Willem Hermans - Beyond Sleep

I get up, take my magnifying glass and try lighting a cigarette with it. Grey smoke billows from the tobacco, soon I can see it glowing too. The sun is brighter than it has been for weeks, and I feel my confidence mounting. I will find Arne at the ravine and, who knows, I may even find a meteor crater on the way. Go back to Skoganvarre? What for? Go back to Amsterdam? What would I tell Sibbelee? And what would I tell myself? Going back now would mean throwing away all the experience I have gained so far.

I lace up my shoes and walk to the lakeside. A duck and her five young have alighted on the water. Would there be a fish in the net? I go to the shrub where I fastened one of the lines and run my eyes over the row of corks floating on the surface. It looks as if there’s an extra cork at one end, but when I jerk the line I hear the flapping of wings. One of the young ducks has got its feet caught in the net. I untie the line and take it along the bank to the shrub where I attached the other line. Cautiously I begin to draw in the net. What a catch! I pull the net towards me as gently as I can, folding the sections zigzag fashion as they emerge from the water. The creature is so panicked I’m afraid it will break its legs trying to escape. Enter Alfred, ravenous, self-styled poultryman. Promptly wrings the creature’s neck. First time in his life he has killed anything this size. Twists the head round a couple of times, like winding up clockwork. Plucks the feathers off the small corpse, cuts it open. Entrails spill out: dark yellow, liver-brown and a lot of red. Hardly anything in nature is red, except blood and guts.

But before the young duck comes within my reach there is a violent tug on the net and a frenzy of thrashing. A trout! I free its gills from the nylon mesh, stamp on its head with my heel, then draw the net further in until the young duck is close enough to seize. Well, hello, my little friend! I have to sit down to disentangle its scaly feet from the net. Then I put it on a cushion of moss about a metre from the water’s edge, where it remains, motionless.

Just before I finish hauling in the rest of the net the water starts heaving and boiling again: another trout.

The duck stays put on its cushion of moss, wings slightly raised, panting with fright, but apparently unharmed.

I make a pile of twigs close by.

I clean my two fishes, cut them up, stuff the pieces down the neck of the coffee kettle, fill it with water, scrape a bit of salt off the petrified lump with my penknife, set fire to the twigs.

The young duck observes everything I am doing, because it happens to be sitting with one eye facing in my direction. No, I wouldn’t say it is keeping me company, although I do talk to it kindly from time to time. I wish I had a crust of bread for you, but I count myself lucky to have caught those fish. The young duck’s bill curving up at the corners is even more comical than the adult version. Its eyes are of the kind that see, not look. It cheers me up with its company, at no effort on its part.

Mmm! This is very good! Barely pausing to pluck fish bones from my lips, I fill my stomach with the tenderest, noblest fish ever caught! I also drink the remaining fish stock with its nutritious spots of grease floating on the surface.

The young duck has closed its bill. It shakes its head, twists round to preen the feathers on its back, then waddles off towards the water. Without visible exertion, blown along like a toy sailing boat, it heads straight back to its mother and siblings.

The terrain around here is so uneven that it is difficult to gauge the average distance covered by one step. Holes, bosses, brief stretches that are fairly level followed by a rise and then a dip and so forth. No two paces are of equal length.

I have unrolled the measuring tape and laid it on the ground with a stone weighing it down at each end. I try working out how many normal steps correspond to two metres. Three and a half. I pick up the measuring tape, let it spring back into its case and stuff it in my trouser pocket. Holding the map with both hands, I go and stand where the lake feeds into the Lievnasjokka. From here it is roughly five kilometres to the Rivo-elv, which according to the map is the fourth tributary on the right. Five kilometres, that’s two thousand five hundred times two metres, which is … which is eight thousand, seven hundred and fifty paces. Approximately. Could be a margin of five hundred or a thousand each way.

Inaccurate as my estimate may be, counting my steps will help me decide whether I have reached the Rivo-elv or not. I don’t know by which criteria my map was drawn, but the chances of one or more tributaries not having been included are considerable. So are the chances of the fourth tributary I come across not being the right one. What if I take the wrong valley! The idea makes me want to howl with terror. Because how will I ever find Arne then? Here I am, spending all my precious time trying to find my way instead of concentrating on my research, and in the end I suppose I’ll be grateful to be back in the civilised world having escaped death by starvation. And I will have achieved nothing. I will have survived, that’s all.

I tear a page out of my notebook, fold it in four, clutch it in my left hand, take a pencil in my right and begin walking.

Counting aloud, I make my way through the Lievnasjokka valley. This is the where we saw the herd of reindeer moving down towards the water. I notice their droppings here and there. They could almost be taken for meteorites.

Metereorites! Won’t find any of those this close to the water, where the ground is spongy and thickly overgrown.

So as not to miss the least opportunity, I move further up along the side of the valley, where the ground looks dry and stony and there is less vegetation. But the stones turn out to be rubble that has rolled down from the top.

Seventy. Eighty-seven, eighty-eight. Stumbling on a thufur and taking two or three steps in panicky succession — how many paces would that add up to?

I take a guess, just to give myself something to do.

Each time I reach a hundred I put a vertical mark on the paper I’m holding in my left hand. And start again. My mouth is getting parched from talking — does counting aloud rate as talking? The scrap of paper is becoming damp with sweat. While I am counting I am keeping my eyes peeled for remarkable stones, and at the same time I haven’t lost hope of meeting up with Qvigstad and Mikkelsen. I keep hoping, against my better judgment. Because Arne told me they would be going to Skoganvarre by way of Vuorje, and I am heading south-east. Almost diametrically the opposite direction!

One thousand seven hundred and fifty. I have just crossed the first tributary. Which seems right. One thousand seven hundred and fifty paces works out at one kilometre. According to the map this watercourse comes to an end a little less than one kilometre from Lake Lievnasjaurre. Well I never! It all seems to work out remarkably well! I didn’t know I had it in me. I might even get quite good at this kind of thing — finding my way across Norway without so much as a compass. To celebrate my success, I sit down for a rest and take out a cigarette. I have eight left. It’s turned misty again and the sun is as pale as the moon. I light my cigarette with one of my last five matches. Not to worry, Arne has plenty. Another nine kilometres — oh all right then, ten. Four to the Rivo-elv, and five or six to the ravine. The map is very vague. You can’t tell exactly where the ravine begins. Not that I know exactly where Arne is either. Ten kilo metres, that’s an hour and three quarters on a footpath in Holland. How much is it here? Five hours? Four maybe, because I don’t have to cross mountains. Arne won’t be surprised. He’s been expecting me to turn up for days. He won’t hold it against me, and he’s not the type to bear grudges. Nor will he belittle me. I feel small enough as it is.