The Body in the Fjord ff-8

by Katherine Hall Page

The rest of the ride was quiet and Pix spent the time thinking about her fellow Scandie tourists. The Bradys, the Petersons, the Dahl sisters, the French cousins, and Jennifer Olsen had all been on the tour since the beginning. They seemed to be a run-of-the-mill group, maybe a little heavy on the Scandinavian surnames, but from the look of the list, half the tour seemed to be in search of roots. Pix remembered Marit telling her that in the nineteenth century and the early years of the twentieth, almost 900,000 Norwegians emigrated to North America because of the growth in population in Norway and scarcity of

  resources. At one time or another, almost everyone has had a cousin in Minneapolis or Brooklyn.

  Jan was talking about the Stalheim Hotel as the bus climbed up the steep road. “It’s the fourth hotel built on this spot. The first one was erected in 1885. The Nærøy Valley, which you will see far below you when we stop, and the surrounding area have always been a favorite place for holidays. The kaiser liked it so much, he came twenty-five summers in a row.”

  “The kaiser is not quite the villain on the west coast as he is elsewhere,” Ursula whispered to Pix. “I’ve been to these places before with Marit and it’s kind of like ‘Washington slept here.’”

  “But why?” Pix was puzzled.

  “Oh, he was always giving stained glass to the churches or statues to towns, even helping to rebuild an entire one in the case of Ålesund, after a fire destroyed it. Benevolent. Had to keep his vacation land pleasant, and he really liked to fish and hunt.”

  Pix was listening to Jan; surprisingly, she found it pleasant to be picking up these tidbits of information.

  “Finally after the first three buildings burned down, they got smarter and built the present hotel out of concrete in 1960.” It was painted red and appeared not unattractive, Pix thought. And given its location perched on the mountaintop, putting out a blaze would prove difficult. Jan had a few more morsels. “The same family, the Tønnebergs, has been running it now for sixty years. During the war, the Germans took it over.”

  Of course, Pix said to herself, and she began wondering if there was a particular reason why Jan was so intent on refreshing their memories. Had his family suffered a particularly severe loss?

  “They used the hotel for one of their Lebensborn homes, Himmler’s little experiment to repopulate the world after the war with only the best stock.”

  He didn’t elaborate and Pix felt a chill. Not exactly what she wanted to hear about the place she would be

  staying, although the wartime structure was in ashes far below the present foundation. Her mother was looking out the window as the bus pulled up to the entrance and she turned to speak to Pix.

  “You should go see the houses in the folk museum if there’s time. I’m sure you remember the one in Oslo, but even though these houses have been moved, they’re from the area around here and more or less in their natural setting.”

  “I’ll try,” Pix said, “but I want to talk to some more people and, if possible, squeeze in a sauna.”

  “All right. I’m going to lie down for a while; then I’ll write postcards in the lobby and see if I can make some friends, too.”

  Pix had no doubt the gregarious traveler Ursula, aka Mother, would.

  She wished people wore name tags, much as she would hate to sport a “Hello, I’m Pix” badge herself. She wanted to search out Helene Feld and hear about the quarrel she’d witnessed on the train between Kari and Erik. Reminding herself that if you don’t ask, you don’t get, she went up to Carl. If the Petersons weren’t on his bus, or maybe even if they were, she thought they should switch to it tomorrow and compare the two guides. The guides, after all, had been on the tour since Copenhagen, too.

  “I wonder if you would mind pointing out the Felds to me. I have a friend who lives in the same town and I wonder if they know her.” The Felds were from Mount Vernon, New York, and Pix did know someone from there—but she’d moved years ago. Still…

  Carl seemed delighted to have something to do for her. He really was terribly attractive. She wondered how many broken hearts there were at the end of each Scandie Sights tour.

  He looked around. “The Felds must already have gone to their rooms, but I will point them out to you at dinner

  and let them know you’d like to meet them. Perhaps you can sit together. They are quite friendly.”

  Pix had the feeling he was talking about approachable pets. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”

  The lobby was empty, but the gift shop was full. Pix decided it was not conducive to an exchange of intimacies. Hard to fit in a pointed question when someone was intent on a hand-knit sweater. The sauna would give her a chance to collect her thoughts.

  Demurely wrapped in a towel, Pix sat in the sauna and sweated. There were several other occupants, all men, none of whom she recognized from the tour. Every once in a while, someone would leave to take a cold shower, reenter, and throw some more water from the wooden bucket on the hot rocks, creating a sudden hiss of steam. Pix was doing the same. The fragrance of the hot wood and the intense heat was soporific. She found herself battling sleep. It was so relaxing. So very, very relaxing.

  Someone shook her. “It’s not a good idea to fall asleep in here. You shouldn’t stay in too long, especially if you haven’t taken one in a while.” It was Lynette Peterson, and Pix couldn’t help but think how much more flattering the towel was on the young bride than on her own middle-aged body.

  “Thank you. I’m only going to stay in a little longer. My name is Pix Miller. My mother and I are on the Scandie tour, too. I met your mother-in-law this morning at the hotel.” Pix felt obliged to explain how she had recognized the woman. Lynette was not surprised.

  “Oh, I know all about you. Carol told us. You’re from Boston.”

  “Actually, about twenty minutes outside the city.”

  A slightly wicked smile appeared. “Carol thinks it’s Boston. She likes to know things. That’s the main activity of my mother-in-law’s life—besides organizing things. I’ll let her know she’s wrong.”

  Pix didn’t envy Roy junior. The Battle of the Titans was getting under way and it would go on for his entire

  married life, until his mother died or his wife walked out, both acts certain to be interpreted as victory by the other side.

  “Are you enjoying the trip?” Pix thought it was worth a try to question Mrs. Roy Peterson, Jr. She might have picked up on something between Kari and Erik that the others had missed. Lynette took her time responding to the opening.

  Pix had teenagers. Lynette’s face had “Give me a break” written all over it.

  “Look, Mrs. Miller”—Pix instantly felt ten years older—“is fish for every meal, a million museums, and your in-laws along your idea of what a honeymoon should be?” She answered her own question. “Of course it isn’t. We should be in Bermuda, but we’re not, because Carol decides this is her golden opportunity to show Roy the land of his people. It was his great-grandparents who came from here! He never even knew them! And it’s not as if we live in…well, Boston. Duluth is about as close as you can get to Norway without hopping on a plane. But I agreed. There’s something Carol doesn’t know, and when she does, she’ll be ripping. As I said, Carol likes to know things. Nosiest woman I ever met. She was even asking Roy whether he’d moved his bowels every morning until the third time, I said he’d let her know if he didn’t and let’s drop the subject. She didn’t like that, not one little bit. And she’s not going to like what’s coming, either.”

  Pix was finding the daughter-in-law as loquacious as the mother-in-law, more even. Although the tone was the same. Who said men don’t marry their mothers? Pix quickly focused on Sam’s mother, a charming lady who’d died several years ago, much mourned by everyone.

  “I’m sorry things aren’t going well. This should be a very happy time for you.” It was all she could think of to say, and she stood up as she said it, ready to leave while some remnants of the lack of tension the sauna had induced remained.
>
  “Oh, I’m happy, very happy.” She spoke through slightly clenched teeth. Her towel had slipped. From the appearance of her firm young breasts, Roy junior was probably happy, too, at least in bed. Lynette tugged at the towel, then, irritated, took it off, either oblivious or indifferent to the sauna’s other occupants. Pix closed the door behind her and headed for the showers. What surprise did Lynette have for her mother-in-law? Suddenly, it didn’t seem like a fair fight at all.

  Ursula was sitting by the wall of glass at the end of the hotel lobby, a wall that served to magnify the view. The mountains appeared to be a few steps away, especially the tallest, its rocky summit high above the timberline. The peak had a slight purple cast to it. Pix walked toward her mother. The mountains were in fact close, the hotel surrounded by them, and only a large well-kept flat green lawn separated the front of the hotel from the precipitous drop to the valley far below.

  Ursula had made friends, two slightly grizzled-looking older men, faces reddened from working outdoors, and something else perhaps. Mother was drinking coffee. Her new friends were sticking to beer.

  “Oh, there’s my daughter now.” Ursula waved Pix over. “This is Mr. Knudsen and that’s Mr. Arnulfson. My daughter, Pix Miller.” The men stood and shook hands. “We were just talking about how we all came to be on the tour. Mr. Knudsen and Mr. Arnulfson are from North Dakota. Such a long way from home!”

  Mother was sounding perky, even slightly coquettish. It was working.

  “You must call me Ole—everyone does—and he’s Henry. Anyway, as I was saying, the whole thing was that fool Svenson’s fault.”

  Henry nodded solemnly and drained half his glass.

  “My sister read about a tour of Norwegian farms in the Sons of Norway newsletter and thought the lodge might want to go. ‘See how they’re doing things over there,’ she said. ‘Be a good chance and very cheap.’ So at the next meeting, we counted heads and decided to do it.”

  This explained the large number of males from Fargo on the list—Norwegian bachelor farmers. Pix had seen them sticking together like glue and assumed they were some sort of group. Sons of Norway, of course.

  “But I don’t think this tour has many farms. Just one, on the fjord after we reach Balestrand,” Ursula commented.

  Henry nodded slowly and finished his beer.

  “That fool Svenson”—the three words had become his full name—“wrote down the wrong tour number on the form when he sent in our deposits. He’s our treasurer, or was, and when we found out the money was nonrefundable, we decided to go. No sense in wasting it. They make a big-enough profit. So we came.”

  Henry joined the conversation briefly. “We never should have put that fool Svenson in charge, his mother being Swedish and all. Anyone want another drink?”

  No one did and the farmers ambled along. As soon as they were out of sight, Pix began to laugh until she thought she’d cry.

  “I think we can eliminate them from whatever it is we’re listing,” she said.

  “Yes, they seem to travel in a pack, poor things. You notice they’re always first on the bus, by the door, or in the dining room. They must be terrified of getting lost or left behind.”

  “Have you made any other friends?”

  “I chatted some more with Valerie and Sophie. I have the feeling their English is much better than they’re letting on. Marge Brady joined us and they had no trouble speaking with her. She was telling them all about French châteaux.”

  “How nice for them.”

  “Don’t be naughty, Pix. But I did learn something interesting. Don Brady is retired from the oil business. And

  there’s another man on the tour, a Mr. Harding from Con

  necticut, who’s currently working for an oil company.”

  Pix was slow on the uptake. “Why is this interesting?”

  “Mr. Harding’s is a Norwegian-owned company and Don Brady’s had ties to the industry here. You do know about the North Sea oil?”

  “Now, don’t you be naughty. Of course I do. It’s what catapulted the country from getting by to just about the world’s highest standard of living. But how does it all connect to Kari and Erik?”

  “When I was here last summer, there was a great deal of talk about what they call the Russian mafia operating in Norway, using any means necessary to learn exactly where the Norwegian oil fields are and the technology that located them. There’s been a dispute for years over the Russian/Norwegian border in the Barents Sea, up north. The Russians are desperate to find some oil or natural gas of their own there and the stakes are very high, I read recently.”

  There is nothing like The Christian Science Monitor every day to keep you informed, Pix reflected. Maybe she should switch from The Boston Globe. Faith, of course, clung to The New York Times and was always borrowing the Millers’ paper to find out what was on television. But this was all interesting. If someone was using the tour groups to pass secret information concerning the oil industry and Erik or Kari had learned of it…Any means necessary.

  “All right, we’ll add oil to everything else—and Russians. I’d almost forgotten that Norway has a common border with them in the north. Maybe Marit has some idea about how this might fit in. The tour didn’t go to Stavanger, but Bergen is as big an oil town.”

  “I wonder if she’s heard any more from the police. I bought Aftenposten and took it to my room. I couldn’t read it, but Kari’s name wasn’t anywhere, so there hasn’t been anything new in the press.”

  “That’s good. They’re onto something else and Marit doesn’t have to see her life distorted. It must have been horrendous.”

  Pix told her mother about the encounter with Lynette in the sauna and Pix’s request to Carl for an introduction to the Felds at dinner. She didn’t want her mother to think she’d been idling away in the steam.

  “Then we should certainly make it a point to be on time for the meal,” Ursula said, leading the way. As if there was any question.

  Not surprisingly, the Felds had never heard of Pix’s friend, but they were a friendly, outgoing couple. Arnie was an intellectual properties lawyer and Helene was an art historian. They had no children and had traveled extensively. This was their second trip to Norway.

  Pix was sure that Helene, who seemed quite intelligent, would be able to give her some idea of the nature of the quarrel between Kari and Erik. The question was how to bring it up. For the moment, the big decision was over poached salmon or smoked pork. The whole table took the salmon, as well as the wild mushroom soup first and “fruits of the woods” with vanilla sauce for dessert.

  Spooning a large, ubiquitous boiled potato onto her plate, Pix asked the Felds how they had liked the tour so far.

  “It’s been very well organized,” Helene answered. “I wanted to spend extra time in the Norsk Folkemuseum on Bygdøy, the peninsula across the fjord from Oslo. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It’s where both the Viking ships and Kon-Tiki are. Anyway, there was no problem. Some tours make you stick rigidly to their schedule. The same in Bergen. I had never visited the Museum of Decorative Arts and wanted to go there instead of some of the other places on the itinerary. I missed the tram ride up to Fløyen, but people said it was misty and they didn’t get such a clear view of the city. What has also made the tour interesting is that both Carl and Jan are extremely knowledge

  able guides. They must bone up on things during the winter.”

  “What kind of art are you particularly interested in?” Ursula asked.

  “Originally, it was wood carving—especially those wonderful Romanesque vines and ribbons combined with the zoomorphic forms that descended from Viking times and are still influencing Norwegian art today. Those lovely dragons!” Helene’s glasses had slipped down her nose and she was gesturing expansively. “At first, I disliked rosemaling, overly influenced by the bad imitations in all the gift shops—those overblown roses and swirls painted in garish colors on everything from rolling pins to toilet seats!”

  Ursul
a nodded. “I know, but the older work is very beautiful.”

  “Exactly,” Helene agreed. “And all that color and decoration are more in character with the exuberant Norwegian temperament than the constraint of the Early Christian carved wooden forms.” The glasses inched down a little farther. Pix watched in fascination, wondering if the spectacles would tumble into Helene’s soup with the next folk-art era.

  “It’s good to hear someone refer to the Norwegians as exuberant,” Ursula commented. “I get so tired of all those other adjectives—staid, placid. You know what I mean. The Norwegians I’ve met seem fully capable of kicking up their heels.” Pix noticed her mother was drawing back from details, but scenes of uproarious parties and joke telling crowded into Pix’s mind. She and Sam had visited shortly after they were married. Every relative of Hans’s and Marit’s had been bent on welcoming them. Even now, many years later, when Sam imbibed a bit too much, he’d tell his wife he was merely getting in training for Norway.

  Arnie Feld agreed. “Somebody was having an anniversary party in one of the private dining rooms at the hotel in Oslo, and from the sounds of mirth, I’d definitely say

  Norwegians know how to have a good time. And remember that couple we met on the train, honey?”

  His wife nodded, still lost in contemplation of carved butter boxes and painted rooms.

  “They were singing, not too loudly, and writing furiously on the back of an envelope. They were having so much fun, I finally had to ask them what was going on. They were composing a song for her sister’s fortieth birthday, and after we talked awhile, they invited us to come along! I wish we could have.” He sounded genuinely disappointed, and Pix could understand why. Helene was still eager to talk about her passion for the folk arts of the country, though.

  “Now I’ve become fascinated with the jewelry,” she continued.

  “She’s always been fascinated with jewelry. Don’t let her fool you,” Arnie said good-naturedly.

  She made a face at him. “Don’t worry. Even if we were millionaires, we couldn’t take the kind of jewelry I love out of the country. Norway has very strict laws about exporting antiques.”