Peter Høeg - Smilla's Sense of Snow aka Miss Smilla's Feeling for Snow

I ponder what it must have been like to be her, with her inordinate sense for numbers and her belief in honesty, having to work on a daily basis with someone she suspected of covering up an irregularity.

She gives me her own answer. " 'For there is nothing hid, which shall not be manifested; neither was any thing kept secret, but that it should come abroad.' Mark 4:22." Faith in divine justice has given her patience.

"In 1977 we were computerized. I never managed to understand it. At my request we continued to keep manual accounts. In 1992 I retired. Three weeks before my last workday we balanced the books. The finance director suggested that I leave this balance sheet to the office manager. I insisted on doing it myself. On January 7-exactly twenty-five years after the event I mentioned-I sat there with the books for the expedition to Gela Alta from the previous summer. It was like an omen. I took out the old accounts. I compared the two, item by item. This was difficult, of course. The expedition of '91 was financed through the Scientific Commission, which had become common practice. And yet it was possible to compare them. The biggest entry in '91 was for 450,000 kroner. I called the commission and requested an itemization."

She pauses, mastering her indignation.

"Later I received a letter which stated, briefly summarized, that I should not have gone over the heads of my immediate superiors with that type of request. But by then it was too late. Because on the telephone that day they had given me the answer. The 450,000 kroner had been used to charter a ship."

She sees that I don't understand a thing.

"A ship," she says, "a coaster, to transport eight men to the west coast of Greenland to pick up a few kilos of sample gemstones. It doesn't make sense. We often chartered the Disko from the Greenland Trading Company. To transport the cryolite. But a ship for a small expedition, that was unthinkable. Do you ever remember your dreams, Miss Smilla?"

"Sometimes."

"Recently I've dreamed several times that you were sent by Providence."

"You should hear what the police say about me." Like many elderly people, she has developed a selective sense of hearing. She ignores me and continues on her own track. "Perhaps you think I'm old. Perhaps you're wondering whether I'm senile. But remember, `Your old men shall dream dreams.'" She looks straight through me, straight through the wall. Straight into the past.

"I think that the 115,000 kroner in 1966 must have been used to charter a ship. I think that someone, under the guise of the Cryolite Corporation, has sent two expeditions to the west coast."

I hold my breath. With her honesty and her breach of a lifelong loyalty, this is a delicate moment.

"There can only be one explanation for this. At any rate, after forty-five years with the corporation, I cannot think of any other reason. They wanted to transport something back to Denmark, something so heavy that it required a ship."

I put on my cape. The black one with the hood that makes me look like a nun and that I thought would be suitable for the occasion.

"The Carlsberg Foundation financed part of the expedition in '91. In their accounts there is a fee for a Benedicte Clahn," I say.

She gazes, dreamy-eyed, straight ahead, as she pages through her complete, error-free internal account books. "In 1966, too," she says slowly. "A translator's fee of 267 kroner. That was also one of the entries I did not find an explanation for. But I remember her. She was one of the director's acquaintances. She had been living in Germany. I had the impression that they knew each other from Berlin in 1946. Immediately after the end of the war the Allies negotiated in Berlin regarding the division of aluminum supplies. A lot of people from the corporation were often down there during those years."

"Such as?"

"Ottesen was there. The director of sales. And Councilor Ebel."

"Any others?"

She's groggy from talking so much and from pouring out her heart into what might turn out to be the gutter. She wearily considers my question.

"I can't remember hearing about any others. Is it important?"

I shrug my shoulders. She takes hold of me. She can practically lift me off the floor. "The little boy's death. What are you planning to do?"

Denmark is a hierarchical society. She finds a mistake, and she complains to her boss. She is rejected. She complains to the board. She is rejected. But above the board sits Our Lord. She has turned to Him in prayer. Now she wants me to show that I am one of His assistants dispatched to help.

"That coaster. Did it sail off with what it went to get?"

She shakes her head. "That's hard to say. After the accident the survivors and their equipment were flown to Godthab and then home. I am positive about that because the accounting department paid for the freight and their plane tickets."

She follows me all the way out to the elevator. I feel a sudden tenderness for her. A motherly feeling, even though she is twice my age and three times as strong. The elevator arrives.

"Now don't let your honesty give you bad dreams," I say.

"I'm too old to regret anything."

Then I ride down. On my way out the front door, I suddenly think of something. When I call her up on the silver-plated conch shell, she answers as if she had been standing there waiting for my call.

"Miss Lübing."

I would never dream of using her first name. "The director of finance. Who is he?"

"He's going to retire next year. He runs his own law office. His name is David Ving. The firm is Hammer & Ving. It's located somewhere on Qester Street."

I thank her.

"God be with you," she says.

No one has ever said that to me before, outside of church. Maybe I've never had such a need for it before, either.

"I had a c-colleague who worked on the cleaning staff at the phone company's switching station on N¢rre Street." We're sitting in the mechanic's living room.

"He told me that they just call in and say that now they liave a court order. Then some clips are put on a relay and via the telephone network they can sit at police headcparters and tap all incoming and outgoing calls on a certain number."

"I've never liked telephones."

He has a big roll of wide red insulation tape and a little pair of scissors on the table. He cuts a long strip and attaches it to the telephone receiver.

"Do the same thing in your apartment. From now on, every time you make a call and every time someone calls you, you'll have to remove the t-tape first. That will make you remember that there might be an audience listening somewhere in the city. People always forget that telephones might not be private. The tape will remind you to he careful. If, for instance, you happen to make a declaration of love."

If I were going to declare my love to someone, I cerminly wouldn't do it over the phone. But I don't say anything.

I know nothing about him. Over the last ten days I've seen little drops of his past. They don't jibe. Like now, this knowledge of the procedure for tapping phones.

The tea he makes for us is another one of those little c1 rops that surprise me but that I don't want to ask about. He boils milk with fresh ginger, a quarter of a vanilla bean, and tea that is so dark and fine-leaved that it looks like black dust. He strains it and puts cane sugar in both our cups. There's something euphorically invigorating and yet filling about it. It tastes the way I imagine the Far East must taste.

I tell him about my visit to Elsa Lübing. He now knows everything that I know. Except for a few details, such as Isaiah's cigar box and its contents, including a tape on which a man is laughing.

"Who, other than the Carlsberg Foundation, financed the expedition in '91? Did she know? Who arranged for the ship?"