Any grading system is meaningless. Every attempt to compare cultures with the intention of determining which is the most developed will never be anything other than one more bullshit projection of Western culture's hatred of its own shadows.

There is one way to understand another culture. Living it. Move into it, ask to be tolerated as a guest, learn the language. At some point understanding may come. It will always be wordless. The moment you grasp what is foreign, you will lose the urge to explain it. To explain a phenomenon is to distance yourself from it. When I start talking about Qaanaaq, to myself or to others, I again start to lose what has never been truly mine.

Like now, on his sofa, when I feel like telling him why I feel a connection to the Inuits. That it's because of their ability to know, without a shadow of a doubt, that life is meaningful. Because of the way, in their consciousness, they can live with the tension between irreconcilable contradictions, without sinking into despair and without looking for a simplified solution. Because of their short, short path to ecstasy. Because they can meet a fellow human being and see him for what he is, without judging, their clarity not weakened by prejudice.

I feel the need to tell him all this. Now I let this need grow. I feel it pressing on my heart, my throat, behind my forehead. I know it's because at this moment I am happy. Nothing corrupts like happiness. It makes us think that since we share this moment, we can also share the past. Since he's strong enough to meet me in the present, he must be able to contain my childhood as well.

Then I release the impulse. It's a feeling of tension. Now it rises up and disappears through the ceiling, and he will never have any idea that it existed.

He's cooking bananas. He leaves them in the oven until the peel is black. In the meantime, he roasts hazelnuts. In the toaster oven. He assures me that it produces a more even roasting.

I feel no urge whatsoever to laugh. He's as solemn as a priest. He makes a single cut in the bananas. They are yellow and viscous. He puts heather honey and a few drops of liqueur into the cut.

As far as I'm concerned, the world could stop right now. No one needs to say anything more.

He dabs his lips with the napkin. Sensual lips and a wide mouth. A rather thick upper lip.

"They go up there in 1966. And then they're quiet for twenty-five years. They go up there again. Then they're quiet for two and a half years. Then the Baron dies. The police are very interested. The museum burns."

We each want the other person to say it. "Seems like something's up, Smilla."

"You're right."

"They're getting ready to go back up there. Winter would be the right time to make preparations. So they c-could sail in early spring."

That's what I've been thinking, too.

"But how are they d-doing it? They can't organize the trip and the ship and the equipment through the Cryolite Corporation. Because it's practically shut down."

I feel like looking at the stars, so I turn off the light. The glow from outside is slightly different here than in my apartment.

"Loyen, Licht, Ving," I say. "They discovered it. Whatever it is. They found out it was there. Maybe in Hamburg. They were in charge of the first expeditions. But they're old now. They couldn't do it again. And someone has killed Licht. Behind the three of them is something else, something bigger, something more ruthless."

He comes over and puts his arm around me. I can lean my head against his armpit.

"They need a ship," he says thoughtfully. "I have a friend who knows something about ships."

I feel like asking him questions, to find out a small part of all that I don't know about him. But I stop myself. "I was at the Trade Commission. Geoinform has three people on its board."

I mention the three names. He shakes his head. Outside the window the Pleiades are barely visible. I point to them.

"The Pleiades. In my language, they're called qilut-tuusat."

He pronounces it slowly and carefully. The way he cooks. His breath is aromatic and tangy. From nuts roasted in a toaster oven.

Standing in the middle of the bedroom, we take off each other's clothes.

He has a light, fumbling brutality, which several times makes me think that this time it'll cost me my sanity. In our dawning, mutual intimacy, I induce him to open the little slit in the head of his penis so I can put my clitoris inside and fuck him.

2

First we enter the salon. The portholes are brass, the walls and ceiling mahogany. The chairs have light-colored leather cushions and are bolted to the floor with brass rivets and furnished with bronze holders mounted on gimbals for whiskey glasses, and they are so deep that even during an Arctic typhoon you could sit and enjoy the clinking of the ice cubes in your triple Laphroig.

The next room is a promenade of eighty feet along the keel through more mahogany and past more polished portholes, and past ship's clocks and opulent desks bolted to the floor where a dozen people are working as if everything has to be finished in the next thirty seconds. The women are typing on word processing keyboards, the men are talking on three telephones at once, and the ceiling has disappeared in a cloud of cigarette smoke and frenzy.

Then comes a reception area. A middle-aged woman is sitting there, wearing makeup and a lace blouse and tailored jacket. She has the forearms of someone who had signed on as a blacksmith. She would have scared me if I hadn't had the mechanic along.

He knows her. They shake hands and it looks as if they're going to arm wrestle, and we continue on into the captain's cabin. Along the way we pass glass cabinets with models of the kind of tanker so long that the crew has to set up camp three times on a trip from one end to the other.

Inside, the portholes are as large as well covers, placed lower down on the wall so you can see the shrubs of the little park in the middle of Sankt Anna Square. You are reminded that this entire maritime mirage is located on the third floor of a mansion with its back to Amalienborg Palace. It is the worst interior architectonic extravaganza I have ever seen.

Behind the desk, which has a rim around the edge so the gold ballpoint pens won't roll onto the floor during an imaginary sea voyage, sits a boy who looks fourteen at most, newly confirmed, his sandy-colored hair plastered down, and freckles on his nose.

When he speaks, it's in a thin, light alto, full of dignity. "I know what you want to say, honey. You want to say: 'Where's your father, little boy, because he's the one we've come to talk to.' But you're mistaken. I'll be thirty-three next month. If a child molester accidentally happened to kill me, there would be 25 million kroner for my wife and my three kids after the business was sold."

Then he gives me a wink.

His name is Birgo Lander. He's the mechanic's friend. He is the owner and director of this shipping firm. He spent his youth in practically all the Danish reform schools; he's an orphan, rich, totally without scruples, even more dyslexic than the mechanic, addicted to gambling, and a drunkard; with his face he could ride the bus on a child's ticket, but that's not necessary since he owns a custom-made Jaguar.

Part of this I know, along with everyone in Denmark, from newspapers and magazines. The mechanic told me the rest on the way over here.

He takes the mechanic's hand in both of his. He doesn't say anything, but he looks at him as if he has been reunited with a long-absent big brother. Then we sit down. The mechanic pushes his chair back a little and withdraws from the conversation. I'm the one who's going to explain.

"If I wish to rent a ship of about 4,000 tons to transport a cargo that I have no intention of discussing, to a place that I am not going to reveal either, how would I go about it? And if I were already in the process of looking for the right ship, could anyone trace my efforts?"