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

I make a turn at the last tower. Before me lies a vast open area. A square in the middle of the ocean. In the dimness, the only light comes from a single fluorescent lamp way up high.

In the center of the square, inside a series of concentric circles, slouches the outline of a large dead animal. A Sikorsky helicopter with four slightly bowed, drooping blades. Near one of the barracks someone has left a little pump wagon for extinguishing fires and an electric bus. Jakkelsen has vanished. It's the most desolate place I've ever seen.

As a child I sometimes dreamed that everybody was dead and had left me behind with the euphoric freedom of choice in an abandoned adult world. I've always thought of it as a pleasant dream. At this moment, on this square, I realize that it has always been a nightmare.

I walk forward toward the helicopter, and then on past it, into the faint light tinted dark green by the non-skid surface of the pontoons. The whole place is so deserted that I have absolutely no fear of being discovered.

At the point where the platform seems to meet the water there are three barracks and an open shed. Jakkelsen is sitting in the shadow, just outside the light. For a moment I feel uneasy. Just minutes ago he was moving as quick as a rabbit; now he's all hunched up. But when I put my hand on his forehead, I feel the heat and sweat from his run. When I try to shake some life into him, there's the clink of metal. I fish around in his breast pocket and pull out his syringe. I remember the expression on his face when he assured me that he could take care of himself. I try to pull him to his feet, but he's too limp. What he needs is two strong orderlies and a hospital gurney. I take off my jacket and put it over him, pulling it up over his forehead so that it won't rain on his face. I slip the syringe back in his pocket. You have to be younger or at least more idealistic than I am to try to fix people who are determined to kill themselves.

As I straighten up, a shadow glides away from the open shed and takes on a life of its own. It's not heading toward me; it's on its way across the square.

It's a person carrying a small suitcase and wearing a flapping overcoat. But the suitcase isn't really small. The person is big. From this distance I can't see very well, but I don't need to, either. It doesn't take much for me to recognize him. It's the mechanic.

Maybe I knew it all along. Knew that he was the fourth passenger.

When I recognize him, I realize that I'll have to return to the Kronos.

Not because it suddenly doesn't matter whether I live or die, but because the problem has been taken out of my hands. It no longer has to do with Isaiah alone. Or with me. Or with the mechanic. Or even with what there is between us. It's something much bigger. Maybe it's love.

When I walk back along the dock, the lights have come on again. There's no use trying to hide.

The tower in front of the Kronos is manned. The figure behind the glass looks like an insect. Close up you realize this is because of his hard hat with two short antennas attached.

Two hoses have been connected up. The Kronos is taking on fuel.

Hansen is sitting at the top of the gangway. He freezes when he sees me. He had been sitting there because of me. But he was expecting me to come from the other direction. He's not prepared for this situation. He slowly shifts gears; he's no good at improvising. He starts to block my way, trying to evaluate the risk of attempting something aggressive. I fumble for the screwdriver and put my hand into my plastic bag. On the stairway behind him Lukas comes into view. I stretch out my clenched fist toward Hansen.

"From Verlaine," I say.

His hand closes around what I give him. With the automatic obedience prompted by the bosun's name. Then Lukas is standing right behind him. He surveys the situation with a single glance. His eyes narrow.

"You're wet, Jaspersen."

He blocks my way up the stairs.

"I had to run an errand. For Hansen."

Hansen tries to find words to protest. He opens his hand, looking for a possible answer there. On his broad palm there's a crumpled ball. It unfolds as we watch. It's a pair of panties-tiny, pure white, with lace.

"They didn't have a bigger size," I say. "But I'm sure you can get them on, Hansen. They'll probably stretch." I walk past Lukas. He doesn't try to stop me. All of his attention is directed at Hansen. His face is full of amazement. Lukas is having a hard time. Nothing but unanswered questions all around him.

As I head up the stairs I hear him give up on this puzzle, too.

"First the baggage," he says. "Then the sternmost capstan. We sail in fifteen minutes."

His voice sounds hoarse, astonished, annoyed, and harried.

I take off my wet work clothes and sit down on my bunk. I think about Jakkelsen.

Through the hull I can tell that the oil pumps have stopped. The hoses have been removed, the hawsers taken in. The deck is being made ready for sailing.

Jakkelsen is sitting somewhere outside in the dark, about half a mile from here. I'm the only one who knows that he's left the ship. The question is whether I should report his absence.

The gangway is lifted. On the deck the posts at the mooring lines are manned.

I stay on my bunk. Because maybe Jakkelsen was on to something. I keep going back to something about his voice on the deck, something about his self-confidence and conviction. If it's true that he's discovered something, there must be a reason why he wanted to go ashore. He must have thought that whatever had to be done had to be done from there. Maybe he can still help me. Even though I have no idea how or why. Or by what means.

There is no blast of the horn. The Kronos leaves the Greenland Star as anonymously as it arrived. I didn't even notice the engine revving up. It's a change in the movements of the hull that tells me we are sailing.

Our cruising speed is 18 knots. Between 400 and 450 sea miles every twenty-four hours. This means that it will take about twelve hours for us to reach our destination. If I'm right. If we're on our way to the Barren Glacier on Gela Alta.

Something heavy is being dragged down the corridor. When the door to the quarterdeck closes, I go out in the hallway. Through the window in the door I can see Verlaine and Hansen moving the mechanic's baggage aft. Black cases, the kind that musicians keep their instruments in, placed on dollies. He must have had excess baggage on the flight over. It must have been expensive. I wonder who paid for it.

If you reach the age of thirty-seven in a country like Denmark, and have regular intervals free of pharmaceuticals, haven't committed suicide, and haven't completely sold out the tender ideals of your childhood, then you've learned a little about facing adversity in life.

In Thule in the seventies we sent equipment up in meteorological balloons to measure supercooled drops of water. They survive for a short time in very high clouds. The area surrounding them is cold but completely still. In a pocket of motionlessness their temperature will drop to -40°F. They ought to freeze, but they don't; they remain stationary and stable and fluid.

That's the way I try to face adversity.

The Kronos hasn't yet settled down. There's a sense of invisible life and movement. But I can't wait any longer. I could have gone through the engine room and across the between decks, if those places hadn't been associated with so many claustrophobic memories for me. At least I want to be able to see them when they appear.

The quarterdeck is bathed in light. I take a deep breath and walk across the stage. Out of the corner of my eye I see the warping lines go by, and the railing around the base of the mast. Then I reach the aft superstructure and unlock the door. Inside, I stand at the window and look out at the deck.