The End of the Ocean

Chapter 33 SIGNE

I go to the bow to loosen the mooring but end up sitting on deck for a little while, listening. There’s a silence inland here, the likes of which I have seldom heard. The canal is silent beneath me—there’s no wind, old trees lean over the water, their leaves motionless—and neither are there any birds or insects to be heard.

The feeling of being cramped, confined, it’s not just the sluices that give me that feeling, it’s all the wildlife around me, the monitored canal, the trees planted in straight lines, the flat farming landscape surrounding the narrow strip of water. Even when the canal passed through woods, I felt the same thing, as if the woods down here are also under control, a cowardly nature without claws, boring through and through, planned by humans. Imagine living here, imagine being able to live by the mountains, near the gorges, the ruggedness, the plunging drama, and then choosing this instead?

I stand up, take hold of the mooring line, loosen it quickly. I am on the outskirts of Timbaut now, today I will find his house, find him.

Today I will throw the ice out in front of him.

“Here’s the rest of the ice,” I’ll say. “What little is left. I thought you’d like to have it in your drink.”

And he will stare at the ice with big eyes.

“The rest of it, as you have no doubt heard, has been dumped into the ocean,” I will add. “And melted. Just as well, don’t you think, that it melts, sooner rather than later? That’s how you want it.” I will speak these words like a declaration, not a question.

Maybe the plump Trine will come out, she will stand there, gaping a little, her appearance every bit as indifferent as she is.

Both of them are clutching wine glasses and I toss a few lumps of ice into them, vintage ice, maybe I’ll say, while the rest lies melting on the ground, and if there are any grandchildren there, they’ll come out as well… no, to hell with the grandchildren, they don’t care anyway, they just want to play computer games, but Magnus will stand there with his mouth wide open, so I can see his uvula, deep in the back of his red-wine-stained gullet, and he will scratch his padded stomach in confusion under the expensive but loose-fitting linen shirt and then I will turn around and leave, but before I do that, I will make the very last statement:

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Magnus. If you take more ice, I will dump that as well. As long as you keep this up, you can be sure that I will also continue doing my part.”

Doing my part…

No…

I can’t say that, can’t say it like that.

I’ll be keeping an eye on you…

Good Lord.

They will look up, the two of them, from the ice, from the red wine, look at each other, their eyes will meet above their glasses, telling gazes, what has she done now? Then Magnus will turn towards me with a mild, puzzled smile—Signe, what are you doing, he will say, he will think.

And then they will clean up after me, put the plastic containers in the two-car garage, pour another glass of expensive red wine and talk about how happy they are that they have one another, about the life they have lived, the harmony they feel, all the lovely, small experiences they are accumulating, how nice to be able to approach old age with such peace of mind, such a house, such a garden, such a spouse, such joy, so good to be able to approach old age knowing that one has made the right choices.

And I… I will go back to Blue, sit down in the saloon, it is empty now, the containers are gone, I will miss them, because it was all I had, my rage in these containers.

I’m doing my part.

Or I can turn around, go back, navigate through all the sluices I have forced my way through, put up the mast, get rid of the tires, refuel, head out to sea, to the west, disappear in the Atlantic Ocean and dump the containers out there somewhere, not just the ice but the containers too, there’s so much plastic in the ocean, such an endless amount of plastic, eight million tons are dumped in the ocean every single year, nobody will notice the difference, these containers can float around out there, along with all the rest of the plastic, in a way they belong there, and the ice, the water, will disappear in the ocean, become salt, undrinkable, useless, become a part of the salty desert our oceans are, a desert that is constantly growing.

“No,” I say loudly and suddenly, the sound of my voice strident as it breaks the silence. Because you’ve traveled all the way here, come all this way, you have covered so much ground, you are here, you, this boat… this is a choice you have already made and, strictly speaking, Signe, strictly speaking, you have very little to lose.

The boat glides through the water, closer and closer to his house. I have plotted in the address on the GPS. The landscape is as flat as a pancake: there is only a single wooded hill a short distance away on which to focus. Maybe they call that a mountain, the people who live here, but it’s actually only a misplaced bulge.

Five hundred meters, one hundred meters and then I’m there. The house must be located behind a dense grove right beside the bank of the canal.

But there’s no place to dock, not a single mooring point along the canal and, besides, I will obstruct boat traffic if I dock here.

I have to start up again and keep going.

It is hot and quiet, the sweat is pouring off me, my hair is greasy, I probably look a fright, no doubt I smell of boat—a mixture of old seawater, wet clothes, plastic, septic sludge and diesel—but it doesn’t matter, now I just have to do what I’ve come here to do.

Finally a guest harbor, in the center of Timbaut. I moor the boat quickly, but when I jump to shore, my heart is pounding as I realize that I can’t take the ice with me. I will have to leave it here while I find my way to his house empty-handed, alone.

I rent a bike, a modern, men’s bicycle with off-road tires. My feet barely reach the pedals and the screw connecting the seat to the pole is loose, so it keeps tipping backwards. I have to straighten it out by force, using my own balance, and this produces an odd, awkward bike-riding technique.

The city is exactly as I expected: sweet, charming, well-tended gardens, small tilting houses in mismatching colors, a boulangerie, a butcher, a bountiful florist’s. I cross the historic city center, where there’s a cobblestone square surrounded by trelliswork, and the overwhelming scent of hollyhock, lavender and freshly painted wrought-iron gates makes it difficult to breathe.

I slip forward on the bike seat, struggle to adjust my position, wobble a bit, lurch through a dip in the road, the front tire hits a cobblestone a bit more crooked than the others and I almost fall, but pull the bicycle upright just in time and keep going, away from the square, put the city center behind me, come out on the other side, pass an awning factory, turn a corner, keep riding down a hill, searching for a road sign, but can’t find any.

Then, on the next corner, a sign finally appears, but it’s wrong. I can see that as I get closer—I’m on the wrong street, I’ve missed my turn-off.

I have to turn around and ride back, sweating heavily. Finally, I stop at an intersection where one of the signs has the right name. Here it is, his street. It is lined with trees; the sun breaks through the treetops in patches, the leaves creating shadows in constant movement, even though today there is no wind.

I’m shaking as I concentrate on keeping the bike upright—I must not fall, must not lose my balance. I want to ride slowly but I can’t; due to the instability of the bicycle I have to maintain a certain speed.

Then it appears and at first I don’t believe that I’m here, that I have in fact made it, but a number on the wall indicates that this must be it and at first that’s all I see, the number, and then I see the house. It’s lovely, typically French, thick stone walls, green window shutters and a wrought-iron fence. The way I had imagined it.

But not exactly. Because it’s smaller, quite a simple house, the paint is flaking off the walls, the flower beds are untended, the shutters broken and the fence hasn’t had a fresh coat of paint for many years.

I stop outside and lower the bike to the ground.

He has a door knocker, not a doorbell—a copper dog’s head. I lift my hand, knock once, twice, before releasing it. My hand dangles at my side, my fingers stroking the fabric of my trousers. I wish I could hold on to something, my hand feels so empty, both hands so empty; now is the moment when I should have had the ice.

I listen for footsteps, but hear only insects, birds and the drone of farm machinery in the distance.

I lift my hand again, take hold of the copper dog’s head and knock again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

He’s not home. Nobody’s home.

I collapse on the stoop, suddenly parched. I didn’t bring any water. I should have had the ice, a cold lump on my tongue that would melt in my mouth, until my tongue was frozen and numb. I should have had the ice now.

I just sit there like that, completely still, but drifting all the same. A stoop, a closed door, I’m here and nothing has changed. This is it.

But then he comes.

Quick footsteps against the asphalt, that’s the first thing I hear—quick, light footsteps. I look up, he’s approaching me at a sprint, has already seen me; he’s sweating too, he’s out running, wearing shorts, a ragged T-shirt and well-worn running shoes that once upon a time were white.

How thin he is, sunken, his face has sharp edges and maybe it’s not him after all, maybe I’m not seeing clearly. It can’t be him; this wasn’t how he was supposed to be. And he’s running. I haven’t seen him run since he was a child, but now he’s running, with a surprising lightness, his feet hitting the ground rhythmically.

It’s him and he doesn’t stop running, he runs all the way up to me, through the gate. I’ve stood up without being aware of it, he runs all the way up to me, he’s sweating, I can smell it, but it’s not a bad odor, just fresh sweat, and I step down off the stoop and stand there facing him.

And then he throws his arms around me.

He throws his arms around me and laughs.