn't tell me is now apparent. Lukas's panicked concern, his desire to protect and rescue his brother and keep him sailing, out of jail and away from bad influences in the cities. No matter what the cost. Even if it meant taking him along on a voyage like this one.
For a moment I'm tempted to tell him everything. For a moment I see a reflection of myself in his torment. Our irrational, blind, and vain attempts to protect other people from something that we don't understand but that keeps reappearing no matter what we do.
Then I let my momentary weakness fade away and die out.
There's nothing I can do for Lukas now. No one can do anything for Jakkelsen anymore.
There's nothing I can do for Lukas now. No one can do anything for Jakkelsen anymore.
“I stood on the dock. That's all.”
He lights a new cigarette. The ashtray is already full. “I called the telex office. But the whole situation is impossible. It's strictly forbidden to put a man ashore in this way. And their internal system makes things even more difficult. You write a telegram and hand it in at a window. From there it's taken over to the mail room. A third person takes it over to the teletype office. I talked to a fourth person. They don't even know whether it was delivered in person or called in. It's impossible to find out anything.”
He takes hold of my arm. “Do you have the faintest idea why he would go ashore?”
I shake my head.
He waves the telegram. “This is so typical of him.”
He has tears in his eyes.
It's exactly like something Jakkelsen would write. Brief, arrogant, secretive, and yet with an enthusiasm for the clichés of formal speech. But it wasn't Jakkelsen who wrote it. It's the same text that was on the piece of paper I took from Tørk's cabin last night.
Lukas gazes out across the water without seeing anything, absorbed in the first of many painful speculations that will start building from this moment on. He has forgotten that I'm there.
At that moment the fire alarm goes off.
There are sixteen of us gathered in the galley. Everyone on board except Sonne and Maria, who are up on the bridge.
By the clock it's daytime, but outside it's dark. The wind has picked up and the temperature has risen, a combination that makes the rain sweep across the windows like the boughs of a tree. The waves strike the sides of the ship like the irregular blows of a heavy mallet.
The mechanic is leaning against the bulkhead next to Urs. Verlaine sits a little apart; Hansen and Maurice are with the rest of the crew. In the company of others, they always seem so inconspicuous. An air of discretion that is part of Verlaine's meticulousness.
Lukas is sitting at the head of the table. It's been an hour since
I saw him on the bridge. He's practically unrecognizable. He's wearing a newly ironed shirt and shiny black leather shoes. He's clean-shaven, and his hair has been slicked down with water. He's alert and gets right to the point.
I saw him on the bridge. He's practically unrecognizable. He's wearing a newly ironed shirt and shiny black leather shoes. He's clean-shaven, and his hair has been slicked down with water. He's alert and gets right to the point.
Just inside the door stands Tørk. In front of him sit Seidenfaden and Katja Claussen. It takes a while before I can bring myself to look at them. They pay no attention to me.
Lukas introduces the mechanic. Then he reports that the fire alarm system is still malfunctioning. It was a false alarm this morning.
He briefly tells us that Jakkelsen has deserted. He says everything in English.
I glance over at Verlaine. He's leaning against the wall. His eyes bore into mine, attentive and searching. I can't lower my gaze. Someone elseâa demonâis staring out of my eyes, promising Verlaine revenge.
Lukas reports that we're approaching the final destination of our voyage. He doesn't say any more than that. In a day or two we'll be there. No one will be allowed ashore.
His lack of more precise details is absurd. In the age of SATNAV, you can determine the exact time of sighting land with a margin of error of only a few minutes.
No one reacts. They all know that there's something wrong with this trip. Besides, they're used to the conditions on board the big tankers. Most of them have been at sea for up to seven months without putting in to port.
Lukas looks at Tørk. This meeting was arranged for Tørk's benefit. At his request. Maybe so that he could see all of us in one place. To gauge our reactions. While Lukas talked, Tørk's eyes wandered from face to face, resting on each for a moment. Now he turns around and leaves. Seidenfaden and Claussen follow him.
Lukas adjourns the meeting. Verlaine exits. The mechanic pauses for a moment to talk to Urs, who is explaining in broken English about the croissants we just ate. I catch something about the importance of moisture. Both in the rising stage and in the oven.
Fernanda makes her departure, avoiding my eyes.
The mechanic leaves. He hasn't looked at me once. I'm going
to see him this afternoon. But until then we have to pretend we don't exist for each other.
to see him this afternoon. But until then we have to pretend we don't exist for each other.
I think about what I have to work on in the meantime. Not some kind of glorious planning for the future, merely a dull, barebones strategy for survival.
I drift down the corridor. I have to talk to Lukas.
I have one foot up on the stairs as Hansen comes down toward me. I withdraw to the open deck area below the upper level.
This is where I first realize how bad the weather is. The rain is close to freezing, heavy and torrential. The gusts of wind whip up the rain as it falls. There are white stripes across the sea where the wind is chopping at the tops of the swells, pulling them along as spindrift.
The door opens behind me. I don't turn around; I walk over toward the exit to the quarterdeck. It opens and Verlaine comes out.
This narrow, covered section of open deck now seems different than before. My attention is usually diverted by the permanently lit emergency lights and the two doors, and by the windows of the crew cabins facing the deck. Now I realize that this is one of the most isolated spots on board. It can't be seen from above, and there are only two entrances. The windows behind me belong to Jakkelsen's cabin and my own. In front of me is the sea rail. Beyond that, it's forty feet down to the sea.
Hansen approaches while Verlaine stays where he is. I weigh 110 pounds. With a quick lift I'll be in the water. What was it Lagermann said? You hold your breath until you think your lungs are going to burst. That's when you feel pain. Then you exhale and take a deep breath. After that there's only peace.
This is the only place they could do it without being seen from the bridge. They must have been waiting for this opportunity.
I go up to the railing and lean over. Hansen comes closer. We both move calmly and deliberately. On my right the drop to the sea is interrupted by the freeboard extending down to the railing. On the outside of the ship a row of rectangular iron rungs has been welded into recesses, vanishing up into the darkness.
I perch on top of the railing. Hansen and Verlaine freeze. The way people always freeze when faced with someone who's going to jump. But I don't jump. I grab hold of the iron rungs and pull myself out over the side.
Hansen can't figure out what I'm up to. But Verlaine rushes to the railing and grabs for my ankles.
The
Kronos
is struck by a heavy swell. The hull shudders and lists to starboard.
Kronos
is struck by a heavy swell. The hull shudders and lists to starboard.
Verlaine has hold of my foot. But the movement of the ship presses him against the railing, threatening to fling him into the sea. He has to let me go. My feet slip on the rungs, which are as slippery as soap from the rain and salt water. While the ship rolls back, I hang by my hands. Somewhere far below me the waterline shines white. I close my eyes and clamber up.
After what seems like an eternity, I open my eyes again. Below, Hansen is staring up at me. I've climbed only a few yards.
I'm outside the windows of the promenade deck. On my left there are lights behind the blue curtains. I pound on the glass with the palm of my hand. When I give up and start climbing again, someone cautiously pushes the curtains aside. Kützow peers out at me. I have been pounding on the window of the engineer's office. He shields his face with his hands to block out the reflection, pressing his face against the window. His nose becomes a flattened, dull green spot. Our faces are only inches away from each other.
“Help,” I scream. “Help, goddamn it!”
He looks at me. Then he pulls the curtains shut.
I keep on climbing. The rungs stop and I collapse on the boat deck next to the davits holding the aft lifeboat. The door is immediately to my right. It's locked. An outside ladder like the one I've just climbed leads up along the funnel to the platform outside the bridge.
Under different circumstances I would have had reason to admire Verlaine's foresight. At the top of the ladder, a few yards above, Maurice is standing, with his arm still in a sling. He's there to ensure that there are no witnesses on the upper decks.
I head for the stairs leading down. From the deck below Verlaine is coming up toward me.
I turn around. I think that I might be able to get the lifeboat lowered into the water. That it must have some kind of quick release to make it drop. That I could jump into the water after it.
But standing in front of the winches for lowering the boat, I have to give up. The system of carabiners and cables is too complicated. I rip the tarp off the boat, looking for something to defend myself with. A boat hook or a flare.
The tarp is made of heavy green nylon with elastic along the edge that fits around the gunwale of the boat. When I lift it up, the wind pulls it free and it flaps out over the side of the ship. It catches on an eyelet on the bow of the lifeboat.
Verlaine is up on deck. Hansen is right behind him. I grab the tarp and step over the side. The
Kronos
rolls and I'm lifted free; wrapping my thighs around the tarp, I lower myself down. At the end of the tarp my feet dangle in midair. Then I fall. They've cut the tarp loose. I fling out my arms and the sea rail catches me in the armpits. My knees strike the side of the ship. But I keep hanging there, momentarily paralyzed because the breath was knocked out of me. Then I slide headfirst onto the upper deck.
Kronos
rolls and I'm lifted free; wrapping my thighs around the tarp, I lower myself down. At the end of the tarp my feet dangle in midair. Then I fall. They've cut the tarp loose. I fling out my arms and the sea rail catches me in the armpits. My knees strike the side of the ship. But I keep hanging there, momentarily paralyzed because the breath was knocked out of me. Then I slide headfirst onto the upper deck.
An absurd fragment of memory brings up images of the first time I ever played tag, right after I arrived in Denmarkâmy unfamiliarity with the game, which quickly eliminated the weak, and then, through a natural hierarchy, everyone else.
The door to the stairway opens and Hansen appears. I head across the quarterdeck, making it over to the stairs leading up to the boat deck. At eye level a pair of blue shoes is coming down the steps. I stick my hands under the railing and shove the shoes outward. It's a continuation of their own movement, so it doesn't take much force. The feet sail out into the air in a small arc, and Verlaine's head strikes the step next to my shoulders. Then he plummets down the last few yards and hits the deck without being able to break his fall.
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