Beyond Sleep

by Willem Frederik Hermans

  ‘That way!’

  The direction he points in is ninety degrees off from mine.

  ‘You’re joking! It’s over there!’

  My turn to point. I am keeping my compass level on the palm of my left hand. There is no doubt in my mind, I am pointing in the right direction.

  Arne’s face contorts with suppressed laughter as he tugs at the frayed string attached to the plastic boy scout’s compass in his breast pocket. He proffers his compass like a bar of chocolate, but I don’t deign to look. I bend over, hoist my rucksack and start walking with my compass still balancing on my left palm. I can’t have made a mistake! Arne will catch up with me later, when he realises he’s the one who made a mistake.

  The ground is dry and level. Hardly anything grows here. There are no steep gradients, so I can take big strides. A few hours from now my clothes – the ones I’m wearing, at any rate – will be dry. If the sun keeps shining like this I’ll even get my maps dry, too. As for my notebook, I’ll set it upright later on, with the covers forming a right angle and the pages teased apart so the air can get in between. That’ll do the trick.

  I don’t pay much attention to my surroundings, engrossed as I am in comparing ways of getting my camera dry. If only it got dark here once in a while! Then I could crawl head first into my sleeping bag and open the camera without any light getting in, after which I could dry the interior with a clean handkerchief. Have I still got a clean handkerchief?

  But it doesn’t get dark here. Imagine having to live without darkness! I could try putting Arne’s sleeping bag on top of mine for extra darkness before crawling in. What’s keeping him?

  I glance over my shoulder, but he’s nowhere in sight. Surely he must have discovered his error by now?

  It’s childish and I hate to admit it, but the idea of Arne getting the wrong end of the stick for once is a bigger boost to my morale than I’ve had in a very long time.

  ‘Arne! This way!’I yell. In Dutch!

  It’s the first time in weeks that a Dutch phrase has crossed my lips.

  I climb to the top of a hill, no Arne. I go down the other side.

  Going up a hill and then down again can easily confuse one’s sense of direction. As I am surrounded by hills on all sides, the contours of my horizon shift with each step I take. There aren’t any prominent features for me to focus on. Just boulders. But there are too many of those to be of any use for orienteering. So I stop to take another bearing with my compass.

  Something very odd has happened. The declination between the needle and the direction I plotted on the map is exactly ninety degrees less than last time. In other words, if my present reading is correct, so was Arne’s, and I’m the one who’s been heading in the wrong direction.

  But I can’t have been. My compass must have got wet earlier on, which is why the needle isn’t turning properly. I move the little lever up and down a few times, making the needle jiggle on the pivot. I hold the compass in the sun, but there doesn’t seem to be any moisture under the glass. I shake it a few times for good measure. Then I set it on the palm of my left hand once more and try to hold it in a horizontal position.

  The needle persists in indicating an angle of ninety degrees off from the direction I’ve been taking. Idiot that I am. I must have got it all wrong. Misread my compass, and then pooh-poohed Arne’s correct reading of his! Jesus Christ! I stare at the glass in shock, and soon my eyes are drawn to the little mirror. My face is fully attuned to my emotion: mouth agape in cavernous fear, sunken cheeks beneath thin stubble – like the son of God whose name I invoked – bump from mosquito bite on left eyelid, scabs of dried blood on right-hand side of forehead.

  I am standing in the middle of a round hollow hemmed in by hills. The least I can do is climb one of them. I pick the highest one and charge up the slope at speed.

  From the crest I see nothing but hills on all sides. I have completely lost track of where I came from.

  ‘Arne!’I shout.

  I shout Arne’s name in all directions, but there is no reply, not even an echo.

  Standing here shouting won’t get me anywhere. He’ll probably turn up any moment now, from behind one of the hills, and then he’ll spot me here. Might as well take my bearings again, to be on the safe side.

  I draw out my sodden map once more. Luckily there are three big rocks close by, about the size of piano crates. White, angular blocks of a sugary appearance with leprous patches of black lichen. Close set, as if they were once joined together. They come to my shoulder. The tops are fairly flat.

  On one of them I spread out my map, which, given how wet it is, amounts to pasting it down. Now for another try with the compass. I take it out of its case, position it to the side of the map, stoop to pick up some rock chips and manoeuvre the chips until the bubble in the spirit level is centred.

  My desk is so high that I have to read the compass in the flipped-up mirror.

  Same angle as before: ninety degrees off from the direction I’ve been taking. My compass is fine and I’m a ninny. I still can’t believe it. Before taking any decisions, I’d better get my map aligned exactly along a north-south axis. Gingerly I lift a corner of the map – it was already quite worn before, but now it’s soaked through I’m afraid the paper will disintegrate. The map unsticks from the surface without mishaps. I spread it out again, but one of the corners is turned down. I smooth it out and in doing so brush against the compass with my sleeve.

  The compass has vanished.

  I come to my senses with my left thumbnail between my teeth, having received what feels like a stunning blow to the head. I begin walking around the perimeter of the blocks, trying to make out where the cracks between them are widest. I crouch down by each one to peer into the fissure, but can’t see my compass anywhere.

  In desperation I try climbing on top of the rocks – my knee! my knee! The sides are too straight. Should I try putting a smaller stone against the base for me to get up on? But for a stone to serve as a step it has to be quite big – too big for me to lift. I take a run-up and hurl myself at the lowest of the three blocks, slap my arms over the top, hook my fingers round the far edge and pull. Hanging on like this could make the whole thing topple backwards. Oh, to be crushed to death and be done with it all! No such luck – it must weigh at least three tons. I swing my left leg in search of purchase for my foot, but my toecap keeps scuffing downwards. Wriggling, yelping, frantically swinging my left leg, I miraculously succeed in getting my foot over the top. Now I can easily lever myself up. I stand up straight. First I look about me for any sign of Arne. I call his name two or three times. Then I sit down and peer into the fissures between the blocks. Pitch dark. Throwing down a burning match might help. My matches are soaked. Arne’s got the extra box in his rucksack, all I have is this one box.

  *

  Hoping maybe to find the compass by touch, I reach into the fissures as far as my arm will go. It’s such a tight fit that I have to roll up my sleeves first, and the sharp rock grazes my skin. I explore all three cracks, hoping, no, willing that the compass didn’t fall all the way to the bottom, but is wedged within arm’s reach.

  I do not find it.

  If I had a long rod, or a branch, then I could have another go … Blasted mosquitoes, why can’t they leave me alone for once?

  Not a single branch longer than fifty centimetres around here. It flashes across my mind that I could undertake a little expedition to some glen sheltered enough for proper birches to grow there, or spruces. But for one thing I wouldn’t know where to go looking for the nearest sheltered glen, and for another I can’t mark my current position on the map because I don’t know it.

  Retrieving my compass is impossible without another compass.

  Any other options?

  I slither down from the rocks and look in my rucksack, although I know there’s nothing in there that could be of any use. I take out the fishing net anyway.

  There are long cords attached to either end. I tie one of th
em around a fist-sized stone, which I can then lower into the deep by way of a dredging tool.

  I dredge all three fissures, but all I turn up is black humus.

  Some kind of stick is what I need, but I haven’t got one. What’s the time? Twenty to six. If Arne was so sure which way to go, he must have realised by now that I went off in the wrong direction. He must have realised that I genuinely made a mistake. Why hasn’t he come looking for me?

  ‘Arne!’I shout. Three more times I call his name.

  Why didn’t he find me ages ago?

  I try lighting a cigarette by angling my magnifying glass to the sun, but the light is hazy and the rays are too weak. Besides, the cigarettes are damp.

  Slipping the packet into my left breast pocket reminds me of the measuring tape in my other pocket.

  I draw it out. Two metres. Good steel measuring tape. Springs back into its case when released. Flexible. I try probing the fissures with it. Whenever it finds something in its path I can feel it buckling. I try to prevent that by waving it like a whip and making it ripple, but it’s too bendy. The sides of the fissures aren’t smooth, of course. The tape keeps getting stuck, whereupon it crackles and twists. Damn! Damn! I feel nauseous. I pound my fist against the rock, bring my nose to the ground. All three fissures are explored in like fashion: get up, go over to the next slit, sink down on one knee while keeping the other one straight – ouch, ouch – lie stomach down with my nose to the slit, sniff the odour of rotting fungi. In goes my probe. I even try stuffing the full two metres of tape inside, no longer bothering to keep it straight. With any luck it’ll bump against the compass and shunt it along until it comes out the other end.

  Nothing works.

  I roll over onto my back, prop my shoulder against one of the blocks. I draw the tape out to its full length and release it a couple of times, and each time it shoots back with a high-pitched whirr. What time is it now? My watch says twenty to six. Which is what it said last time I looked. It has evidently stopped. Must have got wet. Would be a miracle if it hadn’t. Given to me by my mother when I started at university seven years ago. For someone like me, I told her at the time, a water resistant watch would have been more practical.

  ‘Oh, Alfred! How can you be so horrid! After all the trouble I went to! I thought it was rather smart. Waterproof watches are so thick and ungainly. Don’t you think this one’s much nicer? It’s the thinnest men’s watch on the planet: two millimetres. Wonderful, isn’t it?’

  Yes, wonderful, but it’s not working.

  I prise the lid open with my penknife. Nothing to be seen, no water anyway. I blow into the casing, which is probably not very good for it, but what else can I do? Finally I wind it up as far as it will go, shake it a few times and hold it to my ear. It is ticking. I set the hands at seven o’clock. Just guessing.

  After fifteen minutes it stops again.

  A quarter past seven – that is, if my earlier guess of seven o’clock was right, because it could easily be quite a bit later. Either way, I have been here for at least an hour and a half, and Arne still hasn’t found me.

  The map is nearly dry when I finally decide not to hang around waiting for Arne to come and find me. I fold it up and slide it into its pocket. Then I walk around the blocks to check whether I have left anything behind, and also to make quite sure I haven’t missed any clue that might lead to the discovery of my compass.

  Nothing. Goodbye, compass. The case hanging from my belt, the shiny leather case that still looks new, is empty. My left hand keeps opening and shutting the clasp.

  All things considered, the most likely explanation is that Arne decided to walk back to the ravine where I went missing, and that he is waiting for me there.

  But how am I to find my way to the ravine? I go round the three rocks one last time, hoping to recognise the direction I came from. But my eyes are irresistibly drawn to the fissures, as if there is still hope of sighting the compass.

  I gaze at the rocks and the horizon by turns. A wavy line all around, not a tree or a bush to be seen, not a tree or a bush for me to recognise. And then, in the remote distance beyond the hills, rises the pyramid of Mount Vuorje. At least we were there before, even if it was some time ago. That is where we came from. If I head in that direction, I may find the ravine on my way. At least I can see the mountain, so I will be able to get there without a compass. I could even get there without a map.

  35

  My watch says eight thirty and it’s not ticking. No idea when it stopped. An hour ago? Several hours? Not that I really need to know. When I’m worn out I’ll just lie down for a bit.

  No sign of the ravine. If only I could find it, then at least I’d be able to see roughly where I am on the map.

  It’s cold now, and the sun is very low. Could this be its lowest point? If so, it’s the midnight sun, which would mean that it’s midnight. In other words, the position of the sun indicates north.

  I sit down, unfold the map and spread it out with the top facing in the direction of the sun. North, possibly. Looking about me, I try to see the map in the scenery. Looking at the map, I try to see where the hills are. I don’t succeed, obviously. Impossible with a map drawn to such a small scale: 1 to 100,000. Besides, the sun may not yet have reached due north. If my watch hadn’t stopped, if it were still working properly, I wouldn’t need my compass – if the sun doesn’t disappear, that is, and if I knew how much difference daylight saving time made … if …

  What am I moaning for? As long as I keep Mount Vuorje in my sights I won’t be completely lost. Better than Vuorje would be finding the ravine, where Arne’s waiting for me. I’ll offer a thousand apologies for causing a delay with my pig-headedness. You know that, don’t you, Arne? You can count on me.

  Can he really?

  Truth is, my mood has lightened considerably now that I’m on my own. It’s as if I’ve been under tutelage all this time, under the watchful, contemptuous gaze of my companions, who guessed my ambitious plans and who opposed them. Didn’t believe in them either. As if their company prevented me from concentrating fully on my goal: finding meteor craters, collecting meteorites.

  Now I’m alone I can, without embarrassment, give myself up to the illusion that an amazing discovery is just around the corner, justifying my hard labour. All the observations I’ve made until now are nothing but routine, anyone could have made them. The whole world and everything in it will at some point have been investigated, it’s just a matter of time. If I deign to engage in this pursuit, it’s purely for the purpose of making some astonishing discovery.

  Astonishing?

  A light flips on in my head. Did I look at those photographs of Mikkelsen’s closely enough?

  There could have been some detail he noticed and I didn’t … That must be why he and Qvigstad split up from us! That’s why they made off in such a hurry without saying goodbye! Maybe Mikkelsen didn’t even show me all the photographs. Maybe he kept back the most important ones.

  Where did they go? Back, of course, towards Mount Vuorje!

  What luck that I happen to be heading in the same direction as they are!

  My visionary imaginings reach further still. Nobody will be able to accuse me of deliberately misreading my compass, or of deliberately getting separated from Arne. My blunder wasn’t too bad, after all. In fact, it’s a blessing in disguise! Because going to Mount Vuorje suits me just fine. I wanted to go there anyway, to see what Mikkelsen’s up to. I never wanted to let him out of my sight. If Mikkelsen were to find what I’m looking for – what could be worse?

  The slope leads down to a green, marshy plain crossed by a slow-moving river branching out into three meandering streams. I am certain that I have never been here before. I can’t think why I still haven’t found the ravine. I must be going in the right direction, though: Mount Vuorje is straight ahead of me.

  Nummedal’s study. Enter: the professor and his pupil, Mikkelsen.

  Nummedal: You must take care, Mikkelsen, for there is a s
py in your group. Here, take the aerial photographs. Do not tell him you have them. If he finds out, think of some way of shaking him off. Throw him off the scent. Because here, at Mount Vuorje (Nummedal peers at the aerial photograph through a colossal magnifying glass, points with his pencil), there is a strange hole. Possibly the scene of some highly exceptional event. An event of the greatest scientific import, Mikkelsen! Take my advice, Mikkelsen!

  Mikkelsen: Of course, Professor.

  Nummedal: Don’t rouse suspicions by hanging around on Mount Vuorje at the beginning. Keep Arne and the Dutchman company for a day or two, then you can turn back.

  *

  Mikkelsen all over! Made off as soon as I caught on to him having the photographs – the very photographs I went to all that trouble to get hold of!

  He is not going to get away with it!

  I sit down by the water and look at my map. Although I don’t know my exact position, the mountain can’t be more than four kilometres away. Four kilometres as the crow flies. On the ground that could amount to a five-hour hike, including periods of rest.

  The sun is still shining, but has stopped giving warmth. My teeth are chattering now and I’ve got goose-flesh all over, as if my skin is trying frantically to keep my damp clothes from clinging to my body.

  I see low shrubs studded with soft fleshy fruits resembling oversized, bright yellow raspberries. I pick one and put it in my mouth. It is full of seeds, yet the taste is slightly sour, like skimmed milk. Are they unripe or do they always taste like that?

  There isn’t much around here that is edible. Have I ever been on my own in a Dutch forest without any food? No, I have not. How would I survive? You can’t eat beech nuts or acorns. Blueberries, brambles, mushrooms, that’s all I can think of.

  I extract one of the two sodden boxes of knäckebröd from my rucksack. The cardboard has split open in places. My health-giving crackers, so crisp and tasty, recommended by the world’s leading doctors, also for anaemia, have turned into brown mush oozing from a disintegrating box.