ICEHOTEL (6 page)

‘I could do, I’ve been on it so many times. No, it’s being
given by one of the hotel staff.’

Right on cue, a young woman marched down the corridor. ‘Good
afternoon,’ she said. ‘My name is Marita and today I will be your guide.’ She
spoke in a calm business-like manner, as though she were reading the news.

Unlike most Swedes, Marita was short. Her blonde braids,
threaded with red ribbons, were wrapped around her head in a style more
Germanic than Scandinavian. The patterned jacket, threatening to burst open,
and the black skin-tight trousers, did nothing but
emphasise
the heaviness of her figure. What endeared her to me was that she seemed
entirely unconcerned by it.

She surveyed the group, her eyes lingering on Mike’s suit. I
could guess what she was thinking: only a complete idiot would dress like that.
Mike smiled at her, apparently oblivious to the effect his clothes were having.

When Marita had everyone’s attention, she took a deep
breath, pushed her bust out further, and launched into her speech. ‘Welcome to
the Icehotel. As we are 200 km north of the Arctic Circle, the outdoor
temperature can drop to as low as minus thirty degrees Celsius. So before we
take our tour, you will need to dress appropriately.’ She paused for emphasis,
making a point of glancing again at Mike’s suit. ‘Everything you need can be
borrowed from the Activities Room. Now please follow me.’

Her command of English was excellent, although the words
were
thickly accented and the
delivery more
sung than spoken
. H
arry, always unforgiving of
foreigners, nudged me and pulled a face.

The Activities Room was the size of a small warehouse:
coloured ski suits hung in rows that occupied most of the room. There was
little else apart from the cupboards and slatted wooden benches lining the
walls. Robyn marched to the nearest rack and squeezed a snowsuit with both
hands. She released it quickly and inspected the material as though checking
the quality.

‘We have snowsuits of different sizes and thicknesses,’
Marita said, motioning to the racks. ‘On the trays above the suits, you will
find gloves, hats, and ski masks. Outdoor boots are at the back. The cupboards
contain sports items – snow-shoes, skis and ice-climbing equipment.’ She spoke
quickly and confidently, in what was evidently a highly practised routine. ‘Now
let’s get our suits on, as I’m sure you are impatient to see the Icehotel.’

She picked out a suit from the middle rack and dressed
herself quickly. I took the first medium-sized snowsuit I could find and
clambered into it. It was one of the thicker suits, and I was sweating by the
time I’d zipped it up over my clothes.

At the back of the room, I found a pair of knee-high boots.
I sat down next to the fire door and struggled with the stiff straps.

Liz was examining the door. ‘Where do you think this leads
to, Mags?’

‘To the outside. It’s a fire door, I think.’

‘A fire door, here? Really? In all this snow?’

‘I’m sure they have fires, even in Lapland.’ Sweat was
dripping from my brow. ‘What size is your snowsuit, Liz?’

‘Small, and extra long.’ She studied me, looking slim and
elegant in her white suit. ‘What on earth are you wearing? I’m sorry to have to
say this, Mags, but you look just like the Michelin Man.’

‘Thanks.’ I was sweating heavily now, my clothes sticking to
my back. ‘So where’s Harry?’

‘He’s helping Mike with his inside leg measurement,’ she
said meaningfully. ‘Can you stand up in that thing?’

Ignoring her, I levered myself
off the bench and waddled out of the room.

We left the Excelsior, and followed
Marita down the slope to the Icehotel. Leo hadn’t been exaggerating: the
temperature was plunging.

Marita gestured to a low wooden building on our right. ‘That
is the Locker Room, where you will change before you sleep in the Icehotel.’

‘About that,’ said Jim Ellis hesitantly. He peered at
Marita, his eyes huge behind his spectacles. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask. What
should we wear?’ Robyn glowered at him, as though h
e’d
made a social gaffe.

‘Wear only a sleepsuit. No clothes.’ Marita smiled
encouragingly. ‘Put your things in a locker, making sure to take the one with
your room number, as it is reserved for you. At the back of the washroom,
there’s a door which takes you outside, then to the Icehotel’s side door.’

A murmur passed through the group. Jane Galloway gave me a
look that said, ‘This can’t be right.’

‘You mean we go outside?’ said Jim.

‘That is correct.’

‘What happens if we get cold at night? I mean so cold we
can’t sleep?’ He tried not to look at his wife.

Marita
smiled indulgently. ‘It’s a
psychological thing. You might think you’ll be cold but you’ll be surprised how
quickly you will warm up. There is hot lingonberry juice in the Locker Room,
and in the morning
Karin
and I will bring some to your
room.’

I felt sorry for Jim; the holiday must have been his wife’s
idea. But others seemed to be having their doubts. Liz was speaking earnestly
with Mike and Harry, and Jane was frowning, listening to a group of men, the
Danes I’d seen taking over the restaurant at lunch. Well, we were here now. It
was too late to worry about the cold.

Marita stopped outside the Icehotel’s entrance, an
arch-shaped opening carved into the ice. The double doors, also of ice, were
hung with reindeer skins, the interweaving of brown and cream in the coarse
hair making them look dark from a distance. Ice columns, so smooth they might
have been carved from a single block, stood on either side.

Marita was in full flow again. ‘The Icehotel is not only a
hotel, but also an art gallery. The rooms house ice sculptures of the highest
quality. Between the hours of 10.00am and 5.00pm, it is open to visitors but,
for the rest of the time, it is a hotel.’ She smiled dreamily. ‘But an unusual,
in fact a unique, hotel.’

She gripped the antler handles, and pulled. The doors opened
smoothly and silently. We followed her inside, pushing and treading on each
other in our hurry.

‘This is the foyer,’ she said, pride in her voice.

There were gasps of amazement from those in the front. I
looked past them, unbelieving.

Two rows of fluted ice columns, like giant sentinels, stood
on either side of the foyer, frowning down at our intrusion while challenging
us to enter. An ice chandelier hung suspended from the vaulted ceiling by an
impossibly thin cord, the cream candles, still unlit, protruding at all angles
like crooked teeth. Through the far wall, where the ice was thinner, shafts of
blue light streamed in, stamping their colour on the room. An
emptiness, reminiscent of an ancient cathedral, lay on the
place. Yet, despite the stillness, the air shimmered, like fabric about to be
drawn back by an unseen hand.

‘Would you look at this place?’ Mike said, breaking the
silence. ‘So, are the candles ever lit?’

‘They are, at night,’ said Marita.

‘Won’t they melt the ice?’

‘They are special candles which give out little heat. Look
closely. They are arranged so their flames point away from the ice.’

Liz was crouching, examining the ground. ‘Gosh, I don’t
believe this. There’s snow on the floor.’ She glanced up. ‘It’ll turn to slush,
won’t it?’

Marita removed a glove and scooped up a handful of snow.
‘The atmosphere in the Icehotel is too dry for condensation to form. The snow
therefore doesn’t get wet. It is more like sand.’ She let it fall, and turned
her hand to show us her dry palm. ‘It’s like this everywhere in the Icehotel.
The exception is the bar where the heat and perspiration from many bodies can
raise the humidity level.’

‘And what happens then?’ said Harry.

She kept her expression blank. ‘The ice on the ceiling melts
and drips into your drink.’

I smirked. Harry seemed less than amused.

Marita indicated we should look around, so we wandered
amongst the columns. Jim poked a suspicious finger into the snow. Robyn, who’d
been watching, yapped so loudly that heads turned. She stomped away. He
straightened and followed her like an obedient puppy.

Liz was turning in a slow circle, a frown of concentration
on her face.

‘You’ll get dizzy doing that,’ I said.

‘This place is like a rabbit warren. If I need a pee in the
middle of the night, I just know I’m going to crash into these ghastly
columns.’

‘The lights in the chandelier will be on, didn’t Marita
say?’

‘You think they won’t burn out?’ She looked at the candles
doubtfully. ‘If you run into one of these columns face on, it’s goodbye
Vienna.’

‘Good point. I’m staying in my sleeping bag and crossing my
legs.’ After a quick glance around, I said in a low voice, ‘Liz, you know
things about drugs. What’s Coumarinose used for?’

She seemed surprised by this sudden shift in the
conversation. ‘It’s an anticoagulant. Why do you ask?’

‘Wilson Bibby swallowed some on the plane. Why would he need
an anticoagulant? To prevent deep vein thrombosis while flying?’

She hesitated before speaking. ‘Anticoagulants are
prescribed to people who have abnormal heart rhythms. They either reduce the
risk of strokes, or of heart attacks. Or perhaps both,’ she added vaguely. ‘But
don’t quote me, I’m not a doctor.’

‘You’re saying Wilson might have a heart problem?’

‘And if he’s taking Coumarinose, he really shouldn’t be
drinking or smoking.’

‘Why do you think he appears to care so little about his
health?’

‘Because the rich do rather believe they’re immortal.’ She
shrugged. ‘Anyway, why are we talking about him? Let’s explore.’

We moved deeper into the foyer, following the tinkling sound
of running water. A circular ice fountain, decorated with leafy ice grapes,
stood beneath the chandelier. The plump bunches curled around the stand,
climbing to the rim of the basin where they spread thickly. The water was
pumped through an arrangement of ice lilies. It flowed out through the stamens,
swirled around the basin, and drained away.

Jane Galloway held a finger under the stamens. ‘Why doesn’t
the water freeze?’

Marita’s lips twitched. ‘Partly because it is constantly
moving, and partly because it is almost one hundred percent industrial-strength
antifreeze.’

‘Yikes.’ Jane pulled her hand back as though she’d been
stung.

Mike nudged her and smirked. She nudged him back harder.

Marita raised her voice, in tour-guide mode again. ‘The
Icehotel is built from ice harvested from the nearby river, which is frozen at
this time of year of course. When you’re on the river, you’ll see workmen
removing next year’s blocks for storage.’ She paused for effect.
‘That means there are areas of the river which will
not be frozen over. You must take great care on the ice. If you fall in, even
with a snowsuit, at these temperatures your chances of survival cannot be
guaranteed.’

‘I read that the river
Torne
is
particularly fast flowing,’ Jane said.

‘Not at the moment. It is’ – she frowned, trying to remember
the word – ‘sluggish. However, when the snows melt in spring, the current is
strong. Objects in the river, including those on the river bed, are swept into
the Gulf of Bothnia.’

She waited for this message to sink in. We looked suitably
impressed. Even Harry managed to keep a straight face.

‘You may have noticed there are no windows in the foyer.
When the Icehotel is constructed, low voltage cables are buried in the ice, and
tiny lamps are fixed to the walls to provide illumination. A few rooms have a
glass ceiling window, and light comes in that way also, although the ceiling
windows are intended primarily for viewing the aurora borealis from the comfort
of your room.’

‘Are we likely to see the aurora?’ I asked eagerly.

She fixed me with her gaze. ‘We are in a period of maximum
solar activity, so there is a high probability of seeing the aurora this week.’

‘Where’s the best place for viewing?’

‘The easiest to reach is probably the river.’ She hesitated.
‘But there is another place, a viewing platform at the top of the church tower.
You have to climb the steps as there is no elevator. I haven’t been up there
myself, but I am told that it is worth the effort.’

‘The rooms aren’t identical, then?’ said Jim. His good
spirits had returned; his wife was busy examining the ice lilies.

Marita smiled appreciatively, evidently pleased that this
question had been asked. ‘The rooms are unique. You will see in what way
shortly. Now, shall we continue?’

Behind the fountain, a low ice table and chairs stood around
casually, like a group of old friends. Marita motioned to the chairs but,
although reindeer skins covered the seats, no-one seemed prepared to sit down.
There was a single object on the table: an ice vase with ice roses, some in
bloom, others in bud. Snow, pressed onto the ice, frosted the roses like
sugared fruit.

‘Now it’s time to visit the bar,’ she said.

Harry, who’d been stroking the reindeer skins, perked up.
‘Excellent. May we have a drink now?’

‘If you must,’ Marita said brusquely, ‘but we are not
staying there long.’

She turned sharp right. We bustled after her through a
bottle-shaped entrance into a high-vaulted room.

The bar was open for business. The guests stood at tall ice
tables, drinking from chunky-looking glasses. Low tables and reindeer-strewn
chairs, like those in the foyer, were dotted around the room. A mock fireplace,
complete with mantelpiece, fender, and leaping flames, was set into the wall.
Behind the icy flames, a flickering reddish-orange light was designed to give
the impression the fire was lit. Although it was impossible to be fooled, the
flames threw their false warmth at us, lightening the chill in the room.