Is that Arne’s tent? No, the man-made object in the distance is not his tent. It is something else. I stop in my tracks, at once joyful and puzzled.
It is the tripod with the theodolite fixed on top. Arne must be somewhere near here, that much is certain. Where else could he be? I have been worried sick for days, and there was absolutely no need. Shielding my eyes from the sun with my hands, I scan the area around the theodolite for a sign of Arne. Nothing. No tent either. But why worry, he is bound to be taking measurements around here somewhere. He will turn up in no time.
Walking towards the theodolite feels like cocking a gun at a sleeping animal.
Damn, I’m exhausted, but it has been worth it. All in all I haven’t done too badly. Found him without a compass. Simple. As simple as finding a meteoric stone right under my nose, which will happen in a day or two.
Taking care to place my feet on matted willow roots, I venture into a stretch of peat alongside the water. The tripod is on the far side, at the base of the other slope. Must not lose my footing now, not a good time to go falling into the river or getting stuck in the mud … Doctor Livingstone, I presume — and a great pool of water collected around his feet.
I laugh so hard it hurts.
I cross the shallows without any trouble and without having to take off my shoes. Reaching the tripod, I look about me in all directions: no-one. In a reflex, I bring my right eye to the telescopic sight. A snow goose comes into sharp focus in the centre of the cross-hairs: alighting on the slope ahead, flapping its wings and pecking at something on the ground before taking off again.
Hesitantly, I make my way towards the place the instrument is directed at.
‘Hey, Arne!’
He is lying on the ground a few paces off.
‘Hey, hey,’ I stammer.
Sprawled on his back, one leg bent, the other flung out. I can clearly see the smooth, worn-down sole of his boot, which has come loose. His head lolls against a rock, which is smeared with a custardy substance. Swarms of flies, of a sort I have never seen before, big and blue. Blue like the hands of a clock.
His mouth is closed in a strange manner, with his decaying upper teeth resting on his lower lip as in a final grimace of pain. For the rest his face looks exactly as it did in his sleep: unaccountably old and tired, wrinkled like the bark of an oak tree. But this is not sleep. This is beyond sleep.
My hand, clapped to my mouth, seems intent on preventing me from breathing.
There are also flies on his beard, his forehead, his half-closed eyes. Not a single mosquito, though.
39
How many times have I run up and down the slope where Arne fell to his death?
First I climb to the top, where I spied his tent. Looking down from there, I notice the notebook lying near Arne’s body. He must have been holding it when he fell. I go down, retrieve the notebook and pocket it. Back up again, to the tent. Pull out the pegs and the supporting pole. I can use the canvas to cover Arne’s body, so down I go again. Then it’s back to the top once more, with the idea that I should do something with the rest of his gear. Can’t think what, so end up wrapping his rucksack and sleeping bag in a groundsheet. Come upon the case belonging to the theodolite. Can’t bear the thought of leaving the instrument on the tripod in all weathers. I go down, unscrew the theodolite, put it back in its case, collapse the tripod. Place both items on the ground beside Arne. Up one more time — don’t know why. Better walk along the river if I’m to locate the trail to Ravnastua, I tell myself, so it’s down yet again. I spring from one stone to the next, my shoulder intermittently grazing the rock face, but it’s as if an invisible parachute keeps me from falling. Falling is the last thing on my mind.
Now and then I look over my shoulder. I am making my way through the valley, and the place where Arne is lying is no longer in sight. Carry on walking. Stop again, squat, pull down trousers. Horrendous belly ache. Diarrhoea. My diet of fish and honey.
Was it stupid of me to leave Arne’s food supplies behind? I’m past caring. Don’t feel hungry. It’s beginning to rain. I plod on. The ravine narrows even further, then comes to a dead end. I clamber out of the cul-de-sac and continue in a straight line. The rain intensifies and I draw my plastic mac over my shoulders. On and on, down into another valley, almost blinded in the downpour. I stumble and manage to regain my balance, but in doing so step on the hem of my mac, causing a huge tear in the plastic. I rip off the dangling flap and toss it away.
40
The trail to Ravnastua is no wider than a shoe, and barely visible in the stony terrain.
Not a dry stitch on my back since I don’t know when. It’s been raining nonstop for at least two days. My eyes are running, my throat is so swollen I can hardly breathe, I cough with each step and my head is pounding. Still, I do pause now and then to put a pebble on top of some larger stone along the way. That’ll be a help to anyone using the trail after me.
Not to Arne. When I take a break — and when the rain lifts somewhat — I leaf through his notebook. All those wonderful drawings going to waste. All those neat entries which I can’t read because they’re in Norwegian, although I try deciphering the occasional word. I see my own name twice in the last of his entries. What did he say about me?
Coming upon a small round lake, I dump my rucksack on the ground. I take out the fishing net and hang it in the water, which is fringed with tall bushes. Not far from the shore I lie down on my side and screw my eyes up tight. I need to sleep.
I open the door to the sitting room and hear an agitated film dialogue in a language I can’t understand. Somebody must have forgotten to switch the television off, because there is no-one in the darkened room. I don’t turn on the ceiling light, as I plan to watch television. Not only is there no light in the sitting room, the screen goes blank, too. Guided by the sound, I make my way to the television in the corner, sink to my haunches and twiddle the knobs to restore the picture. Without success. An assailant creeps up on me from behind, pounces on my back and claps his hand over my mouth. Father! I shout, shaken awake by fear.
Waking from a nightmare in broad daylight is hideous. What has come over me? Why call for my father? Me, father-less for eighteen years, calling for a father who has been dead too long for me to remember ever having called his name!
It was my own hand on my own mouth.
The rain has stopped, but there is a strong wind and the sky is overcast. I stay on my back staring up at the clouds for a long while. Then, having reconsidered all the angles I have considered already, I get to my feet, walk to the lake, untie the net and start pulling it in. A trout. Another trout. When the net is about half way out of the water it becomes incredibly heavy. A gust of wind blows the part that’s above the surface into the bushes. I tug hard to get the rest out of the water, which is in commotion close to the net, as if it’s boiling. Another fish. I take a few steps back and pull with all my might. The net is choked with fishes, there’s one caught in each mesh, it’s like a carpet of glistening, wriggling fishes, hundreds of them. What am I to do? I can’t pluck them off one by one, I haven’t the energy. I must eat first.
How many matches have I got left? Four. All the bushes are dripping wet after the prolonged rain. I set about building a small pyre, taking care to shake the drops off each twig before adding it on top. I strike the first match. It goes out: too much wind. The second and third go out too. The fourth keeps going long enough to light a thin twig, but the flame dies almost immediately. The twig continues to smoulder. I blow on it. No good. It stops glowing altogether. I look on in despair, chew the knuckle of my thumb, then cut the trout into pieces, roll them in salt and eat them. Tastes almost like pickled herring.