‘What could I do with it?’
I have no idea what she could do with it either. A souvenir? Of me? She doesn’t even know my name.
*
Now I am truly stumped, and for the next couple of hours I sit next to her more or less in a daze, not saying a word, as if our conversation had never taken place.
Skaidi. A stop on the mountain plateau, by the wooden stall selling snacks. I get off the bus and hobble about aimlessly. She gets off too, and, somewhat to my surprise, walks along beside me, on the side of my bad leg. So she does want to be friendly after all. She even seems eager to support me.
The touristy Lapp emerges from his tent, brass-bowled pipe clenched between his teeth, reindeer antlers in his hands. An exact reprise of his appearance on the scene when I stood here with Arne, shivering under a dark wintry-looking sky. That was before everything started to go wrong. Before Arne died.
I stop in my tracks and take the girl’s arm. She’s smiling.
‘Why are you smiling?’
‘Why aren’t you?’
Moved by fatherly emotion, I buy her a bar of chocolate at the stall.
When the bus sets off again I rack my brains for something we could talk about, but can’t come up with anything better than:
‘You still haven’t told me your name.’
‘I’m Inger-Marie.’
The only response left for me is to tell her my own name: one word. So much for having a conversation.
After a pause I take out Arne’s notebook, look up the page with my name on it and pass the book to her.
‘There,’ I say, pointing, ‘can you read that? Can you tell me what it says?’
She reads slowly, moving her lips and tracing the lines with a nail-bitten index finger. When she reaches the bottom of the page her finger goes back up to my name, and she translates:
‘Alfred headed off in the wrong direction. I thought he was joking. Fifteen minutes later he still hadn’t come back. Spent the whole afternoon looking for him. Went back to the ravine. I will wait for him here.
‘Some gabbros crumble easily into loose debris.33.P.234 …’
Inger-Marie’s voice falters.
‘Oh, you can skip that part.’
She skips a few lines, then goes on:
‘Alfred not back yet. Have decided to stay here, a week if necessary. I noticed he was having trouble with the rough terrain, which he isn’t used to. I admire his perseverance. Never complains, although he has had some nasty falls. And I keep him awake at night with my terrible snoring. Anyone else would have packed it in long ago.
‘Gradient …’
I nod, take back the notebook and shut it, lost for words.
The bus drives on through clouds of dust.
‘Are you Alfred?’ she asks.
‘Yes.’
‘Is your leg very painful?’
‘No, it’s much better now,’ I lie.
‘I hope I translated it properly. I want to go on to university, but my father says I’m mad. By the way, did you know there was an incredibly loud bang yesterday? Somewhere around Karasjok. It was on the news this morning. First they thought there had been a plane crash, but nothing was found. I wonder what it could have been.’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘I don’t believe in flying saucers. Do you?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Maybe it was ball lightning. Have you ever seen ball lightning?’
‘No, never.’
‘I have. Once. I was sheltering from the rain and there was house nearby with a pitched roof. It was as if a ball of fire came rolling down the roof. But there was only a hissing sound.’
We arrive in Alta. I get up and put out my hand, but she ignores it. Instead, she throws her arms around my neck and gives me a long kiss. My hand is on her back and I can feel her thin shoulder blades. Finally I kiss her twice on each cheek and get off the bus in a daze.
The driver has alighted too. He climbs onto the roof to unload my rucksack.
Inger-Marie is watching me from her window. She isn’t smiling, in fact her expression is quite blank. I wave feebly, without any particular hope or expectation. The driver gets in again.
When the bus drives off, she goes to the window in the rear door and watches me from there with the same blank expression on her face. The last thing I see of her is that she’s gesticulating. Waving? Blowing a kiss? There’s also the possibility that seeing me framed by the window reminded her of a shape chalked on a blackboard, and that she was wiping me out, so to speak. That would be by far the best for her.
43
Arne’s friends are still on holiday. I call at the neighbours for the key and find the house in exactly the same state as we left it. My suitcase under the sofa in the living room, and so forth. I undress and put on my ordinary clothes again: shirt, tie, jacket. When I’m done, I ring the Geological Survey in Trondheim. Direktør Oftedahl isn’t in, nor is Direktør Hvalbiff or whatever his name is. But the secretary has a message for me. She tells me that the aerial photographs have been loaned to the university in Oslo. They do not have copies, but they do have the negatives. A fresh set of prints? Yes, that would be possible, but no, there is no point in calling round tomorrow. I cannot count on the prints being ready for a very long time. It will be two, three months at least, and there is considerable expense involved. Do I want her to make a note of my address?
Next I phone the university in Oslo and ask for Professor Nummedal. Oh. Professor Nummedal? He’s not here. He’s gone to Hop, which is a suburb of Bergen. When he’ll be back? He didn’t say. Not for some time anyway. Are you on your way back to Holland? Then you could try in Bergen. Shall I give you his address? Hop: Troldhaugensgate 5, phone number 3295.
Finally I ring for a taxi and leave two ten-kroner notes by the phone. My feet are too swollen and thick with plasters to get into my shoes, so I’m still wearing the rubber boots.
I take my suitcase and rucksack and get in the taxi that will take me to the seaplane dock. In the cramped ticket office I dictate a telegram to my mother, telling her I’ll be back in three days’ time.
44
Blue skies, bountiful sunshine. Here I am not surrounded by sounds, but by fragrances, and there are no mosquitoes at all, nor bloodthirsty flies. The gardens have jagged rocks erupting from lawns and beds of flowering rhododendron.
Troldhaugensgate number 5 is on a narrow asphalt road so steep that cars have to climb it in first gear. The path leading up to the house is even steeper — part of it is stepped, roughly hewn out of rock.
Once again I find myself having to climb before I can speak to Nummedal, which seems full of significance. What the significance might be, though, I can’t imagine. I clamber up the steps and ring the doorbell.
‘Professor Nummedal,’ I blurt to the maid. ‘He’s expecting me, I spoke to him on the telephone this morning.’
She smiles — only speaks Norwegian probably — and takes me through to a conservatory where Nummedal is sitting in the sun. He is not wearing his ingenious spectacles, the ones with the extra lenses that can be flipped up and down. Just ordinary sunglasses.
Nummedal has not risen, but mutters something in Norwegian. The maid utters a long string of words, of which I catch only ‘professor’, then leaves.
I limp towards him.
‘Herr Professor Nummedal …’
‘Bitte, bitte. Take a seat. Why are you walking with such difficulty?’
‘I fell.’
‘You too? Did you both fall at the same time?’
‘No, I wasn’t there when it happened. I had got lost, and didn’t find Arne until afterwards.’
The chair nearest to Nummedal is still quite far away — at the other end of the conservatory. I seat myself facing him. Beside me stands a potted palm with fronds pressed up against the ceiling.