Jonas came round when his sister switched on the light — having come down to fetch a jar of blueberry jam for pancakes. His forehead hurt, and when he put his fingers up to it they came away with blood on them. He must have struck the brick jamb of the storeroom door as he fell. He would be left with a scar, a pale line intersecting that other scar, his souvenir from the playground skipping game. I’m a marked man, he would think from then on, whenever he looked in the mirror. Although he did not know whether this meant he was damned or that he was to be saved. ‘If you ask me, I think you should do a bit less skipping and eat a few more pancakes,’ Rakel said when she saw her brother’s ashen face and the blood trickling over his brow.
On the way up the stairs, with the aroma of freshly made pancakes making his stomach rumble, Jonas could not help wondering whether there might not be some connection between the two ventures to which he had so far dedicated his life; that there could, in fact, be a link between his ability to hold his breath and his talent for thinking parallel thoughts. Might it be possible to think so well that one could save lives.
Saturn
Is there anybody going to listen to my story … I sing to myself. Humming it as an intro to what may prove to be my own story. Or an attempt at it, at any rate. I have been inspired by the unlikely fact that once more I find myself here, on board the Voyager, surrounded by stories, layer upon layer of scents, the switches to huge mechanisms in my memory. I kept my mouth shut when Hanna said that the boat had once belonged to ‘a legendary actor’. She was well aware, of course, that I had known Gabriel Sand. Much has changed, though. For one thing, they have installed a four-cylinder Volvo Penta diesel engine. A wise move. Here, among such high mountains, the winds can be everything from insidiously capricious to absolutely non-existent. Voyager is also a grander name than the old one, the Norge. It befits a boat which, by their way of it, is going on a voyage of discovery. Into a new millennium. The Norge was more apt for a vessel which lies safe in harbour and never sets sail.
I had a strange experience out at the point north of Mannheller. I was on deck, sitting on the hatch of the forepeak, taking in the view all around me. I felt a surge of excitement. I could see into three or four fjords at the same time: into Lustrafjord, into Årdalsfjord, into the mouth of Lærdalsfjord and down Sognefjord itself. It was an awesome sight. And yet strangely familiar. I came to the conclusion that I must have come here as a small boy, on the ferry that used to run between Revsnes and Naddvik. That time when we drove all the way to Årdal, a real safari. I realised that this sight must have stayed with me, left its imprint on me. Like the belief that it was possible to look down several channels of possibility at once. I have been to Tokyo, I have visited Timbuktu, I have — speaking of safaris — scratched the backs of rhinos and held crocodiles in my hands, and yet — this short trip up a Norwegian fjord must have made a greater impression. Deeper. It had branched out into me.
While we were moored at Skjolden I had the chance to take a run down to Urnes with Carl. We drove along the narrow road past Feigumfossen and Kroken, out to the bare green hilltop on which the stave church sits. It was morning and the light slanted down from the sun hanging over Tausasva. The wooden walls of the church had recently been oiled, it smelled of boats. We strolled round to the north wall and studied the most famous wood carvings in Norway, one of the reasons why Urnes church is on the UNESCO list of those buildings in the world most worthy of protection and preservation. ‘That is pretty much what we have in mind,’ Carl said. ‘That is what I call software.’ I stared for some time at the sinuous figures. ‘That,’ I said, ‘is what I call a fjord.’ Carl eyed me quizzically: ‘So what’s the difference?’
I have to laugh — they are so keen. They hare about, talking to all and sundry, trying to track down people with access to archives, hunt up local contacts. Not surprisingly, here in Lærdal they are mainly regaled with stories about salmon, tales of the English salmon lords of the nineteenth century, the best ‘pools’, the fierce competition for fishing rights, the problem of parasites and the poison tipped into the river to combat them, thus putting the river out of action for years. None of them know much about salmon — apart from Martin possibly — but a visit to the Wild Salmon Centre has left them a lot wiser. They have already decided that fly fishing has to form one of the cornerstones in their presentation of the place. They buy books, collect brochures, take photographs, shoot video film. They delve and probe. They look, to me, as though they are investigating a serious crime, trying to unravel the threads of a massive conspiracy. They inspect the houses that have been preserved in the old part of Lærdal. They drive up to Borgund Stave Church. I go with them. I spend most of my time on the boat, but occasionally I go with them. I am, by profession, a secretary, I am used to tagging along. We walk the age-old, overgrown paths: Sverrestigen, Vindhellavegen. They are constantly discussing things. Making notes. Doing sketches. Drawing up charts, diagrams of which I cannot make head nor taiclass="underline" they look like trees. Or fjords with lots of arms. They hear rumours of a French painter who is a regular visitor to Lærdal and usually stays at the home of a wealthy Norwegian family. Someone shows them reproductions of his work, abstract paintings inspired by the fjord, the mountains. Or by the colours and the patterns of salmon flies. They are familiar with the much-loved piece of music said to have been conceived at Lærdal. They pore over the plaque fixed to the rock face next to the jetty where we are moored, on it the first four bars of ‘The Ballad of Giants’ and the composer’s signature: Harald Sæverud. They have a tape with them, play the first bars of this protest against the occupation as they take in their surroundings. On the hillside on the other side of the lake they can just make out the ruins of a German bunker. They listen, they think. It seems so comical and yet so serious. But I have to admire their get-up-and-go. It is not enough for them simply to collect facts, catalogue information. They also need to come up with an outer framework, a story to bind the whole lot together.
She has chosen her team carefully. Hanna was born in Korea. Carl has an American mother, a Norwegian father. Between them, like two wings, they extend Norway to east and west. Martin provides the local credibility: he hails from Nordkjosbotn — ‘a crossroads in Troms,’ as he said. With pride. I remember what Kamala, who was seriously discriminated against until she became famous, said in one television debate: ‘Civilised society consists not of fortresses, but of crossroads.’ Martin is cook, ruling over the galley down below according to the principles of ‘enlightened absolutism’, dishing up everything from couscous to sushi. I have no idea how he came by such skills. He is the type to have long since drunk snake’s blood, with the snake’s beating heart and all. Himself, he claims to have picked it all up in Nordkjosbotn: ‘What did I tell you — it’s a crossroads.’