There they sat, the two of them, on the bench across from me, laughing at me. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

But afterward, when we were going our separate ways, Marguerite reached her hand out to Lou, toward her head, as if she were going to tousle her hair. She held it there stiffly, suspended aloft for a second, before pulling it back and instead just giving the child a slight pat on the shoulder.

That was something, I thought. That and that she had laughed.

Chapter Eleven: Signe

Chapter Eleven

Signe

I wake up suddenly, the cold yanks me awake. My teeth are chattering and the sun has disappeared. The sky is clouding over and the wind has changed, become stronger, the boat is heeling more. I sit up; this must have blown up quickly. Or perhaps I’ve slept longer than I should have—me, the one who never needs an alarm clock at sea. I have always relied on my built-in timepiece.

All around me there is only the ocean—the only thing in sight is an oil platform, all lit up against a darkening sky. Every day they bring up two million barrels of oil, two million barrels. One barrel is 159 liters; I don’t have the energy to work out the total number of liters that comes to, every single day. There they are, all those who are constructing Norway the nation, while simultaneously they are destroying the world. What if they said no, all of them, refused to work, went on strike? One single week would have helped, just one day would have helped—two million barrels fewer pulled up out of the ground and released into the environment.

The lights on the platform grow sharper all the time—no, it’s the surrounding world that’s growing darker; it must be late. The night is surprisingly dark for the bright month of April. I sail into the night, a strong wind from the east driving me from land.

I take out the wind meter, hold it up, and measure the wind speed: fourteen meters per second.

Fourteen. So much already.

The wind is blowing harder and harder. I must reef the sail—should have done so a long time ago—but first I have to pee. I do it quickly on the floor of the cockpit—it will be washed away immediately anyway. Then I adjust the wind vane and slowly release the headsail sheet—the sail flaps as if possessed. I grasp the line of the roller furling system—it’s thin, chafes at my hands. I tug and haul at it, but it’s too heavy, far too heavy. I’m not as strong as I used to be.