by Niels Hammer
“Nay, aa’s gone.”
“If we should leave the fish in the river, would it, in that case, be possible to come to an understanding with one of your members in consideration of a suitable compensation?”
“The rules, ye ken, but since ye’re not gaun tae tak any, I’ll see fit A can dee fae ye.”
“Thank you very much.”
“If ye’ll bide here a wee bit?”
He slipped back into his office to persuade – no doubt sotto voce for he was certainly a devious ruffian – one of his brothers or rather one of the members of the Salmon Confederation to accept an offer it would be hard to refuse. For Seymour’s sake he hoped a liberal bakhshesh would modify the rules. In Aberdeen he would have to find an hotel – preferably by the harbour – with a good view – and then Mister MacIntyre lumbered out from his wooden lair – a thrifty purveyor of gossip and goods – for the gratification of boosting his waist and his business.
“Fist that’ll be fae the twa o ye a hunner Pounds fae Saturday efternoon an nixt twa hunner Pounds fae Sunday.”
“All right.”
He counted the money. Mister MacIntyre watched the movements of his fingers.
“Thank ye.”
Icelandic blood feuds – the underlying heritage of customs and manners – the leaden skies and the long dark evenings. It had become obsessive – so maybe he was doing him an injustice? Maybe – for his cloudy eyes held also a certain humour beside the weird and stealthy cunning.
“Then we’ll come Saturday afternoon.”
Driving back he turned Southeast outside the town – toward Keith. The first three or four kilometres were woody but then the fields reappeared. Gautier’s foreword to Mademoiselle de Maupin – Nietzsche’s impatience with John Stuart Mill – the thrift of farmers and the pressure resulting from better hygiene. Passing through Keith he continued towards Huntly. Though the landscape had been shaped by millennia of human activity there were still stray forested areas and small pockets of flowers in crags and nooks to suggest the former foison. It was the thirst of his soul. The wanton greene or verde viento – verde ramas. Here – as along the Guadalquivir or on the slopes of the Owen Stanley Range. They would come up this way Saturday afternoon when he knew her name although he would not know the right name. As soon as he had found an hotel he would ask Seymour – but he should have telephoned him last night – and yet – if his endeavours had been fruitless he would have given him a warning. The road by-passed Inverurie – but he had a bloody purpose like everybody else – so no one was blameless although he tried to be and tried in vain. Chance or foresight? He just had to find a quiet civilised place – but not knowing any it would be a gamble and he was not a gambling man – depending on dopamine for day to day survival. Nevertheless he had to take a chance and turned south – North Aberdeen Drive – but it was a question of finding the harbour – the oldest part of the town while keeping a Lynx’ eye on the faÇade of the houses. Crossing Lang Stracht he drove eastwards along Queen’s Road and stopped at one of the first hotels he saw. It might do – but parking was a problem here – for the nucleus of the town had been built to take care of Horses. The hotel was old-fashioned and a little dilapidated but he preferred that to the new-fangled uniformity – and at the reception a well-trimmed young women with nails like a full-grown Tibetan Bear’s met his gaze with a smile of pinkish candy.
“Good evening, would you happen to have a room available for two nights, that is, to-night and to-morrow night?”
“I’ll just have a look.”
As if she would have been able to avoid knowing it beforehand – a fisherman wondering if he were going out to fish or if he were coming in with a full net – a standard professional attitude. Instead – to have stayed in a bivouac or in a tent – opening a good bottle – lying stretched out beside the campfire while listening to the hooting of a Tawny Owl in the distance or to a Fox barking in delight at the Moon.
“Yes, as a matter of fact we have. May I see – ”
He threw his passport softly down on the smooth counter and felt a sudden rush of disgust. Identification – control – Surveiller et punir – O Phony New World.
“I hope that will be sufficient, to satisfy your curiosity.”
As he smiled she was not offended.
“I’m afraid we’re bound to ask for identification.”
“But do you resent that you’re compelled to do so with all your heart? That is the question.”
“Honestly, I haven’t thought much about it, you know.”
“Oh I’m sorry, I thought you had considered it seriously.”
“Oh no, I’m just doing my job.”
Regardless of being exposed to the dilemma daily. The Pontios Pilatos syndrome. The Dickey Bird syndrome. Die Nürnberger Prozesse – softly obliterated in favour of irresponsibility.
“And anyway here’s your key. Do you have any luggage?”
“Hardly any left in this world.”
“It’s on the second floor. I’ll show you the way.”
She strode out towards the lift and pressed the button.
“Would you mind if I walked up the stairs.”
“Oh certainly not!”
He wished that she would have wavered between the options of being polite or lazy but she had reacted automatically – so he jumped up the stairs while she tried to follow him. They walked down the corridor – recently redone to feature anonymity. Number thirty-six. She opened a nondescript door to let him in to a nondescript room.
“If there’s anything you need just phone.”
On autopilot most of the way.
“Thank you very much for taking the trouble of showing me the way to my room for the night.”
He washed his hands thoroughly and telephoned Seymour.
“Allo? I’m in Aberdeen, having secured fishing rights for Saturday afternoon and all of Sunday, but you’ll have to bring two rods and waders.”
“Right, I’ll be in Aberdeen seven fifteen.”
“I’ll pick you up at the airport and get a room for you here.”
“I suppose you’re keen on knowing how I – ”
“Yes, but since you said nothing – ”
“John knew somebody at the hospital and they’ll have the records Saturday morning waiting for us. I said it was a preliminary investigation, a pilot plant endeavour, just an orientation, and in case it seemed promising, which of course it will not, I would come back to finish the red tape.”
“That’s a miracle though still within the confines of traditional science. Now I can breathe freely again. You’ll understand why when I tell you what has happened. I left Kirkwall early this morning and the other part of my investigation has almost been concluded. Were there any objections to your sudden departure?”
“As you said, Jessie thought it was a good idea. And I need a bit of fresh air and inspiration.”
“As I didn’t think that you would want to bring a Salmon back home I promised to release whatever we caught, especially as all the places were occupied, and I had to bribe one of the local owners of the fishing rights to let us fish. The notice was of course far too short. Some people secure a good place years in advance.”
“I know, I know. But I’ll bring my camera.”
“Yes, do that. So I’ll see you to-morrow at the airport seven fifteen. My regards to Jessie.”
Having replaced the receiver he washed his hands and went down to the restaurant.
“Good evening, do you have a table for a lonely person?”
Slightly raised eyebrows – such a proposition – anathema here – John Knox – Jean Calvin.
“Of course, this way please.”
Either an internalised Pietistic railroad or the chaos of life. He followed the waiter in and out among the tables and the guests who occupied them with possessive miens.
/> “I’ll just have a look a the wine list, let me see, a Bordeaux, Petit Védrines, and something to eat. What have you here, Grouse, yes, and some vegetables, onions, carrots and peas, but could you tell the cook only to fry them a little, so as leave them al dente, you know, still crisp, and two fried tomatoes plus pommes frites.”
“Yes, and any starters, sir?
Also a word he detested.
“Hors d’oeuvres? No thanks, but a melon, please?”
He was tired – and yet that Buckie lassie arose like a joker in front of his eyes. So he was not quite lost yet – but then – why had he not even for a second doubted the terrible urgency that drove him to track her down regardless of all possible and impossible obstacles?
“Excuse me, but shall I pour the wine?”
The finest sentence in the language.
“Yes, please, by all means!”
He swilled it around in his mouth awhile to inhale the fragrance. It was plain but acceptable – a mediocre Bordeaux – and the sommelier filled the glass slowly when he nodded.
“Thank you.”
Women! He had never had a chance to lead a quiet life – but the question was – what would life be without them? A no-win situation if ever there were one. So here he sat – in a restaurant in Aberdeen – maybe halfway down the thorny road – because of a woman he only had seen for a split second and who had no idea of the impression she had made upon him – although he felt – as if she had said Look closely – for here I am at last – although she in all conceivable probability could not care less – one way or the other – about what he did or did not do. And furthermore – the likelihood of having fallen in love with his own dream – his own creation – like Swann or Proust even – and then superimposed this ideal mental construct upon this almost unknown woman was overwhelming – and even if he happened to meet her the discrepancies between his wishful extrapolation and her as she really was would make his vision fade away as if in clear morning light. And yet – there was such a phenomenon as fate – or destiny – so in spite of probability or reality he had no choice but to continue blindly till the bitter end. Triumph and disaster – just the same – at least from a Stoic point of view – but from his present perspective either Limbo or Paradiso. And a Stoic point of view was in the last analysis not real though Brutus did his best – like Richard. It was a negation of life for an organism had to be engaged – to say yes – the deeper the better – though that meant unmitigated suffering just as well as unmitigated joy – and that was of course infinitely preferable to the lead-grey indifference of neutrality – to be sitting on the fence – to be afraid of being wounded too deeply – to withhold oneself from life – using rubber – the destroyer of rainforests. However – it was the question of finding out what one’s destiny was – what one’s own personal dharmaḥ could be. That was one of the most meaningful things he could do in this brief flash between a cry and a sigh – and that was what he was doing or what he hoped he would be doing if he found her. When the bottle was half-full the waiter came with the Grouse and the vegetables which – of course – all were overdone but the Grouse had had a long life with many broods – so he did not feel all that guilty. Still – it was a great privilege on this planet to go to bed with a full stomach. The melon was sweet and juicy though without the fragrance of the melons of Mazār-i-Sharīf – and the distant blue-grey mountains shimmered an instant in sunlight just beneath the ceiling – touched up by the cosmetics of Sehnsucht. When he had wrung the last drops out of the glass he left a good pourboire for the waiter and for the trustworthy sommelier. His further investigations could wait for he felt certain of her provenance – so having had black tea in his room he took a bath and went to sleep even though his wishful imagination fought to keep him awake.
IX
Vaguely realising a buoyant tendency he lay suspended between the periconsciousness of undifferentiated being and the hazy sensation of the pragmatic twists and turns of the day ahead. Total darkness prevailed in the vast depth but gradually the faintest of lights added a certain tone to the darkness – and this was at more superficial levels changed into astronomical twilight – nautical twilight and civil twilight – which eventually opened up for the bright spotlight of self-conscious consciousness. As a deliberate intentionality had not yet begun to manifest its tunnel vision the flow of emotions that had fostered the still half-remembered dreams of the night could drift up to the surface of his awareness – but the mental-psychic state of an all-inclusive accept of that which was without conscious attempts to orchestrate the unfoldment of impulses – visions or sensations – precluded its continuation in the small secular Kingdom of acts and thoughts – towards which the growing pressures of the morning began to point with greater and greater clarity. The colourless colour of the walls in the room tarnished the morning with a hollow note and outside the Sky was overcast with rolling dark grey-clouds which prognosticated intermittent showers. Another terrene revolution in this that was his life had begun – and another day less before the second of the two eternities would come as nothingness. A plain oxymoron – but then – necessity – a stab of thirst or hunger – prevailed – so somehow he had to survive – to find what he was looking for – though there was no reason now to hurry – festina lente – for in the last week he had had too little time in which to avoid intentionality or focus his attention one-pointedly. Routines were spoil-sports – blighting affections and acts. Having persuaded the rasping voice that personified room service in the telephone to toast the bread golden and let the tea draw for four minutes he took a warm bath and shaved carefully – sensitivity was crucial – but then a brisk knocking on the door forced him to use a towel like a dhotī. The custom of this age – the custom of this place – no nakedness within or without.
“Good mornin, sir! Here’s your breakfast.”
Born and bred by the North Sea Coast – fresh as the day – but tempered by a cold Pious or Presbyterian mood he took for granted – like the air he breathed. So duty-bound – the duty – having been born – one owed to life to survive and multiply.
“Thanks a lot. It looks very good. Here you are.”
As soon as the door closed he dropped the towel – poured the tea and activated the electronic device that would ease his quest – but where should he begin? Population density and birth statistics. He could just as well assume that there had been no drastic change during the last three or four decades. About five million two hundred and twenty-two thousand. Shire was perhaps abolished – as being too antiquated – too full of life – with too many real connotations and associations for the present Prokroustēs’ bed of sterile conformity. Only genealogical interests could have shaped all these approaches. The question of roots – as means of gaining identity and self-awareness – absurd and à la mode. Having buttered the toast he began writing. Eleven point three births per one thousand inhabitants. First – the population from which the cases might have come – the Shetland and Orkney Islands – the Hebrides – the Highlands – Moray – Aberdeenshire – Angus and Aberdeen – about as much as nine hundred and eighty-five thousand which divided by one thousand and multiplied by eleven point three amounted to eleven thousand one hundred and thirty-seven births per annum. The strawberry marmalade was rather artificial and the black tea too strong to have drawn for four minutes only – but what did he expect? And then the cleft lip and the cleft palate aspect. Of course it became more complicated now – at a closer look. Cleft lip – cheiloschisis and cleft palate – palatoschisis – both new words – and rather barbaric on the tongue. There was a liberal amount of indefinite information – scattered in the open two hundred terabytes – and mostly directed to parents who were so unfortunate as to – aha – one in seven hundred and fifty for Caucasians but why was it infrequent among Africans and frequent among North American Indians? Japanese and Chinese were then naturally also more severely afflicted. Genetics in Risk Assessment. Case (A) is
olated cleft lip twenty percent. Case (B) cleft lip and cleft palate – fifty percent and Case (C) cleft palate alone thirty percent. The male to female ratio of (A) was one point fifty-five to one – of (B) two point zero two to one and of (C) zero point seventy-three to one. He finished the toast and had another cup of – Ceylon tea? So eleven thousand one hundred and thirty-seven births divided by seven hundred and fifty gave fifteen cases and if multiplied by eleven years there appeared to have been as much as one hundred and sixty-five cases of female and male infants suffering from such afflictions. That would be the actual number of files they would have to work their way through to-morrow. Half of them could be discarded immediately. That left eighty-two female cases. But if concentrating on Moray – Aberdeenshire and Aberdeen with a total population of five hundred and sixty-six thousand and multiplying five hundred and sixty-six by eleven point three the number of births would only be six thousand three hundred and ninety-five – which divided by seven hundred and fifty and then multiplied by eleven gave ninety-four. Half of them would be females – about forty-seven. Not at all – for if disregarding the percentage differences between (A) – (B) and (C) and just combining the male to female ratios of isolated cleft lip – cleft lip plus cleft palate and isolated cleft palate – four point twenty-eight for males and three for females. Ninety-four divided by seven point twenty-eight gave thirteen which multiplied by three gave thirty-nine cases of palatoschisis et cetera during a period of eleven years in the north-eastern part of Scotland. He could then compare this rough theoretical number with the number of cases the hospital actually had recorded. If the number happened to be ten per cent less than expected a further investigation would be necessary. Many – far too many – of the pictures had looked terrible and the ordeal the children had to go through – regardless of the great technical advances – would be unimaginable – though most of them seemed to recuperate remarkably well – and yet – what a childhood – with all that that entailed apart from the operations and the frequent visits to the dentist. The condition of getting used to accept pain would begin in infancy. The sufferings of children. The smiles of children. Physics and life sciences had improved – nothing else. Anyway – to be able to distinguish between the accents of the north coast and Aberdeen he could conduct a couple of interviews in the afternoon. There was plenty of time so having booked a room for Seymour he went out to have a look at the town. The historical austerity had simply arisen as a function of dire necessity. Agriculture had not been easy with stones in the soil – the driving rain and the wind. Only barley and barley – Barley Mother – Dēmētēr – but no ergot-induced initiations – and in the last three hundred years – potatoes. Hence the insistence on the cherished local panacea. Grey houses – grey streets – a dark grey Sky to-day and ashen faces. Hard-working people here seemed to be worse off than in France or Italy – though that might partly be due to the climate – but to a large extent it was because the wealth of the land had been so unevenly distributed. The curses of class and of greed – and circumstances which blew out frail flames but turned others into wildfires. And yet this misery was gently softened by the spontaneous humanity of each single Tam o’ Shanter. He crossed the street to look at a restaurant. The innate Celtic spirit was still alive but it had been crippled by Protestant ethics – battered by Anglo-Saxon violence and demeaned by Roman commercialism. Scotland – Wales and Éire were all intrinsically different from England a little below the surface. What a pity it had not been the English who had been colonised instead of the three Celtic nations – but it followed the general law that an archaic – spiritual – aesthetic-ethic and value-based culture always succumbed to a pragmatic – ruthless – innovative and interest-based state of affairs. Troia – Knōsos – Etruria. So Protestantism and business – the most lethal cocktail in existence – flourished in God’s own country. Only provisional salvation – salad and a glass of wine. He pushed the door open. The atmosphere was lively – even animated. Mainly a younger or middle-aged professional clientèle.