“Isla Gela Alta. Discovered by Portuguese whalers during the last century.”
“I've heard of it,” he says thoughtfully. “A bird refuge. The weather is too bad even for the birds. It's forbidden to go ashore. Impossible to drop anchor. No reason in the world to go there.”
“I'll still bet that's where we're headed.”
“I'm not sure that you're in a position to make any bets,” he says.
While I'm still on my way down from the bridge I think that the world may have lost a nice person in Sigmund Lukas. It's a phenomenon that I've often observed without understanding it. Inside someone another person can exist, a fully formed, generous, and trustworthy individual who never comes to light except in glimpses, because he is surrounded by a corrupt, dyed-in-the-wool, repeat offender.
Out on deck, dusk has fallen. A cigarette is glowing in the dark.
Jakkelsen is leaning against the railing. “This is incredible, fucking incredible!”
The complex below us is lit up by lights on poles lining both sides of the piers. Even now, bathed in this yellow light, painted
grass green, with lights on in the distant buildings, and little electric cars and white traffic markings, the
Greenland Star
looks like nothing more than several thousand square meters of steel plunked down in the Atlantic Ocean.
To me it seems so obviously a mistake. To Jakkelsen it's a magnificent union of high technology and the sea.
“Yes,” I say, “and the best part about it is that the whole thing can be taken apart and packed up in twelve hours.”
“With this place they've won out over the sea, man. Now it doesn't matter how far it is to the bottom or what the weather's like. They can put down a harbor anywhere. In the middle of the ocean.
I'm no teacher or Boy Scout leader. I'm not interested in setting him straight.
“Why do they need to be able to take it apart, Smilla?”
Maybe it's nervousness that makes me answer him, after all. “They built it when they started bringing oil up from the sea floor off North Greenland. It took ten years from the time they discovered oil until they could extract it. Their problem was the ice. First they built a prototype of what was supposed to be the world's largest and most solid drilling platform, the
Joint Venture Warrior
, a product of glasnost and Home Rule, a cooperative venture between the United States, the Soviet Union, and Denmark's largest shipping company A. P. Møller. You've sailed past drilling platforms. You know how big they are. You can see them fifty sea miles away, and they get bigger and bigger, like an entire universe floating on posts. They've got bars and restaurants and offices and workshops and movie theaters and fire stations, the whole thing mounted forty feet above the surface of the ocean so even the worst storm waves will pass underneath it. Just think about the way they look. The
Joint Venture Warrior
was supposed to be four times as big. The prototype was sixty feet above the water surface. It was supposed to provide jobs for 1,400 people. They constructed the prototype in Baffin Bay. After it was erected, an iceberg came along. They had expected that. But this iceberg was a little bigger than usual. It was calved somewhere on the edge of the Arctic Ocean. It was 325 feet tall and flat on top, the way icebergs are
when they're that high. It had 1,300 feet of ice below the surface, and it weighed about 20 million tons. When they saw it coming, they did get a little nervous. But they had two big icebreakers on hand. They fastened them to the iceberg to pull it onto a different course. There was hardly any current and no wind. Still, nothing happened when they started up the engines. Except that the iceberg continued straight ahead, as if it didn't notice anything was tugging at it. And the iceberg rolled right over the prototype; there were no traces of the proud model for the
Joint Venture Warrior
left behind in the water except for some patches of oil and pieces of debris. Since then, they've made all Arctic Ocean equipment so that it can be dismantled in twelve hours. That's how much warning the Ice Center can give them. They drill from floating platforms that can be cut loose. This magnificent harbor is nothing more than a tin tray. When the ice came by, it would carry the platform off as though it had never been here. They only put it up during mild winters when the field ice doesn't reach this far north or the pack ice this far south. They haven't conquered the ice, Jakkelsen. The battle hasn't even begun yet.”
He puts out his cigarette. He has his back to me. I can't tell whether he's disappointed or indifferent.
“How do you know all this, Smilla?”
When they were still deliberating whether to put the
Joint Venture Warrior
on the ice, I was working a six-month stint at the American cold-water laboratory on Pylot Island, conducting experiments to measure the elasticity of sea ice. I was part of an enthusiastic team of five. We knew each other from the first two ICC conferences. When we had parties and got drunk, we would give speeches about the fact that this was the first time five glaciologists of Inuit origin were gathered. We told each other that we represented the highest concentration of expertise anywhere in the world.
We gleaned our most important data from plastic washbasins. We would pour salt water into the basins, put them in a laboratory freezer, and freeze the water to ice of a standard thickness. Then we took these sheets outdoors, placed them between two tabletops, loaded them down with weights, and measured how much they sagged before they broke. We made little electric motors vibrate
the weights and proved that the vibrations from the drills wouldn't affect the structure or elasticity of the ice. We were full of the pride and enthusiasm of scientific pioneers. It wasn't until we were writing the final report, in which we recommended that A. P. Møller, Shell, and Gospetrol begin exploiting the Greenland oil reserves from platforms built on the ice, that we realized what we were doing. By then it was too late. A Soviet company had designed the
Joint Venture Warrior
and won the contract. All five of us were fired. Five months later the prototype was pulverized. Since then they haven't tried anything more permanent than floating platforms.
I could tell Jakkelsen all this, but I don't.
“Tonight I'm going to fix everything for us,” he says.
“That will be wonderful.”
“You don't believe me, man, but just wait and see. The whole thing is crystal-clear to me. They've never been able to fool me. I know this ship. I've got it all worked out.”
When he steps into the light from the bridge, I see that he's not wearing any outdoor clothes. He's been standing here in 14°F weather, conversing with me as if we were indoors.
“Get your beauty sleep tonight, Smilla, and tomorrow everything will be different.”
“The prison kitchen provided
einzigartige
opportunities for baking sourdough.”
Urs is leaning over a rectangular shape wrapped in a white dish towel.
“
Die vielen Faktoren
, the many factors. The sourdough starter, the yeast, and finally the bread dough. How long should it rise, and at what temperature? What types of flour? How hot an oven?”
He unwraps the bread. It has a dark brown, shiny, glazed crust broken in places by whole grains of wheat. An overwhelming aroma of grain, flour, and pungent freshness. Under different circumstances it might have made me happy. But something else interests me. A time factor. Every event on a ship has its first portent in the galley.
“Why are you baking now, Urs? It's
ungewöhnlich,
unusual.”
“The problem is the balance between the
Säuerlichkeit
and the rising power.”
Ever since he discovered me in the dumbwaiter and we stopped talking to each other, I've thought there was something rather doughlike about him. Something elastic, unspoiled, simple, and yet sophisticated. And at the same time, much too soft.
“Are you serving an extra meal?”
He tries to ignore me.
“You'll end up in the slammer,” I say. “Right back in jail. Here in Greenland. And there won't be any kitchen work. No time off for good behavior. They don't make much of a fuss about meals here. When we meet up again, in three or four years, we'll see whether you've retained your good humor. Even if you've lost sixty-five pounds.”
He slumps like a deflated soufflé. He couldn't possibly know that there aren't any prisons in Greenland.
“At eleven o'clock. For one person.”
“Urs, what were you sentenced for?”
He gives me a stony look.
“It only takes one call. To Interpol.”
He doesn't reply.
“I called them before we sailed,” I tell him. “When I saw the crew list. It was heroin.”
Beads of sweat form on the narrow edge between his mustache and his upper lip.
“It wasn't from Morocco. Where was it from?”
“Why are you hounding me?”
“Where was it from?”
“The airport in Geneva. The lake is so close. I was in the military. We unloaded the crates along with the food supplies, via the river.”
When he starts to talk, I understand a little about the art of interrogation for the first time in my life. Fear alone isn't what makes him talk. It's just as much a longing for contact, the burden of a guilty conscience, and the loneliness of the sea.
“Crates full of antiques?”
He nods. “From the Far East. On the plane from Kyoto.”
“Who brought them out? Who was the shipping agent?”
“You must know that.”
I don't reply. I know what he's going to say before he says it.
“It was Verlaine,
natürlich.”
So that's how they've manned the
Kronos
. With people so compromised that they had no choice. Not until now, after all this time, do I see the ship's mess for what it really is: a microcosm, a manifestation of the network that Tørk and Claussen created earlier. Just as Loyen and Ving used the Cryolite Corporation, they have also made use of an organization that already existed. Fernanda and Maria from Thailand. Maurice, Hansen, and Urs from Europe. All part of the same organization.
“
Ich hatte keine Wahl
. I had no choice. I couldn't pay.”
His fear no longer seems exaggerated.
I'm on my way out, but he follows me.
“Fräulein Smilla, sometimes I think you're bluffing. That maybe you're not from the police, after all.”
Even two feet away, I can feel the heat from the bread. It must have just come out of the oven.
“And if that's the case, there wouldn't be any risk if one day I served you a portion of trifle, shall we say ⦠full of glass shards and bits of barbed wire.”
He's holding the bread in his hand. It must be over 400°F. Maybe he's not so soft, after all. If he was exposed to high temperatures, maybe he'd develop a crust as hard as glass.
A breakdown doesn't necessarily have to be a collapse; it can also take the form of a quiet slide into resignation.
That's the way it happens to me. On my way out of the galley, I decide to escape from the
Kronos
.
Back in my cabin I put on underwear made of new wool. Then I put on my blue work clothes, blue rubber boots, blue sweater, and a thin navy-blue down jacket. In the dark it will be almost black, and it's the least obtrusive thing I can find at the moment. I don't pack a suitcase. I roll up my money, toothbrush, an extra pair of panties, and a little bottle of almond oil in a plastic bag. I don't think it would be possible to slip away with anything else.
I tell myself that it's the loneliness that's getting to me. I grew
up in a community. If I've desired and sought out brief periods of solitude and introspection, it has always been in order to return to the social group as a stronger person.
But I haven't been able to find that group. I seem to have lost it, sometime during that autumn when Moritz first brought me out of Greenland by plane. I'm still searching; I haven't given up. But I don't seem to be making any progress.
Now life on this ship has turned into a travesty of my existence in the modern world.
I'm no hero. I had affection for a child. I would have put my tenacity at the disposal of anyone who wanted to understand his death. But there wasn't anyone. No one but me.
I go up on deck. At every corner, I expect to meet Verlaine. But I meet no one. The deck seems deserted. I go over to the railing. The
Greenland Star
looks different than when I stood here several hours ago. Then I was still numb from the preceding days. Now it represents my way out, my escape route.
At least two of the piers are half a mile long. They're strangely motionless in the long swells rolling in from the dark. Up near the buildings I can see small, illuminated electric cars and forklifts.