And then I ran. Toward the dust whirling upward. Toward the suitcase. Toward Marguerite.

Chapter Thirty-Three: Signe

Chapter Thirty-Three

Signe

I go to the bow to loosen the mooring but end up sitting on deck for a little while, listening. There’s a silence inland here, the likes of which I have seldom heard. The canal is silent beneath me. There’s no wind—old trees lean over the water, their leaves motionless—and neither are there any birds or insects to be heard.

The feeling of being squeezed in, confined—it’s not just the sluices that give me that feeling, it’s all the wildlife around me, the monitored canal, the trees planted in straight lines, the flat farming landscape surrounding the narrow strip of water. Even where the canal passes through woods, I have felt the same thing: as if the woods down here were under control, a cowardly nature without claws, boring through and through, planned by humans. Imagine living here—imagine being able to live by the mountains, near the gorges, the hardness, the plunging drama, and then choosing this instead.

I stand up, take hold of the mooring line, loosen it quickly. I am on the outskirts of Timbaut now. Today I will find his house, find him.

Today I will throw the ice out in front of him.

“Here’s the rest of the ice,” I’ll say. “What little is left. I thought you’d like to have it in your drink.”

And he will stare at the ice with big eyes.

“The rest of it, as you have heard for sure, has been dumped into the ocean,” I will add. “And melted. Just as well, don’t you think, that it melts? Sooner rather than later, that’s how you want it.” I will speak these words like a declaration, not a question.

Maybe the plump Trine will come out. She will stand there, gaping a little, her appearance every bit as indifferent as she is. Both of them are clutching wineglasses—I toss a few lumps of ice into them. Vintage ice, maybe I’ll say, while the rest lies melting on the ground. And if there are any grandchildren there, they’ll come out as well. . . . No, to hell with the grandchildren—they don’t care anyway, they just want to play computer games. But Magnus will stand there with his mouth wide open, so I can see his uvula, deep in the back of his red wine–stained gullet and he will scratch his padded stomach in confusion under his expensive but loose-fitting linen shirt. And then I will turn around and leave—but before I do that, I will make the very last statement:

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Magnus. If you take more ice, I will dump that as well. As long as you keep this up, you can trust that I will also continue doing my part.”