to test you—to see if your desire was strong enough to make you sacrifice.’
Britta was afraid she might cry, so she made no reply.
‘So you have enough money,’ Mr. Sverdrup said. ‘Go home and make your plans. The airplane leaves February 3 at five o’clock in the morning. But …’
‘I knew there had to be a
but …
’
“It’s a small one, but it’s irritating. As of this day, we have empty seats. I’m sure that tomorrow we’ll have empty seats. But if the plane were to fill rapidly—for some unexpected reason—well …’
‘I’d not be able to go?
‘Not to Spain. But in Copenhagen there will be other planes flying to other places.’
‘I want to go to Spain,’ she said firmly.
‘And I want to get you there. But in everything there is always a negative chance. You may wind up in Greece.’
The days that followed were taut with anxiety. Each morning as she went to work in the darkness Britta would stare at the new poster in the window. At lunch she would leave the waterfront and hurry to the main street, and in the silver haze produced by the sun as it scurried along beneath the horizon, she would look through the door at Mr. Sverdrup and he would nod, signifying there was still a vacancy. In the evening, after work, she would stop by his office and do whatever typing had piled up, refusing money for this service, and each night as she helped him close the office she would hear his reassuring words, ‘Copenhagen says “Still a vacancy.” ’
She got her passport in order, said her goodbyes to Gunnar, who was certain she would be back to marry him, and grew much closer to her father than she had ever been before. Often, late at night, she would go to his small room with its posters and maps and sit with him as he traced explorers’ routes across the Indian Ocean, insatiable in his desire to know all things pertaining to his island. And he would play
The Pearl Fishers
as they talked, so that she would hear his voice coming to her through a veil of chanting priests or the songs of Singhalese fishermen, and she developed deep compassion for this taciturn man whom life had treated so shabbily.
When Britta told me later of her departure, she said of her father, ‘He was a lot smarter than I suspected. He’s the one who first sensed the truth about my going away … the real reasons. And he guessed correctly that I hadn’t admitted them to myself … wasn’t even conscious of them.’ Her father wanted to broach the subject but remained tongue-tied, as always, and took refuge in lesser topics. ‘Things with you and Gunnar finished?’ he asked hesitantly. When she nodded, he said, ‘Not surprised.’ He had known, of course, that like many young people in Tromsø—and throughout Norway for that matter—they had been living together, but this had not bothered him. He supposed that if Gunnar proved a good sort, she would marry him in due course, and if not, it was proper that she find out for herself. ‘He seemed limited in spirit,’ he said. Then, frightened because this observation had brought him close to fundamental reasons, he shut his mouth and looked down at his maps. After a long pause he said, without looking at her, ‘You’ve a good clean spirit, Britt. Keep it that way.’
She also wanted to talk but was afraid of the deeper proddings that were impelling her toward Spain, so, like her father, she retreated to trivialities: ‘It would be disgraceful if I got to the airport and there were no seats. Imagine saying all those goodbyes, then reporting back to work as usual to Mr. Mogstad.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Miserable.’
‘Your mother seems to like him.’
‘He’s miserable.’
‘Perhaps when you come back …’ The words were those any parent concerned about his daughter’s first employment might have said, but to Bjørndahl they were as dangerous as fire, for they brought him face to face with the real question: Would she come back? He looked at
Britta was afraid she might cry, so she made no reply.
‘So you have enough money,’ Mr. Sverdrup said. ‘Go home and make your plans. The airplane leaves February 3 at five o’clock in the morning. But …’
‘I knew there had to be a
but …
’
“It’s a small one, but it’s irritating. As of this day, we have empty seats. I’m sure that tomorrow we’ll have empty seats. But if the plane were to fill rapidly—for some unexpected reason—well …’
‘I’d not be able to go?
‘Not to Spain. But in Copenhagen there will be other planes flying to other places.’
‘I want to go to Spain,’ she said firmly.
‘And I want to get you there. But in everything there is always a negative chance. You may wind up in Greece.’
The days that followed were taut with anxiety. Each morning as she went to work in the darkness Britta would stare at the new poster in the window. At lunch she would leave the waterfront and hurry to the main street, and in the silver haze produced by the sun as it scurried along beneath the horizon, she would look through the door at Mr. Sverdrup and he would nod, signifying there was still a vacancy. In the evening, after work, she would stop by his office and do whatever typing had piled up, refusing money for this service, and each night as she helped him close the office she would hear his reassuring words, ‘Copenhagen says “Still a vacancy.” ’
She got her passport in order, said her goodbyes to Gunnar, who was certain she would be back to marry him, and grew much closer to her father than she had ever been before. Often, late at night, she would go to his small room with its posters and maps and sit with him as he traced explorers’ routes across the Indian Ocean, insatiable in his desire to know all things pertaining to his island. And he would play
The Pearl Fishers
as they talked, so that she would hear his voice coming to her through a veil of chanting priests or the songs of Singhalese fishermen, and she developed deep compassion for this taciturn man whom life had treated so shabbily.
When Britta told me later of her departure, she said of her father, ‘He was a lot smarter than I suspected. He’s the one who first sensed the truth about my going away … the real reasons. And he guessed correctly that I hadn’t admitted them to myself … wasn’t even conscious of them.’ Her father wanted to broach the subject but remained tongue-tied, as always, and took refuge in lesser topics. ‘Things with you and Gunnar finished?’ he asked hesitantly. When she nodded, he said, ‘Not surprised.’ He had known, of course, that like many young people in Tromsø—and throughout Norway for that matter—they had been living together, but this had not bothered him. He supposed that if Gunnar proved a good sort, she would marry him in due course, and if not, it was proper that she find out for herself. ‘He seemed limited in spirit,’ he said. Then, frightened because this observation had brought him close to fundamental reasons, he shut his mouth and looked down at his maps. After a long pause he said, without looking at her, ‘You’ve a good clean spirit, Britt. Keep it that way.’
She also wanted to talk but was afraid of the deeper proddings that were impelling her toward Spain, so, like her father, she retreated to trivialities: ‘It would be disgraceful if I got to the airport and there were no seats. Imagine saying all those goodbyes, then reporting back to work as usual to Mr. Mogstad.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Miserable.’
‘Your mother seems to like him.’
‘He’s miserable.’
‘Perhaps when you come back …’ The words were those any parent concerned about his daughter’s first employment might have said, but to Bjørndahl they were as dangerous as fire, for they brought him face to face with the real question: Would she come back? He looked at
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