Forty Days Without Shadow: An Arctic Thriller

by Olivier Truc

  “And what do you think about it now?”

  “I believe the drum is connected to the story of the gold seam, but as to the curse, I really have no idea. How could the seam affect the fate of his people? I do not know. Had they been deprived of pastures that were rightfully theirs? Or land routes vital to their seasonal migrations? Had the mine resulted in the loss of livestock, had the reindeer been starved and died? Or did the curse touch the Sami themselves? I have asked myself these and many other questions.”

  “I was given to understand that we have no pictures of the drum?” said Nina.

  “Almost certainly not, if Juhl hadn’t photographed it before the theft. I certainly don’t have any.”

  “But you must be able to tell me what the drum looks like.”

  “You overestimate my powers of recall, Mademoiselle. But I will try to describe it for you. Now, let me see…”

  Mons closed his eyes and kept them closed for some time.

  “A horizontal line, drawn across the upper part of the drum, divided the surface into two. I remember that in this upper section there were stylized reindeer and one or two quite simply drawn human figures, also very stylized. I would guess they were hunters, but I couldn’t be sure. I think there were trees and maybe some mountains, though the peaks may have indicated tents.”

  Nina scribbled in her notebook, glancing up at Mons, who sat with his eyes still closed.

  “The bottom section was more complicated. There was a cross in middle, with different symbols on each branch of the cross and at the center, too, contained within a small lozenge shape. What else? There were other symbols around the edges. Stylized, simple figures. And others, more elaborately drawn. Deities, perhaps. And there were fish and a boat. One motif that struck me—I remember it quite clearly—was that of a snake. I think there were more trees and mountains, and other symbols that were more difficult to interpret. I always meant to do some research on these, but you know how it is—I had a thousand other matters to attend to. I respected Niils’s wish—I showed the drum to no one. And I did not have a copy made, for the same reason. Paul-Émile resented that, of course, but I know he respected my integrity.”

  “Who else knew of the drum’s existence?”

  “Very few people altogether,” said Mons after a moment’s thought. “Until I told Juhl about it, at any rate.”

  “Did anyone contact you about it?”

  “Oh yes! A piece like that inevitably attracts jealous collectors. It didn’t have the monetary value of a work of pre-Columbian art, naturally, or an Egyptian antiquity, but I can safely say that it was a very fine object—an absolutely unique work, it would seem. And a testament to a dramatic period in Scandinavian history. All the drums are, as you must know.”

  Nina remembered Olaf’s accusations, his calling Pastor Jonsson a drum burner. “Who contacted you?”

  “Well, there was a German museum in Hamburg. I think they worked with Juhl in Kautokeino. They wanted to see the drum, provide an estimate of its value.”

  “But you showed it to no one.” Nina nurtured a faint hope that Mons might have chosen to reveal it to the museum experts. They might even have photographed it.

  “They never came, in fact. And I sent it to Juhl in the meantime. As I recall, two other people got in touch over the years. One was from a museum in Stockholm, and another was a gentlemen who did not make his identity known—a dealer, I think, acting on someone else’s behalf; a collector, no doubt. I assumed they were people Paul-Émile knew and had spoken to about it. But I had no intention of selling it, so their approaches came to nothing.”

  “Have you kept the names of the museum and the intermediary?”

  Mons looked through one of the piles of papers, eventually found what he was after and noted the details on a sheet of paper, in a fine hand, using a fountain pen. Nina glanced at the sheet. The Nordiska Museet in Stockholm. The intermediary’s name looked Norwegian. There was a telephone number.

  He gave Nina permission to take the photographs away with her, together with a handful of documents relating to the expedition.

  She was about to leave, but paused for a second on the landing outside the door.

  “Why did you decide to return the drum to Kautokeino now?”

  “Because of my great age, first and foremost, Mademoiselle,” replied Mons, with a tired smile. “I do not want the drum to be lost to the Sami after my death. I asked myself whether returning the drum now would have gone against Niils’s wishes. And it seemed to me that it did not. There can be no doubt that the ideas circulating before the war have no credence whatever in modern-day Scandinavia. I hope that I am not proved wrong.”

  27

  Tuesday, January 18

  3:30 p.m., Kautokeino, Highway 93

  André Racagnal pulled up in front of the Olsen farmhouse. The old farmer had seen him arrive and stood waiting on the doorstep. He couldn’t make the Frenchman out; he gave nothing away, so it was hard to tell what made him tick. He wasn’t as easily manipulated as someone like Brattsen. But there was his taste for young girls, of course. Any right-minded person would have taken exception to an accusation of that nature. Not him. God almighty. He’d been outraged all right, but only at the prospect of being blackmailed. Nothing else.

  The old geological map was on the kitchen table. Racagnal walked across and picked it up immediately.

  “Remember,” Olsen told him, “time is running out. We need to lodge an application with the national Mining Administration so that it can be dealt with by the mining affairs committee here in Kautokeino after that. Things move fast with the Administration, they have people working more or less around the clock, but the local committee takes decisions only at the scheduled meetings. We can’t miss the next meeting—the one that’s just been postponed—or we’ll be too late for the granting of the licenses. It’s now or never.”

  Racagnal’s silence was disconcerting. Olsen pointed to a spot on a second, modern map of the region.

  “Aslak is here. He’s a strange character, but definitely the best guide. I’m sure you’ll find a way to talk him around,” he said, turning his body to look at Racagnal.

  Still the Frenchman said nothing. He pored over the two maps, then folded them, glanced at Olsen, and turned to leave.

  * * *

  The geologist headed north, then turned east on the Karasjok road. Aslak was over this way. The farmer’s words of warning left him unfazed: “A strange character.” The old fool had no idea. No idea at all. The strangest Aslak in the world couldn’t possibly be worse than Commander Chuck. Olsen was a pitiful hick who had never left his own godforsaken hole. That much was obvious.

  Racagnal made for a small roadside café. Renlycka, the Lucky Reindeer. He’d spotted it before, the only place between Kautokeino and Alta, at the intersection with Highway 92, as it turned east. He parked outside. Once the expedition was under way, he’d be forced to sleep in whatever shelters or trailers he could find, or in his tent. That didn’t bother him. But for the work he had to do right now, he would be far more comfortable inside.

  There were no other customers. A woman aged about sixty emerged from a small room at the back and installed herself behind the cash register, saying nothing. She was a Sami, wearing an apron in the same bright colors as the traditional Sami tunics. Racagnal sat at a long table in the corner, near the windows. Ten or so tables in pale wood, with chairs to match, were laid with small, embroidered mats representing scenes of Sami life: reindeer marking, traditional reindeer caravans, sorting the animals into corrals. Small tealights had been placed on each table in glass pots. The woman came to light the one on Racagnal’s table. A glass cabinet displayed handicrafts, Sami dolls, small tambourine-style drums covered in native figures, stickers. From here, he could see the road skirting the foot of a low hill and, to one side, the vast expanse of wilderness he would soon be venturing into. The scene looked peaceful enough, slumbering under a blanket of snow. But he knew that wasn’t going to
last.

  He took out the maps, then walked over to the till. The Sami woman sat waiting and stared at him dully. He ordered a sandwich and coffee, and paid. The woman thanked him.

  “Do you know Aslak?” he asked.

  She stared at him for a long time before answering. “Yes.”

  She waited again.

  “Is he easy to track down?”

  “No.”

  “Can you tell me how to find him?”

  Silence. “No.”

  Racagnal didn’t like being caught unawares. He stared hard at the woman, forcing a smile. She lowered her eyes. He turned and walked back to his table.

  Finally, he unfolded Olsen’s geological map as well as a handful of the other maps he had brought along. He needed to act fast. Kautokeino’s mining affairs committee had postponed its meeting until Monday morning, January 24. He had less than five days to locate the old farmer’s gold seam and submit an application to the regional Mining Administration ahead of the Kautokeino meeting. In which case Olsen had promised he would rubber-stamp both: this, and the SFM’s application to prospect. Now Racagnal would make this damned map talk.

  * * *

  6 p.m., Kautokeino

  Nina arrived back in Alta late that evening. Klemet came to fetch her. She appreciated the gesture.

  “We’re expecting the full forensic report tomorrow,” he said. “Not before time. So how was Paris?”

  On the hour-long drive back to Kautokeino, Nina delivered a full and faithful account of everything she had learned from Henri Mons. When they passed the spot where she had hit a reindeer the day before, she gave a brief report of her accident and Aslak’s strange response, the gift of the small piece of jewelry. Klemet showed no reaction, and she returned to her meeting with Henri Mons.

  “That business about the racial biology institute is absolutely extraordinary. Incredible,” she said.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Don’t you find it revolting?”

  Klemet drove, concentrating on the road ahead. He turned to look at her, said nothing, then looked straight ahead once more. They had reached the edge of Kautokeino. The town was dark and quiet.

  “We’ll get a coffee at my place.”

  It was not a question. She was happy enough to make a return visit to Klemet’s tent. The car came to a halt and he pointed to her bag. “Bring that with you.”

  Nina stared at him quizzically, her head tipped slightly to one side, pondering her colleague’s proposition.

  “I mean, bring the documents from Paris in with you.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  He could have sworn she was blushing and decided he would play along. “Do you want to take a shower?”

  Nina stopped in her tracks. She had no idea whether her colleague was teasing her or not, but declined the offer politely. Klemet trudged through the snow and lifted the tent flap to allow her to step inside first. He put some logs on the hearth. The fire, almost extinct, soon sprang into life. Nina felt at ease once more and looked around in delight.

  “Klemet, would you mind taking a photo of me in front of the fire?”

  He forced a smile. Nina held out her camera. He knew what to do and focused on the flames. Nina thanked him, checked the picture, and gave a small, irritated sigh.

  “Klemet, I’m all in shadow. You know perfectly well if you’re taking a picture with a light source from behind, you need to––”

  “Give me the camera.” He was losing patience.

  Another picture, very slightly askew. Nina seemed satisfied with the result, put the camera away, and took out the file. She handed him the first photograph Mons had shown her and described the different members of the group.

  “Who took the picture?” asked Klemet.

  Nina stared at him, as if caught red-handed. She hadn’t thought to ask.

  “What will you have to drink?”

  “An alcohol-free beer.”

  He took out two bottles and poured himself a glass of three-star cognac. An old habit—the sole remnant of his Laestadian upbringing. In his family’s hard-core branch of Laestadianism, alcohol was strictly forbidden, with one exception: three-star cognac for medicinal purposes only. He had always been amused by this. Three-star cognac remained his brandy of choice—one way of not completely denying his origins. He drank half the glass, followed by a long sip of beer.

  Nina sat next to her partner this time, her legs stretched out on the reindeer skins. She looked at the photographs hanging overhead in the tent, her mind buzzing with the events of the past two days. Klemet’s question bothered her. She took out the other photographs entrusted to her by Henri Mons. There were fifty in all, mostly depicting scenes of Sami life. Fifteen showed members of the expedition team at different stages on the trip. Klemet separated them into two lots. Members of the research team appeared in every picture, though not everyone was present in every photograph. Apart from the formal group picture in the lobby of the Finnish hotel, at the start of the expedition, all the photographs been taken out of doors, either in the tundra or at their camp. The later pictures were less posed, suggesting the busy life of the expedition in tough conditions.

  “There. That man isn’t in the first photograph.” Nina pointed to a figure, shorter than the Swedish and Norwegian scientists, though he was not Sami, it seemed. They found the same man in a second photograph. He seemed strangely out place, as if slightly apart from the rest of the group. He had a fine, narrow nose and a mustache covering the corners of his mouth. “I’ll ask Mons about him.”

  She leafed through the other photographs and found the man again. She spread out all the pictures between them, in several rows. The fire gave just enough light to see by. She sipped her beer. Klemet did the same, poring over the images. He took one, turned it over and discovered what he was looking for: the date.

  “Sort them into chronological order.”

  They rearranged the sequence and pored over the pictures once again.

  “What are we looking for, exactly?” asked Nina after a while.

  “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But we know something happened on the expedition, something involving the drum, these men.” He had drained his cognac, and he served himself another small shot. “Well, if we’re tracking the drum, the logical thing would be to track Niils, the Sami guide. He’s in the first and the last pictures.”

  “But not in the middle,” said Nina. “He isn’t there, because he went off with the German geologist.”

  Nina turned over the last photograph showing Ernst and Niils with the rest of the group, then the next picture in the sequence, without them. “This one’s dated July 25, and that one July 27. So Ernst and Niils left in the last week of July 1939.”

  “And here.” Klemet pointed to one of the photos. “Niils is back. Alone, of course, because Ernst has been killed.” He turned the picture over. “August 7. And the preceding picture, without him, is dated…August 4. So Niils came back sometime between those two dates.”

  He let the photograph fall and sank back against a long, low chest covered with cushions. “Niils comes back highly disturbed from his mission with the German geologist, and shortly afterward he confides in Mons and entrusts him with the drum.”

  Klemet put down his glass and picked up the file of documents relating to the expedition. There was a certain amount of official correspondence, together with lists of equipment, letters of introduction, sheets of expenses, tickets, a whole pile of uninteresting, yellowing paperwork. Klemet searched for any mention of the drum. Finally, he found one, on a customs docket.

  Under the heading “Description,” a handwritten note in Swedish read: “Cheap handicrafts.” Under “Value,” the same hand had noted “Nil.”

  * * *

  6 p.m., Highway 93

  André Racagnal’s mind leapt from valley to valley, following the curves of the geological contours dancing before his eyes. Five maps were spread on the table in front of him. He homed in on Olsen’s once
more. He could easily imagine the hours its maker must have spent in the field, identifying the geological formations, looking for fossils, tracing the outcrop patterns, where the different bedrocks became visible on the surface. Racagnal was taking his time, though he had precious little at his disposal. The old map seemed to suggest a granitoid pluton in the Finnish province of Karelia, making the rock around 1.8 billion years old. The European Far North was one of the oldest terrains he had studied.

  When he wasn’t out trekking in the field, studying these maps was the only way to chase his demons. Even then, the curves and contours could be dangerously evocative. Racagnal traced the lines on the map, muttering to himself. The plutonic rock had formed in the surrounding host rock, part of a shale belt. Racagnal read the maps with ease. The belt was composed of quartz, diorites, and granites. It all made sense. Gold could be found in terrain of this type, no doubt about that. The real question, as so often, was whether the mineral was available in sufficient quantities, not too deep, and whether the market justified embarking on the exploitation of a mine in the Far North, in difficult conditions in terms of climate and human resources.

  There was a lot to think about, and Olsen’s deadline gave him no time to come up with all the answers. Even a really competent geologist—especially a really competent geologist (and Racagnal considered himself one of the best)—needed time to get a feel for the terrain, to walk it, to follow his intuition, even if it drove the new recruits and bureaucrats crazy. Everything had to fit one of their models. They could never be expected to understand the workings of a mind like mine, Racagnal thought—nor his taste for very young girls, either. The picture of purity. His only response—the only rational response, in his view—was to dirty that picture. Their innocence unsettled him. Terrified him. Challenged the way he felt about himself. He felt comfortable in the company of characters like Olsen—manipulative and crafty. Or that hard-faced cop. These people reassured him, confirmed his view of the world as a gray, shifting, unjust place.