He came upon me unawares in early June. I was unaware of most things in those days, or at least most things that did not transform into meat. Even the changing of the season had gone unnoticed. The spring thaw and breakup in Spitsbergen are undeniable—the cacophonous return of the nesting birds, the roar of the meltwater running fast, the blinding sunlight—but I heeded them not.
I was deep in a fug of bubbling seal blubber, the cabin choked with noisome vapors. By the time I emerged, coughing and cursing, whatever ship had deposited MacIntyre was gone and the bay was empty. There he sat smoking on a crate, apparently at his ease, as though he had descended like an old god with a mind toward benevolent interference. He was facing Alicehamna, with his back to me, and seemed in no particular hurry to enter the cabin or greet me.
“Charles?” I said, amid the coughs.
He twisted around and raised his eyebrows, as though pleasantly surprised to find me there. “I believe so,” he said with a wry chuckle.
“I had no news of your coming. That is to say, I’ve had very little news.”
“Evidently.”
I stumbled down the beach to embrace him, but he stood and held out his hand. Baffled, I shook it. The formality stung me deeply. And then, as though gazing into a mirror for the first time, I read in his eyes how truly shocking my appearance must have been. There was no judgment, no disappointment, just quiet concern and perhaps a touch of laughter. I was too foul for close quarters.
“Well,” he said. “It is fine to see you, my dear boy, or at least it will be. Now listen. I am too old for sea voyages. My legs are cramped and soggy. I am off to take in the sunlight and see this fjord of yours for an hour or two. I’ve brought you these skis—no, no, think nothing of it, for Tapio hinted that your current pair was in a disreputable state—and a pair for myself to use while in country. What snow you have at this latitude! Oh, but you should see Longyear: all fens and mires by late May. Now be a good lad and fix us a cup of tea at, say, three o’clock. We can sit together and share some war stories.”
With a grin he put his pipe in his pocket, knelt, and tied on his skis. Then he stood and whistled, and a moment later Eberhard came running from whatever odious errand had been engaging him. They greeted each other with great affection and took off together inland. I watched them go, speechless. In a matter of minutes they had disappeared behind a low foothill and I was alone.
Then MacIntyre’s wisdom and generous spirit cut through to me, as they always did. He did not wish me to be embarrassed. He knew his arrival was a surprise, and wanted to give me the time I required to be the host I should like to be. I’ve always wondered how it would feel to live one’s life in considerate forethought. Exhausting, maybe.
I needed no other catalyst. The cabin was small and easily tidied. A more thorough scrubbing—long necessary—would have to wait, but at the very least I could make it presentable. I opened the door and, to encourage airflow, removed the two windows from their rough frames. The floorboards received a quick saltwater scour and abrading, sailor-fashion. The woodstove was shoveled out and swept, and I threw the ashes behind the cabin. My scant few dishes, utensils, and vessels were washed in a clean pail and set on the block to drain. I glanced at Raudfjordhytta and gave a curt nod. It would do.
I, however, would not. The last glimpse I’d caught of myself was in the spoon on my birthday, some five months earlier. But I didn’t need a reflection to know my appearance. I filled several buckets with seawater, and in temperatures that would have felt positively cruel in Stockholm but now seemed almost balmy, I stripped naked. I scrubbed my body and my limp, putrid hair—which had assumed the consistency and stench of a piece of old blubber that falls between the floorboards and is forgotten but after a time makes itself emphatically known and must be fished out—until the water ran clear again. Then I found the smallest shears I owned and pared down my gore-encrusted nails. My rank, slippery furs and skins, I piled and set aflame. They needed no fuel to keep them burning, for they were half oil themselves by this point. The clothes were ill-made and ill-fitting anyway, and I had no shortage of material. Tapio would say I could use the practice.
There was no clock in Raudfjordhytta, and I had no watch, but around the time that I might generally think of as three o’clock came the swish and kick of MacIntyre returning. Eberhard preceded him, looking pleased. I, too, was pleased. My hair was tied back and my face shaved. I wore what I thought of as my “civilian” clothes—stored in a trunk for the past two years and wholly impractical, but clean. The fire was lit and the cabin, now sealed up again, had a briny, astringent smell. Two new candles burned at the table, and between them an oil lamp with a fresh wick and glass that was once again transparent. Much of the carcass grotesquerie outside I had knocked apart with a heavy rock bar and piled in a heap a short distance away.
I put the kettle on the spirit stove and placed two clay mugs on the table, each with its own little strainer and some of the last of my treasured Darjeeling. MacIntyre stomped his boots outside, knocked, and entered. Only then did a horrified humiliation course through me, like a draft of some vile emetic. For somehow, in spite of all my attentions, I had managed to neglect my old dinner guests. The three burlap sacks with their semi-preserved animal faces sat at table as though they were leisurely passing the time between meals. I had grown so used to their presence that they, like Eberhard, were now simply part of the furnishing. At least they had no card hands splayed before them like they often did. Regardless, there was no time to move my friends and no explanation I could possibly give.
MacIntyre shut the door behind him and gazed about with a look of satisfaction. “A very homey refuge for an ascetic Swede.”
I could not reply. My heart was pounding in my ears.
MacIntyre moved toward the table and, with total composure, lifted Frideborg—“Now be a dear and make room for an old campaigner. There simply aren’t enough chairs for all of us”—and set her carefully down on the floor. Then he took her chair and nodded approvingly at the mugs. “Very cheerful indeed,” he said, reclining a bit. “Perhaps only one thing could increase the joy of this reunion. Too early in the day for a drop?”
Without waiting for an answer, he reached into his wool vest and produced a leather-bound flask. He unscrewed the top and poured a healthy dram into each vessel. Then he looked thoughtfully at Bengt.
“I find that our host has been remiss,” he said. “Here we are ready for tea, and you with no mug at all. You must pardon him. He was not raised in sophistication, as we were. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Charles MacIntyre. And what shall I call you, my dear fellow?”