Under a Pole Star

  .

  For three days after crossing the strait, they walked side by side, but she slept in her own tent and made herself as unobtrusive as possible. She got up earlier than the men, was packed and ready before they finished breakfast; she checked navigational readings, made sketches and did her share of camp tasks. She was unnervingly helpful, and rarely spoke unless one of them asked her a question. Then, one evening, they were crossing a stretch of sea-ice that was covered in inches of slush – they should have waited until morning, but the day had gone slowly – and, out in the middle of the fjord, a floe opened under Sorqaq’s sled like a mouth. Flora, just behind him, ran to catch hold of the upstand and they both threw themselves flat on the ice to spread the weight. Then the piece of ice Flora was lying on cracked, tilted, and she slid into the water. A slopping wave hit her full in the face, choking off her cry. Sorqaq grabbed her by the hair and held her head above the surface until Jakob joined them and they pulled her back. The dogs struggled out of the water and the twelve-foot sled teetered for long moments, the ice quaking underneath, as they yelled and strained on the traces, at last hauling it to safety.

  Afterwards, Sorqaq laughed. They were lucky – aja! – were they not? And Flora had looked very surprised when the wave hit her face – funny! He mimicked her expression. Flora laughed too. They were soaked, shivering and exhausted when they arrived on the far shore, but a layer of reserve had been washed away. As Flora and Jakob crouched over the stove, warming their hands by the boiling kettle, she said, almost in passing, ‘I’ve been thinking: we could die tomorrow. If you still wanted, perhaps . . . if Sorqaq doesn’t mind, that is . . .’

  Jakob looked round to where Sorqaq was throwing chunks of meat to the dogs amid frenzied barking, and tried to suppress his smile.

  ‘I’ll ask him.’

  Sorqaq nodded. ‘Of course. She will make a good wife, that one – did you see the way she ran to grab my sled? No holding back!’

  .

  Flora was under the blankets when Jakob crawled into the tent. It had become colder, with a keen, gusting wind, and the night sun was obscured by cloud, but grey light bled through the canvas, and he could see her expression, which was solemn.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. I don’t know. I’m . . .’

  ‘We don’t have to do anything. I’m happy just to lie next to you.’

  ‘If I die tomorrow . . .’ She laughed at herself and looked away from him, as she always did when she was embarrassed. ‘That wasn’t what I meant. But, what happened before – it can’t happen again.’

  ‘No. Of course. And it won’t.’

  He had thought to bring the Paragon into the tent with him, explaining rather pompously that he found the rubber sheaths an efficient way to keep rolls of film dry. Not to mention their other uses: ammunition, salt . . . ‘I’m just telling you because you might think it odd that I brought such a thing on a sledging trip,’ he finished lamely.

  ‘Oh.’ She had an infinite number of inflections for the word. There was a ghost of a smile. ‘I wish I could have a bath. I’m horribly unwashed.’

  He laughed. ‘You’re perfect. You couldn’t be anything else. And I’m horribly unwashed too.’

  He peeled off his underthings and slid, shivering, into the nest of blankets beside her. The touch of her bare skin was electrifying; he pressed himself against her with a moan of frantic, greedy joy. She wrapped her arms around him, but her body felt rigid, and she hid her face, seemingly avoiding his kisses.

  ‘Flora, what is it?’

  She sighed. ‘It’s just . . . I know I shouldn’t be, but I’m ashamed.’

  ‘Why?’

  There was a long pause, in which she loosened her embrace, kept her eyes on the blankets.

  ‘I can’t help thinking – I know it’s absurd – that I wasn’t faithful.’

  He was pierced with a hideous thrust of shock and hurt. He kept silent, not knowing what to say. She went on in a small voice, ‘I missed you so much. I took a lover. I thought it might . . . But it was no good.’

  ‘When?’ he found himself demanding, thinking, with a spurt of anger, Ashbee! No, Ralph, of course it was Ralph . . .

  ‘The autumn before I left. It wasn’t for very long. It—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, his voice stiff and unconvincing.

  He tried to steer his anger towards this unknown man. His erection cared not a whit for his thoughts, but throbbed imperiously against her thigh; he shifted his body, as if casually, to move it away from her. Under the circumstances, it seemed inappropriate. She felt his withdrawal and he knew she was wounded by it.

  ‘Please, listen. You see, I tried to tell myself that it was . . . the intimacy I missed, and I would get over it if . . . but it wasn’t true. I discovered that.’ She looked at him, until he was forced to meet her gaze. ‘You were always my beloved. I knew then, but it was too late.’

  Jakob shook his head.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t a question of being faithful . . . We both thought it was finished. I went with women, a few times.’

  ‘Oh!’ It was as though he had struck her. She swallowed. ‘Who were they?’

  Jakob thought this unfair. Moments ago, he had thought nothing on earth could stem his desire, but here he was, ebbing. It was not how he had imagined this reunion.

  ‘Does it matter? All that is over now, isn’t it? It’s past. We are here.’

  They stared at each other, frightened. He realised his voice sounded severe, and lowered it.

  ‘I don’t understand why we are talking about what is past, now.’

  Flora shook her head, which made the tears run over her cheeks and into her hair.

  ‘I wanted you to know, so that it wouldn’t be in my mind, and I wouldn’t think: I will have to tell him, one day. I want to start with a clean slate. There have been so many misunderstandings. I don’t want there to be any more.’

  They were subdued. Jakob thought it would be so simple; now he was burdened by the need to confess.

  ‘I should perhaps tell you, then, for the same reason, that, when I left New York, I had asked Clara Urbino to marry me.’

  ‘Clara?’ She looked at him with a terrible anguish. ‘It was true! You are engaged.’

  ‘No, of course not! I wouldn’t lie about that. She said no – for which I will always be grateful. I wasn’t in love with her, nor she with me. It was a strange thing to do, it seems to me now – and seemed to her then. It was an impulse of fear, I think – I was trying to . . . inoculate myself.’

  Flora was silent for a minute. ‘So there’s . . . nothing? You don’t wish that you were with her?’

  ‘Darling, no. She is a good friend, but that’s all. Please don’t look like that. You have no cause to be uneasy.’

  But Flora looked stricken. He picked up her hand and kissed her fingers, one by one.

  ‘I think she would forgive my saying this if it set your mind at rest, so I will tell you . . . She is not the marrying kind – do you know what I mean by that?’

  Flora nodded. ‘I think so, yes.’

  ‘And she’s one of the few people I want to invite to our wedding.’

  ‘What?’

  Flora frowned, and for a terrible moment Jakob thought he had misjudged it. Then, as a gust of wind slammed into the canvas and made the tent writhe, she smiled, with that slow, reluctant smile he loves, that seems to rise up from her very core.

  ‘I want you beside me for the rest of my life. I’m sorry, I should have asked. Will you marry me, Flora?’

  There is a pause.

  ‘I will have to get a divorce.’

  ‘That is advisable, I believe.’

  ‘Isn’t it too soon to know if that’s what you really want?’

  ‘No. It’s late. I should have said it in London. I wis
h I had.’

  She let out a sigh – almost a sob.

  ‘Yes. As soon as I can.’ She kissed him, and wiped away her tears. ‘Yes, my love.’

  ‘There’s one condition, darling.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Promise not to leave me again.’

  ‘I promise. Never.’

  ‘Clean slate, then? Fresh start?’

  She nodded and sniffed away her tears. He took her in his arms again, as the wind howled about them, and they lay quietly, hardly daring to move. Jakob felt as though his chest contained a heavy bowl, full to the brim; one move and it would spill over, and then he didn’t know what would happen – whether it was finite and would leak away; whether he would laugh or cry. Then this seriousness struck him as absurd.

  ‘Although’ – he rubbed his mouth against her still-damp hair – ‘I’m neither clean nor fresh, I’m afraid. Also, you may have missed your chance . . .’

  He glanced towards his groin, and she laughed, and he felt some of the tension go out of her, and he thought, No, it is infinite, this feeling; nothing can exhaust it. Then he felt her hand slide down his body, softly stroking him. Her touch was light yet deliberate, soothing and thrilling. She whispered, ‘In my tent, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. You were a few feet away, but I couldn’t touch you. I thought, We’ve wasted so much time . . .’

  Her hand brushed shyly over his cock, stiffening back to urgent life.

  ‘Not any more.’

  She moved to lie, full length, on him, resting on her elbows, her hands lightly grazing the sides of his face. He could feel the weight of her breasts on his chest. The heat and heft of her body was divine – a blessing. It gave him back his strength.

  ‘One last thing . . .’

  ‘What?’ She was alarmed.

  ‘You’re not going to die tomorrow. We have the rest of our lives.’

  They kissed, clumsily, hipbones and kneecaps colliding in the cramped confines of their bedding. They were apologetic, awkward; blasts of cold air struck at their skin and made them gasp. He wanted to throw off the blankets and move freely, kiss her and taste her as thoroughly as he wanted, but the wind was howling and punching the canvas like a jealous husband, knifing through the tent flaps, icy and venomous.

  ‘Lie still. Let me warm you.’ He pushed her on to her back and pressed himself into her side, tucking the blankets around their necks, the head of his penis rubbing deliciously against her hip. He caressed her body stealthily, mindful to cheat the wind of her warm flesh – her throat, her beautiful, opulent breasts (his memory hadn’t lied), the soft flesh of her belly, her velvety thighs – and then his fingers slid between her labia, and were bathed in slippery warmth. He stroked her clitoris with tiny, tender movements, his forehead pressed against her cheek, until he could feel as well as hear her breathing become shallower and more rapid, her heartbeat accelerating, her muscles tensing. After several minutes, his left arm, awkwardly bent beneath him, had gone to sleep, his fingers ached and he was dying, dying, to thrust himself inside her hot, lubricious cunt. Then he felt her muscles gather into shuddering spasms, and heard with delight the wrenched cries she tried not to utter. When she was calm, he pressed his fingers hard and unmoving against her swollen flesh – he remembered how she liked this – and kissed her face over and over. At last, she turned to him and kissed his mouth, her tongue reaching for his. He held her gaze as he sucked his wet fingers, inhaling her warm smell until his lungs were full with it.

  ‘You taste like a liqueur.’

  Her face was flushed, eyes wide, the pupils big and black. She smiled – a smile that came from a different part of her being; the smile he thought that only he saw.

  ‘Warm?’

  ‘Nearly,’ she said, and reached for him.

  He fumbled to tie the Paragon firmly on to his rigid cock, and then she pulled him almost roughly on to her and guided him between her thighs. The wind rose to a scream. Neither wind nor cold nor covering was going to stop this. No sooner was he sliding into her, into a heat that exploded out beyond the boundaries of his skin, no sooner had he felt rather than thought, ‘Home,’ than he was gliding beautifully and inexorably towards the precipice.

  He heard moans and exultations; he saw himself in her eyes, inscrutable mirrors, dark as the northern sea – as deep and unpredictable. He remembered water shining at her temples, and then he felt himself fall.

  Chapter 51

  Onmogelijk Dal, 78˚14’N, 88˚32’W

  July 1898

  Midsummer. Meltwater from the glacier forms a shining braid over the valley floor. The hills surrounding them are mottled with a kaleido­scope of introverted colours: fawn and ochre; grey and dun; slate, bronze and taupe. The hills open to cup this south-facing valley: a bowl tilted to the sun’s mouth. It captures its heat, and holds it, and the air is warmer than she has ever known it in Greenland. In between the streams and on the hillsides, the gravel is flushed green with grass and mosses, spangled with tiny white heathers, tufts of bog cotton, lemon-coloured, tussore-petalled poppies. In the endless light of midsummer, flowers are everywhere: tiny matted willows, miniature tussocks of astonishing brilliance. Nothing is more than ankle-high. They are giants who have blundered into a tiny Eden.

  Like Eden, there is an innocence here. Because they are alone, and the sun shines without ceasing, and it is as warm as a spring day in London, Jakob peels off his clothes when he is in camp, and lets the sun darken his skin. Flora is secretly thrilled by this, but when he suggests she do the same, she demurs, glancing anxiously round the empty valley, as if expecting tea-time callers.

  ‘Who do you think is going to appear?’ Jakob is amused.

  ‘I don’t know. Sorqaq, perhaps . . . Any of them.’

  Sorqaq, Aniguin and Welbourne have gone back to the north coast of the island to look for seals and musk oxen. They wanted to hunt. Welbourne was determined to shoot wolves and polar bears, so they went looking for permanent sea-ice. They were tactful, but could not hide their smiles as they said goodbye.

  ‘They’re probably a hundred miles away. Besides, I told them not to disturb us – at least, not until mid-August.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘Yes. Are you horrified? So you see, we are safe from intruders. And if by some odd chance they did come, well . . .’ He looks at the denuded hillside: there is barely a rock big enough to hide a fox. ‘I think we’d see them coming.’

  He is right. In their valley, they inhabit a fortress of space, of silence and distance. First, she allows herself to take off her chemise when she is outside. It is actually hot – nearly seventy degrees, according to her weather station. Then – having made Jakob walk some way off, and turn his back – she takes off her heavy trousers and sits neatly on a blanket outside the tent. She can’t quite bring herself to stand up, but she has to admit that baring her skin to the sun is pleasant. She is aware of the slightest movement of air; every nerve ending tingles with renewed life. Jakob walks back and sits beside her. He wears nothing but his boots.

  ‘I’ll have to make a picture of you here, sitting in our garden,’ he says, his hand warm on her bare back. ‘Looking over our domain.’

  .

  They made their camp on a terrace on the hillside, from where they can see the fjord and the sea-ice. It has melted away from the shore, now lies in broken floes on the open sea. The fjord is dark and still; the water barely salt. Where the river flows out into it, the water has a milky, greenish hue, because the river comes from the glacier, higher up the valley. The glacier itself holds a meltwater lake, a minia­ture Gornersee, growing and deepening in colour as the summer progresses. It is this glacier and this lake that brought them back to the valley.

  .

  Hypnotised by the light reflecting off water and ice, Flora leans against Jakob, knees drawn up to her chest, but he stands up and takes her hands.


  ‘Come on, stand up . . . See, it’s not so bad. Now: walking . . .’

  She smiles and blushes as he leads her around the little plateau; he is laughing at her.

  ‘No one can see, except me. And that can’t count; I’ve seen you before.’

  ‘Yes, but this is outside . . .’ she mutters. ‘And walking – it can’t look nice.’

  Jakob stops and faces her, a smile hovering around his mouth, his eyes serious. ‘You have no idea how nice it looks.’

  She is aware of his gradually filling erection, and is glad that he doesn’t find the sight of her unpleasant. She puts her hands on his waist and draws him closer, until the tip of his hardening penis nuzzles against her belly and her nipples graze his chest. A mild breeze wafts against them, a cool breath that makes the points of warmth even more delicious, urges them closer. Her skin is charged, no longer just her body’s boundary; it is molten, intelligent, with its own appetite, its own will.

  ‘You have to admit that it feels nice.’

  ‘Mm . . .’

  ‘But I’m afraid you’re cheating.’

  ‘Cheating? How?’

  ‘Because you’re using me as a modesty . . . apron.’