Smilla's Sense of Snow by Peter Høeg Read Free Book Online Page A

take money to do something about it.”
    â€œIn that case,” he says, half to himself, “I’m afraid that check isn’t nearly enough.”
    In this way he has the last word. You can’t win every time.

    7
    Maybe it’s a coincidence, maybe it’s not a coincidence, that he arrives when the workers are at lunch, so that the roof is deserted.
    There is bright sunshine with a hint of warmth, blue sky, white seagulls, a view of the shipyard at Limhamn in Sweden across the Sound, and not a trace of the snow that was the reason for us standing here: me and Mr. Ravn, the investigator for the district attorney.
    He’s short, no taller than I am, but he’s wearing a very large gray coat with so much padding in the shoulders that he looks like a ten-year-old boy acting in a musical about Prohibition. His face is dark and burned-out like lava, and so gaunt that his skin is stretched across his skull like a mummy. But his eyes are alert and observant.
    â€œI thought I’d just stop by,” he says.
    â€œYou’re much too kind. Do you always stop by regarding complaints?”
    â€œOnly rarely. Normally the case goes to the local board. Let’s just say it’s because of the nature of this case and because of your thought-provoking letter of complaint.”
    I say nothing. I let the silence work on the investigator a little. It has no visible effect. His sand-colored eyes rest on me without
flinching and without embarrassment. He will stand here as long as it takes. This alone makes him an unusual man.
    â€œI spoke to Professor Loyen. He told me that you came in to see him. That you thought the boy was afraid of heights.”
    His position in the world makes it impossible for me to have any real trust in him. But I feel an urge to reveal part of what is bothering me.
    â€œThere were the tracks in the snow.”
    Very few people know how to listen. Their haste pulls them out of the conversation, or they try internally to improve the situation, or they’re preparing what their entrance will be when you shut up and it’s their turn to step on stage.
    It’s different with the man standing in front of me. When I talk, he listens without distraction to what I say, and only to what I say.
    â€œI read the report and looked at the pictures …”
    â€œThere was something else, something more.”
    Now we’re on our way into something that has to be said but can’t be explained.
    â€œThey were acceleration tracks. When you take off from snow or ice, a pronation occurs in the ankle joint. Like when you walk barefoot in the sand.”
    I try to demonstrate the slight outward rotation with my wrist.
    â€œIf the movement is too fast, not firm enough, there will be a little slip backward.”
    â€œAs with every child who is playing …”
    â€œWhen you’re used to playing in snow, you don’t leave that kind of track because that movement is not efficient, like faulty distribution of your weight going uphill on cross-country skis.”
    Even I can hear how unconvincing it must sound. I wait for a scornful remark. But it doesn’t come.
    He looks out across the roof. He has no nervous tics, no habit of touching his hat or lighting his pipe or shifting his weight from one foot to another. He has no notebook that he pulls out. He is simply a very small man who listens and thinks things over carefully.
    â€œInteresting,” he says at last. “But also rather … insubstantial.
It would be difficult to present this to a layman. Difficult to base anything on it.”
    He was right. Reading snow is like listening to music. To describe what you’ve read is like explaining music in writing.
    When it happens for the first time, it’s like discovering that you’re awake while everyone else is sleeping. Equal parts loneliness and omnipotence. We’re on our way from Qinnissut to the mouth of Inglefield Bay.