Ilija Trojanow - The Lamentations of Zeno

I’M LOOKING DOWN at Neko Harbor (there’s still no place I like better), a glacial tongue, an oval bay, and further out a narrow strait hemmed in by jagged, jutting mountains, the humped backs of mighty creatures sleeping away the summer, while kelp gulls fly in lingering spirals. The bay makes the ship seem tiny, insignificant, as if it could be made to disappear using a handheld remote. I breathe in the view until it streams through all my veins and fills my brain. Jeremy is sitting on a stone that’s free of snow, pointing his camcorder at the glacier in an effort to capture masses of ice as they crash into the foaming sea. Without warning he points his camera at me, “What a lucky coincidence, here comes the lead actor of the new blockbuster hit The Penguin Strikes Back , please share with our television audience exactly when it dawned on you that you would write the history of the Antarctic Cruise Crusade?” In reply I make a disgusted face. The camera doesn’t so much as twitch. “And where did you get the idea of using a penguin to play the squeaky wheel?” I shake my head and say nothing. Jeremy jumps up and stamps around me with his heavy boots, bombarding me with further questions while I stare into space so the pushy reporter will go away. “With your permission I’d like to ask one final question, namely who is going to play the role of the penguin, could you at least share that secret with us?” The snow isn’t firm enough for rapid movement, our laugher is more nimble than our feet. “Cut. Professor Z., why do you love ice as much as you do?” Jeremy has stopped, his glasses are slightly clouded over.

“Because of its variety.”

“Could you explain further?”

“The most beautiful thing on earth: variety.”

“Yes of course, we all love variety, but in the ice?”

“There’s nothing more varied. A solid body containing gas and liquid.”

“Just like human beings. Cut. We are observing a professor on the mound overlooking Neko Harbor, who is attempting to remain serious although he would like to laugh, it is the seriousness of the situation forcing him to do this, for he has recognized how serious the situation really is.”

“Go ahead and make fun since everything really is so funny.”

“All right then, let’s be serious. Cut. Zeno, what would you say is your greatest wish at this moment?”

“I’d like to stay here, Jeremy.”

“But you wouldn’t be able to survive.”

“Who knows, with a tent and a backpack and some dry provisions.”

“Well I’m sure the captain would give me a medal or maybe even a raise if I did leave you here, no, wait, it won’t work. Paulina would tear my head off.”

“I’m tired.”

“Already? It’s just the start of the season.”

“I’m tired of being human.”

“You’re ok, Mr. Iceberger. Even if you do get off track now and then, still …”

“I’m not tired of being me, Jeremy, just tired of being human.”

Jeremy takes one step forward, then another, he embraces me, unexpectedly, it’s a ritual typically reserved for saying goodbye at the end of the expedition, I give him a firm hug in return, he cries out, but not as a joke, I hear a thudding sound followed by a curse, we separate and watch as the Full HD video camera tumbles down the steep cliff and is stopped by a little ridge in the snow, the thought occurs to me that we could climb down, but then it resumes sliding and picks up speed and vanishes out of sight. We stand there like two boxers who’ve just learned the fights been called off, pricking our ears, listening for the sound of the camera hitting the water, but we don’t hear a thing. We stare at each other. Although I don’t say a single word, the regret must be etched on my face, because Jeremy is quick to console us both: No problem, anyway the interview with you was lousy, the camera is insured and I’ve shot Neko Harbor before in much better light. Let’s pack up. Jeremy pulls one of the red flags out of the snow, holds it in his hand like a spear or harpoon, he must have had the same image in mind.

“Just imagine, what if a whale swallowed the latest edition of Daily Turbulences and then got killed and slit open and some avid Japanese researchers discover the camera, what if they take out the memory stick and put it in a camera that hasn’t been corroded by the whale’s stomach juices, and then punch ‘play’? What do you think they’ll see? Your face. And what will they hear? ‘I’m tired of being human.’ And then they nod and each one says, me too, and they all decide to climb into the open belly of the whale, which they staple shut from the inside before tossing it back into the ocean.”

“How will they do that if they’re all inside?”

“One of them will have to sacrifice himself, somebody will have to stay outside and operate the sling lift. Satisfied, you old pedant you?”

“If that happened I would be overjoyed.”

“Let’s get a move on, down we come, or how do you say it in Bavarian?”

“ Obi , Let’s go obi !”

Using flag stakes as walking poles we carefully make our way down, soon we’re eye level with the seagulls, gentoos are scrambling over the craggy outcroppings, the snow around them is discolored from their urine, the green color is as pungent as the ammoniac stench. From the shoreline the glacier looks like a face with a thousand expressions, each posing a different riddle in the sunlight. It’s almost too much, says Jeremy. And I say nothing. We stand there a while next to each other, hypnotized by all the crevasses into which our thoughts are falling, Father roaming through the house at night, raising his litany to a lament, the louder his voice the deeper he is buried beneath his cry. I have the impression time and again that glaciers are putting on the last act of a bad play.

The ice is here, the ice is there, the ice is all around, before us as a carpet whose knots crack when we step on them, behind us as a mirror broken in a thousand pieces. When the floes graze each other they sound like little bells, when they collide with the hull it echoes like cannon fire. Just four years ago we couldn’t make it through at this time of year. On shore Klabautermann goblins compete for our attention with their contortions, while angels guard over us higher up, their wings folded close to their icy bodies. Now and then, when no other being is watching, the Klabautermanns drop into the black water and dive to the bottom to rest. The boundary of the drift ice is so straight it looks like it was drawn with a ruler. For a few minutes I could imagine it thickening and enclosing our ship and not letting go. On the sundeck a barbecue is being set up for an open-air dinner while the ship glides through another strait. The weather is mild, the mood euphoric. The music is already blasting from the speakers, people are expected to dance in their full polar regalia, sunshine, sunshine reggae, a moonboot pas de deux, one couple asks me to take a picture of them, I say, “Say cheese,” and she puckers her mouth into a kiss and says “honeymoon” let the good vibes get a lot stronger, I won’t miss this either.

By the late light of day we cast anchor in a bay full of ice floes as round as white whales, as narrow as their tailfins and as sharp as their teeth, a swan is swimming among them with a bloated head. The sky gradually darkens, a jaeger rushes out of its nest and pulls a last cry out of the dusky firmament. I wish there was a letter in the alphabet for death.