East of Desolation, page 12
I decided to change the subject. “What do you think of Desforge?”
“An interesting question.” He poured himself some more schnapps. “When I was twenty I was first mate on a barque out of Hamburg on the Gold Coast run. We touched at Fernando Po at the height of an outbreak of Yellow Jack.” He stared into the fire, lines scoured deeply into his face at the memory of it. “There were bodies everywhere. In the waters of the harbour, in the streets. But the worst sight of all were the faces of those who knew they had it, who knew there was no hope. It was something in the eyes that told you they were already gone. Walking dead, if you like.” He shook his head. “It makes me shiver to remember it even now.”
“An interesting story, but what has it got to do with Desforge?”
“He has the same expression in his eyes, the same look of utter despair. Oh, not all the time. Only when he thinks you aren’t watching him.”
Which was quite a thought, but we were unable to take it any further because at that moment Ilana Eytan came down the stairs.
“Now this one—this one is a real woman,” Rasmussen whispered, emptied his glass and went to meet her. “And how was the hunting?” he asked in English.
“Nonexistent, but the scenery was magnificent. Well worth the climb.” She smiled as I got to my feet. “Hello, Joe.”
Rasmussen looked first at her, then at me and laughed suddenly. “So—now I understand. Good—very good. Entertain yourselves my children while I see how the dinner is coming.”
“A remarkable man,” she said when he had gone.
I nodded and gave her a cigarette, more for something to do than anything else. She was wearing her Norwegian sweater and ski pants and looked very small, very attractive and—dare I admit it?—very desirable.
How much of this she read in my eyes I don’t know, but she turned away and walked to the end of the hall, staring up at the great oaken beams, at the crossed spears and burnished shields on the wall.
“Is all this stuff real?”
I nodded. “The hall itself is only a replica of course, but it’s built on the foundations of a Viking homestead a thousand years old.”
“I must say Rasmussen certainly looks as if he belongs.”
“He does,” I said.
There was a heavy and rather awkward silence and she seemed strangely ill at ease.
“We found the plane all right,” I said. “And Kelso. There was a pretty positive identification.”
“Yes, Mrs. Kelso told me that much. We’re sharing a room. Did anything else happen?”
“Vogel and Stratton looked very disappointed and I found a spot not too far away where someone had landed in a ski plane recently.”
She was immediately interested. “Arnie?”
“I don’t know anyone else on the coast who runs one.”
“So the emeralds Arnie gave me came from the wreck, is that what you are saying?”
“Something like that. Along with others of course.”
“But how would he know they were there?”
I’d been giving that question some thought on my own account and had decided that there was only one plausible answer. “Sarah Kelso. She paid him a visit the first night she was in Frederiksborg. I wondered what she was up to at the time.”
“Without Vogel’s knowledge?”
“That’s about the size of it. It certainly raises some intriguing possibilities, doesn’t it?”
“What do you intend to do about it?”
I shrugged. “Why should I do anything? It’s all beginning to get far too complicated for a simple soul like me.”
She chuckled. “Oh, what a liar you are. What a terrible liar. I’m really going to have to do something about you.”
“In which capacity? As Ilana Eytan or Myra Grossman?” I said and regretted it instantly.
The smile faded and there was something very close to pain on her face. “You won’t let it alone, will you?”
I stood there staring at her, filled with self-loathing, trying to find the right words, but I was too late. Behind us Vogel and Stratton came down the stairs with Sarah Kelso and Rasmussen returned from the kitchen a moment later and I started to drown in the sudden outburst of conversation.
The meal which followed was simple but satisfying. Lentil soup, then steamed cod and a side of mutton. Afterwards there was coffee and brandy and we sat round the fire and talked, mainly about Greenland and the early settlers.
Rasmussen stood with his back to the fire, a glass in his hand and told them the beautiful and tragic story. Of the discovery of the great islands in the tenth century by Eric the Red, of the thousands of Icelanders and Scandinavians who had settled the land until gradually a climatic deterioration set in making life progressively more difficult until 1410 when the last official boat sailed for home.
“But what happened then?” Sarah Kelso demanded. “What happened to those who stayed?”
Rasmussen shrugged. “No one really knows. The next three hundred years or so are a blank. When the missionaries came here in the eighteenth century they found only the Eskimo.”
“But that’s incredible.”
“True, nevertheless.”
There was a slight silence and Stratton said, “Do you think the Norsemen really discovered America or is the whole thing simply tales for children?”
He couldn’t have chosen a better subject and Rasmussen plunged straight in. “There can be no doubt whatever that the accounts of the Norse voyages contained in the sagas are substantially true. Men sailed from here, from this very fjord. Leif the Lucky, Eric the Red’s son was the first.” The names rolled from his tongue, echoing from the rafters of the great hall and no one spoke. “He discovered Vinland—Vinland the Good. Probably the area around Cape Cod in Massachusetts.”
“But only probably,” Vogel said. “Isn’t it true that most discoveries of so-called Norse relics in America and Canada have been discredited?”
“Which does not mean that there is no substance in any of them,” Rasmussen said. “We read in the sagas that Leif’s brother, Thorvald Eiriksson, was killed in a battle with Indians, hit in the armpit by an arrow. The Danish archaeologist, Aage Roussell, excavated the farm at Sandnes up the coast from here which belonged to Thorvald’s brother. Among other things he discovered an Indian arrowhead, undoubtedly American and a lump of anthracite coal of the same type that exists in Rhode Island. There is no anthracite in Greenland.”
“Joe was telling me you do a great deal of research into this sort of thing yourself,” Desforge said. “Ever come up with anything?”
“A great many things. The sagas tell us that Thorfinn Karlsefne and his wife, Gudrid the Fair, settled for a while in America at a place called Straumsey—undoubtedly the Island of Manhattan. A son was born there—Snorre—the first white man born in America.”
“And you believe that?” Vogel said.
“But of course. In later years he settled here at Sandvig. This very hall is built on the ruins of his homestead. I’ve been excavating for years.”
There was real enthusiasm in his voice and they were all infected by it. “Have you anything we can see?” Vogel asked.
“Certainly.” Rasmussen put down his glass, got up and led the way down to the other end of the hall and they all followed him.
It wasn’t that I had no interest, but I’d seen the lovingly preserved objects that he kept on display, many times and in any case, I felt like some air. I faded into the shadows, opened the door gently and went out into the yard.
It was about eleven o’clock and at that time of the year it didn’t get really dark until somewhere after midnight so that there was a sort of harsh luminosity to the rain and the mist that reminded me strongly of a Yorkshire moor at dawn.
The rain was falling very heavily now, bouncing from the cobbles, and I ran for the shelter of the barn on the far side of the yard. It was a vast, echoing place filled with the pleasant smell of new hay and a ladder led to a loft above.
It was half-full of hay and at the far end a door swung to-and-fro in the wind, a fine spray of rain drifting in. There was a clear drop of thirty feet or so to the cobbles below and a heavy hook and pulley swung from a wooden hoist. Altogether it was a sort of paradise one had loved to play in as a boy and I resisted a strong impulse to slide down the rope to the ground, and lit a cigarette and stood looking out at the rain, filled with a pleasant nostalgia.
The main door creaked below and Ilana called softly, “Joe?”
I crouched at the edge of the loft and looked down at her. She was dressed as she had been for dinner with the addition of the sheepskin coat which was draped over her shoulders.
She glanced up, saw me and smiled. “Is there room for one more up there?”
“I think so.”
She climbed the ladder and stood looking about her, hands in pockets. “This is nice. Why did you cut out? Weren’t you interested?”
“Fascinated,” I said, “Always have been, but Olaf Rasmussen and I are old friends. I’ve seen it all before. Anyway it was suddenly too crowded in there. Too many people I don’t like.”
“Does that include me?”
“What do you think?”
We moved along to the open door. She sat on a box and I gave her a cigarette.
“Do you often feel like that? Hemmed in, I mean.”
“Frequently.”
She smiled and shook her head. “You told me you came to Greenland because you could make more money here than anywhere else. That isn’t really true, is it?”
I looked out into the rain, trying to get it straight in my own mind. “In the City I worried about where I was going to park the car. When I found somewhere, I worried about over-parking. Here, each day is a new struggle—people against the wilderness. It keeps a man on his toes. One of the few places left on earth that can give you that feeling.”
“For how much longer?”
I sighed. “That’s the trouble. Icelandair has started running four-day tourist trips from Iceland to Narssarssuaq which isn’t all that far from here. There’s a good airfield and a reasonable hotel. I’ve a nasty feeling it’s the beginning of the end. It always is once the tourists start coming in.”
“And what will you do then?”
“Move on.”
“With a brand new persona, I suppose?”
I frowned. “I’m not with you.”
“It’s a term Jung used. He argued that most people can’t face life in real terms so they invent a persona for themselves—a new identity if you like. We all suffer from the same disease to a greater or lesser degree. You try to present the image of a tough bush pilot, a strong man with steel nerves who can handle anything that comes along.”
“Is that a fact now?”
She carried on: “Rasmussen sees himself as a latter day Viking. Jack’s trouble is that he’s had to create and discard so many different identities that he’s long since lost any kind of contact with reality.”
“And where in the hell do you get all this stuff from?” I demanded.
“I read psychology and social philosophy for a year at university.”
Which took the wind right out of my sails and I stared at her in astonishment. “Why didn’t you continue?”
She shrugged. “I just felt that it wasn’t for me, that those dons and lecturers with their heads in their books were living the biggest lie of all.”
I shook my head. “Strange, but I thought I was getting to know you and suddenly, I find you’re a complete stranger.”
“What did Jack tell you about me?” she said.
“About Myra Grossman,” I corrected her. “The poor little East End Jewess with a chip on her shoulder and a father with a tailor’s shop in the Mile End Road.”
“He must have forgotten to tell you about the other one hundred and sixty-three branches,” she said gently.
I stared at her blankly. “But why should he do that?”
“Jack’s a very complex character. Did he say anything else about me?” I nodded slowly. “Anything I should know?”
I shook my head. “Nothing important—nothing I believed.”
“You’re a poor liar, Joe.” She smiled gravely. “Drinkers—real drinkers don’t have much interest in sex. I should have thought you would have known that.”
I nodded slowly. “I seem to have taken rather a lot for granted. I’m sorry about that. Do you believe me?”
“I could give it a try.”
“Then tell me one thing? Why did you come out here? That’s the one thing I still can’t understand.”
She said: “It’s really very simple. I wanted to be an actress and money can’t buy you that, only talent. Jack helped me along, got me into pictures. All right, I’m certainly not the greatest thing since Bernhardt, but I can get all the work I want now. They come to me.”
“And you feel guilty about that? You think you owe him something?”
“He was badly in need of financial backing for this picture, the one that’s folded. I thought I could interest my father. In fact the truth is that Jack took the whole thing as read.”
“And your father wouldn’t play?”
“I felt the least I could do was to face him especially when Milt Gold told me the whole deal was off now.” She shook her head. “Poor Jack.”
“I find it difficult to cry in my beer over a man who’s gone through three or four million dollars in his lifetime,” I said.
“I don’t. I feel personally responsible.”
“That’s crazy.” I don’t know why, but I grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. “You want to cut that sort of thinking right out for a start.”
Suddenly, she was against my chest and we were kissing, my arms fast around her. She came up for air and smiled, her eyes wide.
“Are you quite sure this is what you want?”
“Ever since I saw you in the saloon on the Stella in that ridiculous gold dress.”
“Let’s get our terms of reference straight before we go any further,” she said and pushed me away. “Do you want to make love to me or me in that kinky dress? There’s a difference.”
“I’ll have to give that at least ten seconds thought,” I said, but as I reached out for her, the door creaked in the barn below and we heard voices.
I put a finger to my lips and tiptoed to the edge of the platform. Desforge was standing with his arms around Sarah Kelso. As I watched, he picked her up in his arms and carried her across to the hay.
I moved back cautiously to Ilana. “Remember what you were saying about drink and the flesh? Well Jack’s down there in the hay with Sarah Kelso right this minute and it doesn’t seem to be bothering him one little bit.”
She held one hand hard against her mouth to contain her laughter and I took her by the arm and led her to the open door and the hoist.
“In case you’re interested that’s the only way out.”
She shook her head. “Not for me, I never was the athletic type.”
“So what do we do?” I said.
It was a good hour later and quite dark, when Desforge and Sarah Kelso left. I helped Ilana down the ladder and we moved through the darkness to the door. It was still raining heavily and we stood there for a moment, my arm around her waist.
“Ready?” I said.
She nodded and we ran across the yard together. We paused on the steps of the porch, laughing, and Desforge said from the shadows, “That you, Joe? I’ve been wondering what happened to you.”
For a moment, I thought he was going to make trouble. Instead he said, “Look, I’ve decided I’ve had this place. Any chance of flying out with you in the morning?”
“That’s fine by me.”
“See you at breakfast then.”
The door closed softly behind him and I looked down at Ilana. “What do you make of that or does he think he’s in love?”
“He doesn’t know what the word means.”
Her face was a pale shadow in the darkness as I held her away from me and looked at her searchingly. “Do you, Ilana? Do you know what it means?”
“I liked what happened back there in the loft,” she said. “I like you. That’s enough for one night. Step by step, Joe Martin. Step by step.”
She didn’t even kiss me good night. Simply left me to think about it, standing there in the darkness listening to the rush of the heavy rain, smelling the earth, and something seemed to melt inside me so that I felt like laughing out loud for the first time in years.
THIRTEEN
We flew out of Sandvig just after dawn and landed at Frederiksborg by eight. I got rid of my passengers and started to make up for lost time. I took a couple of miners into Godthaab and carried on to Søndre Strømfjord to pick up some machine parts needed urgently by a deep sea trawler which had come into harbour with engine trouble.
I arrived back in Frederiksborg at one o’clock to find Simonsen clamouring to be taken to a fishing village about a hundred miles up the coast where some Eskimos had been trying to stick harpoons into each other instead of the seals. I dropped him off, promising to return on the following afternoon, and flew back to Frederiksborg.
It was the first opportunity I’d had to look up Arnie and I went to the airstrip. The Aermacchi was there, raised on a couple of chain hoists and Miller and two mechanics were working on the undercarriage.
“Where’s Arnie?” I said.
“Haven’t seen him since last night.” Miller grinned and wiped his hands on an oily rag. “Probably been in bed with some dame all day. A couple of other guys were looking for him. They were back again just after noon. Didn’t seem to be having much luck.”
“Who were they?”
“The older one was called Vogel. Sounded like a German or something to me.”
“Austrian,” I said. “Not that it matters. How’s the work coming along?”
“Just fine. He should be able to take her up tomorrow. Tell him that if you see him, will you?”
So the hounds were closing in? I hurried back to town and called at his house but the front door was locked and there was no reply to my knock. That left two possibilities. He was either with Gudrid or drinking at the Fredericsmut which was on my way to the hotel anyway, so I decided to call.
