Ch. 2: Hartman

She turned to call back into the house, in Dutch, though my own Dutch was too rusty to understand her. I heard a muffled reply from deeper in the house, and she faced me again. "You'd better come inside," she said. "Why, you must be frozen out there!"

I thanked her, and followed her through a vestibule into a narrow stone hallway. She had an accent that I found most familiar, as it was similar to that of my own parents: soft, and rather slurred, especially on the letter 's'. She was speaking English, and speaking it well, which was something of a relief after months of trying to use my stilted Norwegian.

“I take it you've come to see my husband?” she said, quite cheerfully. She didn't seem at all surprised by my arrival, despite their isolated location, nor did she seem curious about how I had got there or even found their house. "Come through to the front room," she said. "He hasn't been in long, so he's just getting warm by the fire."

As she showed me through to the room, I was reminded forcibly of my childhood, when my mother would take me through to the drawing room, saying "Look, Thomas, look who arrived last night," and there would be my father, all dressed in red and white and talking in a deep voice, and I would laugh and play along. And now there I was, twenty years later, living that game we used to play.

The front room of that house was small and plain, like a servants' common room, small enough that the three armchairs it contained took up most of the floor space. But its size was its advantage in the polar winter: a glowing fire on one wall easily filled the room with heat. A narrow window gave a view of the dark night outside. The walls were lined with colourful knitted hangings. The only other decoration was a scabbard hung over the fireplace. It was, for some reason, empty.

I could see no-one in the room, but the place had such a feeling of cosiness, and I was so tired after my journey, that I suddenly felt quite faint, and �" at the lady's invitation �" I sat gratefully in one of the soft armchairs beside the fire.

“Well,” I heard someone chuckle, “It seems that our guest is tired.”

I admit I quite started. The room had seemed empty when I entered, but I saw now that an elderly gentleman sat in the chair across from me, watching me, sucking on a long-stemmed pipe. He was a bulky enough man, and now I saw him, his presence seemed to expand to fill the room. How had I not noticed him?

He saw my surprise, and raised his eyebrows. “Did I give you a start?” he said.

“I am so sorry, sir,” I said to him. “I didn't see you.”

The man laughed. He had a pleasant face �" weather-beaten, as of one who has seen outdoor labour, but creased also around the eyes and mouth in the way of a man who smiles often and frowns rarely.

“Perhaps you should look harder,” he said, his voice a cheerful rumble. “No need to apologise, dear boy, it happens surprisingly often. People look only for what they expect to see, and so often they look in the wrong places. Now, make yourself comfortable, please �" so there's no need to be shy.”

He wore red, as in the Dutch stories: a red cloak over a white cloth robe, the bright colour contrasting sharply with his wife's green clothes. His hair too was white, as was his beard; both were long, flowing and so very soft, like virgin snow. He held a pipe in his hands, of hand-carved wood with a long stem �" it reminded me of a similar pipe my father once owned.

“My friend,” he said. “Let us talk. May I ask what is your name?”

I think I was still not at my ease with the situation, and his question wrong-footed me, and I blurted, “I expected you to know that already.” I regretted it immediately. A childish thing to say. But then, from the stories, was it such an unreasonable expectation?

The old man looked startled, then laughed again. “Very well,” he said. “We will not use names. I will call you 'friend', and you can do the same, if you wish. I think you're English, is that right?”

I nodded. “And I thank you for your consideration in speaking my own language,” I said.

“I am?” He looked genuinely startled. “You must forgive an old man. I know so many languages, and sometimes I do not notice which one I am using. I wonder, is the delightful Victoria still on the throne?”

It was now my turn to frown. “Of course,” I said. At the time it was true, though she was weakening even then.

“I'm glad to hear it. Don't be surprised by my ignorance. There are a lot of countries out there, and I do not always keep up with their latest news.” He coughed into his hand, and looked over at his wife. “Goody here is better at these things than me. Her memory has aged more healthily than mine.”

She looked at me, and raised her eyebrows. “I'm afraid Klaus tends to ramble,” she said. “You'll have to excuse him. Would you like some wine? It should be warm enough by now, I think.”

She unhooked a large tin kettle from where it hung over the fire, found a tin mug on a shelf behind her, and handed both to me.

“Thank you very much,” I said.

“Not at all,” she said. “If you two don't mind, I'm going to get some knitting done. I want to finish Piet's new gloves by Friday. I think you two have a lot to talk about without me, anyhow.” She pulled some half-finished knitting from under a cushion, and started clacking away.

“I wouldn't mind some of that wine myself, when you're done,” said the old man to me. “Now, perhaps I've rambled long enough, as Goody says. So, to business. Why have you sought us out, friend?”

“What makes you think I was looking for you?” I asked, taking a sip of my wine. It was mulled, and had a very pleasant, fruity taste.

He chuckled, gesturing through the window at the deserted country outside. “Oh, my man, you were either looking for us or you were extremely lost, and I don't think you look like a lost man �" at least not geographically.”

I didn't ask what he meant by that, and he didn't elaborate.

“You're right,” I said. “I was looking for you �" you and your wife here. And it took some doing to find you, I might add.”

“Well, as I said earlier, perhaps you were looking in the wrong places,” he said, raising one eyebrow and drawing again on his pipe.

“I was indeed,” I said. “I searched for months in northern Finland before we made our way here. But sometimes looking in the wrong place is how we find the right place, don't you think?”

His laughter turned into a coughing fit as he choked on his pipe-smoke. “S-so very true,” he spluttered. “I think you are a wise man, friend. But did you have a reason for looking for us? Or was it just a particularly boring winter?”

I nodded. “I did have reasons. I have been investigating you for a long time, and I have questions I wouldn't mind asking you. You know that to most of the world, you are believed to be nothing more than a story? Told to please children?”

“I don't doubt it,” said Goody, looking up from her knitting. “Or we'd have so many visitors, we'd have to fit a bell-pull.”

“And at least the children are pleased,” said the old man. “If I was taught in schools as fact, they would find it much less enjoyable, don't you think?”

“But it is true, then?” I said. “If you're here, that means the stories, all the things people say about you, they are true?

“Not all of them,” said the old man, his eyes twinkling. “Some of them, yes, of course. As you can see, for instance, I am alive, if not so healthy.” He gave another hearty cough.

“But which?” I persisted.

He tapped his pipe against his teeth. “Which stories have you heard?” he said.

I sat back in my chair. I had not realised until I entered the house how astonishingly unprepared for such a conversation I was. In all the years of searching I had done my best to avoid thinking about the actual meeting, so as to avoid disappointment if I had turned out to be mistaken, and because I hadn't wanted to build up a false image of the man before meeting him.

In this, incidentally, I had failed, for I had always pictured him as, in personality, the image of my father. In fact, he was extraordinarily similar to my father. Less stern, and a shade more jocular, but he had a similar way of talking, the same patience, the same infuriating habit of never answering a question directly.

But, as I say, I had done my best to avoid thinking about a conversation like this happening, and so had no real idea of how I wanted it to go. I did my best to start from a logical place.

“I told you that I was English,” I said, “And it is true that I was raised in England. My late parents, however, were Dutch. They were both from wealthy merchant families in Amsterdam, and moved to London thirty years ago.

“Though they lived in England, they remained fond of their homeland, and were determined to teach me its traditions. One of their favourites was the story of Sinterklaas, the story of the old man who arrived by steamboat and delivered presents by chimney.” I paused. “My father used to dress up as him �" as you, that is.”

“I am deeply flattered,” said the old man, raising his cup to me.

His wife chuckled. “Tell him things like that, it'll go to his head,” she warned.

“Well, as I grew, I became a historian,” I pressed on. “I found stories of similar figures from different cultures. I was fascinated. I started to trace them, found connections between them. And the more I studied, the more I became convinced you were a real person.”

He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

“I couldn't prove it, of course,” I said. “There is no way one could. There are some few eye-witness accounts, but even they do not hold much water as evidence. I gained a reputation as something of an oddball, devoting my life to the study of a fantasy. I doubt people will believe me when I return. But I had to prove to myself that you existed, that I wasn't simply deluding myself.”

“You must have enough people with you to man a sledge, at least,” his wife said. “I take it that's how you came here?”

“I have money,” I said. “The men don't laugh too much, as long as I give them their salary on time.”

The old man was frowning at me. “You used the phrase 'devoting your life',” he said, slowly. “Is that an exaggeration? You must have had some other pursuits.”

“Not many,” I said. “I have always been somewhat obsessive in pursuit of something. Unhealthily so, I am frequently told.”

“I see,” the old man said. He glanced briefly at his wife, who looked in turn at me and smiled. Was there pity in that smile?

“Well,” he said, “You've met me, and assuming you trust your senses, you have proven yourself to yourself. Is that your job accomplished?”

“Almost, but I do have more questions I would like to ask you,” I said. “If you're agreeable?”

“But of course,” he said, refilling his cup from the kettle of wine. “What would you like to ask?”