The End of the Ocean

Chapter 19 SIGNE

All the sails are set and the wind drives me forward, at five knots for the third day in a row, soon it will be six knots, the boat maintains maximum speed. The northern wind has again shifted slightly to the east, but still permits me to set sail for the south and the power is back on, everything on board is functioning as it should.

I am in constant movement, a feeling of a restlessness inhabiting my body. I yawn abruptly and involuntarily, my jaw creaks, I fill my lungs, am so tired, really very tired, have lost count of the number of days without consecutive hours of sleep and, with no relief in sight now, I am approaching the English Channel. The vessel traffic is increasing, so lying down and trusting that it will suffice to check the fairway every half-hour won’t do here. I must live in the cockpit now.

I have showered. There is still a lot of water in the tank, my hair in the salty sea air smells of shampoo, my body, my skin, dry and smooth, no longer sticky with sweat, the air temperature is 23 °C, an early morning heat. I am wearing only shorts and a T-shirt, but my hair, my just-washed hair, is not held in place by grease and salt water, but instead sticks to and irritates my face when the wind loosens it from the ponytail. I should get a haircut, most women my age have short hair. I could take a pair of scissors and be done with it, right now… no, because then perhaps he wouldn’t recognize me. Then perhaps Magnus wouldn’t recognize me.

Recognize me? Signe, why are you thinking in this way? As if it makes any difference. The most important thing is that he recognizes the ice, the ice that I am going to dump at his feet, throwing his betrayal and his weakness right in his face.

I should have realized how different we were from the very beginning.

My life was in Bergen, but Magnus was constantly pulling me towards Ringfjorden and Eidesdalen. He spoke about our villages, about friends who settled down there and had children. He spoke warmly and at length about unity, simplicity and nature, about its fantastic beauty. He used words like that, like some tourist.

He let me know that he saw my mother from time to time. Whether it was by chance or design, I didn’t know, didn’t want to ask; later I thought I should have known more about the kind of contact they had, about what it meant to him, but the whole time I told myself that she wasn’t an important part of my life, that I wasn’t interested in what she was up to, and for that reason neither could she be an important part of his.

It was my father I spoke with. I called him at least once a week. I was always the one who made contact with him, from the telephone in the hallway of the block of bedsits.

But one day the landlord knocked on the door and told me that I had received a phone call. This time it was my father who was calling me.

“Signe? Hello?”

“Hello, Daddy.”

He got straight to the point: “The company Ringfallene wants to develop the Sister Falls.”

“What?”

I sat down on the hard chair beside the telephone. The summer sunshine poured through the window and illuminated the dust in the air.

“Ringfallene purchased the water rights on the falls at a bargain price, when development of the River Breio commenced. And now they want to make use of them.”

I was unable to respond immediately, could feel how I wasn’t relaxed on the chair, but rather prepared to leap into action.

“Signe?”

“I’m here.”

“You understand what this means?”

My mouth was dry.

“The Sister Falls will disappear,” I said.

“Yes. The Sister Falls will disappear. Seven hundred and eleven meters of free-falling water obliterated, as if it had never been there. Norway has no other waterfalls like those two and now they are going to be diverted through a pipeline.”

I drew a breath.

“And the water?” I asked.

“They are building another dam on the mountain, a few kilometers from the last one. And they want to channel the water down into a tunnel from this one, too.”

“But… where? Channel it where?”

“To the power plant, of course,” he said, and laughed a short, brittle laugh. “Towards Ringfjorden.”

“Away from Lake Eide?”

“Lake Eide will be drained, Signe. And the majority of the revenues will go to Ringfjorden.”

I couldn’t make sense of it and asked confused questions that caused him to talk even louder, even faster.

“It’s your mother,” he said. “And Svein. They are the ones who will profit from this, Signe, with all their shares in Ringfallene. The Sister Falls will make them extremely wealthy.”

Mommy. Svein.

“Signe?”

“I’m here.”

“Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“What about Sønstebø?” I said. “Magnus’s parents?”

“Sønstebø lost the summer farm last time. This time he’s losing his entire livelihood.”

We went home the following weekend. I drove. Magnus wanted me to, didn’t want us to be one of those traditional couples where he always did the driving. I drove even though my body was too agitated. I was too angry, too restless. He, on the other hand, was apparently unperturbed, speaking about the view, about the weather, about nothing. I didn’t understand how he could be so calm.

The sun broke through the clouds as we approached Ringfjorden, the road clung tightly to the mountainsides, narrow and curving, almost at sea level, wet from the rain, a shiny snake in the terrain. I tried to concentrate on getting there, but when we reached the crossing where the road to Eidesdalen turned off, a sudden impulse caused me to turn and take the road leading to the mountain.

“Aren’t we going to Ringfjorden?” Magnus said. “Isn’t your father waiting for us?”

“I want to see the Sister Falls,” I said. “I have to see them.”

We drove through Eidesdalen where the lake lay before us, huge, silent and blue on that summer day, where the fields were green and the trees in the orchards full of ripening fruit, past Magnus’s family farm, Sønstebø’s farm, without letting them know we were here, and all the way to the waterfalls—the two, parallel, silver strings on the precipitous mountain.

I stepped out of the car and could feel immediately how saturated the air was; it felt like dewdrops on my face, the sound pounded against me, thousands of liters of water every single second, a push, a scream. The falls frightened me. Every time I stood here, images flew through my mind of people under the torrents of water, of children who tripped and fell on the slippery stones, landing where the water hit the ground. Water has power, a force. I had considered it to be invincible. But not any longer, not when encountering human hands, power shovels, steel pipes, tunnels, not in the face of license revenues, industrialization and the welfare state.

Magnus had come up behind me, lifted his arms and slipped them around my waist.

“They’re powerful,” he said.

“Is that the only adjective you have in your repertoire?”

“What do you mean?”

“Of course they’re powerful. They’re also beautiful. Gorgeous. Magnificent. Dramatic.”

“What are you getting at now?”

“Have you seen the latest tourist brochure? Bridal Veil, it says there. You could say that… you could say that they are as beautiful as twin brides at the photographer’s. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

“Signe—”

“And then you have to say useful. Did you forget that one?”

“It wasn’t the adjective that came to mind, but of course the falls are useful.”

“Not so much the falls in themselves, but the water that comes from them.”

“The water that comes from them is useful.”

“The falls are exceptional.”

“That too.”

I got back into the car and he did the same.

“We’re driving to the dam,” I said, without asking whether he minded. “I want to go diving.”

He didn’t say anything until we reached the mountain. We had to park the car and walk the final stretch, because the road leading to the dam was no good.

We followed the riverbed which was a dry gash in the mountain, and stopped at the top. I could sense that old feeling of something lifting, that it became easier to breathe when I no longer had to crane my neck to see the sky.

He stood there looking at the power lines that cut through the mountain landscape.

“Can I say something about this?” he asked and pointed at the huge constructions.

I smiled. “Fine.”

“The adjective I want to use is…”

“I can hardly wait.”

“Hideous.”

“That was a good choice of words.”

“I know, right? But…” He fell silent, glanced at me quickly. “Am I allowed to say that it’s also beautiful?”

“Beautiful? Where did that come from?”

“In some way or another it’s beautiful. The human grandeur. How we take on the world. It is perhaps the engineer in me that’s talking now, but it’s all of this that has lifted us out of poverty. That has made progress possible.”

At first I didn’t reply. Where was he going with this?

“Human grandeur,” I said finally. “A contradiction.”

“What?”

“A contradiction in terms. The words human and grandeur do not belong in the same sentence.”

“It must be possible to have two opposing thoughts in your head at the same time.”

“Have you ever said something like that to your father? That you think the power lines are… formidable?”

“Mom and Dad… they have actually managed just fine without that summer farm. It didn’t turn out to be the catastrophe they feared—they received compensation, it was done by the book, even he had to admit that.”

Magnus’s gaze followed the high-tension cables that were running through the mountain wilds and pointed. “This is a result of man’s ability to plan… that we are able to imagine a future, provide for ourselves, our children, our old age. And for those who will come after us. And it’s even clean. The energy is clean.”

“And for that reason we are superior to other species, because we know how to plan?”

“Like all other species, we take care of ourselves. It’s instinct,” he said.

“So what drives us? Instinct or intellect?”

He hesitated. “Both.”

“But the development of hydroelectric power is the result of intellect?”

“…Yes.”

“I would say that it’s rather a result of instinct.”

I started walking again, didn’t want to look at him any longer.

“You don’t plan enormous hydroelectric power plants instinctively,” he said and hurried to catch up with me.

“But if we agree that humans instinctively provide for themselves and their own children…” I said.

“Yes?”

“Then these developments are a result of instinct… an instinct that is faulty.”

I stared at the road in front of me. It was still just as ugly.

“Faulty?” he said.

“You say it’s in our nature to provide for our descendants,” I said. “But we are really only providing for ourselves. Ourselves and our children. At the very most, our grandchildren. We forget about those who will come after them. While we are also capable of making changes that will have an impact on hundreds of future generations, that will destroy things for everyone who comes after us. Ergo our protective instinct has malfunctioned.”

“You’re a pessimist, do you know that?”

I was walking faster now. I wanted to get away, but couldn’t stop myself from answering him. “No. I’m a determinist. There is nothing to guarantee that everything will be fine. For the human race. For the world.”

“Nothing?” he said. “Think about the Second World War…”

“We have to go back to the war, yes.” I tried to laugh, but it sounded hollow.

“Think about the post-war years, of everything we have accomplished,” he said. “Everything Europe has achieved in an incredibly short period of time. When people combined their resources.”

“That was brilliant, wasn’t it?”

“And how can you be a determinist when you want to take part in protest marches every single weekend and spend all your free time handing out fliers?”

“I said I was a determinist. I didn’t say I was logical.”

“And I say that you’re allowed to have two opposing thoughts in your head at the same time.”

He stopped, took hold of me and pulled me close to him, but I didn’t return the hug, because suddenly I could feel how angry I was.

“Signe?”

He held me.

“They are going to drain off all the water in Lake Eide,” I said. “I can’t believe we’re walking here discussing whether power lines are beautiful.”

“Yes… I know… I know. Sorry.”

“Determinism or not, we don’t own nature,” I said, and disentangled myself from his embrace. “Just like it doesn’t own us. We don’t own the water, nobody owns the water. But all the same, we persist. And even though I don’t think it will help, in the long run, I will continue taking part in protest marches and handing out fliers, as long as I have feet to carry me and hands to distribute them with.”

We stood facing one another on the road. Suddenly I wished that I was taller, because he looked at me, at my fierceness, as if all of a sudden he thought there was something strange about it. As if I were a strange and not particularly attractive animal.

“But we can,” he said calmly, “we can do what we want, Signe. That’s what makes us human beings, what distinguishes us from animals. It must be possible to think both ways at the same time, that it’s brutal, but also fantastic, that these installations make life better for thousands of us, now and for many decades into the future, that we are creating civilization.”

I was unable to say anything; there was a pressure in my chest. “You’ve been away from here for too long,” I said finally and tried to smile. “I think we have to move back, before you turn into a city boy through and through.”

“Maybe you are the one talking like a city boy… Or maybe you’ve become a city girl?” he said. “I’ve always thought that city people have a more romantic relationship to nature, that those of us who are from here actually see its utility value also.”

“Are you serious?”

I turned and walked away, while he stayed where he was.

“Signe?” He didn’t follow me, just stood there calling me, in a low and controlled voice, as if he were talking to a child. “Come on, Signe. You have to accept that we don’t agree about everything.”

I could accept our not being in agreement about everything, of course I could, but I couldn’t accept that we didn’t agree about this. So I kept walking and luckily he followed me, finally. My back must have made an impression on him, because now he tried making some rude comments—silly, harmless, trying to show me that the conversation didn’t bother him—and I pulled myself together, answered him, wanted to demonstrate the same thing, but the whole time his words kept spinning inside me, I wanted to scream, hit him on the head with my arguments, because this was a betrayal on his part, talking like this, talking like everyone else and at the same time taking the bite out of his words by making me the difficult one, the immature one, making me the one who couldn’t allow any disagreement, the uncompromising one who failed to see that there was more than one side to any issue.

We reached the dam, the man-made concrete dam, the strange, artificial lake created in the middle of the mountains. The sweat was dripping off my body and I tugged off my clothes without looking at him.

“Are you really going swimming?” he said.

I didn’t reply, took one step out, balanced on a rock, the water came up to the middle of my shins, ice-cold meltwater, at its highest level now in June.

The lake was huge and silent, deep and shiny, the water exceedingly clear. I thought I could discern the old summer farm far below.

I leaned forward, summoned my strength and jumped.

The shock as I broke through the water surface, the biting chill against my skin… I swam away from shore, kicking hard, without another look at him, swam until I was directly above where I believed the summer farm was located.

Then I dove under and floated face down with my eyes open just below the surface and, even though the water made everything unclear and foggy, I was sure that I could see it.

I stuck my head out of the water again and now I forgot about being angry.

“It’s here!”

“What?” he shouted.

“The summer farm. The water’s clear. It’s easy to see.”

Then he too tore off his clothes and threw himself into the water, gasping at the cold, but he still swam quickly in my direction.

“Here,” I said, treading water above the site.

He dove under, floated below the surface for a few seconds and came up again.

“I can see it too,” he said.

And he smiled, he had already forgotten everything. “Are you going to dive?”

I didn’t reply. I simply dove into the water.

With steady strokes I swam towards the bottom.

I could make out more details all the time. The cabin was overgrown with plants, as if grass were still growing on the roof. The gate in the traditional fence around it was closed and I headed towards it.

There was energy in my strokes, I would make it, but at the same time I could feel the suction from the intake tunnel. It was covered by a screen, protecting the facility from leaves and trash, and now I could feel the water current, pulling me towards it. How much water, I thought, how much water disappears down into the tunnel every second, every minute, disappears down through the pipes, downwards, downwards, while the pressure increases more and more, meter by meter, until it finally reaches the power plant in Ringfjorden? And the water around me now, it’s headed there, will become a part of the pressure, of the power, disappear into the turbine, contribute to producing its rotations, become a part of the moment when the fall energy of every single, tiny drop is transformed into kinetic energy, passing through the generator, disappearing, transformed into electric signals, and that is where it’s pulling me, too.

But I didn’t allow myself to be pulled there; I resisted, continued on towards the summer farm, released a little air, the bubbles rose to the surface. I could feel the beginnings of a pressure in my chest, the lack of oxygen, but the gate was right in front of me now and the air I had would be enough.

I reached out my hand, took hold of it, the woodwork slick beneath my fingers, not like wood, like a snake. I took hold and tugged, bubbles came out of my mouth, they flooded out uncontrollably, the gate was slippery and heavy to pull, but I could do it.

And then it was open, the sheep, no… the fish could enter.

I let go of the gate, kicked away from it, tried not to release any more air—the more air I held in my lungs, the more quickly I would rise to the surface—but the pressure in my chest was growing, no time to equalize, my ears popped.

I saw Magnus far above me, keeping an eye on me.

Upwards, upwards, I would make it.

And finally.

I gasped, inhaled, the water stinging my lungs, my nose, a buzzing in my ears and the cold penetrating every single cell.

“Did you see that?” I finally managed to say.

“God,” he laughed, fearfully. “I was trying to recall everything I know about lifesaving up here.”

We swam to land, climbed up onto shore, both of us shaking, our feet frozen.

Finally I caught my breath and turned towards the dam, towards the hydraulic construction.

“Admit that it’s ugly,” I said.

“Ugly? Right now I’m thinking that it’s dangerous,” Magnus said.

I lifted my hand, placed it on his back, feeling the warmth under my fingers.

He didn’t move, didn’t react, not until I pulled close to him. “Admit it. It’s ugly.”

Then he finally put his arms around me. “Fine, fine, it’s a damnable dam.”

“The entire construction?”

“The entire construction.”

“Finally you’re on my side.”

“Are there sides?”

“You know there are sides.”

“Then I’m on your side.”

I believed him, in spite of everything he’d said, even though he so clearly demonstrated that he was moving away from me. I was perhaps naïve. But I wanted to believe in him, maybe, or else he made it impossible not to, because he squeezed me tightly. I grew warmer, from the sun, from his skin. We were alone up there. There was only us, the sky, the mountain and thousands of liters of water and maybe our argument had made the day different from what I’d envisioned, but I still loved him and thought that his words didn’t mean anything. I even tried to forget them, because we had to be able to handle an argument. There was no reason to hold back, I remember thinking, no reason to be careful.

And afterwards, when we were lying close together, out of breath and naked, on top of our clothing that was like a patchwork quilt over the prickly heather, I can remember that I thought I was happy.

I was happy when we made our child.