Willem Hermans - Beyond Sleep

She must have slipped in through the door which Oftedahl left ajar. I didn’t notice her at first, so I’m a bit taken aback.

She holds her hands piously folded in front of her chest. But her hands are empty — no catalogue, no aerial photographs either.

When she has finished replying to Oftedahl she steps up to me to shake my hand: ‘Goodbye, sir.’

Oftedahl escorts me in person to the main entrance, which, since I missed it on my way in, is from my perspective the main exit.

As we go down marble staircases, Oftedahl explains that, unfortunately, he cannot be of any further assistance to me. His secretary called Oslo and was told the catalogue has already been packed and could even now be on its way to Trondheim. It is definitely not in Oslo.

‘Is there anywhere else,’ I say, and I know I’m only saying this not to lose all sense of hope, ‘I mean, do you think I could get aerial photographs anywhere else around here?’

‘Anywhere else? You do know that aerial photographs are classified material, don’t you? It’s the same all over the world. Only exceptionally are they are made available, under very strict conditions, for specific scientific purposes. Besides, the ones you want are of Finnmark, so close to the Russian border! A load of nonsense, probably, because why would the Russians want to steal our photographs? They can take their own. But that’s the way it is. I recently met a professor of economics who thought you could buy aerial photographs at the newsagent’s, just like postcards, ha, ha. People can be so ignorant.’

He laughs, sighs, and concludes with:

‘So sorry your efforts have been wasted. I hardly dare suggest you return in a fortnight. The catalogue will certainly have arrived by then, and we will have unpacked the cases, too. But yes, of course, I realise that your time is limited. Well, well. Goodbye to you, sir, it has been a pleasure. Good luck. Have a good time in Finnmark!’

The hallway is lined with mirrors on every side. Pressing one after another to see whether they resist or give way, I leave my sweaty fingerprints all over the glass. Once I have located the door I turn round for a final look.

Oftedahl is nearing the end of the passage. He turns to the right, and I see him in profile against an illuminated stairwell. The lower jaw and the missing throat.

One day his whole head will be reduced to a fleshless skull, but for now not even his voice betrays that part of him has gone already.

I am curious about what my neighbour is reading.

Swivelling my eyes, twisting my upper body as unobtrusively as possible (has he noticed? … No I don’t think so …) I try to make out what sort of book it is.

In between short bursts of reading he puts the book face down on his lap and spreads his hands on top. He has an anchor tattooed on his right hand, his white shirt is creased, but clean. His cheap tie is roughly knotted, his suit old-fashioned but seldom worn. Spotless, but badly pressed. Obviously a sailor. Wears sweaters and overalls on board, so his good suit lasts for years.

When he’s not reading he stares into space, chewing a wad in his cheek.

There’s another tattoo on his left hand, but I can’t tell what it represents. The hand slides off the book. It’s a Teach-Yourself-English book for Dutch learners.

‘Are you going to Tromsø?’ I ask him.

‘Are you Dutch?’

‘What did you think?’

‘On business, are you?’

‘No, no, I’m heading further north. Family visit.’

*

This untruth escapes me before I know it, which I regret, as I don’t fancy telling lies any more than going into details about my trip to the high north.

‘Seaman, are you?’ I ask quickly.

‘I’m replacing a cook who jumped ship in Tromsø. I hate flying, you know. It’s the shipping line — they send you.’

He turns the book face up again.

‘English is so difficult. Can you make sense of that?’

He points to a line. It says: ‘Does Alfred go to the races? No, he doesn’t.’

‘Why is it “does” and not “goes”?’ he asks. ‘I don’t get it.’

‘It’s only a manner of speaking,’ I explain. ‘When the English ask something, they use “do” to activate the verb. Not like the Dutch.’

‘Where’s the sense in that?’

‘Well, I can’t help it, that’s just the way it is. In English, when you ask a question like that you begin with “do you …” or “does he …”, followed by the verb in the infinitive.’

Infinitive … I bite my lip the moment I’ve said it. Why can’t I explain anything without sounding pedantic?

‘Right,’ he says, ‘know all about it, do you? I can tell you’ re an expert.’

‘The English say “do you smoke?”,’ I continue (he did ask, after all), ‘they don’t say “smoke you?” like in Dutch. They see smoking as something you do, they make you do the smoking, as it were.’

‘Well, you’re wrong there,’ he says, ‘what they say is “have a smoke”.’

He takes out a packet of North State, which he waves under my nose.

I accept his offer and light up.

‘North State,’ he says. ‘Here in Norway they call them South State.’

‘Really?’

‘You do smoke. Me not smoke. Me tobacco,’ he says pointing to his cheek.

I grin.

‘How do you say this in English?’ he asks.

I may have all the answers, but I don’t have aerial photographs.

‘To chew tobacco,’ I say.

‘Too choo tobbacko,’ he echoes slowly. ‘Do me a favour and write that down for me, will you?’

I write the words down, first in the correct spelling, then in a Dutch phonetic version.

‘I can see you’ve had plenty of schooling,’ the seaman says. ‘If I’d had half the education you had, do you reckon I’d be up in this plane being taken somewhere I don’t want to go? Not likely! I’d be my own boss. Can’t sleep at night for thinking about stuff like that. How I’d feel if I’d had the opportunity to do a bit of learning.’

He turns to his book again. Flips the pages.

He keeps asking questions. Eager.

All those little things he doesn’t know and I do — they are so much part of me that it is years since I felt any satisfaction at knowing them. But that doesn’t alter the fact that I haven’t got the photographs, and that there’s no-one I can get them from now.

The sailor is unrelenting in his praise of my prodigious knowledge. My gloom lifts a little. It is the first time in my life that I feel pride at knowing English.

He doesn’t let up until I’ve accepted all his remaining cigarettes.

Hearing the stewardess making the landing announcement over the intercom, I suddenly realise that I forgot to buy a measuring tape in Trondheim.

As plant cover diminishes and forests peter out the further north you go, buildings become lower and settlements more scattered. Is this a general rule? Perhaps. Perhaps not. What business is it of mine?

I must wait until tomorrow to continue my journey, and have nothing better to do than dwell on such truths.

Here in Tromsø you hardly notice when it’s evening. At this time of year the light never fades completely. This is the empire on which the sun never sets. Hold on, I think to myself, that’s a sentence I can use when I write my mother a postcard.

I walk down a street with pale blue wooden houses. It’s broad daylight, it’s not a public holiday, yet no-one’s at work because it’s half past ten in the evening.

People are out and about, roaming the streets, no-one seems ready for bed. Youths just like the youths in a Dutch backwater grope the same sort of girls, who comb their hair as they walk. What is different here is that their ice creams come in big cones, much bigger than the ones at home. There are very few cars, if any. A tranquil dream-town, where the sound of footsteps prevails!