The Body in the Fjord ff-8

by Katherine Hall Page

  She hadn’t even said a prayer for him. What would Tom Fairchild, not just her friend but also her minister, say? He’d say it was fine. Tom, the least judgmental person she knew. Tom, whose gentle guidance had helped her over a particularly rocky place some years ago. Rocks. That brought her back to Oscar again, and she commended his soul to whatever heaven he might have believed in. Would there be many who mourned him? A loss to whom? Loss, lost. She’d always thought that terminology woefully inadequate. “I lost my father, my mother, my husband.” As if the beloved had been misplaced. It sounded so careless.

  “Pix, what are you thinking about? You look so sad,” Ursula said. “Sonja’s making vafler. Let’s share some.”

  The fragrant smell of the waffles seemed to restore some unanimity to the tour group and the hushed conversations became almost normal. Carl took the microphone to describe some of the places they were passing.

  “Look quickly out the right side and you will see Fritjof with his Viking sword. It is a long story, but basically he had to earn his stripes in a series of difficult quests before he could become the leader. The statue is twenty-seven meters high and a landmark of the Sognefjord, which I think we have mentioned is one hundred miles long but rarely broader than three miles wide. Fritjof has the best view around here. He was a gift to the Norwegian people from…”

  Pix and Ursula mouthed to each other as he spoke: “Kaiser Wilhelm the Second.”

  “Obviously attracted by the noble warrior, all that rampaging and pillaging,” Pix whispered softly, and Ursula laughed.

  The statue was indeed a landmark, towering above the park it stood in. Fritjof seemed to like what he saw, leaning on the long sword, with his other hand jauntily at his hip.

  “Now, if you look out the windows on the left side, you will see what appears to be a line of big blue balloons. This is a new way we are trying to farm mussels. There’s a long line descending from each and the mussels grow there. In Norway, we think it’s very important to keep our farms and save the way of life they represent, so we have to think of things for the farmers to do to make some money.”

  “Look at the road!” Marge Brady exclaimed, pausing a moment from busily scribbling in her journal. “You’d think people would topple straight into the fjord. Oops!”

  There was a moment’s embarrassed silence as everyone recalled Oscar’s recent “toppling.” Then the silence was broken as Carl hastily told them, “The road is safer than it looks, and again the government has paid for it in order to encourage people to live here. In the past, the only way for the farmer and his family to travel was by water, and it was a hard life. The roads enable them to get to Vik and other places for medical care and shopping. But the farm we will visit this morning is pretty isolated still. No road, as you will see.”

  Jan took the microphone and said, as always with a smile, “If you think this is steep, wait until tomorrow. On the way to Flåm, we pass ‘the ladder,’ stigen. It is a sheer drop—impossible to build a road vertically. A man, his wife, and two children live at the top and keep goats. They have to tie ropes to the children when they play outside. Before them, lived an old lady all alone. When her flag was flying, that was the signal that all was well. When she died, the only way to get her out was in her coffin on the pulley wire she’d used to get her supplies. They still use this arrangement today, with rocks as a counter

  weight—or sometimes the farmer’s wife, they say. It’s called stigen because in the old days the way to collect taxes was by first climbing the path, then placing a ladder at the steepest part to the top, where the house is. Of course, the farmer would pull up the ladder and the tax collector could just whistle for his money.”

  Everyone laughed. The group was rapidly returning to normal.

  “It must be very lonely in the winter, road, ladders, whatever,” Ursula said when Pix returned with a plate of steaming heart-shaped waffles. Somehow, she could always eat a vaffel or two, no matter how recent breakfast, or lunch, had been, Pix thought as she spread butter and preserves on hers.

  “It wouldn’t be my choice, but it’s glorious now. No wonder the Norwegians are such sun worshipers,” Pix said, unashamedly licking her fingers. Having gotten the group back on track, Jan and Carl were continuing their version of the borscht circuit, the fisksuppe act, telling a series of old chestnuts with interchangeable names and nationalities.

  “Many of you are of Scandinavian descent, so you’ll appreciate this one,” Jan said heartily. “A long-lost brother who had emigrated to the United States came back to the old country for the first time in fifty years. He was bragging a lot about everything in the States thinking that Norway had stood still since he left. ‘Surgery in America has come so far that a blind man got two plastic eyes and a battery to charge them and now he can see like an eagle,’ he told his brother. ‘That’s pretty good,’ his brother replied, ‘but just last year, there was a man from here who lost four fingers. The surgeon took four teats from a cow, attached them, and now the guy is milking several liters of milk every day!’ His brother was skeptical. ‘That’s hard to believe,’ he said. ‘Have you seen him yourself?’ ‘No,’ said his brother, ‘but the guy with the plastic eyes has.’”

  The room exploded in laughter, the bachelor farmers, who had come in for vafler, hardest of all.

  Pix grinned at her mother. “I’ll have to remember that one to tell Danny. Very definitely middle-school humor. I think I’ll go out on the bow for a bit, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Certainly. I’ll go kibitz with the cardplayers. How can they spend all their time playing bridge while such splendid scenery passes them by?” Ursula answered. She and Pix exchanged glances. Maybe the cardplayers were on the trip for another reason. “I want to ask Sidney Harding what it’s like to work for a Norwegian oil company.”

  Pix took the empty plate back to Sonja. The girl’s smile was automatic, yet behind it, Pix could see the steward was troubled. The entire staff must be.

  “This must be hard for all of you—to keep things running smoothly when there have been so many difficulties on the tour,” Pix remarked, commiserating.

  Sonja was defensive. “Not so many, and I think everyone is happy.” She gestured toward the group spread out around the cabin. Some were going to the upper deck. “It’s sad about Mr. Melling, but these things happen to old people.”

  Pix decided not to pursue the matter and went out to what she now considered her spot on the bow. Jennifer Olsen was there, as Pix had expected, again in the same figurehead position, a pose that once more made Pix want to reach for the girl before she tumbled into the fathoms.

  The sun had broken through and the underside of the gulls’ wings were jade green, reflecting the water and creating a new species. The boat had left the vast Sognefjord and turned into a more narrow fjord. Pix would have to remember to ask Carl or Jan what it was called. The boat slowly sailed past numerous waterfalls, small and large, cascading into the sea, swollen from the melting snows of winter. Here and there, a cluster of red farm buildings stood out against the steep fields. Neither she nor Jennifer said a word until they came to a sheer rock wall. The water stopped. It was the end of the fjord.

  Jennifer turned in surprise. “What a strange sensation. The fjord just stops.”

  “I know,” Pix agreed. “Of course, it must. They only seem endless.”

  “It feels significant. Do you know what I mean? Journey to the End of the Fjord. Something like that.”

  “We ought to have some sort of ceremony, like when people cross the equator or the Arctic Circle.”

  The boat turned around slowly and retraced its course. Pix wished she was in a canoe or kayak, closer to the water. She’d like to trail her fingers in the frigid depths, really feel it, instead of just looking at it.

  “After the farm, we’re going to the Glacier Museum. I heard them talking. They’re worried that people might think that your finding Oscar in the fjord is somehow a reflection on their organization.”
Jennifer was bluntly informative. So, at least one person knew Pix had discovered the body.

  “Will there be time?”

  “It’s not far, although we may not be able to see the glacier up close. I’m still going to go back, even if we do. I hate being rushed.”

  It was smart thinking on the part of Scandie Sights. Instead of a free afternoon at Balestrand, keep everyone busy and throw in a little something extra. Then tomorrow, everyone would be packed off to Flåm and Mermaid/Troll tour number whatever thankfully over.

  Jennifer hadn’t sounded particularly bereaved regarding Oscar, and Pix recalled the woman’s words from the night before: “I hate that man.”

  “Sad about the accident. It seems so pointless,” Pix said deliberately, and then produced the result she expected.

  “Sad! That old fascist! Save your condolences for someone who deserves them. The world is better off without people like him. If the opinions he expressed on this trip are any indication, there will be a lot of happy folks in his corner of New Jersey.”

  “Fascist?” Pix was seeing a bright red swastika in front of her eyes, pulsating, as if she’d stared into the sun too hard.

  “Women, African-Americans, gays, Jews, you name it—he despised anyone who wasn’t just like him. The classic bigot. And sexist isn’t the right word. Molester is. There isn’t a woman on this trip who hasn’t been groped, at the very least. If there is a Mrs. Melling, she’s shedding tears all right—tears of joy.”

  Pix was not surprised at Jennifer’s passionate outburst. Oscar stood for the people who had killed her father and grandmother. He stood for everything Jennifer hated—and maybe feared.

  “This must be the farm!” Jennifer pointed to a small dock. Three children were running toward the water, followed more sedately by a young woman. The kids were waving, and Pix expected them to call out, “The Americans are coming!” or something like that. Instead, as the boat came to a stop, they jumped up and down, shouting, “Velkommen!” The tour visited every week during the season. By August, the velkommens might be a little less enthusiastic, but today anyway, the children greeted them delightedly.

  Ursula unfolded her cane and joined the group, bachelor farmers in the lead, as they wended their way up to the farmhouse.

  The farmer’s wife did the talking, whether because her English was better or she was more at ease speaking in public. Pix recalled reading a newspaper article that listed the things people feared most. Public speaking was number one, death second.

  “This used to be a community of sixty families; now we are only one—but there are four generations living on our farm, and one hundred goats. We will walk around, and please ask all the questions you want. Just to tell you a little more about us, we make our living from selling our goat cheese, which you will have a chance to taste, operating a small water taxi, and greeting people like you. Our children go to school not so far from here, by water.

  I take them in the morning and get them in the afternoon. In the winter, I usually stay to have coffee with my friends and do errands.”

  It didn’t sound like such a bad life—when the sun was shining.

  “My husband is in the barn and will show you how the cheese is made.”

  She was very pretty, tall, with short, shining blond hair. She was already deeply tan from being outdoors so much. She and her children radiated good health. After scampering after the group like puppies, the children had stripped off their clothes and were swimming in the fjord.

  “It’s not so cold as it looks,” their mother told the group as she led the way into the barn.

  Pix and Ursula first walked over to the herd of goats, scattered across the field, contentedly nibbling at what would become gjetost, that goat cheese so far removed from chèvre that it seemed to be produced by a completely different animal. Partisan as she was, and becoming even more so, Pix preferred the fromage.

  The Rowes and Millers had a friend in Maine who raised Nubians and took a blue ribbon every year at the Blue Hill Fair. Ursula was evaluating the Norwegian goats with a practiced eye. “Mountain goats, sturdy, and these have been well tended.”

  Before her mother became overly immersed in goat husbandry, Pix suggested, “Come on, let’s go see how they make the stuff.”

  They entered the dark barn, blinking for a moment. The farmer was embroiled in an argument with one of the Fargo farmers. Angry Norwegian was reverberating in the rafters. Pix translated it as “Call this a milking machine!” or something along that line. The Norwegian-American was gesturing contemptuously at the equipment and surroundings. His fellow Sons of Norway were “ja, jaing” in agreement, a rude pastoral version of some Greek chorus.

  The farmer wasn’t giving any ground. He was older than his wife. Around her own age, Pix thought. Yet more

  in the nature of an aging hippie. He had a long black ponytail, streaked with gray, pulled back with a leather thong. Instead of farmer’s overalls, he wore jeans and a faded tie-dyed T-shirt. His dark beard was flecked with gray also. Pix closed her eyes and listened intently. She was almost positive it was the man she’d heard at Stalheim, in the woods surrounding the folk museum. He’d been angry then. He was angry now. His accent was distinctive, especially when compared with the American’s. He had a peculiar way of chopping off the end of a phrase.

  “Are you asleep?” Her mother tapped her arm.

  “No, just concentrating.” Pix opened her eyes.

  Yes—she was certain it was the same voice.

  Seven

  The farmer’s wife had set up long tables covered with bright checked cloths. There were platters of open-faced sandwiches, not all of them with gjetost, bowls of salads, and pitchers of beer and lemonade. At one table, there was a tempting array of the sweet pancakes, as well as fruit and pepperkaker—crisp ginger cookies—and a large bowl of some kind of grøt, with a pitcher of heavy cream standing by to block any parts of one’s arteries the rest had missed. The North Dakota farmers were still in the barn, shouting at their host, having a fine old time, but the rest of the tour descended upon the tables with all the appearance of people who have not eaten for days. Pix took a cautious bite of the house specialty and found that this goat cheese was not as sweet as the kind she’d tasted before. She wasn’t crazy about it, but she finished her sandwich. She was thinking about the farmer more than his product. Given that it was the same man who had been at Stalheim, what had he been doing there at such an odd time? Was it also the man she’d glimpsed running through the rain from the boat last night? She couldn’t swear it was the same voice. She’d been under the tarp, and the two men hadn’t been arguing. And what about the bearded man on Jennifer Olsen’s balcony? The same person again?

  “What do you think of our cheese?” her hostess asked, causing Pix to start guiltily, although she wasn’t sure why. Maybe the woman’s husband had been delivering cheese to the hotel and arguing over the price or some such thing. It had still been light, and perhaps that was the best time for him to get away. As for the possibility of his being on the balcony—well, that was really a stretch.

  “I think it’s an acquired taste,” Pix answered diplomatically.

  “You are brave even to try it. Most people stick to the Jarlsberg I get from the supermarket.”

  “It must be difficult to live in such an isolated place. When I run out of something, I jump in my car and run to the store. You can’t do that.”

  “No, not really. But we buy what we don’t raise in large quantities. I haven’t had too many problems, and this is a good way for the children to grow up.”

  “You said there were four generations here. There’s you and your husband, the children, and—”

  Helene Feld joined them. She had steered clear of all the cheese and was contentedly munching on some salad.

  “Yes, I was wondering about that, too.”

  “My parents and my grandmother live here, too, but they leave in the summer for their hytte in the mountains. We were all born right ov
er there”—she pointed to a small house—“and will die here, I suppose.” Her contented smile made that event seem a very, very long time away.

  “And your husband? Is he from the area?” Pix was curious about the husband.

  “Oh, no.” His wife laughed. “He is a city boy from the east coast. I don’t know how my parents ever agreed to the marriage!”

  “Your farm is lovely. I can see why he might have wanted to leave the city,” Helene told her. “The buildings are so interesting.”

  “This one is called a stabbur. In the past, people stored their food for the winter there. Below you see the cellar.

  That was for the potatoes. But the stabbur held the dried meat and other things high up.”

  There was a remnant of old paint on the door to the sod-roofed stabbur, perched above the cellar dug into the side of the mountain. Weather had worn most of the design away, but there was a faint tracing of a man on horseback. The lower door still showed herringbone stripes.

  “I suppose you must have some furniture and other things that have been in your family all these years,” Helene commented. Her neutral tone may have fooled the farmer’s wife, but knowing what she did, Pix easily detected the underlying obsession—those objects of desire—if not to own, at least to see.

  “We do, but I’m not so interested in old things.”

  This seemed to spur, rather than dampen, Helene’s ardor. “Would you mind if I had a look in the house? I wouldn’t touch anything, of course.”

  “You are welcome to, except I’m afraid there isn’t enough time.” She waved to someone, and turning, Pix saw Carl with his hand up.

  “Your guide is calling you now. Perhaps you will come back to see us another day. We will be here,” she added graciously.

  As they walked toward the group, Helene grumbled, “So many people don’t appreciate what they have. I’ve seen beautiful old pieces that have been painted over or had the legs cut off to fit into another space. You name it. In one kitchen, the people had put their television set on top of a two-hundred-year-old chest. It was so blackened with soot that you could barely see the rosemaling!”