Willem Hermans - Beyond Sleep

The last time I wrote in my notebook was the day before yesterday. That was five days after finding Arne. By then I was already beginning to feel there was no need to hurry, as if it might be better if he were left lying there, undisturbed. One month in the wilderness is enough for the standards of civilisation to become those of the wild. A dead reindeer left in the open changes into a skeleton, until only an antler, a rib or a vertebra remains, and what difference would it make to Arne if the same happened to him? Funerals, eulogies and wreath-laying are the concerns of people who live on paved streets and who gather ten to a room in ten-storey tower blocks, a charade strictly bound to time, place and community.

The prospect of a square meal doesn’t arouse me, nor the prospect of a proper bed. Even the fear that consumed me before to the point of hysteria — getting killed in an accident like my father — has turned to indifference.

Because, what am I bringing back with me? Not a discovery. Just bad news: that someone has got killed.

As if I’m not exhausted enough already, I have the added burden of the message I must deliver. I can’t think about anything else. God Almighty! The mere thought of having to tell people what has happened makes me dread my return to the civilised world.

But return I must. Staying right where I am is not an option. So I draw up my knees, lean on my left hand and push myself up. There I stand, unsteadily but on my own two feet, as befits the crown of creation. Slowly I start up the next rise.

For some time I have noticed the narrow trail becoming more clearly defined. It’s quite easy now to distinguish it from the surroundings. It even looks maintained. A sure sign: Ravnastua can’t be far away.

It is not far to the top of the hill either. And what do I see when I get there? The largest animal I have seen for many a long day. A horse.

Dun-coloured, with a tufted black mane sticking up like the hackles of a hyena. The horse is grazing, and lifts its head when it hears me. It goes brrrr with its lips and shifts a foreleg. It is tethered to a stake in the ground with a long rope. What can it be eating? It is nibbling at a straggly shrub. There is no grass. Horses can’t survive here on their own. So there must be people nearby.

Going over yet another hill I catch sight of a wooden house — no, three cabins painted reddish-brown. From the roof of the main one sprouts an enormous FM antenna, twenty or thirty metres high. Near the cabins I notice trees, the first I’ve seen in a long time. Proper beeches, although they’re not very tall.

My progress is extremely slow. I keep having to sit down and rest. I’m long past caring where I sit. On a peat boss preferably, but mostly I don’t bother to look for a spot that’s dry. Not that I’m in a hurry. As I approach the main building I notice there are some steps up to the front door, which I’ll have to negotiate somehow. I manage to haul myself up them, but my head’s swimming as if I’m drunk. I reach for the door handle, but can’t put a hand on it: I have to grope like a blind man.

The door opens. There’s no-one there, just a sort of timbered hallway with a telephone and what looks like a large black filing cabinet against the wall. And another door.

The living room. Wooden walls. Seated by the window is a very pregnant woman with black hair in two short plaits and sallow, wrinkled skin. She looks ancient. I blurt a few words in English. She smiles, gets up and leaves the room. Isn’t she much too old to be pregnant? The ceiling is hung with those strips of sticky paper that flies settle on, never to come unstuck.

The walls are bare except for three large calendars. Three. Along the base of the walls the floor is strewn with house-hold goods: stainless steel pans, small chests, a sewing machine, bundles of clothes. Children appear, naked and dark-skinned. They don’t make a sound, huddle behind each other, suck their thumbs. Through the door to the next room, which is ajar, I glimpse bunks. The children hover in the doorway, ready to slam the door in my face should I do something to alarm them. I freeze, but sway all the same. One, two, three, a lot of naked children.

The woman returns with a fair-haired man in tow, who speaks quite good English. As for me, I can barely speak at all. I show him on my map where I found Arne. He takes the map from me and turns away, motioning me to follow him into the hallway. He goes up to the black metal cabinet I saw when I arrived. It’s a small radio transmitter. He cranks it up and talks on the telephone.

When he has finished he returns the map to me.

‘They’re sending a helicopter to search for him,’ he says.

Together the woman and the man escort me to one of the other cabins, which has a sign saying STATENS FJELLSTUE.

I am sitting on a stool at a white wooden table in a room with bunk-beds against the walls.

On the table in front of me are a plate, a knife, a stainless steel frying pan containing reindeer mince with gravy, a steel pot containing potatoes boiled in their skins, a loaf of bread a metre long and a pitcher of milk.

Minced reindeer tastes almost like venison.

My hand goes back and forth between my plate and my mouth in slow motion. I chew in slow motion, too.

So many things I haven’t seen or heard for ages. Such as the drone of an aeroplane. The noise grows louder and louder, how can it take so long to get so loud? Must be a slow aircraft. When the noise is at its peak I look out of the window and see a helicopter skimming the treetops.

I can’t keep my eyes open any more. I can just stagger to the nearest bunk.

When I open my eyes again the light is as weak as when I shut them. I am lying on reindeer hides and am also covered by one.

But it is twenty-four hours later.

I get down from the bunk and wash myself in a bucket of cold water. With soap!

I didn’t catch his name, of course, and keep wanting to ask him what it is, but don’t get round to it. He’s a biologist and mycological expert working for the Natural History Museum in Tromsø. He has stopped asking questions about Arne.

While I pay the woman for my food and lodging, he says:

‘She is only thirty-nine and expecting her fifteenth child. Many children, Lapps like many children. See how the house is furnished? As if they are still living in a tent: everything is kept on the floor.’

He presses a glass tube of aspirin into my hand and lends me a pair of rubber boots. How I wish I’d had them from the start!

He has been on the phone to arrange for a Lapp with a motor-powered canoe to take me down the Karasjokka to Karasjok.

From here it’s a twelve-kilometre walk to the river. It will be easy to find. I say goodbye to the woman and the man and set off.

After a few paces he calls out and comes after me:

‘Are you sure you’re up to it? Walking to the river, I mean?’

‘Yes, yes, I can manage.’

‘Do the boots fit all right?’

‘Yes, they’re excellent.’

‘I hope so. Because of course you could stay here if you prefer, then I’ll ask them to send a Weasel from Karasjok to collect you.’

‘Thanks, but no. I’m fine. Thank you very much!’

I have no problem finding the way to the river. There’s a proper road, albeit knee-deep in black mud and puddles, but evidently wide enough for a Weasel, because the tracks of caterpillar tyres are still visible in places.

All of a sudden everything is much more normal: the road, the clumps of trees — I am now a hundred metres below the treeline. I won’t get above it any more, because it’s downhill all the way to the Karasjokka valley. The bend in the river where the canoe will be waiting is only a hundred and sixty metres above sea level.