The Prophets of Eternal Fjord (42 page)

Before his attendance at the Trader's house, Falck washes from head to toe. He does this in the blubber house, the only place in the colony, apart from the colony house, where the copper is always on the boil and where it is warm enough for such excesses. The cow is sheltered in the blubber house in the winter. He goes to the booth and greets her. She rubs her muzzle against his coat, nudges him, and he speaks to her: What do you want, Roselil? If you don't tell me, I can't give it to you. He laughs, takes the hard tack from his pocket and extends his hand. She crunches it between her teeth, munches for a moment, licks her lips and looks at him once more in expectation. I see the smith has been spoiling you, he says.

He takes off his clothes, digs his hand into the soap tub and rubs the fatty substance into his skin. The carpenter, who also wishes to be clean for the occasion, douses him with buckets of hot water. He scrubs his body and limbs until the blood rushes to the skin and turns it pink. The soap is made of seal blubber and lends him the same bitter smell as greets his nostrils when entering the communal houses, the same smell that issued from the widow's warm skin garments.

Naked and steaming, he changes places with the carpenter, who is tall and awkward and forever stooped forward on account of his bad back. He fills the leather bucket and pours the water over the man. The carpenter groans with delight and scrubs himself vigorously, working the soap into a lather. When they are done, they scrub the floor, then ascend to the drying loft where their clothes are hung.

A bath is a good thing indeed, says the carpenter. One should do it more often.

Falck agrees.

He puts on his laundered and ironed cassock; his hairpiece has been hanging outside in the frost for a week and should now be relieved of louse eggs. He has washed and starched the ruff himself and shaped it into neat crisp folds with the collar iron. Sofie, Bertel's wife, takes care of his laundry for the time being: she is the widow's replacement. He pays her too well, a manifestation of the unfathomable, chronic guilt he feels with regard to Bertel, and he knows they despise him for it. The washing is done here in the blubber house where the copper is and where there is a loft for drying. His clothes are impregnated with the rancid smell of train oil and are slightly sticky to the touch, but such inconveniences are usual and the same for everyone, including the Trader and his wife, for which reason he is unbothered by it.

Once I saw a sailor who kept a bird in a cage, says the carpenter. I wonder if the Magister, having read so much, would know what bird it might have been?

A parrot? says Falck. Many sailors take them from the colonies to sell them at home.

No, it wasn't a parrot, it was a small bird with green and blue feathers and a bright yellow beak.

A canary, says Falck.

I can't ever forget its song, so pretty and sorrowful it was. It had a mate that didn't survive the voyage, so it was all alone.

How sad.

Anyway, this one died too. The climate didn't agree with it. So that was that.

Something about the carpenter's tone makes Falck stop and look at him. The bird dying could hardly have been much of a surprise to its owner. Are you trying to tell me something, Møller?

Sometimes I think the Madame is like that canary. The Trader has her locked up in a cage. I suppose he's frightened she'll fly away.

Madame Kragstedt will not fly anywhere.

Of course not. The Trader looks after her. He doesn't want anything to happen to her.

Such as what?

Everyone knows what happened a couple of years ago when the Trader was away.

Do not speak ill of your neighbour, says Falck.

I'm just saying, that's all, so the pastor is informed.

It is more than two years since that occurrence, says Falck. If you had knowledge of it, you ought to have said so before. What more do you know about the matter, Møller?

The Madame was harmed. She was like a ghost to look at for a long time after. The pastor himself was away at the time, the only ones here were myself, the smith, the cooper and the Overseer.

Do you know who harmed the Madame?

The carpenter evades his gaze. No one knows for sure. But the cooper and I spoke of it.

Falck scrutinizes him. He realizes he doesn't want to hear any more.

He didn't hear it from me, says the carpenter, but the pastor might wish to speak with the smith.

Have you talked to anyone about this, Møller?

Yes, to the cooper.

And no one else?

To you, Magister Falck.

Yes, all right, Falck snaps. That's not what I meant.

No one else, Magister. The cooper thought the smith should have been put in chains.

The cooper is dead and has his own account to settle with the Lord. The smith's salvation is none of your business, Møller. Speak to no one about this, do you understand?

Indeed, says the carpenter. It may be not my business and I'll take it with me to the grave, but now at least I've spoken and no one can come and say different. The matter is yours, Magister Falck.

When they open the door they see that the steam from the blubber house turns to ice as it collides with the freezing air and falls to the ground as snow.

At the Trader's table the talk is of sickness and how to stay well while stationed at such an outpost.

Good health, says the Trader, is usually an art of omission. It is more a question of what a person refrains from doing rather than what he actually does. Would you not agree, Mr Falck?

He swallows the food in his mouth and takes a sip of wine. Most certainly, Trader.

I, for instance, refrain as far from possible from being outside in bad weather, says Kragstedt, and thereby I never catch a cold. I refrain from drunkenness and lechery and am thereby unstruck by those ailments of body and soul that result from such behaviour.

So it was sarcasm, Falck thinks to himself. Or sheer obtuseness. He concentrates on the food.

Do you not agree with me, dear? says Kragstedt, turning to his wife. The Madame says something in a brittle voice that Falck fails to hear.

Hard work, says the smith. That's the best cure for any illness. To sweat the poison out.

In Germany they have discovered an elixir of youth, says the Over ­seer. There's a lengthy article on the subject in my journal. It's a kind of antidote for the ills of ageing.

Then we must order a barrel of it, says the Trader, to a scatter of laughter.

The substance is being tested on mice, the Overseer continues. Their short lifespan makes them suitable for experimentation.

Revolting, the Trader mutters. Magister Falck, what do you say about this? Have not all the Lord's creatures the right to be shown respect and not be subjected to unnecessary suffering?

Well, it's only mice, says the cook. We've quite enough of them back home. I don't think the Lord will miss a couple.

I'm not so sure about that, Detlef, says the smith. Mice are in many ways better than us people. I'm very fond of mice.

Are you thinking about the same kind of mice as the rest of us, Niels? says the cook, lifting a forkful of food to his mouth. Sniggers are heard, followed by the subdued clatter of cutlery. Falck notes that Madame Kragstedt sits as though paralysed.

We eat animals, the pastor says. If these experiments can help humans to live longer then they are a good cause, worthy of the Lord's approval.

But are not our years, in the opinion of the church, dealt out to us by God? the Trader enquires.

No, as a matter of fact they are not. Such thinking is but blind faith. The Lord has equipped us with free will. Our actions, along with our inborn constitution, determine how long we shall live and how healthy we are.

Which brings us back to the beginning, says Kragstedt smugly.

Madame Kragstedt has begun to breathe more easily, Falck sees. She sends him a look and smiles cautiously. She passes him the wine and he holds up his glass and allows her to pour.

Skål, Morten Falck.

Skål, Madame Kragstedt. To your health.

Her cheeks blush slightly. Has she been drinking? he wonders. Was her husband's comment aimed at her rather than me? She has begun to look older. Small pillows of fat have appeared under her eyes, her chin is more pointed, her mouth appears sponge-like, her skin is blotched.

Yes, a toast to His Majesty the king, says Kragstedt. They rise and raise their glasses. Long may he live, with or without elixir.

If indeed he is still alive, says the smith once they have sat down again. You never know.

In that case let our toast be to his splendid son, the Crown Prince, Kragstedt says.

They say the king is not right in the head, says the carpenter.

Mad as a hatter, says Constable Bjerg, who has been silent until now. But his son is said to be all there, and fortunately he's the one running the country.

They've all been mad, ever since the days of Christian the Fourth, says the smith, the same as all the other fine gentlemen who stroll in the parks or sit with their hands in their lap. If they don't look out they'll be run over by the people, just like the Frenchmen, and then they'll end up in the hole, counts and barons alike.

Enough, says the Trader, no more of such talk, not today when we are gathered to celebrate our dear, distracted king. I would also like to propose a toast to my wife.

Again they rise amid a scraping of chairs and give three cheers, while Madame Kragstedt remains seated and looks as though she is trying to tear up her napkin.

Later, when Falck leaves, the Trader comes up to him and puts a hand on his shoulder.

Thank you for coming, Mr Falck.

Thank
you
, he says, slightly overwhelmed.

Let us put the past behind us, what do you say? I would like to ask your forgiveness for the difficulties I may have caused you.

We have both made errors, Falck replies with a stutter. Serious ones, even. Forgive me, dear Kragstedt.

They remain standing for a moment in the hall. The Trader's heavy hand feels warm against his shoulder.

He returns in the darkness. The widow is in his bed in the alcove; he can see the curves of her hips beneath the blanket. He sighs and sits down with the
Christiania-Kureren
, lights the lamp. The widow clatters in the kitchen with the pots and pans. Go away, he urges wearily.

He pulls out the drawer and takes out the sketches he has made of her by memory. Most are facial studies, an attempt to capture her in as few strokes as possible. There are detailed nudes, too, drawn meticulously and with feeling. He has never actually seen her naked. What he has drawn is what he wanted to see: a wild woman he has captured and attempted to tame. The sketches are not very good. His hands have begun to tremble; his pencil is no longer as sure as before. He tears the paper into pieces and tosses them into the coal bucket, where they flare up and dwindle. Now she is gone. Now there is the bottle and the
Christiania-Kureren
.

But the bottle is nearly empty. There is not enough for an evening in festive company with himself. Either he must fetch new provisions or else go early to bed. He takes off his clothes and crawls beneath the reindeer skin.

Yet he is too angry to sleep. Angry at whom? He has no idea. The widow, perhaps. Or the Trader. Or himself.

He climbs out of the alcove again, hopping about on one leg as he puts on stockings and boots. And then he is outside. The fire-watcher's lantern is nowhere to be seen, and no people are about. Most likely they indulged in the Trader's punch after he left and are now sleeping. The windows of the colony house are dark. Above his head flows a phos­phorescent river, an undulating S in the sky, greenly iridescent, blue, white, the firmament meanders and squirms, flicking its tail, as though it has become unstable and is being sucked through a hole, drowning in its own maelstrom of galaxies uncontrollably expanding and dissolving into long, billowing ribbons, utterly silent. He has never before seen it this magnificent. The snow absorbs all light; he is illuminated from below and above, a figure in a magic lantern. He hurries, so as not to be discovered.

He knows the way and would be able to walk the path with his eyes shut, up to the ladder, up to the hatch, to breathe his alcohol fumes into the lock. He stands there now, in the long loft of the colony house. His nerves settle. He closes the hatch behind him and lights the lamp, places it on top of a barrel and listens. But not a sound can be heard from the Trader's rooms below.

He narrows his eyes towards the long shadows that sway like seasick­ness upon the planks of the floor, breathes in the smell of the food store and tarred timber. Five heavy barrels stand beneath the sloping walls, three smaller casks of aquavit in front of them, moreover barrels of grain and oats stacked in pyramids, bales of sticky hops and shag tobacco, sweet and aromatic. A pair of hams and a leg of lamb hang suspended from a beam in their sacking of flax. The pungent smell of salted, fat-covered meat makes his mouth water and his stomach rumble ominously. He puts a tentative foot forward. He is directly above the sleeping chamber. One creak from a loose plank may wake the Trader or his wife. But the house is solid. He can hardly hear his own footsteps.

He opens a barrel, scoops a hand inside and tastes, only to recoil in disgust: gunpowder! Now it is spilt and he scuffs it with his foot so as to disperse the substance and avoid its discovery. The loft is full of barrels and crates he recognizes from
Der Frühling
. He needs a dram to steady his hand and clear his head.

He rummages about, rather casually, as though he were at home, humming quietly to himself as he lifts the lid of a keg and notes that this time he has discovered a spicy aquavit. He considers he might remain here seated on the floor and drink a little; it will leave room for more of it in his flask. He finds the cup on its hook and dips it into the barrel, drinks a few mouthfuls, thinks about the young Miss Schultz, the eunuch, the widow. He thinks about Madame Kragstedt asleep and snoring but a few ells beneath him, about Roselil and the milking girl on the farm back in Lier, the way she glanced over her shoulder at him and laughed, her upper lip curling back to expose the pink flesh of her gums, her squirting milk at him, him catching the jet in his mouth, or else being drenched, her throaty laughter at his injured expression. He fills the cup again, forgets where he is, sits and stares out ahead into the dim light.