I am a cricket.

Chapter Three

Signe

I should fix something that needs fixing; on a boat there is always something to be taken care of, to be oiled, coiled, sealed, cleaned, or secured. On a boat you never have time off. Or I should pay a visit to the hotel, say hello to my half brothers. I should—I’ve hardly seen them since they took over the hotel. But all I do is sit here in the saloon drinking tea, unable to move. I have been home, here in Ringfjorden, for a full twenty-four hours now, and all I do is sit here listening.

The rat-a-tat-tat of the helicopters—the sound has been there since this morning, back and forth over the mountain, from the glacier to the defunct fish landing station and back. The fish landing station has been reopened for this new business: there the ice is chopped and packaged before being shipped out.

The rat-a-tat-tat sound rises and falls, no longer a sound, something more physical, something lodged inside me. The vibrations shake the water of the fjord, the deck, and send shivers down my spine.

Maybe people in the village complain about this, maybe they write to the local newspaper, whining letters to the editor. Because they must have something to say, they must have some kind of opinion. I haven’t spoken to anyone yet, haven’t asked, but now I get up and go to the store.

I nod to the woman at the cash register, who doesn’t appear to recognize me. And I don’t remember her face. I am one of the few people who left the village, one of the few who chose another life. Signe Hauger, the journalist, the author, the professional activist. People here have perhaps not read anything by me, but they have certainly heard about me. At least they have heard the gossip, even though that was many years ago, when I chained myself to a barricade in protest and was put in jail.

But she doesn’t recognize me, no, because she nods back indifferently. I should ask her what she thinks about Blåfonna, about the helicopters. Most people like sharing their personal opinions. Perhaps I can engage her in some idle chatter. It’s a strange expression, idle chatter, as if small talk required no effort whatsoever. I don’t have the strength for this kind of social banter, whether I know the other person or not. But today I am going to ask about something specific, so that’s different. All the same, I can’t bring myself to walk straight up to her—that would seem strange, unnatural. I decide instead to wait until I pay for my groceries.

I start picking out the things I need—bread, juice, dishwashing liquid, canned goods, tea. As I’m doing this the bell above the door jingles faintly. The door opens and two elderly women enter.

They engage in some chatter, though it’s more industrious than idle. They carry on as if they were being paid for it, but they’re not talking about the helicopters, or about the ice—apparently nobody is talking about Blåfonna. It takes me a while to realize who the women are; their voices give them away. We went to school together and they sound astonishingly similar to how it was when they were girls, the rising and falling intonations, the laughter.