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

Then Moritz stands up. "Benja," he says. "Stay here." She gives him a startled look. "Smilla," he says, "what can I do?"

We measure each other with narrowed eyes. Something has slipped inside him.

"Your car," I say. "Drive your car up to the back door. As close as possible, so you can put the box in it without them seeing you. And so I can get in and lie on the floor in back."

When he leaves the room, Benja sits down in his chair. Her face is expressionless and remote. We hear him start up the car and drive it out; we hear the crunching of the tires in the gravel in front of the door. The sound of the door. Moritz's cautious, burdened steps as he carries the box out.

When he returns, he's wearing rubber boots, an oilskin coat and cap. He simply stands in the doorway for a moment. Then he turns around and leaves.

When I get up, Benja slowly follows me. I go into the little parlor where the telephone is and dial a number. It's instantly answered.

"I'm coming," I say. Then I hang up.

When I turn around, Benja is standing behind me. "After you drive off, I'll go out and send them after you." I step closer to her. With my thumb and forefinger, through her leotard, I grab her crotch and squeeze. When she opens her mouth, I put my other hand around her throat and cut off her windpipe. Her eyes grow big and terrified. She falls to her knees and I go with her, so we are both kneeling across from each other on the floor. She is taller and heavier than I am, but her level of energy and treachery are of a different kind. At the Royal Theater they don't learn to express their anger physically.

"Benja," I whisper. "Leave me alone."

I pinch harder. There are drops of sweat on her upper lip.

Then I let her go. She doesn't utter a sound. Her face is empty with fear.

The door to the foyer is open. The car is waiting right outside. I crawl in the back on the floor. My box is on the back seat. A blanket is pulled over me. Moritz gets into the front seat.

Outside the garage the car stops. The window is rolled down.

"Thank you so much for your help," says the Toenail. Then we drive off.

Skovshoved Water Ski Club has a wide wooden ramp that slopes down into the water from a high dock. That's where Lander is waiting. He's wearing a one-piece, waterproof sailing outfit tucked into his boots. It's black.

The tarpaulin on the roof of his car is black, too. It's not the Jaguar but a Land Rover with the body high off the ground.

The rubber boat tied on under the tarp is black, too. A Zodiac made of heavy rubberized canvas with a wooden bottom. Moritz wants to help but doesn't move fast enough. With a swift jerk the small man tips the boat off the car, catches it on his head, and shoves it down the ramp with one fluid movement.

He takes an outboard motor out of the back of the car, lands it in the boat, and fastens it to the stern.

All three of us lift the boat to get it into the water. In my box I find rubber boots, a balaclava hood, thermal gloves, and a sou'wester that I pull on over my sweater.

Moritz does not go out on the ramp with us but stays at the railing. "Can I do anything for you, Smilla?"

It's Lander who answers. "You can get out of here fast."

Then he pushes off and starts up the motor. An invisible hand takes hold of the boat from below and pulls us away from land. The snow is falling heavily. After a few seconds Moritz's figure disappears. Just as he turns around and goes back to the car.

Lander has a compass strapped to his left wrist. In a corridor of visibility momentarily appearing in the snowfall, we can see Sweden. The lights of Tarba;k. And, as lighter, floating spots in the dark, two ships at anchor between the shore and the central navigation channel. Northwest of Flakfort.

"The starboard one is Kronos."

I'm having a hard time separating Lander from his office, his liquor, his high heels, his elegant clothes. The authority with which he maneuvers the boat between the swells, which get bigger the farther we are from shore, is unexpected and foreign.

I try to orient myself. It's one sea mile out to the channel. Two shoal markers along the way. The channel lights to Tuborg Harbor. To Skovshoved Harbor. The masthead lights on the hills above Strand Drive. A container ship on its way south.

When the snowfall blocks out the view, I correct his course twice. He gives me a searching glance, but he obeys. I don't try to explain anything to him. What would I say?

A slight wind comes up. It blows cold, hard drops of salt water into our faces. We huddle in the bottom, leaning against each other. The heavy Zodiac dances on the choppy waves. He puts his mouth to my balaclava hood, which I've pulled up.

"Føjl and I were in the navy together. In the Seals. We were in our early twenties. If you're a thinking person, then you have to be that age to put up with that kind of shit. For six months we would get up at 5:00 a.m. and swim half a mile in ice-cold water and run for an hour and a half. We had parachute jumping at night over the sea, three miles off the coast of Scotland, and I'm practically nightblind. We dragged that crappy rubber boat around on our heads through the Danish woods while the officers pissed on us and tried to rearrange our psyches to make fighting men out of us."

I put my hand on his arm holding the throttle and correct the course. Five hundred yards ahead the container ship cuts across our course in the form of a green starboard light and three running lanterns up high.

"It's usually the small ones who do best. Guys my size. We were the ones who could keep it up. The bigger guys could manage one lift and then they were finished. We had to put them in the rubber boat and carry them along. But Føjl was different. Føjl was big. But as fast as if he were small. They couldn't wear him out. They never cracked him in the interrogation courses. He would just give them that friendly stare; you know how he is. And then he wouldn't budge an inch. One day we were diving under ice. It was winter. The sea was frozen solid. We had to dynamite a hole in it. There was a strong current that day. On my way down I passed through a cold belt. That happens sometimes. The condensed water from the exhaled air freezes to ice and blocks the small valves in the air tank. I hadn't attached the safety line yet. That's how you can find your way back to the hole in the ice. That's what diving under ice is like. From six feet away the hole is a dark edge. From fifteen feet away you can't see it any longer. So I'm seized with panic. I lose the line. I don't think I can see the hole anymore. Everything is green and brilliant and neon-colored under the ice. I feel as if I'm being sucked into the realm of the dead. I can feel the current grabbing me and carrying me down and away. They tell me that Føjl was watching. So he picks up a lead belt in one hand and jumps into the water without any oxygen tank. With only a line in his hand. Because there wasn't time. And he dives down to me. He catches me forty feet down. But he's diving in a dry suit. This means that the water pressure presses the rubber against his skin. With an additional one atmosphere of pressure for every thirty feet. About thirty feet down the rubber edge cut through the skin of his wrists and ankles. What I remember about our passage up to the surface was clouds of blood."

I think about the scars around his wrists and ankles. "He was also the one who forced the water out of my lungs. And gave me artificial respiration. We had to wait a long time. They only had a little gas turbine helicopter, and the weather was bad. He gave me heart massage and artificial respiration all the way back."

"Back to where?"

"To Scoresbysund. We were on exercises in Greenland. It was cold. But that suited him fine."

The snow closes around us in a chaotic gridwork, a wild confusion of slanted stripes.