He is sincerely interested. Humor is wasted on him.
“Very.”
He nods. “It's terrible. They clean you out. The newspapers. The tax system, the customs office ⦔
It seems to me that I've seen him before. It's a feeling that I get from faces and places more and more often. I don't know whether
it's because I've seen so much that the world is starting to repeat itself, or whether it's due to premature wear and tear on the mental apparatus.
He has a square, flat, matte-black cassette tape recorder on the table in front of him. He puts in the tape. The sound comes from distant speakers on the perimeter of the room. Now that my eyes are becoming adjusted to the darkness, I can sense the way the walls curve along with the sides of the ship.
He listens for half a minute with his head in his hands. Then he stops the tape.
“Mid-forties. Grew up near Angmagsalik. Very little formal education. On top of the East Greenlandic there are traces of more northern dialects. But up there they move around too much to say which exactly. He has probably never been away from Greenland for any appreciable length of time.”
He looks at me with light-gray, almost milky eyes, with an expression as if he's waiting for something. Suddenly I know what it is. It's the applause after the first act.
“Impressive,” I say. “Can you tell me more?”
“He's describing a journey. Across ice. With sleds. He's probably a hunter, because he uses a series of technical terms, such as
anut
for the dog harnesses. He's probably talking to a European. He uses English names for locations. And he seems to think he has to repeat many things.”
He listened to the tape for a very short time. I wonder whether he's pulling my leg.
“You don't believe me,” he says coldly.
“I just wonder how you can conclude so much from so little.”
“Language is a hologram.”
He says this slowly and firmly.
“In every human utterance lies the sum total of that person's linguistic past. Now, you yourself ⦠You're in your mid-thirties. Grew up in Thule or north of there. One or both parents Inuit. You came to Denmark after assimilating the entire linguistic foundation of Greenlandic, but before you lost the child's instinctive talent for learning a foreign language perfectly. Let's say you were between seven and eleven years old. After that it gets harder. There
are traces of several sociolects. Perhaps you lived or went to school in the northern suburbs, Gentofte or Charlottenlund. There is also a trace of a North Sealand accent. And strangely enough, even a later hint of West Greenlandic.”
I make no attempt to hide my astonishment.
“That's true,” I say. “It's all basically true.”
He smacks his lips in satisfaction.
“Is there any possibility of determining where the conversation took place?”
“You really can't tell?”
I notice it again. His bold self-confidence and his sense of triumph at his knowledge.
He rewinds. He doesn't look at the tape recorder while he's handling it. He plays about ten seconds for me.
“What do you hear?”
I hear only the incomprehensible voice.
“Behind the voice. Another sound.”
He plays it again. Then I hear it. The faint, escalating sound of a motor, like a generator starting up and then shut off.
“A prop plane,” he says. “A big prop plane.”
He fast-forwards. Turns it on again. A segment with the faint clatter of dishes.
“A large room. Low-ceilinged. Tables being set. Some kind of restaurant.”
I can see that he knows the answer. But he's enjoying pulling it very slowly out of his top hat.
“A voice in the background.”
He plays the same segment several times. Now I can just make it out.
“A woman,” I say.
“A man talking like a woman. He's yelling. In Danish and American English. Danish is his mother tongue. Presumably he's yelling at the person setting the table. He's probably the restaurant manager.”
One last time I wonder whether he's just guessing. But I know he's right. He must have an abnormally precise and skilled sense of hearing and a gift for languages.
The tape is playing again.
“Another prop plane,” I suggest.
He shakes his head. “A jet. A smaller jet. Quite soon after the previous plane. An airport with heavy traffic.”
He leans back.
“Where in the world can an East Greenlandic hunter sit and talk in a restaurant where the tables are being set, where a Dane is yelling in American English, and where you can hear an airport in the background?”
Now I know, too, but I let him tell me. Let little kids have their fun. Even grown-up kids.
“Only one place. At Thule Air Base.”
On the base the club is called the Northern Star. A restaurant in two sections, with a dance hall.
He starts the tape again. “It's strange.”
I don't say a word.
“The music ⦠behind the voice ⦠remnants from the previous recording. It's pop, of course. âThere Must Be an Angel' by the Eurythmics. But the trumpet ⦔
He looks up.
“Of course you can hear that the piano is a Yamaha grand.”
I can't hear any piano at all.
“A loud, heavy, flashy tone. A rather clumsy bass. Often a little off-key. Certainly no Bösendorfer ⦠But it's the trumpet that surprises me.”
“There's some of the music left at the end of the tape,” I say.
He fast-forwards. When he presses the play button, we're at a spot right after the music starts.
“Mr. PC!” he says. Then his face goes blank, self-absorbed.
He lets it play to the end. When he stops the tape, he seems very far away. I give him time to come back. He wipes his eyes.
“Jazz,” he says quietly. “My passion ⦔
It was a brief moment of letting down his guard. When he comes back, he's as cocky as ever. Three-quarters of the politicians and bureaucrats who are part of the Home Rule belong to his generation. They were the first Greenlanders to get a university education. Some of them have survived and held on to their identities.
Othersâlike the curatorâwith their fragile but abnormally overblown self-confidence, have become genuine, intellectual Northern Danes.
“It's actually quite difficult to recognize a musician from the tone. Who can you identify this way? Stan Getz when he plays Latin-American style. Miles Davis from his naked, precise, vibrato-less sound. Armstrong by his meticulous crystallization of New Orleans jazz. And this musician.”
He looks at me, full of anticipation and reproach.
“Great jazz is synonymous with the John Coltrane quartet. McCoy Tyner on the piano, Jimmy Garrison on bass, Elvin Jones on drums. And in the periods when Jones was in prison: Roy Hanes. Just those four. Except on four occasions. The four concerts at the New York Independent Club. That's when Roy Louber joined them on trumpet. He learned his sense for European harmonizing and his incantatory African nerve from Coltrane himself.”
We sit there for a moment thinking about this.
“Alcohol,” he says suddenly, “has never been good for music. Cannabis is supposed to be great. But alcohol is a ticking bomb under jazz.”
We sit there listening to the bomb ticking.
“Since that time in '64, Louber has been working on drinking himself to death. On his way down, in both human and musical terms, he happened to come through Scandinavia. And he stayed here.”
Now I remember his name from concert posters. From certain scandalous newspaper headlines. One of them said: FAMOUS DRUNK JAZZ MUSICIAN TRIES TO TIP OVER CITY BUS.
“He must have been playing in the restaurant. It's the same acoustics. The people eating in the background. Someone has seized the opportunity to make a pirate recording.”
He smiles, full of sympathy for such a project.
“They've managed to get themselves a free live recording. You can save a lot of money with a little Walkman. If you dare take the risk.”
“Why would he go to Thule?”
“Money, of course. Jazz musicians live on so-called bare-ass jobs. Imagine what it costs ⦔
“What costs?”
“To drink yourself to death. Have you ever thought about how much money you save by not being an alcoholic?”
“No,” I say.
“Five thousand kroner,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“That will be five thousand kroner for the session. Ten thousand if you want a notarized transcription of the contents.”
There's not a trace of a smile on his face. He's dead serious.
“Can I get a receipt?”
“Then I'll have to add sales tax.”
“Go ahead,” I say. “Go right ahead.”
I really can't use the receipt for anything. But I'm going to hang it up on the wall at home. As a reminder of what can happen to the famous Greenlandic generosity and indifference to money.
He types it up, on a sheet of typing paper.
“I'll need at least a week. Do you want to call me five or six days after New Year's?”
I take five crisp new 1,000-krone notes from the bundle. He closes his eyes and listens as I count them out. He has at least one passion more burning than modal jazz. It's the sensual crackle of money changing hands, with him on the receiving end.
After I stand up I think of one other thing I have to ask him.
“How did you learn to get so much from what you hear?”
He beams like a sun. “I was originally a theologian. An occupation that presents excellent opportunities for listening to people.”
It's because the pastoral robes are such a total mask that it has taken me so long to recognize him. Even though it's less than ten days since I saw him bury Isaiah.
“Occasionally I still step into the role. Assist Pastor Chemnitz when he's busy. But in the last forty years it's been mostly languages. My teacher at the university was Louis Hjelmslev. He was a professor of comparative linguistics. He had a solid knowledge of forty or fifty languages. And he had learned and forgotten just as many. I was young then and as surprised as you are. When I
asked him how he had learned so many languages, he replied”âand now he imitates a man with a severe overbiteâ“âThe first thirteen or fourteen take a long time. After that, it goes a lot faster.'”
He roars with laughter. He's in a great mood. He has demonstrated his brilliance and earned money for it. It strikes me that he is the first Greenlander I've ever met who used the formal
De
with me and expected me to do the same.
“There's one more thing,” he says. “Since I was twelve years old, I've been totally blind.”
He enjoys my sudden stiffness.
“I make my eyes follow your voice. But I can't see a thing. Under certain circumstances, blindness sharpens the sense of hearing.”
I shake the hand he offers me. I ought to keep my mouth shut. There's really something perverse about harassing a blind man. And a fellow countryman at that. But for me there's always been something mysterious and provocative about genuine, sincere greed.
“Mr. Curator,” I whisper, “you should be careful. At your age. With all the money you have on you. Surrounded by these treasures. On a ship that's screaming like an open bank vault. South Harbor is crawling with crooks. You know the world is full of people unscrupulously striving to obtain the possessions of their fellow human beings.”
He swallows hard.
“Goodbye,” I say. “If I were you, I would barricade the door after I leave.”
The last golden rays of sunshine have settled on the flat stone of the dock. In a few minutes they'll be gone, leaving behind a raw, damp cold.
There's not a soul in sight. I use a key to slit the white plastic on the sign. Just a rip, just enough to see inside. It was painted by a sign painter. Black letters on a white background. “Copenhagen University, the Polar Center, and the Cultural Ministry hereby establish the ARCTIC MUSEUM.” Then a list of the foundations
paying for the fun. I don't bother to read it. I start walking along the dock.
The Arctic Museum. That's where Isaiah's ship was bought. I pull the curator's receipt out of a deep pocket. It's impeccably composed, and yet another miracle, considering that he's blind. He signed it. His signature is illegible. But he has also stamped it. I can read the stamp.