by Jo Nesbo
* * *
—
‘So I hear it’s soon going to be your turn to get a taxi licence,’ said Wenche’s father as he poked the big, three-pronged serving fork into one of the dry slices of roast beef and dumped it onto his plate. I hadn’t tasted it yet, but knew it was dry, they always had roast beef when I was there, and it was always dry. Sometimes I imagined it might be a kind of test, that they were just waiting for the day I threw the plate at the wall and bellowed that I couldn’t fucking stand it any more, not them and not the roast beef and not their daughter. And that they would heave a great sigh of relief.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Brorson inherits the licence when his uncle retires this summer, and I’m next on the list after that.’
‘And how long do you think that might turn out to be?’
‘That depends on when the next taxi owner retires.’
‘I understand that, what I’m asking is, when will that be?’
‘Well. Ruud is the oldest. He’s probably about fifty-five now.’
‘Well then, he might carry on driving for at least another ten years.’
‘Yes.’ I raised the glass of water to my lips, knowing I needed moistening up for the chewing job ahead.
‘I was just reading that Norway has the most expensive taxis in the world,’ said my father-in-law. ‘It’s probably not surprising, bearing in mind we also have the world’s most dysfunctional taxi business. Idiot politicians who let the villains who run the business rob people who have no alternative form of transport and who in any other country would have something approaching a halfway decent taxi service.’
‘You must be thinking of Oslo,’ I said. ‘And don’t forget either, running costs are very high in this country.’
‘There are lots of countries more expensive than Norway,’ said Wenche’s father. ‘And the taxis in Norway are not only the dearest in the world, they’re in a class of their own completely. I read that, in Oslo, five kilometres during daylight hours costs twenty per cent more than in Zurich, the next dearest, and fifty per cent more than in Luxembourg, which is third. Oh yes, you’ve got everyone else on the list beaten hands down. Did you know that in Kiev – which is not even the cheapest city in the world – you can, for the price of one taxi in Oslo, hire not just two. Not three. Not five. Not ten. But twenty. I could transport an entire class of schoolchildren in Kiev for what it costs to drive one poor sod here down to the railway station.’
‘In Oslo,’ I said, and shifted in my seat. The earring in my trouser pocket was sticking into me. ‘Not here.’
‘So what surprises me,’ said Wenche’s father as he wiped his thin lips with a serviette while her mother filled his glass of water, ‘is why a taxi driver in this country, even if he doesn’t own his own car, can’t earn himself a decent annual wage.’
‘Yeah, you tell me.’
‘OK then, I will. In Oslo they issue so many taxi licences that they have to screw up the price to maintain the high standard of living they’ve become accustomed to, which means fewer customers, so prices have to rise even higher, so in the end it’s the handful of people with no alternative form of transport who are being ripped off, so they can keep a whole army of taxi drivers parked up at cab ranks with nothing to do but scratch their arses and complain about people living off unemployment benefit. Whereas in actual fact they’re the ones living off unemployment benefits, only it’s the passengers who are paying for it. So when Uber comes along and shakes things up a bit in a business that’s already a bit shaky, the taxi drivers’ union and all its tax-dodging members fly into a rage and insist on keeping their sole right to get paid for just sitting in a parked-up cab. And the only winner is Mercedes, who can sell cars there’s no use for.’
His voice hadn’t got any louder, only more intense, and I knew that Wenche was looking at me in a sort of amused way. She liked it when her father laid down the law for me like that. She even actually said that the way he acted and spoke was how a real man should, and I should try to learn from him.
‘That, at any rate, is the plan,’ I said.
‘What is?’
‘Wait until I get the licence and then buy a Mercedes there’s no use for.’ I gave a little laugh, but no one else around the table even smiled.
‘See, Amund is the same as the taxi drivers in Oslo,’ said Wenche. ‘He likes to wait in a queue and hope that sooner or later something good will happen. He isn’t a doer, like some I could mention.’
Her mother spoke up and changed the subject, I don’t remember to what, only that I sat there chewing and chewing on a slice of beef that tasted as though it too had had a tough life. And wondered what Wenche had meant by some she could mention.
* * *
—
‘You can drop me off at the pub,’ said Wenche as we drove home.
‘Now? It’s nine o’clock.’
‘The girls are there already. We agreed to meet up for a hair of the dog tonight.’
‘Sounds like a good idea. Maybe I should come along…’
‘The whole point is to get away from the husband and kids for a while.’
‘I could sit at another table.’
‘Amund!’
Don’t hold so hard, I thought. Don’t get cramp in your hand, you’ll lose all feeling, you won’t be able to feel the string.
After letting myself into the house alone I went up to the bedroom and began to rummage through the drawer where Wenche kept her trinkets. I opened jewellers’ boxes and saw rings and gold chains. One of them looked new and I couldn’t remember having seen it before. Then I looked through the earrings. First there was an empty box – that was probably where she kept those silver things she was wearing this evening. Then a pair of unusual-looking pearl earrings with a blue ring that encircled the grey pearls like a narrow equator. She’d got them from her father and called them her Saturn studs. But I didn’t find the earrings I had given her, nor the box they came in. I looked in the other drawers. In the wardrobe. Her toilet bag, her handbags, the pockets of her jackets and trousers. Nothing. What could it mean?
I went into the kitchen, took a beer from the fridge and sat at the kitchen table. I had no proof. I couldn’t be certain, but all the same I knew there was no way round it now. I would have to look through all those half-thoughts I’d been thinking but dismissing and postponing until I found the box with the other stud in it. Until I could be certain.
It wasn’t really the suspicion that Wenche had been fooling around in the back seat that bothered me most. It was Palle denying that Wenche had been in the car at all last night. Why would he lie about that? There were only two possible answers. That he didn’t want to gossip, and perhaps she’d even asked him not to. Or that Palle himself had been the other occupant of the back seat. And once that possibility was raised I couldn’t block out the rest of it either. I visualised Palle’s little arse pumping up and down on Wenche, who was shouting out his name the way she had shouted mine down the football pitch, and continued to do so that first year, until we got married. The mental image made me nauseous. It truly did. Wenche was the best and the worst that had happened to me, but – and this was more important – she was the only thing that had happened to me. Not that I’d been a virgin when I met her, but the others had been the ones anyone could have. Wenche had been the only woman who improved my self-image just by allowing me to screw her. As time went by and it became ever clearer to her that she could have done better than me, naturally she made a point of obliging me to ratchet my self-image back down again. But never back down to the level it had been at before I met her. Wenche was and remained my helium balloon. As long as I held on tight to the string I felt a little lighter, I had a little more lift.
The way I looked at it I had two options. To confront her with the findings and facts. Or keep my mouth shut and just carry on as before. The first option carried the risk of losing both h
er and the job – at least, if it was Palle who’d been screwing her.
Option two would involve the risk of a loss of self-respect.
My immediate preference was for option two.
But option one, confrontation, naturally also included the possibility that she could invent a completely different explanation for how the earring had ended up between the seats. An explanation I would be able to convince myself was credible. An explanation that meant I wouldn’t have to spend the rest of my life imagining Palle’s ageing but still firm football arse. And maybe the fact that I had confronted her, shown her that I was willing to risk everything, would make her bloody well understand that I was not just somebody who waited around for things to happen to me, that I could act, I could be master of my own fate. That it wasn’t my bloody fault that the licence regulations are the way they are.
Right. I would have to confront her.
I opened another beer and waited. Sweated and waited.
There was a picture of us with our gang on the fridge. It was taken eight years ago, at the wedding, and we all looked so young, younger than those eight years would suggest. Jesus, how proud I was that day. And happy. I believe I can say that: happy. Because I was still at the age when you think that every good thing that happens to you is the start of something, not the end. The thought never occurs that this day, those months, maybe that single year, is all the happiness life has to offer you. I had no fucking idea I was at the top, so I hadn’t taken the time to savour the view but carried on in the belief that there were new heights to be reached. I had seen that picture hanging there for a few thousand days, but this evening it made me weep. Yes it did. I wept.
I checked the time. Eleven. Opened another beer. It eased the pain, but only a bit.
I was about to open a fourth when the phone rang.
I answered in a flash, it had to be Wenche.
‘Sorry for disturbing you this late,’ said a female voice. ‘My name is Eirin Hansen. Is this Amund Stenseth, the taxi driver?’
‘Yes?’
‘I got your number from Palle Ibsen. I believe you might have found the earring I lost in his cab yesterday evening?’
‘What kind…?’
‘An ordinary pearl stud,’ said Eirin Hansen. And if she’d been standing there in my kitchen I would have put my arms around her. My inner jubilation was so great I thought she had to be able to hear it.
‘I’ve got it,’ I said.
‘Oh, what a relief! It was a present from my mother.’
‘Well then, I’m extra pleased I found it,’ said I, and thought how fantastic it was that I could be sharing so much joy and relief over the phone with Eirin Hansen, a complete stranger to me.
‘Isn’t it strange,’ I said, ‘how when you get bad news one day that turns out to be wrong, the day becomes even better than it was before you got the bad news?’
‘I’ve never thought about it but yes, you might be right,’ she said with a laugh.
I know it was the euphoria, but I thought Eirin Hansen’s laughter sounded so good, she sounded like a nice person. In fact, she even sounded as if she was quite beautiful.
‘Where and when can I, er…pick up the earring?’
For a moment I was on the point of suggesting I take it to her there and then, wherever she was, before I regained control of the thoughts and feelings that were racing through me.
‘I’m driving a day shift tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Call me and I’ll let you know when I’m at the taxi rank by the kiosk near the steps, or at least nearly there.’
‘That’s wonderful! Thank you so much, Amund!’
‘No problem, Eirin.’
We ended the call. And with the joy still singing away inside me I drank the rest of the beer.
It was gone midnight by the time Wenche crept into bed. She probably knew I wasn’t asleep, but she kept very quiet and moved around very carefully. I heard her lying down behind my back and sort of hold her breath, as if she was listening to mine. Then I fell asleep.
* * *
—
Next day I woke up bright and raring to go.
‘What’s up with you?’ Wenche asked over breakfast.
‘Nothing.’ I smiled. ‘You’re still not wearing my earrings.’
‘Will you stop going on about those?’ she groaned. ‘I lent them to Torill, she thought they looked so good on me and asked if she could borrow them for the office party. I’m meeting her tonight and I’ll get them back then, OK?’
‘It’s nice that other people think they suit you,’ I said.
She gave me a funny look as I drained the rest of my coffee and with wings on my heels almost flew out the room.
I felt like a teenager on his first date, excited and afraid at the same time.
* * *
—
After parking at Palle’s I got into the taxi and coasted down the slope. I could feel the brake pedal was even slacker and I called the garage and asked Todd if he could fix it tomorrow.
‘I could, but if you can bring it in today that gives us more time,’ said Todd.
I didn’t reply.
‘I get it,’ Todd said, and I could hear him grinning. ‘Palle’s driving the day shift tomorrow and you’re pissed off it’s always you who has to spend his shift at the garage.’
‘Thanks,’ I said.
At ten the phone rang.
I saw from the display it was Eirin.
‘Hi,’ was all I said.
‘Hi,’ she said, as though she knew she didn’t have to give her name, that I recognised her number. And didn’t her voice sound a little tense, almost nervous? Maybe not, maybe it was just that I wanted her to sound like that.
We agreed to meet at the taxi rank at ten thirty. I did one quick pickup and afterwards parked the taxi and waved Gelbert’s and Axelson’s cabs in ahead of me. While I was waiting I tried not to think. Because now all the fantasies, all the expectations that had been fighting for a place in my brain were as nothing; soon I would know.
The passenger door opened, and I smelled the perfume before I heard the voice. A meadow in flower outside a cabin in June. Apples in August. The western wind on the sea in October. Sure, I know I’m exaggerating, but those really were the associations I got.
‘Hello again.’ She sounded slightly out of breath, as if she’d been walking quickly. She was perhaps a little older than I’d imagined. The voice was younger than the face, in a manner of speaking. Maybe she thought something similar about me, that I’d seemed more attractive on the phone, I don’t know. But Eirin had been beautiful once, there was no doubt about that. Available, I thought. Yes, I actually did, I thought that word, Palle’s word. Doable. Did I want to? Yes, I wanted to.
‘Thank you so much for looking after my earring for me, Amund.’
So she got straight to the point. As though she wanted to get it over with. I don’t know whether from shyness, nervousness or because I’d been a disappointment to her.
‘Here it is,’ I said and handed her the stud. ‘At least, if it’s the right one I found.’
She examined the earring. ‘Oh yes,’ she said slowly. ‘You found the right one.’
‘Good,’ I said. ‘I guess it’s so unusual it wouldn’t have been easy to find a match for the one that was left.’
‘True, true.’ She nodded as she stared hard at the earring, as though she didn’t dare look at me. As though something she didn’t want to happen would happen then.
I said nothing, felt just the hammering of my pulse in my throat, beating so hard that I knew if I tried to talk the tremor in my voice would betray me.
‘Well, thanks again,’ said Eirin as she fumbled for the door handle. Probably, like me, she’d felt a moment’s panic. Naturally. She was sitting there with a wedding ring on her finger. She was wearing make-up, but the morning lig
ht was pitiless. She was at least five, perhaps ten years older than me. But certainly still doable. And she would definitely have been doable back when I was a young lad.
‘Do you know Palle?’ I asked, without a tremor in my voice.
She hesitated. ‘Well, know him and know him.’
That was all I needed. An earring doesn’t fall off, not while you’re sitting up straight. I glanced in the wing mirror. It looked as if it had taken a knock and needed tightening.
‘Looks like I’ve got a fare,’ I said.
‘Ah yes,’ she said. ‘But thanks again.’
‘You’re welcome.’
She got out and I watched her as she crossed the square.
She didn’t know it, no one knew it, but I had just stepped out of jail. I was outside now, breathing in that unfamiliar air, savouring the new and frightening freedom. Now it was just a question of carrying on, exploiting it, not slipping back into old ways and ending up back inside the walls again. I should probably be able to manage that. And with what I did next I would demonstrate it to myself.
By the time it turned five o’clock I’d had a good day. I’d even got a few tips, something that rarely happened. Was it because of the unusually good mood I was in? The new me, so to speak?
I parked the cab in Palle’s garage. He kept his tools hanging on the wall, and it took me twenty minutes to do the job that had to be done.
I got into my own car, called Wenche and told her I’d bought a bottle of white wine to have with dinner, her favourite type.
‘What is it with you?’ she asked again, only this time without the tone of annoyance she used at breakfast. Almost curious. And why not? Now I was a new me, maybe I could be a new me for her too.
I was humming I drove along, one hand on the wheel. Steering. I liked steering. The other hand was in my trouser pocket and I was thinking about the brake fluid I’d drained back there in the garage. Wondered what it was Palle had on Eirin, or did they have something on each other? Wondered how far back the two of them went. Long enough at least for him to be able to ask her to step up once he realised I was bound to make the connection between him, the earring and Wenche. He’d probably called Wenche immediately after I rang him to ask about the earring. And she’d immediately hidden the box with the one remaining earring. It was a smart move to claim she’d lent them to a friend. She was going out tonight, yes, but she wouldn’t be meeting Torill or any of her other friends, she’d be meeting Palle who, according to plan, would have the earring I’d given to Eirin. But Wenche would never get that earring from Palle. And not because Palle had noticed the earrings Wenche was wearing as they lay there in the back seat. There’s no way he would have noticed that the earring Eirin handed to him had a narrow band around it, like a blue equator. No way.
