“Maybe we should have rented a VW,” she mused. “A Beetle would have been smaller.”
“Smaller is not safer.” Roelke had insisted on a boxy Volvo sedan even though it was more expensive. The rental agent had said that Norwegian police drove Volvos, which sealed the deal.
They’d also paid extra to put both names on the rental agreement, but he intended to do all the driving. Chloe had professional obligations. She was also on an intensely personal quest. He couldn’t contribute to her research, but he could at least take the wheel.
“I’m sorry the driving is challenging, but at least the scenery is gorgeous.” Chloe scooched down and propped her toes on the dashboard. “So many waterfalls.”
Since Roelke didn’t dare take his gaze from the road, he couldn’t comment on waterfalls.
“Why haven’t I ever come before?” she wondered. “As an adult, I mean.”
He was pleased that she seemed to have forgotten the ugly incident at the airport. She hadn’t fretted about Hilda during the drive, either. Chloe’s voice was happy, tinged with wonder, validating his resolve to be chauffeur.
“Seriously,” she was saying, “how could I have lived in Europe for five years and never bothered to explore Norway?”
He didn’t mention the obvious—that she’d craved space between herself and her mom, Marit All-Things-Norwegian Kallerud. “Well, you’re here now. And I’m glad I got to—oh, hell.” He’d just rounded a curve to confront not only an oncoming truck, but a string of bicyclists wobbling up the hill.
Two hours later, from the stress-free upper deck of a car ferry, they watched Utne grow more distinct in front of them. “There’s the Hardanger Folkemuseum!” Chloe pointed to a low brick structure overlooking the fjord. Most buildings in the little hamlet were lined along the shore, with a few nestled farther up the mountain. Many were painted a tidy white and roofed with what looked like gray slate, including the pretty church watching over the village. The slopes faded from the middle green hues of deciduous trees to darker conifers above, capped with treeless areas of stone and scree and snowy ridgelines. The early evening was tinged with blue, but in this place, with the summer solstice approaching, darkness was still hours away.
Roelke tried to remember what Chloe had told him about Utne. The village was situated in the Hardanger region of Hordaland County. It marked the northern tip of the Folgefonna peninsula between the Hardangerfjord and one of its branches, the Sørfjord. Now that he was out on the water, free to soak in their surroundings, he had to agree with what she’d said earlier. The Hardanger region was jaw-droppingly beautiful.
The ferry docked right in front of their hotel. He found a small parking lot down the street, and they grabbed luggage from the trunk. Almost at once, though, Chloe stopped walking.
“Something wrong?”
“This place feels familiar, Roelke. Like I just shrugged into a comfortable old sweater.”
The Utne Hotel was a white four-story frame building fronted by a picket fence and roofed in red tiles. Roses climbed along the lower wall. Geraniums and petunias spilled from window boxes above. “This place looks old,” Roelke observed as they started up the steps.
“It opened in 1722 as the Utne Inn. Some say it’s Norway’s oldest continuously operating inn.”
When they stepped inside Chloe paused again, head tipped slightly to one side. Roelke watched her, knowing she was assessing the historic inn’s … what was the word? Vibe? Aura? He couldn’t explain it, but he’d seen her impressions proved true more than once. “Anything?” he asked, hoping she hadn’t picked up on something bad.
But she shook her head. “Just a faint impression of busyness. And something … something pleasant. A sense of hospitality, maybe.” She smiled. “Let’s go check in.”
The proprietress, a stately white-haired woman named Ulrikke Moe, welcomed them warmly. “Klara?” she called over her shoulder. A young woman with wheat-colored braids and a radiant smile appeared. She wore a dress vaguely reminiscent of a bunad, but much more practical, with an ornate silver necklace hanging over the blouse.
“This is Klara Evenstad,” Ulrikke said. “She’ll take you up to Room 15.”
Klara grabbed Chloe and Roelke’s daypacks and led them up two flights of narrow stairs. “This is the only room on the top floor that overlooks the fjords,” Klara explained as she opened their door. “I hope this will suit?”
“We obviously have the best room in the inn,” Chloe assured the young woman as they set their suitcases down. “It’s exciting to know that guests have been staying here for over two hundred and fifty years.”
The last of Roelke’s drive-induced stress seeped away. He loved seeing Chloe so content.
“Do you like history?” Klara asked.
“It’s my passion,” Chloe assured her.
“I love history too!” Klara’s We are kindred souls smile revealed a gap between her two front teeth. “I grew up in Utne, so please let me know if you need any information.” She deposited the packs in the tiny closet and left them alone.
Roelke was dubiously eyeing the twin beds, pushed together to make a double. “Footboards. We’re both on the tall side for footboards.”
“Who cares, when we have the best room?” Chloe asked happily, as if the prospect of bruised toes was of no importance. “Look at this view!” She crossed to the open window and put her hands on the sill.
Then she jerked away as if the wood had burned her palms. “Geez!”
Damn. “What was that? Are you okay?”
“I—I’m not sure.” She eyed the window. “I felt this overwhelming flash of sadness. No, it was more like … despair.”
Roelke felt a sinking sensation as he imagined them packing up, trying to explain to Ulrikke Moe why they had to check out ten minutes after checking in, hitting the narrow road again in search of new lodging.
Chloe rubbed her arms. “It only lasted for a second, though. Just when I was right by the window.”
He eyed her. “You’re all right now?”
She took a deep breath, considering. Finally she nodded. “I’m good. It’s not the whole room. I think I just need to stay away from the window.” She took another step backward, nodded decisively, and smiled at him in a way that twisted his heart. “Oh, Roelke. Are we lucky, or what?”
When Chloe woke the next morning she was relieved to discover that she’d slept soundly. No further jolts of heartrending despair. She wondered if someone had climbed to this room to watch over the fjord for a husband or lover lost in a storm. Or maybe someone watched passengers disembark from the ferries without seeing their loved one. I’ll likely never know, she thought, but I will stay clear of the window.
She and Roelke enjoyed a sumptuous breakfast buffet in the hotel’s dining room. Klara was circulating among the guest tables, offering coffee and whisking away dirty plates. When she stopped to top off their mugs, the light glimmered on her silver necklace.
Chloe leaned closer. The necklace’s main element was an engraved disc covered with delicate filigree work. A Maltese-style cross hung below, and a number of leaf shapes dangled from both pieces. “Your necklace is gorgeous, Klara! And it looks like an antique.”
“It is. I don’t know how old it is, though.”
Fine silver wasn’t Chloe’s thing, but to women like Mom, ornate jewelry was essential when wearing a bunad. “Is it a family heirloom?”
“No, a gift.” Her cheeks flushed pink as plum blossoms. “From my boyfriend.”
“Well, your boyfriend obviously thinks the world of you.”
Klara ducked her head shyly, but she looked pleased.
As the young woman moved on, Chloe spread cloudberry jam on a piece of homemade bread. “Roelke, you’re welcome to come with me to the museum today, you know.”
“I don’t want to intrude on your meeting with the director.
I thought I’d do some exploring on foot. After the flight and being in the car, a long walk sounds good.” Roelke forked up some pickled herring, sniffed it, then tasted. “Well, hunh. Interesting.”
After the meal, Chloe had only a short walk to the Hardanger Folkemuseum. Clouds hung low today, softening the terrain to an ombre mist of blues and grays. The mountains behind the village and across the fjords imparted a sense of haven and safety that she hadn’t expected.
“Mom,” she whispered, “I’m sorry we couldn’t come here together.” She let the sadness come, and wrapped it around thoughts of Aunt Hilda too. Then she walked on up the hill to the museum.
Director Ellinor Falk had a sleek cap of silver hair framing a round face. Her flowing green skirt and black clogs suggested a comfy-professional style. “I was so sorry to hear that your mother died,” she said in greeting, clasping Chloe’s hand. “We’d been corresponding as Marit planned her research trip, and I’d looked forward to meeting her.” Ellinor’s blue eyes held Chloe’s gaze. “How nice that you could take her place.”
As if I could ever take Mom’s place, Chloe thought, but she appreciated the sentiment. “I’m glad to be here.”
Ellinor beckoned Chloe into her office, a small space brightened by a row of potted plants in the window and posters from past exhibits. “There’s a lot to keep you busy during your visit, but I haven’t forgotten that you’re also here to look for family.”
“I know it won’t be easy,” Chloe said. “The whole naming thing …” There was no standard for surnames until the 1920s, when a law was passed requiring all Norwegians to choose a permanent family name. Before that, members of the same family often had different last names. Many surnames reflected a person’s occupation or their farm name. If people moved, their name might change.
Ellinor smiled sympathetically. “It does create some confusion.”
“What I need most is to identify a hometown for the woman I’m trying to find.” Chloe lifted her palms, acknowledging that without more to go on, she was unlikely to get very far in the short time she had. “Her name is Amalie Sveinsdatter.”
“You should talk with a friend of mine. Martin Brandvold was pastor here in Utne for many years. He knows everyone, and he knows what records are kept where. I’m sure he’ll be glad to chat with you.” She passed over a slip of paper with the name and phone number.
“Thank you.”
“Before I forget …” Ellinor picked up a book from her desk. “This is a local history written in English. You’re welcome to borrow it.”
“Thanks!” Chloe tucked it away.
“Were you able to connect with Sonja in Bergen yesterday?”
“Briefly.” Chloe settled back into the guest chair. “We had a good talk, and I learned some things about the two embroidered heirlooms I mentioned on the phone.”
“Sonja knows her textiles. My particular area of interest is folk music. How much do you know about Hardanger fiddles?”
“Not a lot,” Chloe allowed humbly.
“Let me give you an overview.” Ellinor looked pleased by the opportunity. “This region is, of course, the birthplace of the hardingfele—the Hardanger fiddle. They have understrings that resonate when the top four are played. That gives the instruments a unique sound.”
“Haunting, I’d call it,” Chloe offered.
Ellinor nodded. “The oldest known hardingfele dates to 1651. I believe it’s safe to say that the tradition goes back even further. And while the fiddles themselves are valued for their sound, and worth study as works of art, what fascinates me most is the role fiddlers had in rural society.”
“Me too.” Chloe suppressed a wriggle of anticipation. “My Wisconsin colleagues want to explore how that role might have changed—or not—in the New World.”
“In this region, talented fiddlers were vital members of any community. They played a ritual role in weddings and funerals and other gatherings.”
Chloe pulled a notebook from her daypack and began scribbling.
“It is important to interview every kilde we can find …” Ellinor paused. “You would say a source, I think? Someone who passes tunes to others. Some have been played for hundreds of years, but never written down.”
“That’s amazing,” Chloe agreed. “But … I’ve heard that some people branded fiddles as ‘the devil’s instrument.’”
“That’s true.” Ellinor picked up a pencil and tapped it against the desk. “Folklore from pagan times connected the hardingfele with evil. Many people believed that the best players learned their skill from the devil himself.”
“Yikes,” Chloe said soberly, picturing a superb musician being persecuted instead of celebrated.
“The real issue for the people objecting to fiddles in the 1800s, I think, was that music represented dancing and drinking, which presumably led to careless sex and drunken brawls. Fiddlers were condemned as godless. Fortunately a few musicians refused to be intimidated, which preserved at least some of the tunes and traditions.”
“And for the fiddle makers, the skills.”
“Exactly.” Ellinor leaned forward with an eager expression Chloe recognized—the thrill of the historical hunt. “The names of many famous fiddle makers have survived: Ole Jonsen Jaastad, Isak and Trond Botnen, and of course the Helland brothers—”
“Who settled in Wisconsin,” Chloe interjected, glad to have something to contribute. Kent Andreasson had shown her a photograph of Knut and Gunnar Helland posed jauntily in front of their Chippewa Falls fiddle shop.
“Yes.” Ellinor nodded. “I want to document any makers who ended up in America, particularly if some of their instruments survived. Trine Moen is looking into that for me while she’s in Wisconsin.”
“She said to say hello, by the way. I understand that she worked as a guide here last summer?”
“Yes, and I miss her! She’s a history major who got along with everyone. Visitors loved her.”
In Chloe’s experience, a front-line staffer who communicated well with both colleagues and guests trumped being a history major, although that was indeed a nice bonus. “Trine’s doing a great job with her internship in Stoughton.”
“I’m glad. I helped her with the scholarship application. If a cultural organization hadn’t funded her year abroad, she never could have afforded it.”
“Most college kids couldn’t,” Chloe observed. Even if living on ramen noodles and selling plasma twice a week.
“In addition to working here full-time, Trine did chores for some of our village elders. That speaks well of her.”
“It does.” Chloe knew what it was like to count pennies and juggle jobs, and she respected anyone who did so.
“Anyway, it would be exciting if Trine discovers a reference to any other Hardanger fiddle makers in Wisconsin.” Ellinor hesitated, rolling the pencil back and forth in her fingers. “I do hope that next summer I can get her back here, though. She was helping me look for Jørgen Riis.”
The name meant nothing to Chloe. “Jørgen Riis?”
“He’s my research … um …” She groped for the right word. “Rival?”
“Nemesis?” Chloe suggested. “A constant challenge.”
“Yes. Nemesis. Unfortunately, very little is known about him.” Ellinor’s mouth twisted wryly. “Still, oral tradition paints a vivid picture of a man who crafted exceptional instruments. He made only a few fiddles. Legend says that when he played one of his own instruments, listeners were moved to tears.”
For a moment, Chloe thought she heard the faint echo of a Hardanger fiddle. She shivered appreciatively, then remembered where she was. Keep it professional, she told herself.
“Legend also says that Riis had indeed sold his soul to the devil,” Ellinor was saying. “And his name is often mentioned in connection with a murder—”
“A murder?” Chloe blinked. “Seriously?
”
“Who knows?” Ellinor lifted her hands, palms up. “I know for sure that he spent some time in the area, but he disappeared from the historical record at a relatively young age sixty-seven years ago. It’s possible that he simply moved on—to other parts of Norway or Europe, or to America. Many of the fiddlers were itinerant, traveling widely to share their tunes and learn new ones.” She looked pensive. “And yet …”
“And yet?” Chloe prompted.
“The stories didn’t disappear with him,” Ellinor mused. “I started interviewing local elders about Riis decades ago. Everyone had their own version of the story. One person said Riis committed murder. Another believed Riis was the victim. I’ve heard that the murder involved a lover, and I’ve heard that it involved a pastor.”
Chloe was intrigued—who wouldn’t be?—but decided not to dwell on the unsavory bit of Riis’s story. “Do you have any of his fiddles in your collection?”
“We have one. Riis always included a tiny, elaborate R in the designs inked on his fiddles. This one was donated a decade after the museum was established in 1911. But unfortunately the provenance information is … limited.”
Been there, Chloe thought. Nothing was more frustrating than discovering that an amazing artifact had been accessioned into a museum collection without complete records. Sometimes no information was available, of course. But sometimes early curator-types had been more interested in collecting objects than recording pertinent stories.
“I’ve also seen another hardingfele, still in private hands, that was made by Jørgen Riis. Other than his initial, it shows no real similarity to our fiddle … but that only supports the theory that he labored long over each instrument, making every one unique, instead of … what do you Americans say? Cranking them out?”
Chloe smiled. “Yes.”
“The most persistent tale speaks of his finest fiddle, supposedly hidden away.”
“Because some anti-fiddle zealots believed it was the devil’s instrument?”
“So they say.” Ellinor shrugged. “Let’s go up to the music exhibit, and I’ll show you the fiddle that was made by Riis.” She rose and led the way.
Fiddling with Fate Page 6
