Free Smilla's Sense of Snow by Peter Høeg Page B

sitting there gasping soundlessly, trying to catch its breath before the next Armageddon.
    I take a short walk along the narrow pathways. There’s something obstinate about cactuses. The sun tries to hold them down, the desert wind wants to hold them down, and the drought, and the night frost. Yet they thrive. They bristle, they retreat behind a thick shell. And they don’t budge an inch. I regard them with sympathy.
    Lagermann reminds me of his plants. Maybe that’s why he collects cactus. Without knowing his background, I can tell that he must have had several cubic yards of concrete to break through to reach the light.
    We are standing next to a bed with green sea urchins that look as if they’ve been out in a storm of cotton.
    â€œ Pilocereus senilis ,” he says.
    Nearby there is a row of pots with smaller green and violet plants.
    â€œMescaline. Even the big places—the Botanical Gardens in Mexico City, say, or Cesar Mandriques’s cactus museum on Lanzarote—have no more than I do. One little sliver and you’re way out there. Or so I’ve heard. I’m a sensible man. A rationalist. We examine the brain. Slice off a piece. Afterward the assistant puts the skull back in place and pulls up the scalp. Can’t tell the difference. I’ve seen thousands of brains. There’s nothing mysterious about it. It’s chemistry—the whole works. As long as you
have enough information. Why do you think he ran up onto that roof?”
    For the first time I feel like giving an honest answer. “I think someone was after him.”
    He shakes his head. “It’s not like kids to run that far. Mine sit down and start howling. Or freeze.”
    The mechanic once rebuilt a bicycle for Isaiah. He hadn’t learned to ride a bike in Greenland. When it was ready he took off. The mechanic found him six miles away on the Old Køge Highway, with training wheels and a lunchbox on the baggage rack. On his way to Greenland. He was headed in that direction because Juliane had been in Hvidovre Hospital once for the DTs.
    From the age of seven, when I came to Denmark for the first time, until I was thirteen and gave up, I ran away more times than I can remember. Twice I made it to Greenland, and one of those times as far as Thule. It’s just a matter of attaching yourself to a family and pretending your mother is sitting five seats ahead in the plane or standing a little farther back in the line. The world is full of adventure stories about lost parrots and Persian cats and French bulldogs that miraculously find their way home to Mother and Father on Frydenholms Avenue. That’s nothing compared to the countless miles children have put behind them in search of a decent life.
    This is all something I might try to explain to Lagermann. But I don’t.
    We’re standing in the front hallway, among the boots, the skateblade protectors, remains of provisions, and miscellaneous items left behind by the troops.
    â€œWhat now?”
    â€œI’m looking for the logical explanation,” I say, “that you were talking about before. Until I find it, I’m not going to feel much in the Christmas spirit.”
    â€œDon’t you have a job you have to go to?”
    I don’t answer. Suddenly he lays down all his thorns. When he speaks, he has stopped swearing.
    â€œI’ve seen hundreds of relatives who have been overwhelmed by grief. Hundreds of talented private citizens who thought they
could do it better than we and the police could. I’ve looked at their ideas and their tenacity, and I said to myself, I give them five minutes. But with you I’m not so sure …”
    I attempt a smile that’s supposed to reciprocate his optimism. But it’s too early in the morning even for me.
    Instead, I suddenly discover that I’ve turned toward him and blown him a kiss. From one desert plant to another.
    I’m no expert on types of cars. As