The Blue Place

by Nicola Griffith

  “We’ll have a couple of days in London on the way back. While I see my mother, you might like to visit Windsor, and there are numerous cathedrals, ruined abbeys, manor houses….” We were up among the clouds now. She still had not let go of the armrest. I sighed. This could be a long journey.

  “When I first started living in the U.S., I would drive along interstates and country lanes, along highway and freeway, and I would constantly scan the countryside. Every time there was a ridge or a hilltop or a bluff, I found myself looking up, expecting to see…something. It was years before I realized what I was searching for: evidence of the hand of humankind. In England, every hill is topped with the weathered remains of some Iron Age fort, of ruined manor houses, or abbeys staring naked and roofless at the sky. Sometimes it’s just the faint outline of ancient earthworks, but there’s almost always something, some indication that people once lived there. You can look out of the window of a plane and see fields and hedgerows that were first laid out in the ninth century. The hills have been smoothed, the rivers banked, the woods coppiced for thousands of years. And then I moved to Georgia. To Marietta, where a railway that’s barely a hundred years old is trumpeted with huge signs demanding that the poor motorist visit the Historic Railroad. To Duluth, where I lived in an apartment complex called Northwoods Lake Court, surrounded by old-growth pine forest, but where an eleven-year-old child now might go and look around and ask her mother: ‘Why did they call this place Northwoods, because there aren’t any trees?’ To Atlanta, Atlanta which they say Sherman burnt to the ground, but which is really destroyed every ten years by greedy developers who rip down beautiful buildings that have stood for decades and replace them with tissue-walled condominium boxes not even built to code. In Georgia, you drive ten miles outside the city and all you see is bare red clay and huge signposts declaring ‘Land For Sale’ to the highest bidder. It feels cold, sometimes, inimical and empty.”

  “So why do you stay?”

  “Because despite everything developers are trying to do, there is still a lot of natural beauty. For instance, there’s a park near Duluth. It has a lake with geese and ducks and fish, and it’s fringed with duckweed and cattails. The woods are full to bursting with birds. Cardinals and three different kinds of woodpecker, nuthatches, warblers, bluebirds…Have you ever seen a bluebird? They’re extremely sensitive to pollution. They’re always the first to go. But this park has bluebirds—they’re the colour of blue powder paints in the sunshine. In the woods are salamanders, lizards, mice, voles. There are yellow iris and tiger lilies, trumpet honeysuckle, swamp oak and white pine. And no one is ever there. It’s always empty.”

  “You sound angry.”

  “I’ve lived most of my life in London and Leeds, in Bergen and Oslo, and most of the time in those cities the only birds are sparrows that cough themselves awake on phone wires in the morning, and if you see a squirrel it’s a big nature day. Americans have no idea how lucky they are.”

  She was quiet for a while. “I was brought up in Massachusetts,” she said, “with winding country lanes, blackberries that have grown along the mossy walls for three hundred years, the occasional Cape Cod that has weathered storms off the Atlantic for a hundred and fifty. I had no idea I missed them until now.”

  And so for the next two hours, I told her about Yorkshire—the towns there with Roman walls; the pubs in the Dales that were built as farms in the fourteenth century—and she talked about the private school she attended in Boston.

  As the western coast of Norway drew near, I glanced out at the sea every few minutes. The captain announced we were beginning our preliminary descent. Then I saw it.

  “Look down there,” I said.

  We were about two miles out from the coast but the North Sea below us, usually a steely grey, looked like an estuary: huge currents and swathes of what looked like mud.

  “Oh, the assholes! What caused that?”

  “It’s not pollution.”

  “Then what is it?” She was quite belligerent.

  “Herring, on their way north, lay so many eggs and release so much milt that it clogs the water.” I imagined their cold, muscular bodies glinting silver in the freezing water, thrashing and ecstatic with the urge to procreate, releasing their vast, living milk tide. “There are so many eggs that they wash up on the rocky northern shores like snowdrift. Then massive flocks of birds dive in to feed. It used to be that massive flocks of people would appear to bring down the birds. Puffins are very tasty. But that doesn’t happen much anymore.”

  “Much?”

  I just smiled.

  The plane turned southeast, the captain struggled bravely with the intercom but remained incomprehensible, and we made our final approach. Beneath us, at the head of the swan-shaped neck of water that is Oslofjorden, Oslo glittered in the spring sunlight like a broken-open geode.

  International airports usually smell of jet fuel and stale clothes but at Fornebu, on the peninsula that pokes into Lysakerfjorden just six miles west of Oslo, those scents are swept aside by sharp sea air and the fragrance of pine trees. The scents of home.

  The immigration officers were courteous and efficient and spoke English. The people striding past us on the concourse all wore bright sweaters and swung their arms as they moved.

  “Why do they all walk so fast?”

  “Because they’re healthy. Because they don’t work ten hours a day. Because it’s not ninety degrees outside.” It was odd, after being swaddled in Southern languor for years, to be surrounded by so many white smiles that were not strained, people moving at speed because they liked it, not because they were late or afraid. We walked past an Avis desk.

  “Aren’t we going to hire a car?”

  “Not while we’re in the city. We can take a taxi to our hotel, and everything you want to see is walking distance from there.”

  She looked at the striding natives. “Norwegian walking distance, or American?”

  Then we were outside in the taxi line. Like everything else in this country, it moved forward efficiently. The sea breeze fizzed on my tongue like sherbet.

  “It’s colder than it looked from inside.”

  “It’s sixty degrees,” I said, surprised. “Warm for the season.” Winter had lasted a long time this year. It seemed that nature had turned up the thermostat in an effort to make up for the late start. But Julia was from Atlanta, where sunshine on the first of May meant ninety degrees. Her eyes and her skin were telling her different things.

  The driver of the cab that pulled up in front of us had the smooth cheeks and tilted eyes of someone with Sami blood. “Where to?” he asked in English.

  “Hotel Bristol,” Julia said. Telling him the street address would have been like telling a New York native how to get to the Empire State Building.

  We drove east along Drammensveien. Julia was quiet. As Drammensveien crossed Bygdoy Alle, I pointed north to the park. “Three blocks that way to Vigeland’s sculpture park. What kind of art do the glass corporation want?”

  “Whatever it is, it’ll have to resist the elements. How far to the hotel?”

  “Another mile.”

  But it took a long time to get there. The streets were full of parades, people holding banners and placards, men and women marching along behind bands.

  “It’s May the first. Labour Day.” I had forgotten. “A public holiday when trade unions and political parties hold rallies. All very dignified when compared to the seventeenth of May, National Day, when everyone runs the flag up the pole and parties to celebrate the anniversary of the Norwegian constitution.” By the seventeenth we would be by the still green waters of Lustrafjord, two hundred miles from the crowds of screaming children waving their flags, smearing their best clothes with mustard from their pølse and spilling fizzy brus on innocent passersby.

  The driver, who had been nosing his cab patiently through the crowds, sighed, pulled on the brake, and told us he could go no farther, and that would be a hundred thirty krone, please. We
climbed out and Julia shuffled through her money, trying to decipher the unfamiliar notes. She found hundred-Nkr and fifty-Nkr notes but I leaned forward and said quietly, “Give him more. Another twenty-Nkr.”

  She did. He smiled. “Takk skal du har.”

  “Ingen arsak,” I replied.

  He drove off slowly through the crowds. “I thought Norwegians didn’t believe in big tips.”

  “He was Sami. What Americans would call Lapp. The fare from the airport should be at least a hundred fifty-Nkr. Perhaps he charged less because he couldn’t get us to our exact destination, but perhaps it’s because he expects to be treated badly.”

  “So Norway isn’t perfect.”

  “Just cleaner. The hotel is that way.” Out in the early afternoon sun, I could see that her skin was stretched and tight, and the circles under her eyes had darkened from tobacco to charcoal.

  Inside the doors of the Bristol, Julia stopped and stared. Jet lag, a strange country, and now the exotic cinnamon and gold arches of a Moorish-style lobby.

  “I’ll check us in.” I left her on an ottoman recovering her poise.

  The Bristol is one of the few good hotels left where getting two rooms with a connecting door is possible without breaking the bank. I asked for two keys to each room, two for the connecting door. The clerk obviously thought I was eccentric but given the amount we were paying, he didn’t seem inclined to argue. I told him to send our luggage up when it arrived.

  Julia smiled at me as I approached, still looking tired but now as relaxed and unfazed as though she had spent her life sitting on Turkish couches in Moorish lobbies in Norwegian cities. Such a relief after babysitting Beatriz. I sat next to her. “This is the key to your room, this is the key to mine, here’s the one that fits the connecting door, though I think we should keep that unlocked.” I handed them over. “I have a complete set, too.”

  “Just in case?” She smiled but sounded more fatigued than amused. “God, I need to sleep.”

  The elevators were small, and elegant with brass and mahogany. Julia peered at the buttons, which appeared to be made of ivory. “I just hope my room’s not got out like a harem or something.”

  It wasn’t. It had a slate blue carpet with rosewood armoire and escritoire dating from the 1880s. The headboard was beautifully inlaid. Simple, elegant, warm. She opened the connecting door to my room, which was carpeted in moss green, with walnut furniture. “Very nice.”

  I checked the windows, then went into her bathroom. Huge tub, shower stall with faux nineteenth century hardware. Mounds of white towels. A second phone. I brought the robe out with me.

  Julia was sitting on the bed, bouncing lightly. “The mattress, at least, is new. What’s that for?”

  “Our luggage won’t be here for an hour or two. If you want to sleep, you might like a robe handy.”

  She held out her hand for the robe. “If I’m not stirring by five, will you wake me?”

  “Five,” I agreed, and left her to it.

  In my room, I called the front desk to make sure they delivered both our bags to my room. Just in case they processed my request with less than usual Norwegian efficiency, I took my DO NOT DISTURB sign, went out into the corridor and hung it on Julia’s door. My bathroom was blue and gold. I unwrapped the bandage around my ribs, dropped it in the bin, and looked at my ribs in the mirror. The skin was clear, not red, and when I touched the hard scab the pain was minimal. It didn’t need to be wrapped up again. I dressed and went back to my room of tasteful moss and polished walnut.

  From the chaise longue by the window I could see clouds scudding over the harbour. The sea would be beginning to chop, the temperature dropping by the minute. The crowds would soon start thinking about going home to eat middag. By five I would have the pavements to myself. I could taste the air, listen to the gulls, reacquaint myself.

  There were trees throughout the city, scattered here and there on the streets, lining the harbour walk, gathering in dense growth in the parks. From up here, Slottsparken, surrounding the Royal Palace, looked like lime-green felt, fresh and vigorous with new foliage. It seemed all wrong. It should be autumn, with a gale whipping leaves from the trees, swirling them underfoot, so my strides would crunch gold and russet and brown, scenting the air with the pungence of loss and regret. But it was spring, late spring that was trying with a vengeance to become summer, and my solitary walk would have to wait for a while, because Julia was asleep and I had promised to wake her at five. And I was uneasy.

  I made a phone call. I read Iain Banks.

  At five, I knocked on the connecting door. A murmur. I knocked again. Nothing. I went through.

  She had pulled the thin curtains closed but not the heavy drapes. The room was in light shadow, just enough to bring the richness out of the wood and make the blue carpet deep and mysterious. She slept on her back, arms over her head, mouth open, shoulders showing bare. Her breath was short and fast and cross. How easy it would be to step closer and put a hand over her mouth, pinch shut her nostrils. She would struggle, of course, but under the duvet and hotel-tight sheets, under the slippery silk bedspread, she wouldn’t stand a chance. Her heart would beat under her ribs, frantic as a bird, and her muscles would bunch like tight little apples.

  All that stood between her and death at the hands of a stranger was a door, but all one had to do was bribe the desk clerk, or trick a chambermaid, or pick the lock, and then all her training would be for nothing.

  But this was Oslo, not Atlanta. Honeycutt had no idea she was here. Nor had his blackmailer.

  “Julia.”

  She turned away. The scent of sleepy, warm woman drifted from the bed.

  “Julia.”

  “Mmmn.” She turned back towards me, face soft and unfocused. Still asleep.

  “Julia. It’s five o’clock.”

  The essential Julia flowed back into the body on the bed, reanimating the flesh, sharpening the face, focusing the gaze, and I understood why some people believe in possession.

  “It’s five o’clock,” I repeated. “Our luggage arrived. I’ll go get yours.” I also went back out into the corridor and retrieved the DO NOT DISTURB sign. Then I waited an extra minute or two.

  She was standing by the window in her robe, curtain drawn back. Her skin looked soft and warm and alive against the white towelling. “It all looks so fresh and clean, as though people here don’t even sweat.” Her hair fell forward over her eyes. She tucked it back behind her ears. “What time do people eat in Oslo?”

  “Early, though not as early as they used to. But there’s someone I should visit before dinner. You are welcome to come with me, unless you prefer to stay in the hotel and rest.”

  “Someone who takes precedence over dinner?” She studied me. “A relative.”

  “My great-aunt, Hjørdis.”

  “A relative…. Yes, I’d love to meet her. But I need to shower, then work out my travel kinks. How about a walk?”

  “Norwegian or American?”

  “Norwegian. I’ll dress appropriately.”

  “I’ll be in my room.”

  When I looked up forty minutes later she was standing in the doorway, wearing stretch twill pants, light boots, and a thick sweater the swirling colours of sunset over the sea. “Nice room,” she said, then: “I’m not a vampire. If you invite me in you can always get rid of me later.”

  I stood. “I’m sorry. Please, come in.” It sounded wooden and overly formal. Her boots made deep imprints on the carpet. Walnut and moss, not raspberry and Viking gold. I wondered how long they would be visible.

  Ulleval Hageby, where Tante Hjørdis lives, is almost three miles from the centre of the city. I walked between Julia and the road. It was a beautiful evening. The sky, cloudless now, arched overhead like a fragile eggshell painted blue so long ago it was beginning to fade, and the sun slanted across the pavement like a glass sword. Trees absorbed the traffic fumes and the world smelt deliciously of green sap and distant ozone. I walked fast, letting my blood
pump through veins and wash away the travel toxins and rush oxygen to my scalp and fingertips and retina, and all the time scanned the trees automatically, listened for following footsteps. Nothing. This was Oslo. Julia kept up, moving easily, alert, enjoying herself. She seemed to have shed her city skin, or perhaps just a layer of armour. Red squirrels jumped from tree to tree ahead of us. “It’s like walking through a garden.”

  “Hage means garden, and by is town. Hjørdis has lived here ever since I can remember.”

  “Do you like her?”

  That surprised me. “She’s my aunt.”

  “But what’s she like?”

  I thought for a while. “Older than she seems.”

  Julia laughed and picked up the pace and for a while we swung along in opposite step, hip to hip, her right leg moving out with my left, so I could feel her boot hit the ground, feel it through the soles of my feet, up my calves, in my pelvis. It didn’t last, of course. My legs are longer.

  Tante Hjørdis’s house is made of wood, in a row of wooden houses painted bright colours. Hers is red. We climbed a short flight of wooden steps and I lifted the brass knocker. I’d always loved its tidy, bright rat-tat-tat sound as a child.

  The door opened so fast Julia took a step back and there was Tante Hjørdis, still tall, still with that iron-grey hair in a short bowl cut. The sweater was brighter than usual. There was no Hello, no Aud, how lovely to see you!, but her eyes were bright, and she said, “You’re the only person these days who doesn’t try hammer that thing through the wood.” She turned to Julia and said, in English this time, “Everyone else thinks I’m going deaf.”

  She held out her arms and we hugged. I remembered when she used to engulf me. Now I was an inch or two taller, though her bone and muscle still felt like granite.

  I stepped out of the embrace and spoke in English. “Tante, this is Julia Lyons-Bennet. Julia, this is my great-aunt, Hjørdis Holmsen.”

  Julia held out her hand and they shook heartily. Hjørdis nodded approval. “Come in. I’ll be in the kitchen.”