Читать книгу White Shadow - Roy Jacobsen - Страница 7

Ingrid ate and slept and woke and was still not afraid. She took her time eating, dressed, went out into the fragile November light and pushed out the rowing boat. The wind had turned once again and had picked up, from the south-west. She rowed around the headland and into the metre-high waves, south through the sound to the anchor bolt which Lars had once hammered into a rock there, fastened a rope to the end without getting out of the boat – taking care not to let it dash against the rock – and rowed against the current across the sound to Moltholmen, where her cousin had also hammered in a peg, from which hung a pulley. She threaded the rope through the eye, again without getting out of the boat – taking care not to let it dash against the rock – and rowed back towards Barrøy, she had thought it would be eighty or ninety fathoms in length, but it was closer to a hundred and fifty, the line was too short.

She burst into tears, tied a float to one end and let it go, rowed north with the current to the new quay house to fetch more rope. The sea was rougher now. She fought her way out again and found the float, tied the ropes together and rowed back to the mooring on Barrøy with the end. She was soaked to the skin, sweating profusely, exhausted and furious, but now she had a line over the sound and could run a net, or two, fishing without recourse to a boat, in all kinds of weather, until the hardest frosts set in, perhaps even longer.

She let the boat drift north and put it away, noticed that the swell was falling and stopped short in surprise, she had expected it to rise, and still she wasn’t afraid.

She went up to the house and slept on the bench next to the stove, not waking until it was evening. She felt cold and stiff, got up and put more wood on, cooked some food and wondered whether to set the nets in the darkness, dismissed the idea and opened one of the books she had, there was nothing in it.

She donned her waterproofs, walked to the new quay house and fetched two nets, walked south to the moorings by the sound and drew the first net, like a noiseless spider’s web, into the black waves, fastened it to the eye of the second and kept pulling, two nets joined together, that wasn’t much of a fleet, she pulled them fifteen fathoms further out, secured them and went home.

She slept naked in her parents’ bed in the North Chamber, a long sleep, rose, another morning, pulled in the nets and had some fresh cod to cook, then went out and added another net to the fleet. Three. She could increase this to four or five. She had some dried fish left over from last winter, she had a cellar full of potatoes, there was some red saithe and half a barrel of herring. She had jam, flour, coffee, syrup, dried peas, butter from the store and sugar. Now she also had fresh fish. The pile of newspaper balls was no longer on the kitchen floor but in the wooden box beneath the stove, with the kindling. In a gap in the cloud cover two planes appeared, she heard gunfire directed at the Fort in the north of the main island, the gap closed again.

Next morning there were eight cod and one big saithe in the nets. She ate fresh fish again, and liver, and she salted the rest, sat in the warm kitchen looking around until something made her get to her feet and go to the hayloft above the cowshed, where the sacks of down were stored. From the first sack hung a label with Barrøy written on it. One kilo. 1939. She opened it and stuck her hand into a warm summer, then she closed it and undid the second sack. On this one the label said 1937. Another summer. She made up her mind to row to the main island and get a cat.

She went back to the house and put on the kettle, bathed and scrubbed her nails until the cuticles split, washed her hair, twisted it into knots before releasing it, felt the hot water running over her stomach and hips and thighs into the tub. She dried her body, dressed, then sat at the kitchen table and opened the same book. There was still nothing in it. But now she could sleep like Nelly.

She went to bed and thought about the cat. Soon Barbro would be here. The thought of Barbro. And Suzanne.

Suzanne had been like a daughter to Ingrid, but had left both her and Barrøy when no more than fourteen. She, too, had done so of her own free will.

Ingrid got up again and went down to the sitting room, where she took out the letters from the chest of drawers her father had once bought in a fit of madness, Suzanne’s well-formed handwriting from the capital, where she had first served as a maid with a wealthy family, then worked as a telephone operator on a switchboard of considerable size and with an impressive name. Ingrid read slowly, swaying to the rhythm of the words, nodding, then she shook her head and put the letters down, visualising Suzanne the day she left the island in the finest clothes they had managed to muster, excited, joyous and as fragile as glass, she had not only taken her precious self but also all the island’s savings, it had not been a pretty sight.

Ingrid blew out the lamp, went into the loft and slept like Nelly, after briefly turning her mind to Barbro again, and deciding that she would redeem the clock she had pawned at Margot’s, the pendulum clock with roman numerals and ornamental hands, even an islander needs a silent dividing line between the two days that pass before a clock has to be wound up.