Read Online Smilla's Sense of Snow by Peter Høeg - Free Book Online Page B

photograph. A color photo, probably taken with an Instamatic. In the summer, and it must be in North Greenland, because the man has his jeans stuffed into a pair of kamiks. He’s sitting on a rock in the sunshine. He’s bare-chested and has a big black diver’s watch on his left wrist. He’s laughing at the photographer, and at that moment, with every tooth and every wrinkle enhanced by his laughter, he is Isaiah’s father.
    It’s late. But it seems to be a time when those of us who keep the machinery of society going give it one last kick before Christmas in order to earn our bonuses—this year it’s a frozen duck and a little kiss behind the ear from the director.
    So I open the phone book. The Copenhagen district attorney has offices on Jens Kofods Street.
    I don’t know exactly what I’m going to say to Ravn. Maybe I just need to tell him that I haven’t been duped, that I haven’t given up. I need to tell him, “You know what, you little fart? I just want you to know I’m keeping an eye on you.”
    I’m prepared for any sort of reply.
    Except for the one I get.
    â€œThere is no one by that name working here,” says a cold woman’s voice.
    I sit down. There’s nothing to do but breathe gently into the receiver to stall for time.
    â€œTo whom am I speaking?” she asks.
    I almost hang up the phone. But there’s something in her voice that makes me stay on the line. There’s something parochial about her. Narrow-minded and nosy. I’m suddenly inspired by that nosiness.
    â€œThis is Smilla,” I whisper, trying to put cotton candy between me and the mouthpiece. “From Smilla’s Sauna Parlor. Mr. Ravn had an appointment for a massage that he wanted to change …”
    â€œThis Ravn, is he short and thin?”

    â€œLike a toothpick, honey.”
    â€œWears big coats?”
    â€œLike huge tents.”
    I can hear her breathing harder. I’m positive her eyes are shining.
    â€œIt’s the guy in the fraud division.”
    Now she’s happy. In her own way. I’ve given her this year’s Christmas story to tell her bosom buddies over coffee and pastry the next morning.
    â€œYou have simply saved my day,” I say. “If you ever need a massage …”
    She hangs up.
    I take my tea over to the window. Denmark is a lovely country. And the police are particularly lovely. And surprising. They accompany the Royal Guard to Amalienborg Palace. They help lost ducklings cross the street. And when a little boy falls off a rooftop, first the uniformed police show up. And then the detectives. And finally the assistant district attorney for special economic crimes sends his representatives. How reassuring:
    I pull out the jack. I’ve talked enough on the phone today. I’ve had the mechanic rig up something so I can turn off the doorbell, too.
    I sit down on the sofa. First come the images from the day. I let them pass. Then come memories from when I was a child, vacillating between slight depression and mild elation; I let them go, too. Then comes peace. That’s when I put on a record. Then I sit down and cry. I’m not crying about anything or anyone specific. The life I live I created for myself, and I wouldn’t want it any different. I cry because in the universe there is something as beautiful as Kremer playing the Brahms violin concerto.

    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 GodthÃ¥bs 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