Smilla's Sense of Snow Read Online Free PDF Page A

frequently possible to divide the square of a number into the sum of two other squares, this is
not possible with powers higher than two, Fermat wrote in the margin: “I’ve discovered a truly wonderful proof for this argument. Unfortunately, this margin is too narrow to contain it.”
    Two years ago some woman sat in the office of the Cryolite Corporation of Denmark and dictated this utterly proper letter. It adheres to all formalities, it has no typing mistakes, it is as it should be. Then she received it for approval and read it over and signed it. She sat there for a moment. And then she turned the paper around and wrote, “I am so sorry.”
    â€œWhat did he die of?”
    â€œNorsaq? He was on an expedition to the west coast of Greenland. There was an accident.”
    â€œWhat kind of accident?”
    â€œHe ate something that made him sick. I think.”
    She gazes at me helplessly. People die. You won’t get anywhere by wondering how or why.
    â€œWe consider the case closed.”
    I have the Toenail on the phone. I’ve left Juliane to her own thoughts, which are now moving like plankton in a sea of sweet wine. Maybe I should have stayed with her. But I’m no angel of mercy. I can hardly take care of my own soul. And besides, I have my own hangups. That’s what made me call police headquarters. They connect me with Division A, and they tell me that the detective is still in his office. Judging by his voice, he’s been there far too long.
    â€œThe death certificate was signed today at four o’clock.”
    â€œWhat about the footprints?” I ask.
    â€œIf you’d seen what I’ve seen, or if you had children of your own, you’d know how completely irresponsible and unpredictable they are.”
    His voice shifts into a growl at the thought of all the grief his own brats have caused him.
    â€œOf course, it’s only a matter of a shitty Greenlander,” I say.
    There’s silence in the receiver. He is a man who, even after a long workday, has reserves for adjusting his thermostat to quick frost.

    â€œNow I’m damned well going to tell you one thing. We do not discriminate. Whether it’s a pygmy that fell, or a serial killer and sex offender, we go all the way. All the way. Do you understand? I picked up the forensics report myself. There is no indication that this was anything but an accident. It’s tragic, but we have 175 of them a year.”
    â€œI’m thinking of filing a complaint.”
    â€œBy all means, file a complaint.”
    Then we hang up. In reality, I hadn’t thought about complaining. But I’ve had a hard day, too.
    I realize the police have a lot to do. I understand him quite well. I understood everything he said.
    Except for one thing. When I gave my statement the day before yesterday, I answered a lot of questions. But some of them I didn’t answer. One of them had to do with “marital status.” “That’s none of your business,” I told the officer. “Unless you’re interested in a date.”
    Why would the police know anything about my private life? I ask myself: How did the Toenail know that I don’t have any children? I can’t answer that question.
    It’s just a little question. But the world is always so busy wondering why a single, defenseless woman, if she’s in my age group, doesn’t have a husband and a couple of charming little toddlers. Over time you develop an allergic reaction to the question.
    I get out a few sheets of unlined paper and an envelope and sit down at the kitchen table. At the top I write: “Copenhagen, December 19, 1993. To the Attorney General. My name is Smilla Jaspersen, and with this letter I would like to file a complaint.”

    6
    He looks as if he’s in his late forties, but he’s twenty years older. He’s wearing a black thermal jogging suit, cleated shoes, an American baseball cap, and