I smile, and feel ancient.
The walk through Tasiilaq is hilly and lovely. Colorful houses perch on the uneven terrain, red and blue and yellow, and such a contrast to the wintry world beyond. They’re like cheerful toys dotting the hills; everything feels smaller under the gaze of those imperious mountains. A sky is a sky is a sky, and yet here, somehow, it’s more. It’s bigger. I sit and watch the icebergs floating through the fjord awhile, and I can’t stop thinking about the tern and her heart beating inside my palm. I can still feel the thrumming pat pat pat and when I press my hand to my chest I imagine our pulses in time. What I can’t feel is my nose, so I head to the bar. I’d be willing to bet everything I own (which at this point isn’t much) on the fact that if there’s a fishing boat docked in town, its sailors will spend every one of their waking moments on the lash.
The sun is still bright despite how late in the evening it is—it won’t go down all the way this deep in the season. Along with a dozen snoozing dogs tied to pipes outside the bar, there is also an old man leaning against the wall. A local, given he isn’t wearing a jacket over his T-shirt. It makes me cold just looking at him. As I approach I spot something on the ground and stoop to pick up a wallet.
“This yours?”
Some of the dogs wake and peer at me inscrutably. The man does the same, and I realize he’s not as old as I thought, and also very drunk. “Uteqqissinnaaviuk?”
“Uh … Sorry. I just…” I hold up the wallet again.
He sees it and breaks into a smile. The warmth is startling. “English, then?”
I nod.
He takes the wallet and slips it into his pocket. “Thanks, love.” He is American, his voice a deep and distant rumble, a growing thing.
“Don’t call me love,” I say mildly as I steal a better look at him. Beneath his salt-and-pepper hair and thick black beard he is probably late forties, not the sixty he appeared at a glance. Creases line his pale eyes. He’s tall, and stooped as though he’s spent a lifetime trying not to be. There is a largeness to him. A largeness of hands and feet, shoulders and chest and nose and gut.
He sways a little.
“Do you need help getting somewhere?”
It makes him smile again. He holds the door open for me and then closes it between us.
In the little entry room, I shrug off my coat, scarf, hat, and gloves, hanging them ready for when I leave. In these snow countries there’s a ritual to the removal of warm gear. Inside the bustle of the bar there’s a woman playing lounge music on the piano, and a fireplace crackling in a central pit. Men and women are scattered at tables and on sofas under the high ceiling and heavy wooden beams, and several lads are playing pool in the corner. It’s more modern than most of the undeniably charming pubs I’ve been to since I arrived in Greenland. I order a glass of red and wander over to the high stools at the window. From here I can once more see the fjord, which makes it easier to be indoors. I’m not good at being indoors.
My eyes scan the patrons, looking for a group of men that could be the Saghani’s crew. I don’t spot any who particularly stand out—the only group big enough has both men and women playing Trivial Pursuit and drinking stout.
I have barely taken a sip of my overpriced wine when I see him again, the man from outside. He’s down on the water’s edge now, wind whipping through his beard and against his bare arms. I watch him curiously until he walks straight into the fjord and disappears beneath the surface.
My wine nearly tips over as I slide off the stool. There’s no sign of him returning to the surface. Not now, or now, or now. God—he’s really not coming back up. My mouth opens to shout and then closes with a snap. Instead I’m running. Through the door to the deck, down the wooden steps so slippery with ice I nearly land on my butt, onto the cold muddy sludge of the bank. Somewhere near a dog is barking with high, panicked yelps.
How long does it take to freeze to death? Not long, in water like that. And he still hasn’t resurfaced.
I plunge into the fjord and—
Oh.
Out flies my soul, sucked through my pores.
The cold is familiar and savage. For a moment it grips me and forces me into a cell, the painted stone cell I know like a lover, for I spent four years inside it, and because the cold sends me back I spend too many precious seconds wanting to be dead, just for it all to be over, right now, I can’t wait any longer, there is no part of me that isn’t finished—
Clarity returns with a punch to the lungs. Move, I order myself. I’ve always been good at cold—I used to swim in it twice a day, but it’s been so long that I’ve forgotten, I’ve become soft to it. I kick my waterlogged layers toward the large body below. His eyes are closed and he’s sitting on the bottom of the fjord, and he is unnervingly still.
My hands reach slowly to encircle his armpits. I press off the floor and drag him up to the surface with a mighty gasp. He is moving now, taking a great breath and wading free with me in his arms, like he is the one who has rescued me and not the other way around and how the hell did that happen?
“What are you doing?” he pants.
There are no words for a moment; I’m so cold it hurts. “You were drowning.”
“I was just taking a dip to sober up!”
“What? No, you…” I drag myself farther up onto the bank. Reality sinks in slowly. My teeth are chattering so hard that when I start laughing I must seem like a lunatic. “I thought you needed help.”
I can’t quite recall the logic that brought me to this moment. How long did I wait before I ran? How long was he under?
“For the second time tonight,” he says. Then, “Sorry. You should get yourself warm, love.”
More people have emerged from the bar to see what the commotion is about. They are crowded on the balcony, looking puzzled. Oh, the humiliation. I laugh again, but it’s more of a wheeze.
“You right, boss?” someone shouts in an Australian accent.
“Fine,” the man says. “Misunderstanding.”
He helps me to my feet. The cold is inside me and—shit, the pain. I have felt this cold before, but not for a long time. How is he standing it so well?
“Where are you staying?”
“You were under so long.”
“Good lungs.”
I stumble up the bank. “I’ll get warm.”
“Do you need—”
“No.”
“Hey!”
I pause and glance over my shoulder.
His arms and lips are blue, but he doesn’t seem bothered. Our eyes meet. “Thanks for the rescue.”
I salute him. “Anytime.”
* * *
Even with the shower on as hot as it will go, I’m still cold. My skin is red raw, scalded, but I can’t feel it. It’s the two toes on my right foot that I can feel tingling as though with the return of heat; strange because they were cut off some years ago. But then I often feel those phantom toes and right now I’m disturbed by something else, by how easily my mind went back to the cell. I’m frightened of how simple it was to dive into the water instead of shouting for help.
My drowning instinct.
When I’m wearing every item of clothing I own, I find my pen and paper, sit down at the crooked table, and write a clumsy letter to my husband.