by Zoë Folbigg
‘Yep, got it from Fredrik,’ says Morten, as he raises a puckish eyebrow above gnome-like eyes. He looks around conspiratorially, to make sure the mothers, babies – and Fredrik up the short flight of stairs to the ground floor – can’t hear him. ‘He is so darned hot, Cecilie. Is the man not for turning?’
Cecilie gives a flustered smile. Twenty babies and toddlers in the basement of the library left her a little hot.
‘For you or for me?’
‘For you, my darling,’ Morten says, tucking his book into his messenger bag. ‘Although I wouldn’t say no. Has he dumped that dreary yoga teacher yet?’
‘India’s OK, they’re very happy together.’
‘But you would make such a beautiful couple. And have you seen his thighs?!’
Cecilie smiles and deftly changes the subject to the book in Morten’s bag. ‘What was it he called in for you anyway? Anything I need to know about?’
Morten thinks Cecilie must have read most of the books in the library, so she will know about this one, although Fredrik did have to call it in from Deichmanske Bibliotek in Oslo, and they only had an English-language copy.
And then it occurs to him, that this book might be a bit sensitive for Cecilie right now.
‘Oh, I’m sure you read it already,’ he says, pushing his frameless glasses up his snub nose, and reluctantly opening his bag again to take the book out. Cecilie takes it out of Morten’s soft hands and looks at the unfamiliar cover. Instead Of A Letter.
‘No, I don’t know this…’ ponders Cecilie, as she reads the blurb on the back out loud.
Morten talks awkwardly over her, as if that will distract her from what she’s about to find out. ‘Oh, she’s an English writer, she wrote about how she was engaged to an air force pilot but he stopped writing to her, then she got a letter out of the blue saying he wanted to marry someone else…’
Morten feels terrible.
‘Oh.’
‘Ja, she’s amazing. Saucy old woman, I read one memoir she wrote about ageing – it made me want to fit a lot more in during my life – but I wanted to get my hands on this. Apparently it’s quite uplifting,’ he says with a hopeful smile. ‘I can pass it on to you?’
Cecilie busies herself tidying away the iPod dock with all the nursery rhymes stored on it and So, ro, lilleman pops into her head. ‘Yeah sure, no hurry,’ she says, looking more sheepish than heartbroken.
Morten’s eyes narrow. He can tell Cecilie is keeping something from him. She’s a terrible liar and won’t let him see her face as she bends down to pick up the last of the soft books.
‘What is it? Cecilie…?’
She stands and looks at him, cheeks flushed. ‘Oh, we’re back in touch. The Mexican and me.’
Morten knew who she meant.
‘Is that wise?’
‘Probably not.’
‘So why do you torture yourself, sweetie?’
‘Because talking to him and being sad is better than not talking to him and being sad.’
Cecilie’s hot flustered face drops and her eyes well up.
‘Here,’ Morten says, bringing her to his chest.
‘Don’t tell Espen, hey?’
A man mountain lingers at the top of the stairs.
‘Oh, Cecilie…’ says Fredrik quietly.
She breaks away, looks up and smiles. Fredrik runs his fingers through his tied-back hair and rests his hand at the back of his vast neck. His forearm swells under his ribbed jersey top.
‘I’m just going to the first floor to reset a machine for Mr Mosvold, can you cover the desk please?’
‘Sure.’
Fredrik walks off and Morten looks at Cecilie and mouths three words.
‘So. Fucking. Hot.’
Twenty-Five
August 2018, Xalapa, Mexico
‘Sorry to interrupt, Cintia, but will you take a photo of me please?’
The woman from the ground-floor perfumeria sits at a small square table with a colourful stripy cloth over it, slurping the soup of the day from the comida corrida while she catches up on celebrity gossip. She puts down her spoon and dabs her deep burgundy lips.
‘Sorry, Hector, how rude of me. I was in another world.’ Cintia closes her magazine, feeling terrible that she hadn’t been her usual chatty self.
Since Lupe’s boy started working at the top-floor restaurant of Lazaro’s, Cintia has liked their chats. He’s made manic weekend shifts much more enjoyable. In fact, most of the women who work in Lazaro’s now eschew a torta and a can of Boing in Parque Juárez on their lunch break for the comida corrida in the department store’s restaurant. But the room was so busy when Cintia came on her lunch break she took the last available table and, not wanting to disturb Hector, picked up a copy of Vanidades another diner had left behind.
‘Of course I can take a photo.’
‘No, don’t apologise, guapa, you’re OK,’ says Hector with reassuring palms. ‘I’ve been super busy, it’s crazy today. That’s the last chicken you’ve got there,’ he says, sliding the pollo a la Veracruzana across the colourful cloth, lining it up for when Cintia is ready for her next course. Hector places his phone on the table next to her soup spoon.
‘You’re not a fan of the selfie, Hector? My girls are always taking selfies, my grandkids too.’
Hector laughs. ‘A selfie is no good today, I need my entire body in it please, guapa, shoes and all.’
Cintia looks Hector up and down appreciatively.
‘I’ll do my best!’ She gives a cheeky smile and narrows her eyes to focus on his phone screen. ‘Is this to show Pilar? You certainly do look the part.’
Hector stands taller and straightens his buttons. His white short-sleeved shirt is perfectly pressed and doesn’t have a single splash of red tomato and onion Veracruzana sauce on it, despite the bustling service. The creases of his Lazaro’s grey strides point proudly towards the camera, hems resting on the polished brown shoes he wore on his wedding day. He smooths a white cloth on the bend of his left arm and raises a black circular tray out to the side with his right hand.
‘Something like that,’ Hector smiles, feeling bad that he asked Cintia to take a photo of him so he can send it on for a joke. Cintia is a proud woman.
She rises from her chair and bends at an awkward angle. Her grey pencil skirt strains under her hips. Her hair is heavy and immoveable thanks to hairspray.
‘OK, smile.’
I am on the inside.
‘Three, two, one…’ Cintia stops abruptly. ‘Hector, you look so serious!’
‘Sorry,’ says the austere waiter, trying not to look so formal.
Hector’s eyes connect with the lens on his camera phone, flirtatious and playful.
‘That’s better. Three, two, one… ay qué guapo.’
Cintia hands Hector the phone.
‘Thank you.’
‘No problem,’ she says with a quick flick of her hair as she sits back down and straightens the magazine. Crispy curls don’t move.
The lunchtime rush has ended, Hector puts the last rice pudding aside in the fridge for Cintia, and Lazaro’s restaurant, with its colourful papel picado strung across the ceiling above their heads, is about to close for the day. No one eats dinner in Xalapa, it’s all about lunch and the comida corrida: small plates comprising a four-course set menu, served with red salsa, crispy triangular totopos and a large glass of Jamaica – hibiscus water from a lime-infused jug. When the lunch has all been served and the chairs have been stacked in the restaurant’s entrance to indicate it’s closed, Hector will throw a grey jacket over his white shirt and walk across to the homes department, selling towels and toilet brushes to men and women who look about as bored as he feels.
This is Hector’s third weekend working at Lazaro’s to try to boost his income; to cover the shortfall of Pilar’s lost teacher’s salary. He hasn’t had a pay cheque yet, but when he does he knows that weekends in Lazaro’s won’t be enough, he will need to do something else as well. But he does
n’t want to get an evening job in a bar, he can’t go back there. He can’t serve his wife micheladas and mezcal while she’s drinking away their rent money. It would be enough to turn him back to booze. And there aren’t any days left in the week for Hector to take a third job.
Hector had encouraged Pilar to go for the job at Lazaro’s, but José Luis, the third generation of Lazaro to manage the family-run store, wasn’t so keen. José Luis had seen Pilar on nights out. He wouldn’t mind if he saw Hector propping up a bar, or slurring and shouting obscenities at cantina staff, but he doesn’t think women should behave like that, and Pilar isn’t the kind of woman he wants associated with the Lazaro’s name, whatever her heritage. José Luis knew Hector; he was happy to take him on. When he told his father that Hector was the new Saturday assistant, he waited for the story of Lupe Herrera again, to hear about what a terrible day it was when they realised why she hadn’t come in to work.
Cintia closes her magazine and makes a start on the tepid chicken. ‘How’s that strange brother of yours getting on?’ she asks, as Hector walks back in from the kitchen. She heaps a spoonful of tomato and coriander salsa from the withering pot on the table and regrets not coming to lunch earlier.
‘Brother?’ Hector thinks back to the tumbling Beetle; how he clung onto the brother he never got to meet. ‘I don’t know about that,’ Hector shrugs as he folds tomorrow’s napkins and puts them under the counter that divides the kitchen from the dining area.
‘I remember when you two were little. Running amok in the toy department! He wore that funny shirt with the frills on it, he did look a picture!’ Cintia chuckles. ‘He had this angry little face…’ Cintia tries to compose herself and not show her mouthful of chicken as she laughs.
‘I don’t really see him, he’s a busy man.’
‘He must be doing well for himself, I saw him in a huge Dodge the other day.’
‘I don’t know,’ Hector diverts. ‘I don’t even know where he lives now, I heard he moved out to a ranch.’
‘A ranch? Sister Virginia was in the perfumeria last week, she said he was hanging around the Villa Infantil.’
Hector’s cheeks flush pink and he gives Cintia a confused smile. ‘The Villa? I don’t think so. I was there this week fixing the boiler. There were lots of little kids, definitely not a big ugly one like Benny.’
‘Well, I didn’t think it could be right. No one drives a car like that without having a palace to match. And I doubt Benny’s much of a handyman to have around the place.’
Hector shakes his head and remembers the axe.
‘No, no, I don’t think he is.’ Hector feels an uncomfortable taste rise in his mouth. ‘I’ll go get your rice pudding.’
As Hector walks to the kitchen with a feeling of foreboding, he remembers the dapper photo of him in his uniform on his phone, and how much it will make Cecilie smile – that smile – to see he too has sold out and broken their pact.
Twenty-Six
August 2018, Tromsø, Norway
‘Mr Hansen, please meet i-Scand Arctic’s most recent acquisition and newest member of the team… our bartender Cecilie. Erm, who also happens to be my twin sister.’
Cecilie dries a large red wine glass with a pristine white cloth and places it on the shelving above the ambient-lit bar. Her asymmetric sweep of white-blonde hair complements the white crisp shirt of her uniform perfectly. Iridescent green eyes flutter as she smiles, but she doesn’t extend a hand.
Espen pulls up two bar stools and invites his guest to sit down at one while he stands and gently leans against the other.
‘Cecilie, Mr Hansen is a regular at the hotel, commuting between here and Copenhagen.’ Mr Hansen, a dashing man with noble lips and mink-brown hair that’s greying at the temples, sits on his bar stool and smiles, looking from one twin to the other in awe. People often do that when they realise Espen and Cecilie are twins; as they piece together the jigsaw puzzle of their features. ‘He’s an esteemed scientist; in fact, Mr Hansen knows more about your brain than you do.’
‘Espen, please, it’s Andreas…’ Andreas says, removing his navy blue suit jacket. ‘And he flatters me, Cecilie. I’m no brain surgeon, I merely import fish oil, and up here you have the best.’ Mr Hansen – Andreas – shrugs and drinks in the bare-faced beauty behind the bar.
‘Nice to meet you,’ says Cecilie, drying another large glass. Espen is always polite and effusive to guests at the i-Scand, but she can tell her brother is keen to impress this one in particular.
‘Can we get you a drink?’ Espen asks. ‘Your usual?’
‘Actually, I think I’ll need something stronger, Espen.’ Andreas widens his weary eyes and then looks at his watch. ‘As of, ooh, two hours ago, I became a single man again. I think I need to drown my sorrows.’ He lets out a wry laugh.
‘Or celebrate perhaps?’ fawns Espen, seeing an opportunity.
Espen!
Cecilie turns around to look at the offering of spirits she’s not yet familiar with, standing neatly on the glass back wall, and hides her cringing face.
‘Perhaps,’ Andreas says, flinging his suit jacket on the back of his stool like a cape.
Cecilie gives Espen a sideways glare.
‘Usually Mr Hansen, sorry, Andreas, likes a cold pilsner, but how about a whisky today? Have a Yamazaki on us.’ Espen points his finger. ‘That one there, Cecilie. It’s twelve years old.’
Cecilie picks the bottle from the line-up, scoops ice into a square glass and pours a measure with her free hand. Espen tells Cecilie to stop pouring without uttering a word. She can hear his voice in her head telling her that this whisky is 1,500 krone a bottle.
‘I’m sorry for your turmoil,’ Cecilie says with a sympathetic smile. The ice cubes crack under liquid gold.
‘Oh, I’m not really. I am sorry Iben fleeced me for the house, the summer house, the kids and the dog… But I’m not sorry her personal trainer boyfriend is about to find out just how high-maintenance she is. I give their relationship ’til Christmas.’ Andreas gives a wistful shrug and rubs the end of his nose.
‘Here, well I’ll have a drink with you, to celebrate or commiserate. A sparkling water please, Cecilie.’ Espen never drinks on the job. In fact, he rarely drinks off the job. Many an evening Morten and Cecilie have sunk a bottle of red and Espen has barely got through a glass.
Cecilie blinks three times in an attempt to hide her fatigue as she searches the low fridge for a bottle of Voss. She’s exhausted and can’t wait to get home and put her feet up, when she clocks off in three hours’ time. Cecilie was up at the library at 7.30 a.m. to help Fredrik clear the basement area for a children’s writing workshop; she left the heaving basement at midday to work the lunchtime and afternoon shift with Henrik at the Hjornekafé, and now she’s at the i-Scand, looking for Espen’s favourite brand of fizz and getting ready to pour whisky – not all Yamazaki – for the evening arrivals from the capital. She catches her reflection in the fridge door.
Uff.
‘And can I have some ice in that please?’ Espen asks, even though Cecilie already knew that’s what he was about to say.
Cecilie stands and shovels another cluster of cubes, this time into a longer glass, and pours Espen his drink. She looks at the downbeat man sipping his whisky and finds something comforting in his acquiescent face. Perhaps it’s that he looks like he’s in a daydream, because Cecilie likes to have those too.
Fizz, fizz, crack. The ice breaks the silence.
Espen raises his glass and snaps Andreas out of another world.
‘Skål Mr— Andreas,’ Espen says, raising his effervescent glass. ‘To pastures new.’
Andreas smiles and nods, and looks at Cecilie.
‘Cheers,’ he replies, lifting his glass but not taking his eyes off her. ‘Hey, you need a drink too. Espen what about your sister?’
‘Oh, I’m OK,’ she smiles, reassuringly.
Cecilie feels flushed, and busies herself by fitting the lid of the ice bucket back on.
‘So, Espen, I didn’t realise you had a twin, how fantastic.’
‘Yes, I’ve known her all my life,’ Espen laughs, even though it’s a joke he has told a thousand times. Cecilie rolls her eyes.
Andreas studies Cecilie’s face.
‘Wow,’ he says, almost to himself.
One of the hotel receptionists approaches Espen cautiously. At twenty-nine, he is the youngest manager in any of the chain’s fifteen hotels across Scandinavia, but staff are still respectful of him; he worked his way up from bell boy to waiter to restaurant manager to hotel manager; he cares so much about customer satisfaction; he’s passionate about the i-Scand brand.
‘Can I have a word?’ asks Camilla, her dark blonde hair in a neat bun.
‘Sure,’ says Espen, putting a fist to his mouth and clearing his throat. ‘Excuse me just a second,’ he says, putting his hand on Andreas’s shoulder before walking off to a discreet corner of the room with Camilla.
Cecilie feels under pressure to make chit-chat. She loves singing lullabies to babies, or watching children in awe of authors in the library; and the Hjornekafé is a home from home, just stepping inside it and wiping her feet on the coarse mat feels like a warm hug. But the stark and dark decor of the businessman’s current favourite Tromsø hotel is less comfortable. Cecilie isn’t very good at chit-chat. It’s one of the reasons why she always felt so contented chatting to Hector online. She likes a safety barrier of screens.
‘How long are you staying for?’ Cecilie asks, stiltedly. But there is something about Andreas that puts her at ease. It makes her understand that whatever it is he does with brains or fish oil, or whatever business he’s in, he’s obviously very competent.
‘Just a few days. I’m only ever here for a few days. But I like it up here. Your people are a bit mad.’
Cecilie laughs as she straightens mats on the black granite bar.
‘I can’t argue with that. It’s all this daylight followed by darkness, it sends us a bit loopy,’ she says, as she crosses her eyes and sticks her tongue out to the side.
Andreas laughs, which takes him by surprise. His smile is warm and he’s bemused by an absurdity he’s never seen in Espen.
