She kisses him because she cannot tell him that he is right. She feels affection for him, but she remembers what it was like to love him, and that is not what she feels now. And she remembers what she felt with Jakob, and that is different again. Once the truth is dead, how can it hurt to bury it again and again? The next time they meet, she allows herself to demonstrate more pleasure than she in fact feels, and this gives him so much happiness that she wonders why she didn’t do it sooner. Her feeling is one of relief, and pleasure at giving him pleasure. What harm can such a small falsehood do?
True, she is still dissatisfied, and she despises herself, a little, for the deception, and despises him for being so easily – willingly! – deceived. Undoubtedly (she argues with herself), it is a function of experience, and Jakob’s greater experience was the thing she feared and distrusted. (But if Mark were more acute, or more open-minded, the voice argues, he would know that it was a lie . . .) Her mind can drive her to distraction.
And worse. As they lie together on his single bed, she caresses his arm as it rests on her body. His skin is soft and white, the hairs on his arm dark. She finds herself thinking, with a detachment that alarms her: Mark and Jakob have a similar build, even similar colouring. Both are of medium height, slender, dark-eyed. Mark has the finer profile, Jakob the more beautiful mouth. Beyond that, they are quite different, physically and mentally. Jakob was calm and easy to be with. Mark is touchy and unpredictable. The flesh on Mark’s arms is flaccid, the muscles those of a man who wields chalk and test tubes. She recalls in precise detail (now, of all times) Jakob’s forearms, with sun-burnished skin and dense muscle. The way he would walk around the room naked, quite unembarrassed (he told her, a fact she treasured, that they would sometimes go naked in Greenland, in summer), whereas Mark snatches up the first thing that comes to hand to cover himself. And, then . . . well, Mark is circumcised; Jakob is not. Jakob’s penis is browner, is slightly curved, thicker; he felt different inside her. She blushes to think it – she shocks herself by thinking it – but it is true.
She turns the memory away; it doesn’t help. There is nothing wrong with chalk or test tubes. She reminds herself that Mark is the cleverest person she has ever met. And he wants her. And he is here.
Chapter 40
New York, 40˚42’N, 74˚00’W
Winter 1896–7
‘What do I say? Dear . . . ? Dear Fellora . . .’
Jakob writes, Dear Mrs Athlone,
‘This is the correct thing to put in a letter, Aniguin. Even if you call a person something else in person. It’s polite.’
As you see, I am here in New York. Do I surprise you? Mr de Beyn . . . [Jakob adds the ‘Mr’ himself] . . . writes this letter for me. He is my friend here.
Jakob pauses, but writes it down. If she knows he is there, it will be awkward not to add some brief note from himself. An omission would say more than any words. (Like her omission to write to him.) He summarises Aniguin’s description of the situation: Armitage bringing the Eskimos to New York; Ayakou dead, buried in the garden of the museum; Ivalu, Padloq and Aviaq ill with pneumonia; Aniguin healthy but unhappy. Armitage has not been to see them since August.
I wish you to know this. De Beyn says he will take us back in spring – if we still live. I hope so. I do not know what we would do if he were not here. The spirits told me to come to America – I do not yet know what their purpose is, but there must be one. When are you coming back? When is Mackie? I hope he is well. We would like to see him again. I hope to see you there, in the land of the north. I wish you good health.
I am always your friend . . .
Aniguin looks at him, anxious. ‘Is that a good letter, Te Peyn?’
‘It’s a very good letter, Aniguin.’
He reads it back, and thinks, After all, what have I got to say to her?
Sealing it in an envelope, he finds he can address it from memory.
London, 51˚31’N, 0˚7’W
When Flora comes in after being with Mark – another rendezvous where she wondered why she is doing this, but the energy required to end it seems more than she can muster – a letter is waiting on the hall table for all to see: the New York postmark; the – to her – utterly distinctive hand. She walks into her study and stands for some moments in total confusion. It’s been over a year since she saw his handwriting, longer since their last parting, yet something makes her tremble. She goes over to her desk and leans on it.
Opening the letter, she reads with piercing disappointment the sentence written across the top of the page: Dictated by Aniguin to J. de Beyn. She scans the letter, and her feeling changes to horror and grief. It is short – Jakob added nothing to Aniguin’s bleak words. Perhaps he didn’t think it appropriate. Perhaps she is less than nothing to him.
Composing herself, Flora reads through her other correspondence and places it on her desk in order of priority for the morning. Then she puts her face in her hands and rests her elbows on the desk.
In a minute, she will go to see her husband and ask him how he is.
Kensington, November 1896
My Dear Aniguin,
How pleased I was to hear from you – but how terribly saddened to read your letter. I am so sorry to learn of Ayakou’s passing. He was a good man. I hope that by now there has been some improvement in the health of Ivalu, Padloq and Aviaq, and that you continue well. I am glad that Mr de Beyn is being a good friend to you. He is right: the quickest way for you to go back home is to sail from New York with him next spring.
You ask when I will come north again. It has been difficult to arrange things because my husband has been very ill for more than a year. You may remember that, on the last trip to Greenland, he had an accident which left him crippled. Last summer, he suffered a seizure, which led to a paralysis. For a time, we thought he might die, but now, at last, he is somewhat recovered. His illness meant that I could not think of leaving London to see my friends, no matter how much I longed to do so. Believe me when I say, I have thought of you very often, wondering how you are, and if you are well and happy.
At present, I am planning to go north next year also, arriving at Siorapaluk as soon as the ice allows, so we will meet again before too long, all being well. I look forward to that day more than I can say, dear friend.
Very few whaling ships go to your country now, because they cannot sell the oil and bone for much money. My father, Captain Mackie, has not been to Davis Strait for two years. He also has not been well, with inflammation of the knees, but is much better now. He hopes to go back soon, but I do not know when.
I will see you soon, Aniguin, I’m sure. Please give my best wishes for health and happiness to your wife and all your friends, including Mr de Beyn.
Please believe that I remain your very good friend,
Flora Mackie Athlone
New York, 40˚42’N, 74˚00’W
Jakob is too busy to dwell on Flora’s letter. When he does think of it, he is irritated; it seems to him a clumsy attempt to make excuses for her silence towards him – a silence that made him wretched. He had stayed in Zermatt long after Theodor went home, waiting for a word from her, trying to decide whether to go to London despite everything, and then concluding, with anger and self-disgust, that she was the sort of woman who burnt bridges with ruthless efficiency. He changed his passage home to one leaving from Rotterdam, so as not to set foot in a country that had become vile to him.
But, wrapped in a cloth, at the back of a drawer, he has kept her letters, along with an envelope of photographs. He does not explain to himself why he keeps them, except that to go to the trouble of destroying them would accord them too much importance. After reading her letter to Aniguin, he finds himself, a couple of days later, opening the envelope and emptying it on to his desk.
There are the pictures from the beach at Neqi, where she looks self-conscious and absurdly young. The photograph of her with Simiak, when
she did not know she was being looked at. The one of Flora and Meqro (their expressions make him smile, despite himself). And then there is the one that he really should not have kept, or even taken in the first place, but all things seemed possible and right in that hotel room. It is a picture of Flora sitting in an armchair by the window in that room, hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes directly on him, her half-smile a mixture of embarrassment and intimacy that stirs him still, while light from the window falls on those delectable bare breasts . . . It is quite a good photograph – light and shade nicely balanced. When he’d asked her if she would sit for him naked, expecting her to refuse, she had demurred, then laughed; he had the sense that she liked the idea of him having such a picture, that she knew her power over him and wanted him to bear a token of it.
If he wanted to test himself against that power, he is failing miserably. He stares at the pattern of dark curves and light, which is all it is, then puts his thumb over her face, wanting to erase her, annoyed that the image still has the power to arouse. It could be any well-made young woman; any cheap, erotic image would have the same effect . . . He tells himself that if they meet, and that is not at all certain in such a vast country, she will be changed, uninterested, and he will feel nothing, nothing . . . This, as he unbuttons his fly and rummages within, cock stupidly engorged (ashamed, but really it is the fastest way of dealing with it). She had desired him (the memories are as brilliant as ever, an eternal present of the senses just below the surface, like warm, rich groundwater), she may even have cared for him, for a while, but she had not chosen him, and that was the end of it. He was not important enough. Her letter to Aniguin demonstrates her weakness: as with most people who inflict pain, she still wants to be liked.
He finishes abruptly – an urgent, unsatisfying release – wipes his hands with an expression of distaste, and tidies his clothing. He is barely out of breath. He picks up the Liverpool photograph again – having, so to speak, neutralised its effect – intending, as he has intended before, to cast it on the fire. And then, as he has done before, he tucks it back in the envelope, underneath the others.
It is not important enough.
Lang’s Farm, Pocumtuk Point, Lake Champlain, December
Dear Mrs Athlone,
I deeply regret to tell you this, but last week saw the deaths of Padloq, Aviaq and finally of Ivalu, who died late on Saturday night. Aniguin has been ill with influenza and bronchitis, but seems to have recovered – physically, at least. The others sank very quickly, despite everything that could be done. The staff at the hospital were upset and many shed genuine tears; I think they were truly fond of their unusual patients. It is a terrible thing.
At Mount Olivet, the hospital in Brooklyn where they were being cared for, the governors allowed Aniguin to bury his wife and friends in the grounds and to observe mourning in the way he wanted, as far as possible. Mr White, of the museum, the doctors and nurses at Mount Olivet, as well as my brother’s family and myself were there to pay the final respects. I have written to Mr Armitage to tell him the sad news, but he is currently away.
I have brought Aniguin to stay at a farm in the mountains north of New York. I hope that it will help him to be away from the scene of so much tragedy. The first snows have fallen, so it is a little more like home. He is outwardly stoic, but I suspect he is very low. He says, over and again, ‘Ayornamut,’ which I believe means something like, ‘It cannot be otherwise’ or, ‘It is fated’ – but you will know better than I.
The farm people are kind, and I will come up regularly to see him. I thought it would be better for him than staying in New York all winter, and he agreed. I’m sure it would cheer him greatly to hear from you. You can write to him here, care of Mrs Lang (from now on I will be traveling, so correspondence will reach him more quickly that way). I hope this is the end of his misfortunes.
With best regards,
J. de Beyn
What a terrible letter. I am so sorry.
Chapter 41
London, 51˚31’N, 0˚7’W
February 1897
‘My backers are interested in finding new lands – that is their sole interest.’ He smiles, revealing small, widely spaced teeth. His accent is impeccable, as are his manners.
Opposite, Ralph Dixon shifts in his chair, which creaks under his weight. Gilbert Ashbee, the biologist they are interviewing – although perhaps he is interviewing them – pauses for a moment. A thickset man of medium height, in his mid-thirties, with blond hair and moustache on a short upper lip, he radiates confidence and a certain brutish charm.
‘Have you experience of Arctic travel?’ asks Flora.
‘I have climbed extensively in Austria and Norway, and I spent two winters in Iceland. I know that’s not the Arctic, but I hope my experience in the cold will count for something.’
‘We cannot compromise the scientific programme, so exploration efforts would have to fit around completing that body of work.’
‘Of course, but I understood from Professor Dixon’ – he nods to Ralph, who fidgets, as though the designation of ‘professor’ is an awkward fit – ‘that you’re thinking of carrying out map work on Ellesmere, where there may be as yet undiscovered islands.’
Flora looks at Ralph, who maintains a look of studied blankness.
‘That’s a possibility. But we have to be flexible and adapt to conditions as we find them. What is the interest your sponsors have in new land?’
‘There is a serious and idealistic purpose to their interest – an interest, I might add, that reaches the highest levels of government. There are very highly placed individuals concerned with this matter.’
‘Oh?’ Flora allows a silence to develop. ‘I’m puzzled, Mr Ashbee. If they are so highly placed, why do they not mount a government-sponsored expedition?’
‘Perhaps I can put it like this: at this early stage in the discussions, discretion is of the utmost importance. The parties involved would rather make enquiries first, study the feasibility of their purpose, before alerting the press and general public to their intentions.’
‘Which are?’
‘Here, you embarrass me. I very much regret, Mrs Athlone, that I’m not at liberty to say.’
Flora sits back in her surprise.
‘Then I’m afraid I cannot help you, Mr Ashbee. I cannot be a party to something that I know nothing about.’
His mouth tightens a little, but he bows his head.
‘I can only assure you that the motives are admirable; the project would lead to nothing less than a general amelioration in the human condition.’
‘But you can’t allow me to make up my own mind.’
Ashbee inclines his head again. ‘I regret. If it was solely up to me, I would. My hands are tied in this.’
‘Then perhaps I should meet with someone whose hands are not tied.’
She speaks a little waspishly, and Ashbee’s face stiffens.
‘I will report your concerns, Mrs Athlone.’ He shoots a glance at Ralph before getting up.
.
Afterwards, Flora shrugs at Ralph crossly. The initial introduction to Ashbee had come through him.
‘Do you really not know what he’s talking about?’
‘I’m sorry. I have no idea. I only know that they have money, so I thought it worth a meeting.’
‘Yes, of course.’
They walk out on to the pavement – a side street, near Whitehall.
‘How are the finances?’
‘We could always do with more,’ she says. In fact, she has been worrying non-stop. Since the last, awful letter from America, she has been plagued by the fear that Aniguin too will die before she sees him again. They have to go this summer. Her father has helped broker a ship passage, on a Dundee sealer called the Clansman. But unless they find a significant sum of money in the next few weeks, they will not be going. r />
When she asked her father about chartering the Vega, more than a year ago, he was suffering from an inflammation in both knees that kept him housebound, and his temper had not improved. He had glared at her.
‘I cannot rearrange Dundee’s shipping for your convenience, Flora. This is an industry. Men’s livelihoods depend on it.’
‘I’m not begging favours, Daddy – we’re going to pay for the charter. And you’re part-owner. You surely have some say?’
There was a pause. Her father sighed.
‘I have not been part-owner of the Vega for quite some time, Flora.’
She gaped at him then, as though he had slapped her. He was talking about the Vega – her sister in wood and water.
‘When did this happen?’ She found her throat clenching. ‘Why did you not tell me?’
Her father gave her a severe look.
‘I sold my shares in the Vega to give you the money for your first expedition. Where did you think it came from?’
‘I didn’t know,’ she whispered. ‘I thought . . .’
In truth, she had not thought about it at all. She had been too wrapped up in her own plans to wonder where such help came from, had taken it as no more than her due.
A few days after the meeting with Ashbee, she comes home and walks up to Freddie’s sitting room. As usual, she knocks, saying, ‘It’s me,’ before going in without waiting for an answer.
She sees the peculiar look on Nurse Capron’s face before she withdraws. Flora looks at Freddie. His face is whiter than usual.
‘Are you all right? Has something happened?’
‘I think that is for you to say.’
‘What do you mean?’
Freddie picks up a cheap-looking envelope.
‘This is not the first time I’ve had a letter like this. I thought at first that I would not worry you with what it alleges. But it makes some very unpleasant accusations. Against you.’