My thoughts begin to drift again. What do I want? I want him to give me the aerial photographs … How am I to get through to this very old man, who’s long past caring what anyone might have to say and who feels no compunction at putting people in an impossible position, assuming he still knows what he’s doing?
Perhaps it’s Sibbelee who is most to blame. Sibbelee should have presented my case differently. Should have said … well, what? He should have asked for the photographs to be sent to Holland! But Sibbelee was not to know precisely which aerial photographs exist of the terrain I am planning to write my thesis on. Besides, wasn’t it a mark of courtesy on my part to collect them in person?
Suddenly it hits me where I went wrong!
I should have fallen to my knees upon entering Nummedal’s study. Humble, but eloquent! Help me, I should have cried, sate me with knowledge! I shall write ten scientific articles and make sure your name occurs a hundred times in each! I shall mention your name in everything I publish to the end of my days, even if the subject has nothing whatsoever to do with you or your invaluable research. I have friends on advisory committees for honours lists … honorary doctorates … obituaries …
Obituaries??
But it’s too late now anyway … I have let the perfect opportunity for attack pass, and now I am under siege. Cowering on the defensive, stuck fast like a warped axle in a damaged hub.
In a fix I can’t squirm out of.
5
Nummedal is an excellent walker.
Out here, in the bright sunshine, his eyesight seems a lot better, too.
We climb higher and higher, and Nummedal takes every available short cut between hairpin bends, striking up footpaths sloping at close on thirty degrees. His pace is steady, his breathing unlaboured, and he holds forth on geological subjects as he climbs.
At appropriate moments I respond with affirmative grunts. I can tell from his intonation when is a good time to come out with an ‘of course’, ‘quite so’, ‘of course not’, or even the occasional ‘ha ha!’.
I am still carrying the rolled-up map. Each of my arms aches in turn, after ever shorter intervals, as I have to keep the arm securing the map from pressing against my side to avoid creasing it. Now and then I hold it at one end between thumb and forefinger, but when I do that I can’t let my arm hang down because the map would trail on the ground. I lag behind Nummedal and hold the map to my eye like a spyglass. Have to stop myself using it as a trumpet. Oh God! What misery, I would wail.
The mountainside is interrupted by a small plateau. Here a tall ski tower has been erected, from which a wooden slide protrudes like a tongue made of logs. We go inside, climb up countless steps, and arrive at last on a platform with parents and children leaning over the parapet admiring the views.
The tower is situated near the tip of the fjord. You can see nearly all of it from this height, with the sprawl of the city on the left and dark forests on the right.
‘Und geben Sie mir jetzt die Karte!’
I unroll the map. He flips up his extra lenses. Points. Flips the extra lenses down again. Speaks. Taps on the map with the back of a pencil. Points into the distance again. He’s giving a lecture. I dare say he’s been coming here with his students these last sixty years.
There’s a French saying: not knowing which leg to dance on.
I don’t know which leg to stand on.
I lose all grip on my thoughts: like birds fleeing a cage when the door is left ajar, they take wing into the landscape.
The fjord is deep blue, while the blue of the sky so far north seems almost too timid to call itself blue. Craggy mountains, toy-town houses. A world-famous panorama. Seeing this and dying — by whooshing down the slide made of logs, which stops abruptly above a round lake. In winter the slide is covered in snow, of course, and the lake frozen over. How many times do I whoosh down, ski-less, snowless, while Nummedal pontificates? If only he’d given me the photographs — how happy I’d be to listen to his every word, how enchanted by the wonderful scenery.
When finally he comes to the end of his lecture I see that the map has been the wrong way up all along.
6
We take the same train back. We have been together all afternoon, but he is as remote as ever. Rambles or excursions of this nature usually end with the professor telling jokes, badmouthing colleagues, or telling you about their dogs, cats, children.
Not so Nummedal. Looking at his watch through his magnifying glass, his mouth turns down in disgruntlement. He has run out of topics of conversation and can’t wait to be rid of me.
Evening is very long in coming.
We climb the stairs at the terminal station and find ourselves in the centre of Oslo once more.
Nummedal flips down his extra glasses.
He is about to take his leave, because he stands still.
I thank him very much for putting himself to all that trouble.
But the pleasure was all his — as if I didn’t know that already.
‘Herr Professor!’
I have to force the words out of my throat as if I’ve choked on a lump of coaclass="underline" ‘Herr Professor, do forgive me for going on about this, but could we come to some arrangement about the aerial photographs?
‘Aerial photographs?’
‘The aerial photographs of Finnmark. I realise you can’t lay your hands on them from one moment to the next, but what if I call at your office tomorrow, some time in the morning, perhaps your secretary could …’
‘I don’t have any aerial photographs for you. Aerial photographs! Of course we have aerial photographs at my institute! But aerial photographs for you to use in the field — how could you think …? We don’t go out and take those photographs ourselves, you know.’
‘But Professor Sibbelee said …’
‘What does Professor Sibbelee know! How can Professor Sibbelee make promises about my aerial photographs? If you want aerial photographs, you must go and get them from the Geological Survey in Trondheim, which is where they are kept. It is on your way up north, anyway. Pay a visit to the Geological Survey! Østmarkneset, Trondheim. Direktør Hvalbiff! He will be pleased to see you. They have just moved into a splendid new building, of which he is very proud. He will be delighted to give you a tour and show you everything! Hvalbiff is your man. I will telephone at once and tell him to expect you.’
Nummedal proffers his hand.
‘Goodbye, sir, I wish you the best. Do give my regards to Arne and Qvigstad! And do call at my office after you have finished work in Finnmark. Don’t forget.’
He flips up the extra lenses.
‘I will relieve you of that map, shall I? Goodbye!’
He steps to the edge of the pavement. With two lenses on his forehead and two before his eyes it’s as if he has armed himself with four headlights.
He points his white stick into the rush of traffic. Drivers step on their brakes. He crosses to the other side. The street seems to close up behind him.
Now what?
It would be remiss of me not to send Sibbelee a postcard.
From a revolving metal display I select one with care: a colour postcard of the ski tower. I head back to my hotel, holding the card by a corner, flapping it absently from time to time as I ponder what to write on the back. Nothing appropriate comes to mind, because all I can think of is what I really think: … your note introducing me to Nummedal hasn’t been much help. He’s old, nearly blind and possibly not fully aware of what’s expected of him. He kept me busy all afternoon, but not before airing his low opinion of Holland.
For you, my estimable mentor, he has little regard. Apparently you took issue with him in your youth, for which it seems he is still seeking revenge. After some carefully worded comments slighting your scientific achievements, he took me under his wing and talked of nothing but his own exploits. None of this had anything to do with the purpose of my mission, but I listened patiently. To the end he treated me as if I were an admirer come to pay homage. But all that time he must have known the only reason I called on him was to collect the photographs. I …