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

He takes hold of my arm. "Do you have the faintest idea why he would go ashore?"

I shake my head.

He waves the telegram. "This is so typical of him." He has tears in his eyes.

It's exactly like something Jakkelsen would write. Brief, arrogant, secretive, and yet with an enthusiasm for the cliches of formal speech. But it wasn't Jakkelsen who wrote it. It's the same text that was on the piece of paper I took from Tørk's cabin last night.

Lukas gazes out across the water without seeing anything, absorbed in the first of many painful speculations that will start building from this moment on. He has forgotten that I'm there.

At that moment the fire alarm goes off.

There are sixteen of us gathered in the galley. Everyone on board except Sonne and Maria, who are up on the bridge.

By the clock it's daytime, but outside it's dark. The wind has picked up and the temperature has risen, a combination that makes the rain sweep across the windows like the boughs of a tree. The waves strike the sides of the ship like the irregular blows of a heavy mallet.

The mechanic is leaning against the bulkhead next to Urs. Verlaine sits a little apart; Hansen and Maurice are with the rest of the crew. In the company of others, they always seem so inconspicuous. An air of discretion that is part of Verlaine's meticulousness.

Lukas is sitting at the head of the table. It's been an hour since I saw him on the bridge. He's practically unrecognizable. He's wearing a newly ironed shirt and shiny black leather shoes. He's clean-shaven, and his hair has been slicked down with water. He's alert and gets right to the point.

Just inside the door stands Tork. In front of him sit Seidenfaden and Katja Claussen. It takes a while before I can bring myself to look at them. They pay no attention to me.

Lukas introduces the mechanic. Then he reports that the fire alarm system is still malfunctioning. It was a false alarm this morning.

He briefly tells us that Jakkelsen has deserted. He says everything in English.

I glance over at Verlaine. He's leaning against the wall. His eyes bore into mine, attentive and searching. I can't lower my gaze. Someone else-a demon-is staring out of my eyes, promising Verlaine revenge.

Lukas reports that we're approaching the final destination of our voyage. He doesn't say any more than that. In a day or two we'll be there. No one will be allowed ashore.

His lack of more precise details is absurd. In the age of SATNAV, you can determine the exact time of sighting land with a margin of error of only a few minutes.

No one reacts. They all know that there's something wrong with this trip. Besides, they're used to the conditions on board the big tankers. Most of them have been at sea for up to seven months without putting in to port.

Lukas looks at Tørk. This meeting was arranged for Tørk's benefit. At his request. Maybe so that he could see all of us in one place. To gauge our reactions. While Lukas talked, Tørk's eyes wandered from face to face, resting on each for a moment. Now he turns around and leaves. Seidenfaden and Claussen follow him.

Lukas adjourns the meeting. Verlaine exits. The mechanic pauses for a moment to talk to Urs, who is explaining in broken English about the croissants we just ate. I catch something about the importance of moisture. Both in the rising stage and in the oven.

Fernanda makes her departure, avoiding my eyes. The mechanic leaves. He hasn't looked at me once. I'm going to see him this afternoon. But until then we have to pretend we don't exist for each other.

I think about what I have to work on in the meantime. Not some kind of glorious planning for the future, merely a dull, bare-bones strategy for survival.

I drift down the corridor. I have to talk to Lukas.

I have one foot up on the stairs as Hansen comes down toward me. I withdraw to the open deck area below the upper level.

This is where I first realize how bad the weather is. The rain is close to freezing, heavy and torrential. The gusts of wind whip up the rain as it falls. There are white stripes across the sea where the wind is chopping at the tops of the swells, pulling them along as spindrift.

The door opens behind me. I don't turn around; I walk over toward the exit to the quarterdeck. It opens and Verlaine comes out.

This narrow, covered section of open deck now seems different than before. My attention is usually diverted by the permanently lit emergency lights and the two doors, and by the windows of the crew cabins facing the deck. Now I realize that this is one of the most isolated spots on board. It can't be seen from above, and there are only two entrances. The windows behind me belong to Jakkelsen's cabin and my own. In front of me is the sea rail. Beyond that, it's forty feet down to the sea.

Hansen approaches while Verlaine stays where he is. I weigh 110 pounds. With a quick lift I'll be in the water. What was it Lagermann said? You hold your breath until you think your lungs are going to burst. That's when you feel pain. Then you exhale and take a deep breath. After that there's only peace.

This is the only place they could do it without being seen from the bridge. They must have been waiting for this opportunity.

I go up to the railing and lean over. Hansen comes closer. We both move calmly and deliberately. On my right the drop to the sea is interrupted by the freeboard extending down to the railing. On the outside of the ship a row of rectangular iron rungs has been welded into recesses, vanishing up into the darkness.

I perch on top of the railing. Hansen and Verlaine freeze. The way people always freeze when faced with someone who's going to jump. But I don't jump. I grab hold of the iron rungs and pull myself out over the side.

Hansen can't figure out what I'm up to. But Verlaine rushes to the railing and grabs for my ankles.

The Kronos is struck by a heavy swell. The hull shudders and lists to starboard.

Verlaine has hold of my foot. But the movement of the ship presses him against the railing, threatening to fling him into the sea. He has to let me go. My feet slip on the rungs, which are as slippery as soap from the rain and salt water. While the ship rolls back, I hang by my hands. Somewhere far below me the waterline shines white. I close my eyes and clamber up.

After what seems like an eternity, I open my eyes again. Below, Hansen is staring up at me. I've climbed only a few yards.

I'm outside the windows of the promenade deck. On my left there are lights behind the blue curtains. I pound on the glass with the palm of my hand. When I give up and start climbing again, someone cautiously pushes the curtains aside. Kutzow peers out at me. I have been pounding on the window of the engineer's office. He shields his face with his hands to block out the reflection, pressing his face against the window. His nose becomes a flattened, dull green spot. Our faces are only inches away from each other.

"Help," I scream. "Help, goddamn it!"

He looks at me. Then he pulls the curtains shut.

I keep on climbing. The rungs stop and I collapse on the boat deck next to the davits holding the aft lifeboat. The door is immediately to my right. It's locked. An outside ladder like the one I've just climbed leads up along the funnel to the platform outside the bridge.

Under different circumstances I would have had reason to admire Verlaine's foresight. At the top of the ladder, a few yards above, Maurice is standing, with his arm still in a sling. He's there to ensure that there are no witnesses on the upper decks.

I head for the stairs leading down. From the deck below Verlaine is coming up toward me.

I turn around. I think that I might be able to get the lifeboat lowered into the water. That it must have some kind of quick release to make it drop. That I could jump into the water after it.