I sit down in her high-backed chair. In order to understand what it was like sitting here for forty-five years among the erasers and bank stationery, with part of her consciousness elevated to a spiritual dimension, where a light burns with a strength that makes her shrug cheerfully at earthly love-which for the rest of us is a mixture of the cathedral in Nuuk and the potential for a third world war.

After a moment I get up, none the wiser.

There are venetian blinds on the windows. The yellow light of Strand Boulevard is zebra-striped in the room. I punch in the date when she became Chief Accountant: QS-17-57.

The safe hums, and the door opens outward. There is no handle, only a wide ridge to take hold of and lean your weight against.

On the narrow metal shelves are the account books of the Cryolite Corporation since 1885, when it was separated from the Øresund Corporation by government charter. About six ledgers for each year. Hundreds of volumes in gray moleskin with red stamping. A piece of history. About the politically and economically most profitable and most important investments in Greenland.

I take out a book marked 1991 and page through it at random. It says: salary, pension, harbor fees, labor costs, room and board, tonnage charges, laundry and dry cleaning, travel expenses, shareholders' dividends, paid to Struer Chemical Laboratory.

Rows of keys are hanging to the right, on the wall of the safe. I find the one marked ARCHIVES.

When I push the door of the safe closed, the numbers disappear one by one, and when I leave the room and go downstairs in the dark, it once again says CLOSED.

The first room in the archives is the entire basement under one wing of the building. A low-ceilinged room with countless wooden shelves, countless quantities of ledger paper wrapped in brown paper, and filled with the air that always hovers over vast paper deserts, enervating and drained of all moisture.

The second room is perpendicular to the first. It has the same kind of shelving. But it also contains archive cabinets with flat drawers for topographical maps. A hanging file with hundreds of maps, some of them clamped onto brass rods. A locked wooden cabinet, like a coffin ten yards long. That must be where the drilling cores sleep.

The room has two windows high on the wall facing Strand Boulevard, and four toward the factory grounds. This is where my preparations with the plastic bags come in. I thought I would cover the windows so I can turn on a light.

There are women who paint their own attractive attic apartments themselves. Reupholster the furniture. Sandblast the façade. I have always called on a professional. Or let it wait until next year.

These windows are large, with iron bars on the inside. It takes me forty-five minutes to drape all six.

When I'm finished I don't dare turn on the overhead lights, after all, but make do with my flashlight. Merciless order ought to prevail in archives. They are quite simply the crystallization of a wish to put the past in order. So that busy, energetic young people can come waltzing in, select a specific case, a specific core sample, and waltz out again with precisely that segment of the past.

These archives, on the other hand, leave something to be desired. There are no signs on the shelves. There are no numbers, dates, or letters on the spines of the filed material. And when I select a couple at random, I get: Coal petrographic analyses on seams from Atd (low group profiles), Nicgssuaq, West Greenland, and On the use of processed raw cryolite in the production of electric light bulbs, and Demarcation of borders at the land parceling of 1862.

I go upstairs and make a phone call. It always feels wrong to call someone on the phone. It feels especially wrong to call from the scene of the crime. As if I had gotten a direct line to police headquarters to turn myself in.

"This is Elsa Lübing."

"I'm standing here amid mountains of papers trying to remember where it says something about the fact that even the chosen ones risk being led astray."

First she hesitates, then she laughs.

"In Matthew. But perhaps more appropriate on this occasion would be Mark, where Jesus says: `Are you not therefore mistaken, because you do not know the Scriptures nor the power of God?' "

We giggle together on the phone.

"I disavow any responsibility," she says. "I've asked for a cleanup and cataloging for forty-five years."

"I'm so glad there's something you didn't manage to get done."

She's silent on the phone.

"Where?" I ask.

"There are two shelves above the bench-the long wooden case. That's where the expedition reports are. Arranged alphabetically according to the minerals they were looking for. The volumes closest to the window are the trips that had both a geological and a historical purpose. The one you're looking for should be one of the last ones."

She's about to hang up. "Miss Lübing," I say.

"Yes?"

"Did you ever take a sick day?"

"The Lord has watched over me."

"I thought so," I say. "I could sort of tell." Then we hang up.

It takes me less than two minutes to find the report. It's in a black ring binder. There are forty pages, numbered in the lower-right-hand corner: It's just the right size to stuff into my handbag. Afterward I have to remove the plastic blackout curtains, and I'll disappear down Kalkbrænderi Road without a trace, just the way I arrived.

I can't restrain my curiosity. I take the report over to the far corner of the room and sit down on the floor, leaning against a bookcase. It gives under my weight. It's a flimsy, wooden bookcase. They never thought that the archives would get so big. That Greenland would be so surprisingly inexhaustible. They've simply filled up the shelves. The traces of time on a flimsy wooden skeleton.

"The geologic expedition of the Cryolite Corporation of Denmark to Gela Alta, July through August 1991," it says on the title page. Then follow twenty closely typed pages of expedition report. I skim the first pages, which start off by describing the objective of the expedition: "To investigate the deposits of granular ruby crystals on the Barren Glacier on Gela Alta." The text also lists the five European members of the expedition. Among others, a professor of Arctic ethnology, Dr. Andreas Fine Licht, Ph.D. The name rings a bell somewhere deep inside me. But when I try to listen, it stops. I assume that his presence explains why it says at the bottom that the expedition is supported by the Institute for Arctic Ethnology.

Next comes a report with both an English and a Danish section. I page through this part, too. It concerns a rescue operation from Holsteinsborg to Barren Glacier by helicopter. The helicopter wasn't able to land very close because of the risk of avalanche from the engine noise. That's why it turned around and they sent a Cherokee 6-3000 instead, whatever that is, but it says that it landed on the water, with a pilot, navigator, doctor, and nurse on board. There's a brief report from the rescue team and a doctor's certificate from the hospital. There were five fatalities. One Finn and four Inuits. One of the Inuits was named Norsaq Christiansen.

There is a twenty-page appendix. A summary of the mineralogical samples brought back. The logs. A series of black-and-white aerial photos of a glacier, splitting and floating around a bright, fractured conical cliff.

A plastic folder contains copies of about twenty letters, all concerning transport of the bodies.

The whole thing looks clean and aboveboard. It's tragic, and yet something that might happen. Nothing that could explain why a little boy, two years later, falls off a rooftop in Copenhagen. It occurs to me that I've been seeing ghosts. That I've gone astray. That it's all a figment of my imagination.