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Strindberg's Star S t r i n d b e r g ’ s S t a r Jan Wallentin 1 2 13th May 1896. A letter from my wife, who has read in the newspaper that a Herr Strindberg is to journey to the North Pole by balloon. I advise her of the error, that it is the son of my cousin who intends to risk his life in the cause of a great scientific discovery. (August Strindberg, Inferno, Purgatory) That which is far off, and exceeding deep, who can find it out? (Ecclesiastes 7:24) 3 4 * t h e i n v i t a t i o n His face had definitely sagged and despite all the efforts of the TV make‐up girl nothing could disguise the fact. She had tried hard: fifteen minutes with sponge, brush and peach‐coloured mineral powder. Now, after she had replaced his pilot glasses, instead of having black rings under his eyes he had pink. It looked unhealthy against his grey cheeks. She patted him gently on the shoulder and said: “That’s it, Don. The presenter will come and fetch you soon.” Then she smiled at him in the mirror and tried to look satisfied. But he knew what she was thinking. Ein farshlepteh krenk, a lingering sickness, that’s what aging was. His shoulder bag was resting against the foot of the swivel chair and after the make‐up girl went out, Don bent over and started rummaging around in its contents of tablet containers, hypodermics and blister packs. He extracted two round 20mg tablets of diazepam. He sat up again, placed them on his tongue and swallowed. In the fluorescent light of the mirror, the minute hand of the wall clock moved on. Four minutes past six. The morning news droned from the monitor. Eleven minutes until the first sofa guests made an appearance. There was a knock, and a shadowy figure appeared in the doorway. “Is this where they do the make‐up?” Don nodded at the tall figure. “I’m on TV4 next,” the man said. “So the girls had better put on enough to last.” He took a few steps over the mottled grey vinyl floor and sat down next to Don. “We’re on at the same time, aren’t we?” “Yes, looks like it,” said Don. The swivel chair creaked as the man leant closer. “I’ve read about you in the papers. You’re the one who’s the expert, right?” “Not really my speciality,” said Don. “But I’ll do my best.” He stood up and hooked his jacket off the back of the chair. “It said in the papers you knew about this kind of thing,” said the other man. “Yes, well, they ought to know,” said Don. He pulled on his corduroy jacket and just as he was about to sling the strap of his bag over his shoulder he felt the man grab it. 5 “You don’t have to be so bloody full of yourself. I was the one who found it all. And by the way…” The man hesitated. “I think there’s something you’d be able to help me with.” “Really?” “It’s, um…” The man glanced quickly at the door, but there was no‐one there. “There’s one more thing I found down there. A secret, you might say.” “A secret?” With the help of the shoulder strap the man pulled Don a little closer. “I’ve got it at home in Falun, and I’d really appreciate it if you could come and…” His voice faded away. Don followed the man’s gaze towards the doorway where the programme presenter was standing waiting for them in a frumpy claret jacket and skirt. “Well… so you’ve got to know each other, then?” She forced a stressed smile. “Perhaps you’d like to talk more afterwards?” She indicated the way towards the studio corridor and the red On Air sign. “This way, Don Titelman.” 6 7 1 N i f l h e i m r With every step Erik Hall’s rubber boots sank more deeply into the ground and his legs had lost all feeling long ago. Not much further now, surely. He had always been teased about his heavy body, and with three diving bags slung over his back it was hardly surprising the waterlogged moss gave way. What was surprising was how quickly the forest had darkened since he slammed shut the boot of the car in the lay‐by. Then, looking out over the ditch, the edge of the forest had seemed so bright and inviting. Now, after a few hours of laboured walking, a milky fog was drifting through the undergrowth, but he still had no regrets. When he glimpsed the glade beyond the last trees he came to a halt and for a moment felt uncertain. It looked so different today, with a thick veil of mist hovering over the drooping grass. Then he caught sight of the remains of the old fence. The rotten black stumps stuck out like warning fingers in front of the slope that led down to the mine opening. He switched off his handheld GPS, dropped his load of equipment and stretched out his compressed vertebrae, his back creaking. It was ferociously cold here, just like yesterday, when he had managed to find his way to the abandoned mine for the first time. The stench was the same, too. He breathed it in through his nostrils: putrid meat, mouldy cheese, the stink of week‐ old rubbish. The mist had reduced the light to dusk and it was hard to make out any details as he took the last steps towards the precipitous shaft, but once his eyes had acclimatised he saw the pit props. They began at a depth of about thirty metres and supported the shaft’s walls at uneven intervals down into the apparently bottomless hole. An image of gappy, blackened teeth flitted through his mind, like looking into the mouth of a very old man. He stepped back a few paces and breathed in deeply through his mouth a couple of times, thinking it was time to give himself a pat on the back. Finding your way through the undergrowth in this gloom and getting to the right place again, that had to be pretty skilful. Using sat nav to make your way from Falun to an address out in Sundborn or Sågmyra was hardly an achievement compared with finding the right spot more than 5 kilometres straight out into the wilderness – that was something else. Most, if not all, abandoned mine shafts could be found marked in detail on maps – the surveyors at the Mining Inspectorate had seen to that ‐ but this one, this opening, had clearly been overlooked. And this time he had dragged his kit along with him. It was while Erik Hall was sliding open the zip of his first diving bag that he became aware of the silence. He could not remember exactly how long ago it was, but at first, when he had just pulled off the motorway, he had still been able to hear the traffic. Not especially loudly, of course, but enough for him to feel that he was not completely alone. He remembered hearing the hammering of a woodpecker, the rustle of small creatures, a bird flying from branch to branch. But then, after the mist had come down and his load had become so heavy, then he had hardly been able to hear anything except his own breathing and the sharp crack of breaking sticks as he struggled through the thickening undergrowth. And now – nothing. Well, perhaps something. The faint buzzing of some flies gathering around him, hoping to find food. Well, they would be disappointed. The first bag contained only equipment: nylon rope, hooks, and bolts, an electric drill, fins, lifejacket and torch. And lastly: the double sided titanium knife with its concave, saw‐toothed cutting edge. When he had thrown everything out onto the yellowing grass, he opened the bag’s side pocket. Inside were the Finnish precision instruments in protective cases: a depth gauge to use once he had sunk below the surface of the water in the flooded shaft, and a clinometer to enable him to gauge the height and slope of the mine’s passages. He would have to do without a compass. It would be of no use anyway in the iron ore rock below. The flies had increased. They hovered about his head like a cloud of soot, buzzing around him as he lifted the heavy metal cylinders out of the second bag. Annoyed, Erik waved the insects away from his mouth as he began to check the pressure in his twin air cylinders. When everything was assembled he carefully attached them to the steel backplate. He fastened the first stage regulator and bound the diving equipment with the inflated lifejacket. Then he took a few quick steps back. The sooty cloud followed him at a distance. Balancing on the gravel he pulled off his green rubber boots and then his camouflage trousers, followed by his windproof jacket. Wearing only his thermal underwear, and with black insects crawling over his face and neck, he opened the third bag. Among the carabiners and safety catches was the bulky drysuit – a seven millimetre triple‐ layered black neoprene skin specially developed to withstand diving in freezing water. He breathed heavily as the lower part of the suit puckered round his knees. Then he bent forward and forced the rubber reinforced diving shoes over his heels.
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