"The owners?"

He goes away from the telephone again. I look at the mechanic. His face is in darkness; now and then car headlights make it appear, white, anxious, sensual. And under the sensuality, something intractable.

"Lloyd's Maritime Directory lists the shipowner as Plejada, registered in Panama. But the name looks Danish. A Katja Claussen. Never heard of her."

"I have," I say. "Kronos is our ship, Lander."

3

We're sitting on his bed with our backs against the wall. In this light, against his naked whiteness, the scars around his wrists and ankles are as black as iron bands.

"Do you think that people determine their own lives, Smilla?"

"The details," I say, "but the big things happen on their own."

The telephone rings.

He removes the tape and listens to a brief message. Then he hangs up.

"You might want to take out your high-heeled shoes. Birgo wants to meet us tonight."

"Where?"

He laughs secretively.

"A shady dive, Smilla. But put on your good clothes."

He carries me up the stairs. I kick in his arms, and we laugh quietly so as not to attract attention. In Qaanaaq, when I was little, the bridegroom would drag the bride out to the sled on their wedding night, and they would drive off followed by hooting guests. Sometimes they still do that. The hour I'm going to spend alone getting dressed already seems long. I'd rather ask him to stay so I could keep on looking at him. He's still not completely anchored in reality for me. His raw sweetness, his massive bulk and awkward politeness are still like a vivid dream. But only a dream. I reach out, grab hold of the door frame, and resist being set down. I let my fingers slide along the top hinge. The two pieces of tape have been broken, the ragged edges prick my fingertips.

I take his hands and move them up to the tape. His face grows somber. He puts his mouth against my ear. "We'll sneak off…"

I shake my head: My apartment is sacrosanct. You can take anything away from me, but I must have a corner somewhere to myself.

I try the door. It's not locked. I step inside. He has to follow me. But he's not happy about it.

The apartment is cold. That's because I always turn down the heat when I leave. I'm stingy about energy. I seal windows. I shut doors. It comes from living in Thule. From firsthand experience of how precious and scarce petroleum is.

That's why I naturally turn off all the lights behind me, too. And turn on only what's absolutely necessary. Now a light that I did not turn on is shining from the living room out into the hallway.

The swivel desk chair is pulled over to the window. A coat with wide shoulders is hanging over the back. A hat is floating on the shoulders. A pair of shiny black shoes is resting on the windowsill.

I don't think we've made any noise. But the shoes come down all the same, and the chair slowly turns around to face us.

"Good evening, Miss Smilla," he says. "And Mr. Føjl." It's Ravn.

His face is ashen with weariness, and there's a shadow of a beard on his cheeks, which I don't think the district attorney for special financial crimes would approve of. His voice sounds groggy, like someone who hasn't had any sleep for a long time.

"Do you know what the first requirement is for establishing a career in the Ministry of Justice?"

I take a look around. But he seems to be alone.

"The first requirement is loyalty. You also have to have a high score on your exams. And a desire to achieve which is far beyond the ordinary. But in the long run, the important thing is whether you are loyal. Common sense is not a prerequisite, on the other hand. Might even be a drawback."

I sit down on a chair. The mechanic leans against the desk.

"At some point we had to choose. Some became deputy judges and, eventually, judges. They often had a natural faith in justice, in the system. Faith in the possibility of healing and rebuilding. The rest of us became assistant detectives, investigators, and later assistants to the district attorney. With time, maybe assistant prosecutors. We were the suspicious ones. We believed that a statement, a confession, an incident was seldom what it purported to be. This suspiciousness was an excellent tool for us. As long as it wasn't directed at our work or at the Ministry itself. A bureaucrat in the prosecutor's office must never doubt that he is right. Any impertinent question from the press must be referred to higher-ups. Any article you publish with even a hint of criticism-well, virtually any article at all-will be interpreted as disloyalty toward the Ministry. In some ways you no longer exist as an individual in the Ministry of Justice. Most comply with this demand. I can tell you that most people secretly find it a relief to have the state divest them of the trouble of being an independent person. The few who can't comply are separated out at an early stage."

I've seen it on long journeys. When someone is burned out, he suddenly discovers within himself a landscape of cheerful cynicism.

"And yet once in a while a slippery character happens to stay in the system. Someone who can hide his true nature until it's too late. Until he's made himself relatively indispensable, so it would be difficult for the Ministry to do without him. This type of person will never reach the top. But he can get partway up. Maybe even as far as the position of investigator for the district attorney. By that time he would be too old-and maybe even too expert in his field-to be dispensable. But he has made too much trouble to be promoted upward. This kind of person would be a pebble in the Ministry's shoe. It doesn't really hurt, but it's annoying. With time, they would try to put this kind of person into a niche. Where they could draw on his stubbornness and memory, but where they could keep him out of the public eye. Maybe he would end up taking on special assignments. Like intelligence work, where staying out of the spotlight is part of the job. A complaint about the investigation of a little boy's death might even end up in his lap. If it turned out that there was already a report on file about the case." He doesn't look at either of us.

"It so happens that word comes from higher up that the person who filed the complaint must be reassured. `Pacified,' as they say at the Ministry at Slotsholm. They have a good deal of experience in this. But this time the case is more difficult. A child's death. Photographs of his footprints on the roof. It could easily turn into an embarrassment. So I voice the idea that there's some irregularity in the boy's death. But I don't get any backup, from either the police or the Ministry."

He gets up from the chair with difficulty.

"Then that deplorable fire occurs. Unfortunately, it too has something to do with Greenland. And the name of the gentleman who perishes is listed in the aforementioned report. Yesterday morning I was taken off the case. `Due to its complex nature,' etc."

He straightens his hat and walks over to the desk. He taps lightly on the red tape on the phone.

"Very clever," he says. "There's no end to the trouble these apparatuses cause innocent citizens. But it would have been even better not to answer the phone at all, or not to give out your number. The ship was almost totally destroyed by the fire, but the telephone must have been made of a non-flammable material. And it was lying on the floor, too. It had a built-in memory that stored the last number called. The last number was yours. My guess is that you will soon be invited in for a little talk."

"Wasn't it risky for you to come here?" I ask.

He has a key in his hand. "We borrowed a key from the custodian during the initial investigation. I took the liberty of making a copy. So I went through the basement rooms. I'm planning to go back out the same way."