Anders gave her a strange look.
“Where have you been today?” he asked.
She told him about her prayers at the leper hospital and about visiting the site of the fire.
“You shouldn’t go to that area. It could be dangerous,” he said.
“Dangerous for whom?”
“For young women wandering around alone,” he replied.
“Not for men?”
“For men too,” he said pleasantly.
“Who does it?” she began.
“Does what?”
“Visits whores.”
Anders stretched his neck bashfully.
“Fellows who don’t have what they need,” he replied slowly. As if he had not thought about this until now.
“You mean, someone who doesn’t have anybody finds it easier to have many women?”
“Yes,” he said, feeling embarrassed.
“And what else are men looking for?”
He rubbed his neck and ran his hand through his hair.
“It differs, I guess,” he said finally.
“What are you looking for?”
He gave her the same straightforward gaze he had given the Bergen merchant.
“I’m not looking for anything!” he said calmly.
“Never?”
His face flushed slowly beneath her scrutiny.
“Why do you ask these questions?”
“I’m not sure, Anders. I guess I want to know what’s inside men. What they think …”
He did not answer. Just looked at her.
“Do you visit whores?” she asked.
The question hit him in the face. But he recovered.
“It’s happened …,” he said at last.
“What was it like?”
“Nothing to write home about,” he said in a low voice. “I guess I’m not like that,” he continued, even more quietly.
Anton knocked at the door, wanting a word with Anders. A light rain fell softly on the roof. Dina sat with one more question in her lap.
The loading had gone well, and the prices they got for dried fish were the best in several years. Most of it sold as the finest quality, a premium product.
The men were content, and conversation was lively when they came aboard.
Dina, Anders, and Anton also slept on board that last night. The rest of the time they had rented rooms ashore. Treated themselves to living in a city, as Anders put it.
The city sounds were different in the cargo boat. Accompanied by the smack of small waves and the creak of sleeping boats. It entered your blood. And remained there, like a throbbing fever, until the next time you sailed into Bergen harbor.
Chapter 9
I lift up my eyes to the hills.
From whence does my help come?
— Psalms 121 : 1
They had a fair wind sailing north. The mood was peaceful and tolerant.
At the tiller, the vessel’s pride, an ornamental figure in plumed helmet and full uniform, “The Helmsman,” stared straight ahead. And on the flagpole, the old Danish flag, smooth as an ironed tablecloth, pointed northwest.
Shortly after they rounded Stadtland, Dina exploded her bombshell. She wanted to stop in Trondheim. Anton and Anders were standing outside the cuddy when she announced her intention.
“Trondheim!” shouted Anton, staring at her incredulously. “What do we need to do in Trondheim?”
She had an errand there, Dina said. Besides, she wanted to see the cathedral. So they would make a brief visit.
Anton and Anders talked simultaneously. Anton’s voice grew louder and louder. Anders’s was deep and penetrating. Did she realize the trouble this would cause? Entering that infernally long Trondheim Fjord, while all the other cargo boats sailed home with good winds? Struggling to maneuver in the fjord’s backwaters, with absolutely nothing, neither wind nor sails, to help them navigate! Did she realize it could take ten days extra, at least?
“And it’s already the end of August!” said Anders.
“No, I haven’t figured the number of days. But there’s no special reason to go home. We’ll get to Reinsnes eventually!”
Anton forgot he was a congenial fellow. He sputtered furiously. The wind caught his stiffly waxed mustache and threatened to tear away his skin.
Anders took everything more calmly. He had seen Dina break tougher branches than Anton.
“We sail to Trondheim!” Dina said curtly. Then she gathered her skirts and returned to the cabin.
All night long, Anton stood at the helm in a blind rage. He was so furious that he almost refused to go to bed when Anders came to relieve him at the dogwatch.
“There’s no need for all of us to lose our wits!” Anders commented dryly.
“Damn it, you were the one who wanted to take along a woman!” Anton bellowed into the air.
He stood bareheaded, wearing a dark-blue pea coat he had bought in Bergen. The collar was turned up, and the padded shoulders were as wide as a barn door. The brass buttons smelted before their eyes as the morning sun rose.
“Dina owns both the vessel and us,” Anders said brusquely, as he took the helm.
Anton sputtered oaths like water on a hot anvil. But he went to his bunk and snored so loudly all morning that the crew’s cabin creaked and writhed in pain.
Upon their arrival in Trondheim, they were greeted with the news that Bomarsund, the Russian naval base on Aland, had been attacked by French and British naval vessels. Shipyards and stores of seasoned timber on the Finnish coast had been burned as well.
The Finns were said to be loyal to Russia. They defended both their own and Russian interests like raging beasts. Now, according to those who understood the matter, the king of Sweden-Norway wanted to bring his country into the conflict.
Anders was concerned about the Finns. Because his family included people of Finnish stock. He thought it was not so much a matter of the Finns sympathizing with the Russians. Rather, they were angry because Western naval powers had scorched Finnish crops and confiscated Finnish ships.
“Who wouldn’t defend himself if a madman set fire to the entrance of his home?” he said angrily.
Dina could not imagine why the British and French were using their gunpowder in the Baltic Sea.
Anton had calmed down and was on speaking terms again. But he did not have much interest in the matter. He talked only about things he could understand, he said. Ladies and sailors should not discuss world politics. They should just finish their tasks and get home again.
“Leo once said …,” Dina recalled, ignoring Anton. “He said the French and the British sided with the Turks in the endless Turko-Russian war. And that was dangerous for the whole world…. He said the Finns would never ally with Sweden, no matter what. And the king was stupid not to understand this. He said Czar Nicholas hadn’t invented gunpowder. And that the war began with a ridiculous quarrel between two monks. A Greek Orthodox and a Catholic.”
“What did they quarrel about?” asked Anders.
“About who owned the holy places in Palestine.” Dina laughed,
“But what does that have to do with the war?” Anton sounded impatient.
“Holiness always has something to do with some war,” said Dina calmly. “The Bible, Christ, the Virgin Mary, the temple in Palestine …”
Suddenly she doubled over, as if someone had hit her in the stomach.
“Are you ill?” asked Anders.
“No!” she said curtly. “But how did they get the king and the czar involved in all that?” she continued, straightening her back.
“When there’s a war, someone always sits on the fence and collects rich gifts, or gets rid of trash,” said Anton.
“How do you suppose Leo learned who started the war?” Dina asked Anders.
“He travels so much, you know. He must hear many things.”
Dina floated away from them. The war had come nearer than anyone liked.
Hundreds of years ago, a king had given the town
the area between Kongens Street and Erling Skakkes Street. In order to gather in one place all those who otherwise would slouch in alleys and back rooms. The lepers, the poor, the demented, the old, the orphans.
Good citizens of Trondheim had willed their gifts and made sure that order was brought into all this misery.
A comforting complex of walls and wood. Buildings filled with human refuse and wretchedness. It looked very respectable. From the outside. But the fence was high and the entrance guarded.
Dina was allowed to enter when she stated her errand. This was a world unto itself. Hidden from ordinary people. Hidden from those who had to go there for whatever reason.
Two-story wooden buildings. With an occasional brick building among them. The red tile roofs bound the buildings together in an outward common fate.
The “criminal asylum” or “penitentiary” was a large two-story building with French Empire windows and doors.
Dina was admitted to an oval room on the ground floor. A cacophony of sounds came from the adjoining rooms. She breathed quickly, as if the air held anticipation, or catastrophe.
The first person she saw, besides the guard, was a huge male-like figure puttering with some rags in a box. He kept pointing at something inside the wall and discussed with himself whether or not he needed to go to town. He asked and replied in separate voices, seeming totally immersed in two different roles. One was coarse and trembling with indignation, the other gentle and refined. Now and then he punched the air powerfully and said: “Tjo! Tjo!” as if showing he had hit something with his clenched fist.
His head was smooth-shaven, giving the appearance of just having undergone a brutal debusing. But the gray, sunken cheeks had a two-or three-day beard.
Dina stood there. An atmosphere of sinister cheerfulness surrounded her. She tensed her body,’ in preparation for what would occur when the man saw her. But nothing happened.
The guard returned and said the director was about to leave the building, but he would talk with her here. He would arrive in a few minutes. It was a clear rebuff. He did not know Dina Gronelv. And he probably had no understanding of the fact that she had said she wanted to know when they expected Leo Zjukovski.
While waiting for the director, she asked questions about the asylum. The guard talked willingly. Occupants of the ground floor had working rooms, dining rooms, and a prayer room. On the second floor, the “inmates” or “those people” were kept in prison cells.
“Some cells are black as a grave,” said the guard. His smile revealed a sparse set of teeth but was otherwise open and friendly.
“There’s not much you can do about those on the second floor,” he continued. “But each one has his own iron stove. We make sure ofthat!”
Sounds from upstairs tumbled onto their heads. Scraping, thumping, and a loud, furious voice.
“Things aren’t always good up there,” the guard said with a derisive grin.
The poor wretch by the wall was still puttering with his rags, utterly oblivious of them. The guard followed Dina’s eyes and said:
“Bendik is out of it today. But he’s not dangerous, whether he’s out of it or not.”
“Why is he here?” she asked.
“He’s crazy! But he’s not dangerous. They say he had a sad history in Nordland. Something about a woman who burned to death. That’s when it started. But he hasn’t so much as tormented a wild cat here. He just keeps to himself. The ones in the black cells upstairs are another matter. I wouldn’t want to look them in the eye without some barrier between us!”
Dina began searching for something in her bag. It was like a marsh. Dark and deep and bottomless.
“You must have an important errand, to come to such a place. And all the way from Nord land!”
Dina raised her head. And explained she was on a voyage to Bergen with her cargo boat. So it was no problem to sail to Trondheim to take care of some business.
“You own a cargo boat?” he exclaimed enthusiastically, looking at her with respect. As a matter of fact, he knew a woman who owned a paddle steamer. He sent Dina an oblique, questioning glance.
When she made no comment, he added:
“She’s the richest widow in the city!”
Dina scanned the walls and clearly indicated she had no intention of discussing rich widows and. their paddle steamers. Instead she asked dryly:
“What’s your job here?”
“I make sure the rabble doesn’t escape!” he replied briskly.
“And what have they done? Those who are kept here …”
“Murder and arson, madness and theft,” he said, as if reciting a hymn by heart.
“Where do they come from?”
“Mostly from the inlets around the city. But otherwise from everywhere!”
Just then the poor wretch rushed toward them, dragging his rags.
It happened so fast. Before the guard could prevent it, the huge fellow grasped Dina’s arm and stared at her. Then the guard pulled him away.
The man stood with outstretched hands. Gray cloud banks drifted past in his eyes. And mirrored deep in them, Dina saw herself. On sudden impulse, she raised her gloved hand and laid it on the man’s shoulder.
There was a glimmer in his eyes, as if he remembered something important. His face lit up, and he gave her a toothless smile. His huge back was bowed by an invisible burden, which he had probably borne for many years.
“You … you finally came …,” he mumbled, and reached for her again. Like lightning.
The guard tugged at the man, and said a few harsh words.
Dina stood there. Her jaw twitched, and her face slowly turned white. She pulled from the man’s grasp but could not free herself from his gaze.
The guard took the madman to the courtyard.
I am Dina. There is a washhouse stove with a kettle of boiling water on it! I am in the steam. That is why I am perspiring. My skin is scraped away continually. I am washed into nothing. And Hjertrud’s screams never stop.
The director appeared out of nowhere. As if he simply arose then and there. He strode across the room with dignity and extended his hand.
A tall, thin man with a severe, well-clipped mustache. It seemed glued to his face.
No suggestion of friendliness or a smile. His handshake was as dry and proper as the rest of him.
His thick, dark hair was slicked down on his round head. This was a man who lived for his hair.
He nodded courteously and shifted his walking stick back to his right hand. How could he be of assistance? He looked at her, and all vestiges of the steam disappeared. His voice was calm and dark. Like wood chips in a stove before the fire is lit.
A glint of antipathy flashed from Dina’s gray eyes. He had not done anything to her. Other than save her from the steam.
She told him her reason for coming. Had a package containing Pushkin’s book and a sealed letter to Leo. But hesitated slightly before taking them from her bag.
The director expressed his surprise a little too quickly. As far as he knew, they had not hired someone named Leo Zjukovski to transport prisoners. Definitely not. They had made such transfers only a few times while he.was there. And a Russian? No!
Dina listened to his reply and asked how long he had been the director of “this place.”
“Three months,” he replied indifferently.
“That’s not exactly a long time…”
The man cleared his throat, as if he had been caught cheating.
“You can’t tell that Leo Zjukovski is a Russian,” she said. “He speaks Norwegian!”
Her voice lay like frost in the room.
I am Dina. The large birch trees outside are rustling too much. They clamp their branches around my head so I cannot think. The church bells thunder. Nearby. I count the doors that exit from this room. But the number disappears in all the sounds and voices from the cells upstairs. Is a madhouse director a human being? Why does he refuse to know about Leo?
The director said she
should inquire in the prison, or with the prison director. He could take her there himself, if she wished. The building was nearby. But it was best that he accompany her across the courtyard and through the entrance.
Dina went with the man. They wandered futilely through the heavy arches and huge doors. Past the guards with empty gazes. It did not bring her closer to Leo. Nobody knew a Russian named Leo Zjukovski who spoke Norwegian and accompanied prisoners to or from Vard0 Fortress.
When they stood once again in the oval room, she took out the package. Pressed it into the director’s limp hand, until he was forced to take it.
She looked at him as if he were one of the farmhands at Reinsnes. Gave him a firm order. Which he could not refuse without being extremely impolite toward a woman.
“When Mr. Leo Zjukovski arrives, give him this package. It’s sealed, as you see…”
The director shook his head but closed his fingers around the package so it would not fall to the floor.
She straightened her hat, adjusted her bag on her arm. Pulled on her right glove and thanked him. Then she said good-bye and walked briskly toward the door.
* * *
Farther along the street, the carriage passed a building constructed in the form of a cross. It had large windows, a heavy tiled roof, and an elegant arch above the entrance. High on the three-story main wing was a large window shaped like a half-moon.
Dina leaned forward and asked the coachman:
“What’s that building?
“The Tronka. A hospital for the insane,” he replied listlessly.
“Why is it called the Tronka?”
“They say it’s because there once was an alms box at the entrance. Tronc is the French word for alms box.”
The coachman became more lively as he spoke.
“Why did the hospital have a French alms box?”
“People just like to use fancy words, Fm sure the box came from around Trondheim, And now there’s riffraff and crazy people inside, even if it’s got a fine French name!”
He cracked his whip over the horses, who had slowed their pace. From somewhere came a heavy sighing like the sound of wind. The driver turned around a few times. Because the woman did not speak again. She sat doubled over, rocking back and forth.
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