Willem Hermans - Beyond Sleep

‘What happens when a Lapp falls ill?’

‘They can go to Alta, or to Kautokeino, or Karasjok, whichever is nearest. But the majority of Lapps no longer lead a nomadic life in tents, they have jobs in fish factories and so on. The Lapps still keeping reindeer tend to be very rich, with herds running to several thousand animals. Plenty of children and plenty of reindeer, that’s what they want. The way people cling to tradition sometimes makes me despair of rational arguments ever improving the lot of mankind.’

*

We have been going for about two hours when we arrive in Skaidi. There is a wooden stall selling lemonade, chocolate and hot sausages. The bus stops just long enough to allow the passengers to stretch their legs. This is the highest point in the region.

I go for a stroll, hands in pockets. All the passengers are wandering about, in different directions. The sky is now thick with dark clouds and it’s as chilly as a cold winter’s day in Holland. I look out over the rounded hills, some topped with large, smooth boulders. Pools and small lakes in the low-lying areas. Some distance away, by the largest of the lakes, I spot a tent made of reindeer hides wrapped tepee-style around poles.

An old Lapp emerges in full regalia, holding a pair of reindeer antlers in each hand. From his mouth hangs a curved pipe, and although he is unshaven you can tell by his sunken cheeks that he hasn’t a tooth left in his mouth. He ambles along, doesn’t come towards us and doesn’t engage anybody in conversation.

The Lapps travelling with us ignore the old man, but another passenger, a youth in the traditional white student’s cap, buys an antler from him.

The bus starts up again, makes another halt in Russenes, then continues its journey.

It is half past ten by the time Arne and I get off at Skoganvarre.

A stretch of calm water. A river widening into a lake. A few spruces, none of them tall. Dark slopes.

The driver clambers onto the roof of the bus to pass down our rucksacks, which we set at the side of the road. Lastly, he hands us the wooden tripod.

The bus departs, then silence. The rain has lifted, the clouds have dispersed, the sun is low but blazing in full force. At home, when the sun shines like this at the end of a summer’s day, we know dusk will soon fall. As it is, it’s going on for midnight, and this is as dark as it will get. I rest the tripod against my shoulder.

A wooden house designed like a villa with conservatory stands at some distance from the road. In front of the house, slightly to one side, is a green tent.

Arne says:

‘Qvigstad may have gone to sleep already, or else he’s gone off somewhere.’

The tent is zipped up all round. Arne goes up to it and I hear him call Qvigstad’s name as well as some other words. Arne sinks onto his haunches. Straightens up again.

‘Gone fishing, I suppose.’

To keep myself occupied, I take both our rucksacks, one in each hand, over to the garden.

‘Mind the grass. It’s even rarer here than in Alta.’

‘What’s next?’

We cover our faces and hands with mosquito oil, then we both have a cigarette.

‘Since we’ve got to be off again in the morning there’s not much point in pitching our tent.’

‘So where will we sleep?’

‘I’ll ask if we can spend the night on the porch.’

He means the conservatory, which is admittedly little more than a glassed-in porch.

While he goes to ask permission, I retrace my steps, taking care to avoid the patches of grass. I cross the road and sit myself down by the lake.

Nothing grows in the water here, which is so clear you can see the rocks on the bottom. The larger ones rise up above the surface. Whether the very largest qualify as islands is a matter of opinion.

I try to imagine what it must be like to spend all your life in Skoganvarre. There have always been people here, who did nothing but eat, drink, sleep, hunt and fish. What about the winters? The first snow falls towards the end of September, as far as I know. Their winters are devoted to staving off calamities. They have to ensure they have sufficient food and fuel. They have constantly to be on their guard, to know immediately what to do when someone falls ill. Or when a woman goes into labour.

Plop. A fish leaps from the surface and drops back into the water.

Snow in winter and thick clouds of mosquitoes in summer. Concentric ripples fan out from the spot where the fish jumped. Should I take a look at my mother’s letter? It can wait.

On the far side of the lake I catch sight of two men with fishing rods walking on either side of a threesome — no, foursome — of little girls, all holding hands. Their high-pitched voices gain a faint echo by the time they reach me. I hear a cuckoo calling. And also, intermittently, a sound like hedging shears snapping open and shut. But there are no hedges here, no shears either. Arne appears at my side, holding something resembling a small aluminium pan without a lid.

‘It’s all right,’ he says, ‘we can use the conservatory.’

He carries the pan by a rod jammed between the sides. Coiled around the exterior is a long nylon fishing line with a shiny spoon and a hook attached to one end.

‘Feeling sleepy yet?’ he asks.

I stand up, shake my head and laugh.

‘This far north,’ Arne says, ‘no-one feels like turning in when it’s summer. It’s impossible to get children to go to sleep. Anyone living here is exhausted after ten years. Too much sleep in winter, not enough in summer.’

The shears come closer.

‘What’s that sound?’

‘I expect it’s a fjelljo, but I don’t know anything about birds.’

I listen again to the sound, which is now further away. The most amazing thing about birds is their ability to produce noises like machines.

Arne positions himself at the water’s edge with one foot in front of the other. I take out the bottle of mosquito oil and sprinkle some drops on the backs of my hands. But the mosquitoes are also attacking my scalp behind my ears, right through my hair. I haven’t got my hat with the head-net — left it back at the house. Wearing a hat is torture if you’ re not used to it.

Arne holds the pan in his left hand, using his right to unwind a few metres of line. Then he whirls the hook round and round and suddenly lets go. It describes a high arc in the air, trailing the line, which unwinds easily from the pan. The thin line, blown to one side by a breeze I can’t feel, slices slowly through the water, dropping tangents on ever-fresh circles, each one bigger than the last. Arne starts rewinding straightaway. The spoon dances brightly among the rocks, then vanishes. The line tautens.

‘The hook’s got caught.’

Moving up and down the bank, Arne jiggles the line, slackening and tightening it by turns as he struggles to free the hook.

He has been at it a full three quarters of an hour. I get up and saunter about, without straying far from his side.

I don’t dare sit down again, afraid it will look like leaving him in the lurch. After all, if he made a catch he would share it with me. But I don’t know how to be of assistance. Now and then I mutter directions, offer advice I don’t believe in myself.

I haven’t been to the lavatory all day. Behind the house is a copse that would do very well, a hillock with a few trees. But I feel obliged to wait until the hook has come loose.

Finally Arne takes a running jump and lands on a big stone jutting out of the water. From there he can exert more upward pull. Bingo! He immediately casts back the line and lands a fish, but it is far too small.

The anglers and their offspring come past with the squelching sound of damp feet in rubber boots. The clouds thicken, but are still rimmed with pink. Our shadows dissolve. I am seized with an absurd craving for total darkness. Sleeping when it’s still light seems to diminish each hour of sleep by half.