and ten minutes later saw a tracer of blue smoke drifting into the air above a spine of rock that walled off the beach. I found the hunting party on the other side crouched round a fire of blazing driftwood, their kayaks drawn up on the beach. Desforge squatted with his back to me, a tin cup in one hand, a bottle in the other. At the sound of the whaleboat’s engine he turned and, recognising me, let out a great roar of delight.
‘Joe, baby, what’s the good news?’
He came down the beach as I ran the whaleboat in through the broken ice and as always when we met, there was a slight edge of unreality to the whole thing for me; a sort of surprise to find that he actually existed in real life. The immense figure, the mane of brown hair and the face – that wonderful, craggy, used-up face that looked as if it had experienced everything life had to offer and had not been defeated. The face known the world over to millions of people even in the present version which included an untidy fringe of iron-grey beard and gave him – perhaps intentionally – an uncanny resemblance to Ernest Hemingway who I knew had always been a personal idol of his.
But how was one supposed to feel when confronted by a living legend? He’d made his first film at the age of sixteen in 1930, the year I was born. By 1939 he was almost rivalling Gable in popularity and a tour as a rear gunner in a B.17 bomber when America entered the second world war made him a bigger draw than ever when he returned to make films during the forties and fifties.
But over the past few years one seemed to hear more and more about his personal life. As his film appearances decreased, he seemed to spend most of his time roaming the world in the Stella and the scandals increased by a sort of inverse ratio that still kept his name constantly before the public. A saloon brawl in London, a punch-up with Italian police in Rome, an unsavoury court case in the States involving a fifteen-year-old whose mother said he’d promised to marry the girl and still wanted him to.
These and a score of similar affairs had given him a sort of legendary notoriety that still made him an object of public veneration wherever he went and yet I knew from the things he had told me – usually after a bout of heavy drinking – that his career was virtually in ruins and that except for a part in a low budget French film, he hadn’t worked in two years.
‘You’re just in time for the kill,’ he said. ‘These boys have finally managed to find a bear for me.’
I slung the Winchester over my shoulder and jumped to the sand. ‘A small one I hope.’
He frowned and nodded at the Winchester. ‘What in the hell do you want with that thing?’
‘Protection,’ I said. ‘With you and your damned bear around I’m going to need all I can get.’
There was a clump of harpoons standing in the wet sand beside the kayaks and he pulled one loose and brandished it fiercely.
‘This is all you need; all any man needs. It’s the only way – the only way with any truth or meaning.’
Any minute now he was going to tell me just how noble death was and I cut in on him quickly and patted the Winchester.
‘Well this is my way – the Joe Martin way. Any bear who comes within a hundred yards of me gets the whole magazine. I’m allergic to the smell of their fur.’
He roared with laughter and slapped me on the back. ‘Joe, baby, you’re the greatest thing since air-conditioning. Come and have a drink.’
‘Not for me, thanks,’ I said.
He had a head start anyway, that much was obvious, but I followed him to the fire and squatted beside him as he uncorked a nearly empty bottle and poured a generous measure into a tin cup. The hunters from Narquassit watched us impassively, a scattering of dogs crouched at their feet. Desforge shook his head in disgust.
‘Look at them – what a bloody crew. I had to bribe them to get them this far.’ He swallowed some of his whisky. ‘But what can you expect? Look at their clothes – all store bought. Not a pair of sealskin pants among them.’
He emptied the dregs of the bottle into his cup and I said, ‘I’ve brought a visitor to see you – a girl called Eytan.’
He turned sharply, bewilderment on his face. ‘Ilana – here? You’re kidding.’
I shook my head. ‘She flew into Søndre from Copenhagen last night.’
‘Did she say what she wanted?’
I shook my head. ‘Maybe she’s come to take you home.’
‘Not a chance.’ He laughed shortly. ‘I owe too many people too damned much on the outside. Greenland suits me just fine for the time being.’ He leaned across, full of drunken gravity. ‘I’ll tell you something in confidence – confidence, mind you? There’s a lulu coming up that’ll put me right back there on top of the heap and take care of my old age. Milt Gold of Horizon should be in touch with me any day now.’
‘Maybe this Eytan girl has a message for you,’ I suggested.
His face brightened. ‘Heh, you could have a point there.’
There was a faint cry from along the beach and we turned to see an Eskimo trotting towards us waving excitedly. Everything else was forgotten as Desforge got to his feet and picked up a harpoon.
‘This is it,’ he said. ‘Let’s get moving.’
He didn’t even look to see if he was being followed and I shouldered the Winchester and went after him, the hunters from Narquassit following. You can tell when an Eskimo is happy because sometimes he’ll actually smile, but more often than not it’s impossible to know how he’s feeling at any given moment. Allowing for that I still got a definite impression that the men from Narquassit were something less than enthusiastic about the whole thing and I didn’t blame them one little bit.
We reached the end of a long strip of shingle beach and started across a much rougher section that was a jumble of great boulders and broken ice when one of the hunters cried out sharply. They all came to a halt and there was a sudden frenzied outburst of voices as everyone seemed to start talking at once.
And then I saw it – a great shaggy mountain of dirty yellow fur ambling along the shoreline and as the first dog gave tongue, he paused and looked over his shoulder in a sort of amiable curiosity.
You don’t need to be a great white hunter to shoot a polar bear. One thousand pounds of bone and muscle makes quite a target and it takes a lot to goad it into action, but when he moves, it’s at anything up to twenty-five miles an hour and a sidelong swipe from one of those great paws is guaranteed to remove a man’s face.
Desforge saw only the quarry he’d been seeking for so long and he gave a howl of triumph and started to run, harpoon at the trail, showing quite a turn of speed considering his age.
The dogs were well out in front, but the Eskimo hunters from Narquassit looked considerably more reluctant and I knew why. In their mythology and folklore the polar bear holds roughly the same position as does the wolf for the North American Indian, a creature of mystery and magic with apparently all the cunning of Man: on the other hand, they weren’t keen on losing their dogs and went after them fast and I brought up the rear.
The bear loped across the strand and skidded on to the pack ice, making for the nearest water, a dark hole that was perhaps ten or twelve feet in diameter. He plunged
