It Takes a Thief

by Niels Hammer

  “A return ticket, please.”

  The ubiquitous presence of human beings transformed him into a little spectator – a poor devil.

  “May I see your ī dee?”

  Why? He looked into her tired though inquisitive eyes. It had been a long day.

  “I beg your pardon, but could you please explain the acronym.”

  Brushing her hair away from her cheek with a gesture of exasperation – she looked back at him with mounting irritation though also puzzled by his smile.

  “The what – d’ye mean?”

  “I’m sorry if I did not express myself clearly enough. The letters ‘ī’ and ‘dee’ would presumably be an abbreviation of two words or maybe of one word even.”

  Her sigh came rolling up from her diaphragm to explode between her lips.

  “Identification wi a photo!”

  Her sweet patience with quarrelsome grumblers had run dry for the day.

  “I feel sorely distressed by your lack of human trust, but here’s my passport, which I hope will remove most of your nagging doubt.”

  The contrast there – between the pale ivory of her fingers and the Bordeaux of the cover.

  “Fine, an here’s your ticket.”

  He paid and left as there were passengers impatiently waiting behind him to get on board the ferry that would spirit them away to the hyperborean islands. A notion confirmed by sociology. The best place to live because of shared values. A middle-aged salt scrutinised absent-mindedly his ticket and gave him a quick smile. The boy was still there – having survived all the standard onslaughts. From below came the faint vibrations of the engines – getting ready – but the ferry was new and devoid of the character any ship ought to have to be seaworthy so he went from deck to deck to get an impression of the design and to find the drawing of the layout. The white life boats – too large to suit people in a deadly hurry – were in good shape and they seemed all to be functional – at least as far as he could see without actually testing them. There was hardly any rust on the davits – but there was no light on the instruction sheet – so a shipwreck had to take place beneath the Sun. Anyway – he had as always his flashlight. The crossing would take about one and a half hour and the view would be vast so he went up on the deck to get a fair impression of the lay of the rough land. The wind was brisk and the early Summer evening fifty-eight degrees north of the equator rather chilly. Shags were drying themselves in the wind and in the rays of the sinking Sun but standing like statues of black crosses silhouetted against the western Sky which looked ominous with glowing features of loudly snarling clouds. A couple of Kittiwakes came sailing along on the pirries – expecting a morsel or two before the ferry sailed and it became too dark to see. The engines began to stir in a way that sent short frequency waves up through his light-soled shoes and the ferry slipped out of the berth to reach the spheric freedom of the offing. To the North-east Hoy was just visible but Dunnet Head loomed gravely up over the crisp waves to the East. The huge black paw of the land clawed at the corrosive Sea. When it became too cold for lack of shelter he went down to find a suitable victim. Passengers – milling to and fro – intent on buying something or on eating something like he was on hearing someone say ‘Oh heaven No.’ Yes – going home now her task was done – she had taken her wages and sat in the sofa together with a girlfriend.

  “Please excuse my absent-mindedness when I bought the ticket, but I am absent-minded and not familiar with all the quick changes that take place here now-a-days.”

  Her faint air of indifference began to fade and a certain degree of attentiveness sharpened her focus – not so much consciously on him as unconsciously upon a human presence in her world.

  “In fact, I have come here from the University of Milwaukee in order to record as great a variety of Scottish accents as I can and your accent struck me as being very interesting, so I would appreciate if you could do me the favour of saying a couple of words to my tape recorder. My name is Aubrey Saint-Clair, Doctor Aubrey Saint-Clair.”

  “I waas a bit rude maybe, but I waas tired. O course, I can say a few words.”

  “I do appreciate that. The words are ‘Oh Heaven, no!’ expressed with the greatest possible degree of dismay, annoyance, astonishment and anger, but just as you would say them to someone you know.”

  He wrote ‘Five’ and ‘Orkney Ferry’ in the upper left hand corner.

  “And I would also have to note if you speak any other language, such as Gaelic or French, and your place of birth and approximately for how many years of your life you have lived in the Orkney Islands?”

  “Aa ma life.”

  He gave her the microphone and an encouraging smile. She was more tired than she looked.

  “Now what were the words ye wanted me to say? Now it’s ma turn tae be absent-minded.”

  Her laugh of embarrassment was short and loud – like the cry of a Seamew.

  “Just ‘Oh! Heaven! No!’”

  “Aa right, Oh Heaven No! Oh Heaven! No! Oh Heaven!”

  She said it with as much vigour as she could after such a day but her intonation was quite close to what he could remember though the phonemes differed substantially.

  “Thank you very much and may I give you this little bottle of wine here in appreciation of the effort you put into your performance?”

  “Whit a surprise, thanks!”

  She showed the bottle to her girlfriend who had watched the proceedings with mounting interest.

  “Would you care to add your voice to my collection of Scotch accents?”

  “Oh, yeah, but I’m not fae Orkney, ye ken.”

  “Where do you come from then?”

  “Aberdeen, but ma husband’s fae Kirkwall. He’ll be there at the ferry tae meet me.”

  “Oh, but Aberdeen is in fact also on my list of places, so now it’s your turn.”

  He gave her the Sennheiser – better suited for bird song and silence. Her broad golden wedding ring looked coarse relative to the delicate grace of her bird-boned hand.

  “Oh Heiven Nae! Oh Heiven Nae!”

  With the force of a North-easter in November. She collapsed giggling as a couple of passengers – having nothing better to do – had stopped to watch the show.

  “Six – Orkney – Ferry. Thanks a lot. That was fine. There seems to be a slight difference between your accents, at least as far as I can hear, but I suppose you have no trouble pinpointing where people come from?”

  He gave her a bottle. Raindrops. Affinity for one’s own kind was natural until the density –

  “And you should drink it slightly chilled, maybe with a dessert or a cake, if you like.”

  “I’ll look forward tae that. Weel, that’s peedy tricky. Sometimes it’s easy tae hear, sometimes not, it depends, ye ken.”

  “Having heard you both act so well there’s no reason for me now to continue to Stromness.”

  “But ye can’t swim back now, can ye?”

  “And besides, I’m sure there must be many things to see both in Stromness and Kirkwall.”

  “O, there are, there are.”

  “So I’ll have to come back for a real holiday later this year.”

  “Thanks fur the wine!”

  Almost in unison. Drake and duck across the surface. Tentative touching only.

  “And thanks for your help.”

  He went up on the deck to find a lee corner beneath the brazen Sky. They were rapidly approaching the southernmost cluster of small islands in the North Atlantic and in the East the gloaming already foreshadowed the night – ami du criminel – Il vient comme un complice – à pas de loup – le ciel se ferme lentement comme une grande alcôve – et l’homme impatient se change en bête fauve. The day kept it all hid – the polarity of polite indifference and passion. Hoy rose about eight or nine hundred feet above the Sea. Sharply layered sand-stone in
black and burnt umber with patches of Fat-Hen green – and swarms of Black Guillemots conspicuous all along the well-defined ridges. There might even be a pod of Killer Whales here cleaving the blue-grey surface with their dorsal fins. Speckled gratitude. Hoping for a glimpse he went over to have a look at the port side – but it was too cold and windy for a longer watch – the speed combined with a north-westerly wind at about eleven or twelve metres per second – so he went downstairs to wait cow-patiently for the pen to be opened. The heavy westerly swell subsided as soon as they were sheltered by the mainland. The coast was closing in outside the large fair weather windows. He was hungry – the nip of the sea-air – in spite of the smelly throng. The ferry docked and changing his mind abruptly he hurried over the gangway to get a taxi.

  “Good evening! Could you drive me to Kirkwall, please.”

  Open and friendly-faced – pleased with his lot in life. What more could anyone?

  “O course, just hop in.”

  “Thanks!”

  “Is there any place in Kirkwall ye want tae – ?”

  “Oh yes, an hotel, but I don’t know any of them, so – ”

  “Weel, weel, there’re some nice places there. What kinda hotel would ye like?”

  “A good old hotel preferably.”

  With a mellow smell of history. The landscape was green and somewhat hilly but without trees it looked austere. A few houses broke the monotony or ruined the solitude. What would they have used before coal and oil? Each other – huddling for warmth? Bees in a cluster. The bleakness of the dark months would have been stark and barren – though once a religious –

  “Then we’ll try The Holm Hotel first, I think.”

  “Would I be likely to meet any Orcadians in the bar there?”

  “Oh yeah, maybe, but just around the corner there’s a pub I can recommend The Black Earl.”

  “Then I’ll look forward to a dram or two in the Black Earl.”

  The darkening landscape arose in front of them only to disappear behind them in time past – between the sundown and the Sea – the quest was sweet – the fruit would be – sour or ripe depending on his Seven Stars. They were now approaching the rural capital – a close-knit community with shared values and limited competition. In the periphery – new hollow brick houses – anonymous and so similar that if coming home drunk one might easily try to open the wrong door – to serendipity or catastrophe – but in the core of the town there were crooked streets closely sheltered by fine old houses with individual tales of the generations who had lived and died within their granite walls. When the car came to a soft standstill in front of the hotel he paid and remembered his valise on the back seat.

  “Thanks for the drive and the recommendations.”

  “An thanks a lot!”

  His smiling face behind the glass disappeared out of his life as he turned round to force his way in through the heavy doors – towards a reception – bathed in gloomy light. A dour looking man with close-cropped curls and heavy eyes rose behind the counter to do his leaden duty.

  “Good evening! Do you happen to have a vacant room for one night? ”

  “Oh yes, of course. Which one would you prefer?”

  “It’s difficult for me to form a qualified opinion on the subject as I have not seen any of your rooms, but I will be quite happy with whatever you might find it opportune to suggest.”

  He gave the receptionist his passport as a guarantee of his status as a bona fide traveller.

  “Do you have any luggage?”

  His thin eyebrows rose – the potential inherent in his answer.

  “No, I left my car in Scrabster, took the ferry to Stromness and a taxi to Kirkwall, and will be on my way back early to-morrow morning, that is, if you will be able to wake me at seven so that I can catch the ferry at nine.”

  The pen that waltzed across the page had more elegance of style than plastic keys attacked by fingertips.

  “All right, I’ll show you up to your room.”

  He followed him upstairs. The hotel had a quiet rather pleasant atmosphere as if it had escaped the phrenetic curse of getting something for nothing and a certain appreciation of values was still hibernating inconspicuously here under the stairs among piles of used table cloths.

  “Well, here we are, and here’s the key.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  He washed his hands and his face – took the tape recorder and went down to the restaurant.

  “This way, sir!”

  The waiter – pleased to see a customer – stepped adroitly forward to an empty table.

  “May I have the wine list and the menu, please?”

  “Yes, here ye are.”

  They were already lying on the table. Maybe he was rather tired. Tired and inattentive.

  “Could I possibly order now and come back in half an hour?”

  “Oh yes, but dependin on what ye would like it meit not be ready.”

  Soft lightning suggested an intimate atmosphere – the light in a laboratory investigation and analysis – but dinner light should enhance the play of facial expressions – the colours of fruits – vegetables – wine and bread. It was not only fragrance and taste but the modulation of charged words that mattered – their pitch and their tone. Drinking and eating should inspire honest conversation to flow more freely.

  “If not, I’ll just wait. Such a Chablis would be nice, I think, but that may presuppose Lobster?”