Smilla's Sense of Snow aka Miss Smilla's Feeling for Snow

9

According to a certain scientific theory you can only be sure of the existence of what you yourself have experienced. So there must be very few people who are completely convinced that Godthabs Road exists at five o'clock in the morning. At any rate, the windows are dark and empty, the streets are bare, and bus number 2 is empty except for the driver and me.

There's something special about five o'clock in the morning. It's as if sleep touches bottom. The curve of the REM cycle shifts direction and begins to lift the sleeper up toward the recognition that it cannot go on like this much longer. People are as vulnerable as newborn infants at that hour. That's when the big wild animals hunt, and when the police show up to demand payment of delinquent parking fines.

And that's when I take bus number 2 out to Brønshøj, to Kabbeleje Road at the edge of Utterslev Marsh, to pay a visit to forensic medicine expert Lagermann.

He recognized my voice on the phone before I had time to say my name and rattled off a time. "Six-thirty," he said. "Can you make it?"

So I arrive a little before six. People hold their lives together by means of the clock. If you make a slight change, something interesting nearly always happens.

Kabbeleje Road is dark. The houses are dark. The marsh at the end of the street is dark. It's freezing cold, the sidewalk is light gray with frost, the parked cars are covered with a glittering white fur coat. I'll be curious to see the sleepy face of the forensic medicine expert.

There is one house with lights on. Not merely with lights on but illuminated, and with figures moving behind the windows, as if a gala ball has been going on since last night and it's not over yet. I ring the bell. Smilla, the good fairy, the last guest before dawn.

Five people open the door, all at once, and then wedge themselves tightly into the doorway. Five children, from very small to medium-sized. And inside there are more. They're dressed for a raid, with ski boots and backpacks, leaving their hands free to punch somebody. They have milky-white skin, freckles, and copper-red hair under hats with earflaps, and they exude an air of hyperactive vandalism.

Right in the middle stands a woman who has the children's skin and hair color, with the height, shoulders, and back of an American football player. Behind her the forensic medicine expert comes into view.

He's a foot and a half shorter than his wife. He is fully dressed and inveterately red-eyed and chipper.

He doesn't raise an eyebrow at the sight of me. He lowers his head, and we plow our way through the shouts and through some rooms that show signs of barbarian migration, as if the wild hordes had passed this way and back again on their way home; then through a kitchen where sandwiches have been prepared for an entire battalion, and out through a door. He closes the door; it's suddenly quiet, dry, very hot, and there's a purple glow.

We're standing in a greenhouse built onto the house as a kind of winter garden. Except for a couple of narrow pathways, a little terrace with white wrought-iron furniture, and a table, the floor is covered with cactuses in beds and pots. Cactuses of all sizes, from a fraction of an inch up to six feet high. In all stages of prickliness. Lit by ultraviolet grow lights.

"Dallas," he says. "Great place for putting together a collection. Otherwise I don't know whether I'd recommend it; hell if I know. On a Saturday night we could have up to fifty murders. We often had to work downstairs next to the emergency room. It was set up so we could do the autopsies there. It was practical. I learned a lot about gunshot wounds and stab wounds. My wife said I never saw the children. Hell, she was right, too." As he talks, he stares steadily at me.

"You're early, all right. Not that it matters to us; we're up, anyway. My wife got the kids into the nursery school in Allerod. So they could get out in the woods a little. Did you know the little boy?"

"I was a friend of the family. Especially him." We sit down across from each other.

"What do you want?"

"You gave me your card."

He ignores my remark. I sense that he's a man who has seen too much to waste time on pretenses. If he's going to reveal anything, he expects honesty.

So I tell him about Isaiah's fear of heights. About the tracks on the roof. About my visit with Professor Loyen. About Investigator Ravn.

He lights a cigar and looks at his cactuses. Maybe he hasn't understood what I've been telling him. I'm not sure I understand it myself.

"We have the only real institute," he says. "The others have four people fumbling around and they can't even get money for pipettes or for the white mice they need to graft their cell tests on. We have an entire building. We have pathologists and chemists and forensic geneticists. And the whole warehouse in the basement. Teach students, too. And we've got two hundred fucking employees. We get three thousand cases a year. If you're sitting in Odense you might see forty murders. I've had fifteen hundred here in Copenhagen. And just as many in Germany and the United States. There are only maybe three people, tops, in Denmark who can call themselves experts in forensic medicine. Loyen and I are two of them."

Next to his chair there is a cactus that looks like a tree stump in bloom: An explosion of purple and orange has risen out of the languid green, thorny, tree-like growth.

"The morning after the boy was brought in, we were busy. Drunk drivers and Christmas parties. Every afternoon at four o'clock the fucking police are standing there waiting for a report. So at eight o'clock I start on the boy. You're not squeamish, are you? We have a certain routine. First an external examination. We look for cell tissue under the fingernails, for sperm in the rectum, and then we open them up and look at the internal organs."

"Are the police present?"

"Only under unusual circumstances, for instance if there is strong suspicion of murder. Not on this occasion. This was routine. He was wearing rain pants. I hold them up, thinking to myself that they're not what you would wear for doing the long jump. I have a little trick. The kind of thing you invent in any profession. I hold a light bulb inside the pant legs. Helly Hansen. Sturdy stuff. I wear them myself when I work in the garden. But near the thigh there's a perforation. I examine the boy. Purely routine. There I find a hole. I should have noticed it when I was doing the surface examination, I tell you that quite frankly, but what the hell, we're all human. Then I start to frown. Because there wasn't any bleeding, and the tissue hasn't contracted. Do you know what that means?"

"No," I say.

"It means that whatever happened at that spot occurred after his heart stopped beating. Now I take a closer look at his rain gear. There's a little indentation around the hole, and the whole thing rings a bell. So I get out a biopsy needle. A kind of syringe, quite big, attached to a handle. You plunge it into the tissue to get a sample. The way geologists take core samples. Used a lot by sports physiologists over at the August Krogh Institute. And damn if it doesn't fit! The circle on the rain gear could have been caused by someone who was in a hurry, who shoved it in with a good whack."

He leans toward me. "I'll eat my old hat if someone hasn't taken a muscle biopsy from him."

"The ambulance medic?"

"I thought of that, too. It doesn't make any sense, but who the hell else could it be? So I call them up and ask them. I talk to the driver. And the medic. And to our orderlies who received the body. They all swear on a stack of Bibles that they did nothing of the kind."

"Why didn't Loyen tell me this?"

For an instant he seems about to explain. Then the intimacy between us is broken.

"Must be a fucking coincidence," he mutters to himself.

He turns off the grow lights. We have been sitting surrounded by night on all sides. Now it's becoming noticeable that, in spite of everything, there will be some sort of daylight, after all. The house is quiet. It's sitting there gasping soundlessly, trying to catch its breath before the next Armageddon.

I take a short walk along the narrow pathways. There's something obstinate about cactuses. The sun tries to hold them down, the desert wind wants to hold them down, and the drought, and the night frost. Yet they thrive. They bristle, they retreat behind a thick shell. And they don't budge an inch. I regard them with sympathy.

Lagermann reminds me of his plants. Maybe that's why he collects cactus. Without knowing his background, I can tell that he must have had several cubic yards of concrete to break through to reach the light.

We are standing next to a bed with green sea urchins that look as if they've been out in a storm of cotton. "Pilocereus senilis," he says.

Nearby there is a row of pots with smaller green and violet plants.

"Mescaline. Even the big places-the Botanical Gardens in Mexico City, say, or Cesar Mandriques's cactus museum on Lanzarote-have no more than I do. One little sliver and you're way out there. Or so I've heard. I'm a sensible man. A rationalist. We examine the brain. Slice off a piece. Afterward the assistant puts the skull back in place and pulls up the scalp. Can't tell the difference. I've seen thousands of brains. There's nothing mysterious about it. It's chemistry-the whole works. As long as you have enough information. Why do you think he ran up onto that roof?"

For the first time I feel like giving an honest answer. "I think someone was after him."

He shakes his head. "It's not like kids to run that far. Mine sit down and start howling. Or freeze."

The mechanic once rebuilt a bicycle for Isaiah. He hadn't learned to ride a bike in Greenland. When it was ready he took off. The mechanic found him six miles away on the Old Køge Highway, with training wheels and a lunchbox on the baggage rack. On his way to Greenland. He was headed in that direction because Juliane had been in Hvidovre Hospital once for the DTs.

From the age of seven, when I came to Denmark for the first time, until I was thirteen and gave up, I ran away more times than I can remember. Twice I made it to Greenland, and one of those times as far as Thule. It's just a matter of attaching yourself to a family and pretending your mother is sitting five seats ahead in the plane or standing a little farther back in the line. The world is full of adventure stories about lost parrots and Persian cats and French bulldogs that miraculously find their way home to Mother and Father on Frydenholms Avenue. That's nothing compared to the countless miles children have put behind them in search of a decent life.

This is all something I might try to explain to Lagermann. But I don't.

We're standing in the front hallway, among the boots, the skateblade protectors, remains of provisions, and miscellaneous items left behind by the troops.

"What now?"

"I'm looking for the logical explanation," I say, "that you were talking about before. Until I find it, I'm not going to feel much in the Christmas spirit."

"Don't you have a job you have to go to?"

I don't answer. Suddenly he lays down all his thorns. When he speaks, he has stopped swearing.

"I've seen hundreds of relatives who have been overwhelmed by grief. Hundreds of talented private citizens who thought they could do it better than we and the police could. I've looked at their ideas and their tenacity, and I said to myself, I give them five minutes. But with you I'm not so sure…"

I attempt a smile that's supposed to reciprocate his optimism. But it's too early in the morning even for me. Instead, I suddenly discover that I've turned toward him and blown him a kiss. From one desert plant to another.

I'm no expert on types of cars. As far as I'm concerned, you could send all the cars in the world through a compacter and shoot them out through the stratosphere and put them in orbit around Mars. Except, of course, the taxis that have to be at my disposal when I need them.

But I do have some idea what a Volvo 840 looks like. For the past few years Volvo has sponsored the Europe Tour golf tournament, and they used my father in a series of ads about men and women who had made it on the international scene. In one photo he was in the midst of teeing off in front of the terrace at Sollerod Golf Club, and in another he was wearing a white lab coat, sitting in front of a tray of instruments with an expression in his eyes as if to say, 'If you need a block inserted, bam, into the pituitary, I'm the one to do it'. In both ads he had persuaded them to take the photo from the angle that makes him look like Picasso with a toupee, and the caption was something about "those who never miss." For three months, in buses and subway stations, that ad made me think of what I might have added to the caption. And it stamped in my mind forever the angular, somewhat shrunken shape of a Volvo 840.

If the temperature goes up right before sunrise, the way it did today, the frost will retreat last from a car's roof and above the windshield wipers. A banal fact that only the fewest people are aware of. The car on Kabbeleje Road that has no frost on it, either because it was wiped off or because it has been recently driven, is a blue Volvo 840.

There are probably plenty of reasons why someone might have parked here at twenty after six in the morning. But just at the moment I can't think of any. So I walk to the car, bend over the hood, and peer in through the tinted front window. In the driver's seat sits a man, sleeping. I stand there for a few moments, but he doesn't move. Finally I saunter off toward Brønshøj Square.

It's important to sleep. I would have liked a couple of more hours myself that morning. But I wouldn't have chosen to sit in a Volvo on Kabbeleje Road.

"My name is Smilla Jaspersen."

"Groceries from the store?"

"No, Smilla Jaspersen."

It's not entirely true that phone conversations are the worst communication imaginable. Security intercoms, after all, are much worse. To fit in with the rest of the building, which is tall, silvery gray, and imposing, the intercom is made of anodized aluminum and shaped like a conch shell. Unfortunately, it has also absorbed the roar of the great oceans, which now drown out the conversation.

"The cleaning lady?"

"No," I say, "and not the pedicurist, either. I have some questions about the Cryolite Corporation."

Elsa Lübing takes a break. You have that prerogative when you're standing at the proper end of the intercom. Where it's warm, and where the buzzer to open the door is.

"This is really most inconvenient. You will have to write or come back some other time."

She hangs up.

I take a step back and look up. The building stands alone, in the Fugle section of Frederiksberg, at the end of Hejre Road. It's unusually tall for Copenhagen. Elsa Lübing lives on the seventh floor. On the balcony beneath hers the ornate wrought iron is covered with planters. From the directory it's apparent that these flower lovers are Mr. and Mrs. Schou. I give the doorbell a short and authoritative ring.

"Yes?" The voice is at least eighty years old. "Delivery from the florist shop. I have a bouquet for Elsa Lübing upstairs, but she's not home. Would you please let me in?"

"I'm sorry, we have strict instructions not to open the door for the other apartments."

I am enchanted by people in their eighties who still obey strict instructions.

"Mrs. Schou," I say, "they are orchids. Straight off the plane from Madeira. They're languishing down here in the cold."

"That's terrible!"

"Awful," I say. "But a tiny little push on that little buzzer will bring them into the warmth where they belong."

She buzzes me in.

The elevator is the kind that makes you want to ride up and down seven or eight times just to enjoy the little built-in plush sofa, the polished Brazilian rosewood, the gold grating, and the sandblasted cupids on the panes of glass, through which you can see the cable and the counterbalance sink into the depths you've left behind.

Lübing's door is shut. Downstairs Mrs. Schou has opened hers to hear whether the orchid story is a cover for a quick Christmas rape.

I have a piece of paper in my pocket, among the loose money and reminders from the science department of the university library. I drop the paper through the mail slot. Then Mrs. Schou and I wait.

The door has a brass mail slot, hand-painted nameplate, and panels of gray and white.

It swings inward. In the doorway stands Elsa Lübing. She takes her time looking me over.

"Well," she says finally, "you are certainly persistent." She steps aside. I walk past her into the apartment.

She and the building share the same coloring, polished silver and fresh cream. She is quite tall, almost six feet; and she is wearing a long, simple, off-white dress. She has put up her hair, but several loose locks fall like a cascade of shiny metal over her cheeks. No makeup, no perfume, and no jewelry other than a silver cross at her throat. An angel. The kind you can trust to guard something with a flaming sword.

She looks at the letter I stuck through the door. It's Juliane's pension award.

"I remember this letter quite well," she says.

There's a painting on the wall. From the heavens, down toward the earth, flows a stream of long-bearded patriarchs, fat little children, fruit, cornucopias, hearts, anchors, royal crowns, cannons, and a text you can read if you know Latin. This picture is the only sign of luxury. Other than that, the room has bare white walls, a parquet floor with wool carpets, an oak desk, a low, round table, a pair of high-backed chairs, a sofa, a tall bookcase, and a crucifix.

Nothing else is needed. Because there is something else here. A view that only a pilot would normally see, tolerable only if you don't suffer from vertigo. The apartment seems to consist mainly of one very large, bright room. Over by the balcony, along the entire width of the room, there is a wall of glass. From there you can see all of Frederiksberg, Bellahøj, and, in the distance, Høje Gladsaxe. The light of the winter morning comes in through the window, as white as if we were outside. On the other side there is another large window. From there you can see the spires of Copenhagen, across an endless expanse of rooftops. High above the city, Elsa Lübing and I stand as if in a bell jar, trying to size each other up.

She offers me a hanger for my coat. Spontaneously I slip off my shoes. Something about the room demands it. We sit down in two high-backed chairs.

"This time of day," she says, "I am normally in prayer."

She says this as naturally as if she were usually in the middle of the heart association's exercise program at this time of day.

"So-unbeknownst to you-you have chosen an inconvenient time," she says.

"I saw your name on the letter and looked you up in the phone book."

She looks at the paper again. Then she takes off her thick-lensed reading glasses.

"A tragic accident. Especially for the child. A child needs both parents. That is one of the practical reasons why marriage is sacred."

"Mr. Lübing would be pleased to hear that."

If her husband is dead, I'm not insulting anyone. If he's alive, it's a tasteful compliment.

"There is no Mr. Lübing," she says. "I am the bride of Jesus."

She says this in a manner both serious and coquettish, as if they had been married a few years ago and the relationship is still happy and looks as if it will last.

"But that does not mean that I do not regard love between men and women as holy. It is, however, only a stage along the way. A stage that I have permitted myself to skip, so to speak."

She gazes at me with something that looks like sly humor. "Like skipping a grade in school."

"Or," I say, "like going directly from bookkeeper to chief accountant at the Cryolite Corporation of Denmark."

When she laughs, her laughter is as resonant as a man's.

"My dear," she says, "are you married?"

"No. Never have been."

We move our chairs closer together. Two mature women who both know what it's like to live without men. She seems to be managing better than I am.

"The boy is dead," I say. "Four days ago he fell off a roof."

She gets up and goes over to the glass wall. If you could look that dignified and that good it would be a pleasure getting old. I drop the idea at the mere thought of having to grow another foot.

"I met him once," she says. "When you met him you understood why it is written that unless you become as children, you will not enter Paradise. I hope his poor mother will find her way to Jesus."

"Only if you can find Him at the bottom of a bottle." She looks at me without smiling. "He is everywhere. Even there."

In the early sixties the Christian mission in Greenland still had some of the quivering vigor of imperialism. More recent times-especially at Thule Air Base-with their containers full of porno magazines and whiskey and the demand for semi-prostitution, have left us on the outskirts of religion in a vacuum of wonder. I have lost the sense of how to tackle a believing European.

"How did you meet Isaiah?"

"I used my modest influence within the corporation to increase the contact with Greenlanders. Our quarry in Saqqaq was a restricted area, just like the Øresund Cryolite Corporation's quarry in Ivittuut was. The workers were Danish. The only Greenlanders we hired were on the cleaning staff, the kivfaks. From the day the mine opened, a strict separation had been maintained between Danes and Inuits. In this situation I tried to draw their attention to the commandment `Love thy neighbor.' Every few years we would hire Inuits in connection with geological expeditions. It was on one of these that Isaiah's father died. Even though his wife had left him and their child, he had continued to contribute to her support. When the board of directors awarded the pension, I invited her and the child to my office. That's where I saw him."

Something about the word "award" gives me an idea. "Why was the pension granted? Was there a legal obligation?"

She hesitates for a moment. "There was probably no obligation. I cannot rule out that they were influenced by my advice."

I see yet another side of Miss Lübing. Power. Maybe that's the way it is with angels. Maybe a certain pressure was put on Our Lord in Paradise, too.

I go over to join her at the window. Frederiksberg, the neighborhood around Genforenings Square, Brønshøj, the snow makes everything look like a village. Hejre Road is short and narrow. It runs into Due Road. On Due Road there are many parked cars. One of them is a blue Volvo 840. The products of the Volvo factories do get around. They would have to, in order for the company to afford sponsoring the Europe Tour. And to pay the fee my father boasts that he demanded for his photograph.

"What did Isaiah's father die of?"

"Food poisoning. You are interested in the past, Miss Jaspersen?"

At this point I have to decide whether I'm going to feed her some phony story or take the more difficult route with the truth. On the low table is the Bible. One of the Greenlandic catechists at the Moravian mission's Sunday school was obsessed with the Dead Sea Scrolls. I remember his voice as he said, "And Jesus said: `Thou shalt not lie.' " I let that thought be a warning.

"I think something scared him, that someone was chasing him up on that roof he fell from."

Her equanimity does not waver even for a second. The last few days I've been meeting people who view with the greatest calm the things that surprise me the most.

"The Devil assumes many forms."

"It's one of those forms that I'm searching for."

"Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord."

"That kind of justice is too long-term for me."

"It was my understanding that for the short term we have the police."

"They've closed the case." She stares at me.

"Tea," she says. "I haven't even offered you anything to drink."

On her way out to the kitchen she turns around in the doorway.

"Do you know the parable of the talents? It's about loyalty. There is a loyalty toward the worldly as well as the heavenly. I was an official of the Cryolite Corporation for forty-five years. Do you understand?"

"Every second or third year the corporation outfitted a geological expedition to Greenland."

We're drinking tea. Out of Trankebar royal porcelain, from a Georg Jensen silver teapot. Elsa Lübing's taste is, upon closer observation, more elegant than it is modest.

"The expedition in the summer of '94 to Gela Alta on the west coast cost 1,870,747 kroner and 50 øre, half of which was paid in Danish kroner, half in 'Cape York dollars,' the corporation's own monetary unit, named after Knud Rasmussen's trading post in Thule in 1910. That's all I can tell you."

I am sitting there rather gingerly. I had Rohrmann on Ordrup Road sew a silk lining into my kidskin pants. She didn't want to do it. She says that it makes the seams shred. But I insisted. My life depends on small pleasures. I wanted the combination of coolness and warmth from the silk against my thighs. But the price I pay is having to sit down cautiously. It's the back-and-forth movement against the chair that strains the seams. That's my minor problem during this conversation. Miss Lübing has a bigger problem. It is written, I think, that you should not make your heart a den of thieves, and she knows that there is some pressure on her right now.

"I joined the Cryolite Corporation in '47. When manufacturer Virl said to me on August 17, `You will receive 240 kroner per month, free lunch, and three weeks' vacation,' I didn't say a word. But inside I was thinking that it's true, after all. Look at the birds of the air-they neither sow nor reap. So will He not look out for you? At Grøn & Witzke on the King's New Square, where I came from, I had been getting 187 kroner a month."

The telephone is next to the front door. There are two things worth noting about it. The jack is pulled out, and there is no notepad, address book, or pencil. I noticed that when I came in. Now I begin to understand what she does with the stray telephone numbers that the rest of us write on the wall, on the back of our hands, or drop into oblivion. She deposits them in her tremendous memory for numbers.

"Since then, as far as I know, no one has ever had reason to complain about the corporation's generosity or openness. And whatever complaints there were have been satisfied. When I started, there were six cafeterias. A cafeteria for the workers, a lunchroom for office personnel, one for the skilled technicians, one for office supervisors and the chief accountant and the bookkeepers, one for the scientific staff over in the laboratory buildings, and one for the director and the board. But that was changed."

"Perhaps you made your influence felt?" I suggest.

"We had several politicians on the board. At that time Strineke, the minister of social welfare, was one of them. Since what I saw went against my conscience, I went to see him-on May 17, 1957, at four o'clock in the afternoon, on the very day I was named Chief Accountant. I said, `I don't know anything about socialism, Mr. Steincke, but I do know that it has certain things in common with the conduct of the first Christian congregation. They gave what they had to the poor and lived together as brothers and sisters. How can these ideas be reconciled with six cafeterias, Mr. Steincke?' He answered with a quote from the Bible. He said that you should render unto God what is God's, but also render unto Caesar what is Caesar's. But after a few years, there was only one cafeteria left."

When she pours the tea, she uses a sieve to prevent any leaves from getting into the cup. There is a piece of cotton under the teapot spout so it won't drip on the table. Something similar is taking place inside her. What's bothering her is the unaccustomed effort of filtering out what must not reach me.

"We are-were-partially state-supported. Not 50 percent like Øresund Cryolite Corporation. But the government was represented on the board and owned 33.33 percent of the shares. There was also a great openness about the accounts: Copies were made of everything on old-fashioned photostats. Portions of the accounts were examined by the Audit Department, the institution which, as of January 1, 1976, became the National Bureau of Auditing. The problem was cooperation with the private sector. With the Swedish Diamond Drilling Corporation, Greenex, and, later, with Greenland's Geological Survey. The half-time and quarter-time employees. This created complex situations. There was also the hierarchy. Every company has one. There were sections of the account books that even I didn't have access to. I had my account ledgers bound in gray moleskin stamped in red. We keep them in a safe in the archives. But there was also a smaller, confidential ledger. There must have been. It had to be that way in a large corporation."

" 'Keep them in the archives.' That's present tense."

"I retired last year. Since then I've been associated with the corporation as an accounting consultant."

I try one last time. "The accounts for the expedition in the summer of '91-was there anything special about them?"

For a moment I imagine that I'm on the verge of getting through to her. Then the filter slides back into place. "I'm not certain I remember."

I try one last time. Which is tactless and doomed in advance. "Could I see the archive?"

She merely shakes her head.

My mother smoked a pipe made of an old shell casing. She never told a lie. But if there was some truth she wanted to conceal, she would scrape out the pipe, put the scrapings in her mouth, say Mamartog, "Lovely," and then pretend to be unable to speak. Keeping silent is also an art.

"Wasn't it difficult," I say as I put on my shoes, "for a woman to be financially responsible for a large corporation in the fifties?"

"The Lord has been merciful."

I think to myself that in Elsa Lübing the Lord has had an effective instrument for manifesting His mercy.

"What makes you think the boy was being chased?"

"There was snow on the roof that he fell from. I saw his footprints. I have a sense of snow."

She gazes wearily straight ahead. Suddenly her frailty is apparent.

"Snow is the symbol of inconstancy," she says. "As in the book of job."

I have put on my cape. I'm not very familiar with the Bible. But odd fragments from my childhood lessons occasionally get stuck on the flypaper of my brain.

"Yes," I say. "And a symbol of the light of truth. As in Revelation. `His head and his hair were white as snow.' "

She looks at me anxiously as she closes the door behind me. Smilla Jaspersen. The dear guest. Spreader of light. When she leaves there is a blue sky and good spirits. The moment I step out onto Hejre Road, the building intercom buzzes.

"Would you please come back up for a moment?" Her voice is hoarse. But that might be the fault of the underwater intercom.

So I ride up in the elevator again. And she receives me again in the doorway.

But nothing is as before, as Jesus says somewhere.

"I have a ritual," she says. "I open the Bible at random when I am in doubt. To get a sign. A little game between God and me, if you like."

With someone else this ritual might have seemed like one of the little functional tics that Europeans get when they're alone too much. But not with her. She is never alone. She is married to Jesus.

"Just now, when you closed the door, I opened the Bible. It was the first page of Revelation. Which you mentioned. `I have the keys of Hades and of Death.' "

We stand there looking at each other.

"The keys of hell," she says. "How far will you go?"

"Try me."

For a moment something still struggles inside her. "There's a double archive, in the basement, in the building on Strand Boulevard. In the first one are the accounts and correspondence. The supervisors, the bookkeepers, I myself, and sometimes the department heads all have access. The other archive is behind the first one. That's where the expedition reports are kept. Certain mineral samples. There is a whole wall full of topographical maps. A case of drilling cores, geological core samples about the size of a narwhal tusk. Technically, access is granted only with the permission of the board or the director."

She turns her back to me.

I sense the appropriate solemnity. She is about to commit one of her life's (without doubt very few) breaches of the regulations.

"Naturally I cannot mention that there is a passkey system. Or that the Abloy key over there on the board is for the main entrance."

I slowly turn my head. Behind me there are three brass hooks, three keys. One of them is an Abloy.

"The building itself does not have a security system. The key to the archives in the basement is hanging in the safe in the office. An electronic safe with a six-digit code, the date on which I became the Chief Accountant: OS-1757. The key fits both the first and second basement rooms."

She turns around and comes over to me. It's my guess that this proximity is the closest she ever comes to touching another human being.

"Do you believe?" she asks.

"I don't know whether I believe in your God."

"That doesn't matter. You believe in a Supreme Being?"

"There are mornings when I don't even believe in myself."

She laughs for the second time that day. Then she turns around and walks over toward her panoramic view. When she's halfway across the room, I put the key in my pocket. With the tips of my fingers I make sure that Rohrmann's silk lining hasn't shredded, at least in that pocket.

Then I leave. I take the stairs. If there is divine providence, one of the great questions is how directly it intervenes. Whether it is the Lord Himself who saw me at 6 Hejre Road and said, "Let there be a break," and there was a break. In one of his own angels.

When I turn the corner onto Due Road I have a ballpoint pen in my hand. There is a license plate I feel like jotting down on my hand. Nothing comes of it. When I reach the corner, there is no car in sight.