‘Black flags. That’s really it?’
‘Yes, really.’
This is how the Chief’s map of the South Pole looked:
And this is how the map looks when all human installations are removed:
The topography of emptiness. In the middle of the map they plant another flag, too, in red, white, and blue. All the participants in the expedition lucky enough to have opposable thumbs grab the flagpole and drive it into the snow with all their might. Mark it with a flag. That’s how humans are. Everyone’s happy for a while.
The dogs, on the other hand, are indifferent. To them, the South Pole is just another stop. For some of them, the last stop. The flag has been planted, and the Chief explains:
Helge had been an exceptionally skilled dog. Without any fuss, it had pulled our sled from morning to night and been a shining example in the pack, but over the last week it had simply collapsed and, by the time we arrived at the Pole, it had become a shadow of its former self. It simply rambled along in its harness, not pulling any of its weight. One whack on the head, and Helge was no more. Helge was dismembered on the spot, and within a few hours, only the tip of his tail and his teeth remained.
The Major had left the pack a few days earlier. He simply left and never returned.
I suppose it wandered away to die, the Chief writes in his diary. I’m not so sure.
Four days later, the Chief’s favorite dog, Lasse, had to pay the price. It had exhausted itself and no longer had any value.
Lasse was cut into fifteen parts and fed to his friends. The next day, Per collapsed and received his blow from the hatchet. The Chief briefly dwelled on the death of this slightly ‘strange’ dog who had no interest in fighting or playing with the other dogs, a ‘misfit’ before he was put into the reins.
As a sled dog, it was priceless, the Chief writes, but like most of the dogs with similar qualities, it couldn’t keep going for long. It collapsed, and was beaten to death and eaten.
As for Blackie, nobody seemed to miss him. The Chief writes in his diary a few days later, the night that dog was consumed:
A lousy specimen. Had it been human, would have ended up in juvenile detention and eventually in jail. It was relatively fat and was eaten with visible relish.
What is the Chief is trying to do here, if not reveal what a moral vacuum the South Pole expedition is in his own mind? If he wants to bring us along on ‘Project Wandering Meal,’ he should at least rise above the act of commenting on the food’s track record. As the Chief portrays it, the world has one less criminal once Blackie has left this world.
Had it been human …
33
It smells good. A powerful aroma is slowly spreading through the house, growing in reach and strength as the time approaches. Time for what? Only the birds know.
I might get dangerous soon if I don’t get a treat, but Mrs. Thorkildsen is blind and deaf to my humble demands, and we all know she has no sense of smell. The unknown dinner guest is in charge of everything now. A person who remains a mystery to me, whom I may never have met, has taken charge of my life remotely, and I think it’s bullshit.
I have a full bowl of food, so there’s no immediate threat of starvation. But food in your bowl is one thing, that’s food you already have and thus can save for later. I’m more interested in the food up there on the counter.
‘What is that I sense?’ I ask.
‘Venison steak,’ Mrs. Thorkildsen says.
‘My goodness,’ I say.
‘It should really be bear steak, preferably polar bear, but it’s so hard to find.’
‘I’m sure that’s fine,’ I say coyly. ‘Might it be possible to taste an ever so tiny piece? Just to check that the meat hasn’t rotted? Apply my expertise?’
My salivary glands have already started the party. I’m on the verge of drooling. Mrs. Thorkildsen places her hands squarely on her hips, a sure sign of her confidence in both me and the steak. She tilts her head and smiles, I think the expression roguish might be appropriate here. Yes, Mrs. Thorkildsen smiles roguishly, and says:
‘As if you wouldn’t have wolfed down any piece of rotted meat and then begged for more? You dogs really will eat anything. Even dogs!’
The Mrs. is being sarcastic. Well, two can play at that game:
‘Well, who doesn’t?’ I ask, with the final touché: ‘I suppose I should be grateful you didn’t put me on the menu tonight.’
‘Hmmm, maybe that would have been a good idea? Marinated you in dark beer for a few hours before frying you up and serving you with onions and potatoes on the side? Tassen à la Thorkildsen.’
Then she catches herself:
‘I’m sorry, Tassen. But, you see, I intend to serve the famous “Beef à la Lindstrøm” tonight, and that’s no joke.’
‘Who’s laughing?’
‘A hundred years ago this dish was served in some of the finest restaurants in Europe and America. The elite wanted to taste the polar chef’s specialty. I found the recipe in a book.’
Really? First he wins over Mrs. Thorkildsen’s heart, and before you know it, Lindstrøm is running loose in the kitchen. A perfect example of one of the dangers of reading books. It may change you. Forever.
‘Beef à la Lindstrøm must not be confused with Beef Lindstrøm,’ Mrs. Thorkildsen warns me.
‘Of course not,’ I say. I play along. I’m shameless when such a delicacy is at stake.
‘The Swedish dish Beef Lindstrøm is, by comparison, a rather pathetic affair,’ Mrs. Thorkildsen says. ‘A simple beef chuck camouflaged under beets and a fried egg. Swedish cuisine at its second worst. Doesn’t begin to compare to a real Beef à la Lindstrøm.’
‘Right?’ I say and start to get a little dizzy from all the B-words floating endlessly around the room.
‘Beef! Beef! Beef!’ it echoes. ‘Beef! Beef!’
‘A real Beef à la Lindstrøm, you see, must be made with game meat, and ideally with polar bear. But venison will have to do. The meat has to rest for a couple of days, marinate in dark beer after that, and then lots and lots of butter and heat takes care of the rest. Fry up some onion, pour it over the steak, and voila! Beef à la Lindstrøm. But we’ll do that at the very end. You serve it with fries, and I don’t mean frozen, mass-produced fries, Tassen, but handmade …’
The doorbell rings, and I start up. The old ritual. I bark, if not energetically, at least evenly and steadily until Mrs. Thorkildsen opens the door. The routine stops right there. I’m surprised, no, I think in this case one might even use the word shocked. The shock makes my heart dance and my tail lose all control, unfortunately. I wish I could be ice cold now, but who walks in but the Librarian!
This raises the stakes.
So she’s desperate enough to come knocking on my door late at night. I’m hugely flattered, of course, and completely unable to hide it, but what will Mrs. Thorkildsen say, and tonight of all nights, when we’re expecting company?
‘How nice, come on in!’ Mrs. Thorkildsen says. ‘Tassen has been dying for you to come, haven’t you, Tassen. Is Tassen happy now?’
Actually, Tassen is a little confused. It dawns on me. So it’s the Librarian! She is this unknown, mysterious person who has ruled my life lately. Our lives. The last few months, come to think of it. The Librarian is our dinner guest, and that makes her a guest of honor when the host’s name is Mrs. Thorkildsen, no less.
The two women hug, and it doesn’t seem like Mrs. Thorkildsen smells anything fishy. To tell you the truth, I’m unclear on what exactly is so suspicious about the smell of fish, but I’m glad this won’t present an obstacle tonight.
And then it’s my turn. Not a moment too soon.
‘Hiiiii, Tassen!’ says the Librarian, squatting down in one quick, slinky motion, the kind Mrs. Thorkildsen crossed off her repertoire long ago. Before I was born. You almost have to wonder whether the Librarian does this right under Mrs. Thorkildsen’s nose just to mess with her. But enough about that, it’s not up to me to make he
r feel welcome. Snout to snout.
Had I known we were getting such a fancy visitor, I would have at least quickly rolled around in the compost heap before she came, but the Librarian will have to take me as I am. Mrs. Thorkildsen, on the other hand, has doused herself in perfume and put on her nicest dress tonight. She’s gone all out with real earrings and a heavy string of pearls, and of course I should have seen it before, but she’s been to the good, but cheap hairdresser who says she’s allergic to dogs. The rest is color and paint, and the end result is that Mrs. Thorkildsen is no longer pale and blue, but warm and red.
The Librarian, on the other hand, is dressed like a librarian, in practical trousers and a high-necked sweater. She smells almost the same as she smelled the last time we were together. But not quite. One single small, but giant difference. A new smell. On the contrary. An old smell. The oldest. The Librarian is in heat!
And theeeeere she’s found the magical spot to scratch—the one that’s just a little south of the back or north of the tail, depending on how you see it, and it doesn’t really matter, because it’s simply impossible to reach just that spot yourself. Without that magical spot, I think the relationship between humans and dogs would look very different. That was likely how the whole thing started in earnest—with that magical spot to scratch.
You can imagine how the wolf must have reacted. Not to mention how the news was received when he came home to the pack bragging about what he’d experienced. And what do you think he did the next day? After dreaming all night about five fingers on his back?
He’s hooked now, he has to have it. He starts sneaking away from the pack to see if there might be any humans out wandering in the woods, people who might consider giving him a scratch, with no strings attached of course. Family and friends can see that something has happened to the wolf. They see that he’s happy, that getting his butt scratched simply makes him a better wolf, and so the other wolves probably think that if he has a magic scratching spot like that, well, isn’t it possible that I might have a magic scratching spot like that, too? So, the evolution has begun, and in the hands of a human, a wolf can be turned into a Chihuahua with astonishing speed. On the other hand, fortunately, it takes a long time to turn a Chihuahua into a wolf. More time than this planet has left, I hope.
I’m about to roll over onto my back, but catch myself as soon as I hear Mrs. Thorkildsen say:
‘Well, haven’t you two become good friends!’
Did I hear a hint of a sardonic tone? A suspicious tone? Did I hear any tone at all? What is tone, after all? My nose is of no help here. Mrs. Thorkildsen’s odors are locked up inside a vault of perfume, but at least her heartbeat is regular and strong, and that’s good to hear.
‘Tassen and I are best friends now,’ the Librarian smiles.
I’m glad she chooses to be honest. Cards on the table. No more lies.
‘Tassen’s actually the first dog I’ve really made friends with since my own dog died,’ the Librarian says.
‘His name was Robin. A Golden Retriever. Blonde. A pretty stupid dog. He was hit by a train. And survived.’
This last piece of information, about how stupid the Golden Retriever was, is of course superfluous—but the rest of it is interesting enough. So the Librarian has suffered a loss. Her dog died. And she’s choosing to dwell on this loss. If she had a new dog, she wouldn’t miss the dog that died. Old Robin would be a soft and tender memory. I’m sure he already is, but until the Librarian gets a new dog, the memory will be a sad and painful one. The foremost and often the only function of house dogs like me is to help their humans pass the time through all the sad, painful stuff that piles up over the course of their existence. I don’t know if it’s right to say that dogs take your mind off everything that’s sad and painful, but I’m saying it anyway.
The dog is your comfort and your scapegoat.
The table is set, the aroma of food fills every nook and cranny with hallucinations, the fireplace has been lit and is now a sparking inferno underneath the paper wolves up on the mantle, and there’s just the kind of piano music Mrs. Thorkildsen knows I enjoy. Like most dogs, I enjoy classical music, but I’m especially sensitive to string instruments. The sound of a Hardanger fiddle makes me howl. I can’t help it, I don’t know where it comes from, really, the drawn-out, bottomless wail that pours out of me, but I know it’s ancient and I know that someday I’ll die. Piano music, on the other hand …
When I eventually pull myself together, after Mrs. Thorkildsen has served sherry to the Librarian and the two are chatting louder than you would imagine possible for two small librarians. I can’t help but be impressed by Mrs. Thorkildsen, who has managed to throw a surprise party right under my nose. When did they make this arrangement? It’s a sheer joy, but a surprise, and I think if I were human I might have seen this night coming. It’s unbelievably lame for a dog who excuses his weakened instincts with his increased human wisdom. But enough about that—Mrs. Thorkildsen is in rare form tonight. That’s the most important thing. She smiles and asks questions and laughs. Accepts the Librarian’s compliments on the house in general, and especially the view. Since one wall of the living room is filled with books from floor to ceiling, interrupted only by the fireplace in the middle, I don’t think the two of them will ever run out of conversation tonight. Maybe they’re planning to read books after dinner? That would be nice. They speak, as they always do when they meet, about the Library at the Center that will soon meet its demise, and Mrs. Thorkildsen gets a little touchy, but then she thankfully must excuse herself to go check on the food.
We’re alone, the Librarian and I. For one charged moment.
The Librarian looks at me and I look at the Librarian and my tail wags, you can bet my tail wags.
‘Yes, come on, Tassen,’ she says, but she can’t possibly mean that. Mrs. Thorkildsen might come back from the kitchen at any moment but, on the other hand, we can probably sneak in a little petting and scratching if I just stand here at her feet. And she smells so good it’s almost hard to believe, and there, it’s happening again, and suddenly there are no thoughts, it just happens on its own, and it’s hard to know how to respond. I see no better opportunity than to start with that leg there, to take it from there wherever it might lead us, and the whole thing would be a lot simpler if the Librarian would only stop laughing and instead help out a little.
‘Tassen! GET DOWN!’
Mrs. Thorkildsen is back and she is mad as hell. I should have known this would end in shouting and drama. It always does. Love is an overrated mess.
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ the Librarian laughs, which should have put the whole thing to rest, but the old biddy has climbed on her moral high horse now, a shabby, spotted old nag who should have been sent to the farm long ago.
‘What in the world has gotten into you?’ Mrs. Thorkildsen says to me sternly, and to the Librarian she says softly: ‘He never does that, really, I can’t apologize enough. Bad boy!’
The Librarian laughs again, but she doesn’t come to my rescue. Doesn’t tell Mrs. Thorkildsen that she was the seductress and I the seduced, no, she lets me live with the shame alone. Traitorous woman.
‘First, a little piece of gravlax. I cured it myself. And I hope you appreciate the mustard sauce. It’s one of my secret specialties.’
I don’t know how the poor Librarian could be expected to give her honest opinion, the way Mrs. Thorkildsen raises expectations around her own culinary skills. It’s in rather poor taste, to tell you the truth, and not at all like the Mrs. Thorkildsen I know. But she knows what she’s doing. The Librarian chews until it crunches, and there it is. The little sound that says it all.
‘Mnyeh!’
That’s about how the tiny gasp sounds, the one that reveals the Librarian, too, has now sold her soul to Mrs. Thorkildsen’s kitchen. Well, at least she sold herself at a high price. Some people surrender over a simple cinnamon roll. The Librarian is at least getting three full courses. Perhaps she’s thinking about
how lucky she is, though she can’t possibly know she is privy to an encore performance in a once-legendary theater that closed its doors long ago. She chews slowly and deliberately, and asks:
‘What’s the secret behind the sauce?’
‘The secret,’ Mrs. Thorkildsen whispers secretively, ‘is that the sauce isn’t a sauce at all, but a cream! Mustard and whipping cream, whisked together. The easiest trick in the book, but you can’t beat it! You don’t even need a recipe. But don’t tell a soul!’
It’s fascinating to watch what happens to people when they’re fed. I don’t mean the daily mouthfuls of sustenance, filled with whatever they may be, sealed in plastic and joylessly prepared in ovens that say ping!
No, I mean what’s playing out right here and now, when two people sit down with time on their hands and eat as slowly as they possibly can. The Librarian’s beautiful little grunt was just the audible part of the metamorphosis. The heart beats slower, the blood smells sweeter, and we’re still only on the appetizer.
Mrs. Thorkildsen asks and asks and sips Dragon Water. Small and big questions that have accumulated in her over a long time. The Librarian answers and answers and sips Dragon Water.
‘My parents were born in Vietnam,’ she responds to a question I didn’t hear. ‘They were adopted separately as children, and met at a summer camp for adopted kids up north. Then they ran off to Oslo and started a family before anyone could stop them.’
Mrs. Thorkildsen listens, rapt with attention.
‘Then they got divorced. Dad went to visit his family in Vietnam and never came back. Now he’s a businessman there. Apparently he’s earning a lot of money. The strange thing is that between the two of them, Mom was the one who grew up in a home that emphasized her homeland’s culture. Dad could barely point to Vietnam on a map, I think. But he could capture reindeer with a lasso. Not many Vietnamese people can do that.’
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