Willem Hermans - Beyond Sleep

‘ Alfred headed off in the wrong direction. I thought he was joking. Fifteen minutes later he still hadn’t come back. Spent the whole afternoon looking for him. Went back to the ravine. I will wait for him here .

‘ Some gabbros crumble easily into loose debris.33.P.234 … ’

Inger-Marie’s voice falters.

‘Oh, you can skip that part.’

She skips a few lines, then goes on:

‘ Alfred not back yet. Have decided to stay here, a week if necessary. I noticed he was having trouble with the rough terrain, which he isn’t used to. I admire his perseverance. Never complains, although he has had some nasty falls. And I keep him awake at night with my terrible snoring. Anyone else would have packed it in long ago .

‘ Gradient … ’

I nod, take back the notebook and shut it, lost for words.

The bus drives on through clouds of dust.

‘Are you Alfred?’ she asks.

‘Yes.’

‘Is your leg very painful?’

‘No, it’s much better now,’ I lie.

‘I hope I translated it properly. I want to go on to university, but my father says I’m mad. By the way, did you know there was an incredibly loud bang yesterday? Somewhere around Karasjok. It was on the news this morning. First they thought there had been a plane crash, but nothing was found. I wonder what it could have been.’

‘I haven’t a clue.’

‘I don’t believe in flying saucers. Do you?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Maybe it was ball lightning. Have you ever seen ball lightning?’

‘No, never.’

‘I have. Once. I was sheltering from the rain and there was house nearby with a pitched roof. It was as if a ball of fire came rolling down the roof. But there was only a hissing sound.’

We arrive in Alta. I get up and put out my hand, but she ignores it. Instead, she throws her arms around my neck and gives me a long kiss. My hand is on her back and I can feel her thin shoulder blades. Finally I kiss her twice on each cheek and get off the bus in a daze.

The driver has alighted too. He climbs onto the roof to unload my rucksack.

Inger-Marie is watching me from her window. She isn’t smiling, in fact her expression is quite blank. I wave feebly, without any particular hope or expectation. The driver gets in again.

When the bus drives off, she goes to the window in the rear door and watches me from there with the same blank expression on her face. The last thing I see of her is that she’s gesticulating. Waving? Blowing a kiss? There’s also the possibility that seeing me framed by the window reminded her of a shape chalked on a blackboard, and that she was wiping me out, so to speak. That would be by far the best for her.

Arne’s friends are still on holiday. I call at the neighbours for the key and find the house in exactly the same state as we left it. My suitcase under the sofa in the living room, and so forth. I undress and put on my ordinary clothes again: shirt, tie, jacket. When I’m done, I ring the Geological Survey in Trondheim. Direktør Oftedahl isn’t in, nor is Direktør Hvalbiff or whatever his name is. But the secretary has a message for me. She tells me that the aerial photographs have been loaned to the university in Oslo. They do not have copies, but they do have the negatives. A fresh set of prints? Yes, that would be possible, but no, there is no point in calling round tomorrow. I cannot count on the prints being ready for a very long time. It will be two, three months at least, and there is considerable expense involved. Do I want her to make a note of my address?

Next I phone the university in Oslo and ask for Professor Nummedal. Oh. Professor Nummedal? He’s not here. He’s gone to Hop, which is a suburb of Bergen. When he’ll be back? He didn’t say. Not for some time anyway. Are you on your way back to Holland? Then you could try in Bergen. Shall I give you his address? Hop: Troldhaugensgate 5, phone number 3295.

Finally I ring for a taxi and leave two ten-kroner notes by the phone. My feet are too swollen and thick with plasters to get into my shoes, so I’m still wearing the rubber boots.

I take my suitcase and rucksack and get in the taxi that will take me to the seaplane dock. In the cramped ticket office I dictate a telegram to my mother, telling her I’ll be back in three days’ time.

Blue skies, bountiful sunshine. Here I am not surrounded by sounds, but by fragrances, and there are no mosquitoes at all, nor bloodthirsty flies. The gardens have jagged rocks erupting from lawns and beds of flowering rhododendron.

Troldhaugensgate number 5 is on a narrow asphalt road so steep that cars have to climb it in first gear. The path leading up to the house is even steeper — part of it is stepped, roughly hewn out of rock.

Once again I find myself having to climb before I can speak to Nummedal, which seems full of significance. What the significance might be, though, I can’t imagine. I clamber up the steps and ring the doorbell.

‘Professor Nummedal,’ I blurt to the maid. ‘He’s expecting me, I spoke to him on the telephone this morning.’

She smiles — only speaks Norwegian probably — and takes me through to a conservatory where Nummedal is sitting in the sun. He is not wearing his ingenious spectacles, the ones with the extra lenses that can be flipped up and down. Just ordinary sunglasses.

Nummedal has not risen, but mutters something in Norwegian. The maid utters a long string of words, of which I catch only ‘professor’, then leaves.

I limp towards him.

‘Herr Professor Nummedal …’

‘Bitte, bitte. Take a seat. Why are you walking with such difficulty?’

‘I fell.’

‘You too? Did you both fall at the same time?’

‘No, I wasn’t there when it happened. I had got lost, and didn’t find Arne until afterwards.’

The chair nearest to Nummedal is still quite far away — at the other end of the conservatory. I seat myself facing him. Beside me stands a potted palm with fronds pressed up against the ceiling.

Pondering what I shall say, I stare at my feet. Ludicrous, those rubber boots under pale grey flannel trousers.

Nummedal has fallen silent. The vertical wrinkles are now so deeply etched as to give him a sliced appearance, and his skin has the dingy shade of old newspapers. At last I say:

‘I have Arne’s notebook.’

‘So you told me on the phone. How did you get on in Finnmark?’

‘I wasn’t very successful, I’m afraid.’

‘What do you mean? Success cannot be measured until one has processed one’s findings.’

‘I believe that my starting-point was wrong. I also believe that I lack the proper training for research into my subject. I was trying to follow up a suggestion of Professor Sibbelee’ s, but have come to the conclusion that it’s not leading anywhere. I would like to carry on the research Arne was engaged in. I want to learn Norwegian. Redo my courses where necessary. I would like to study with you in Oslo, for two or three years maybe, and then go back to Finnmark. For a foreigner like me, being so unfamiliar with the polar terrain, that is the only way forward.’

‘Is that what you think? But then you are far too pessimistic. I can understand you being distressed. But before you came to Norway Professor Sibbelee sent me a letter expressing his high opinion of your abilities. Surely you are not saying you found Professor Sibbelee’s teaching lacking in any way?’

‘Perhaps Professor Sibbelee’s expectations of me were too high.’

‘That is the most preposterous thing I have heard in years. Why would Professor Sibbelee recommend you to me if you were insufficiently prepared for your task? I don’t know what you are talking about, sir.’