by Karen Swan
‘Hi, Harald,’ Anders smiled, immediately speaking in English and shaking his hand. ‘Sorry I am late.’
The man nodded, casting a glance at Bo and replying in faultless English himself. ‘You were working again, huh? I saw your boat coming in tonight.’
‘Yes.’ Anders nodded. ‘This is Bo, a client. She is staying with me for a few days.’
‘. . . The sick girl?’ Harald asked in surprise. ‘But you are better so soon? Annika said you were very unwell. She was concerned about you.’
‘Harald is Annika’s husband,’ Anders explained.
‘Ah, well, thanks to your wife I’m feeling a lot better,’ Bo said quickly. ‘The antibiotics have really helped.’
‘You are taking them regularly I hope?’ He glanced at Anders with a weary smile. ‘My wife gets very agitated if people go too long between doses. It’s all to do with keeping the chemicals at a consistent level in the bloodstream, you know.’
‘Right. I’ll remember that.’
‘Would you care to sit down? Perhaps you are tired.’
‘No, really I’m fine. It’s nice to be up and out for a bit. I’ve spent the past three days cooped up and I’m itching to spread my wings.’
‘Well, we are glad you have joined us. What would you like to drink? Something soft?’
‘Actually, is there any aquavit left?’ Anders asked him.
Harald grinned. ‘He is giving you the full Norwegian experience, huh? Follow me.’
They squeezed through the crowd, Harald guiding them to the next room. Bo marvelled at where all these people had come from. Their initial exploration through the streets a week earlier had felt like walking through a ghost town, and even earlier today, in the store, she had only seen three people in there and one of them was the guy behind the counter. (Bo could see him in the corner here, too.)
‘What a turnout you’ve got! Is the entire village here?’ she asked, as Harald stopped at a small drinks table in the dining room and poured them both a drink. Dean Martin was singing ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’ in the background.
‘No,’ he chuckled. ‘That really would be a squeeze. We’re bigger than we might appear. About two hundred and forty residents now. Anders helped tip us over when he moved back here last year.’
‘Last year?’ Bo looked at him in surprise. ‘But I thought you grew up here.’ He had told her his grandmother had raised him on the shelf farm.
‘I did. But then I left.’
‘The lure of the big city lights,’ Harald smiled, patting him on the shoulder warmly and squeezing it fondly. ‘We lose all our young to Oslo but the best eventually come back.’
‘You lived in Oslo?’
‘For a while.’
He was his usual non-committal self but Bo was intrigued. Was his girlfriend still there? Was that why she kept a drawer at his? But why had he come back? For his grandmother?
‘Anyway, Oslo’s loss is our gain,’ Harald said, turning his attention to her. ‘And where is it you’re from? You’re Australian?’
‘British.’
‘Ah. And what has brought you here out of season? This place is very different in the summer months, you know.’
‘Well, that’s why we wanted to come now really.’
‘We?’
‘Me and my boyfriend Zac. We’re travellers. Well, travel bloggers. We stay all over the world in the most remote, off-the-beaten-track places we can find.’
‘Is Gerainger off the track?’ Harald asked with a quizzical smile. ‘We have almost two million visitors annually.’
‘I know but . . . well, that’s why we’ve come during the quiet spell. Plus we’re staying at Anders’ grandmother’s farm which is fairly . . . hardcore.’
‘Yes it will be,’ Harald said, nodding with a knowing look. ‘And how have you managed with that?’
‘Well, getting hypothermia and then almost pneumonia was rather problematic with no central heating or hot running water,’ she chuckled. ‘Hence, why Anders stepped in to help out for a few days.’
Harald looked across at him with a proud expression. ‘He is a truly good man.’
Beside her, Anders shifted his weight, embarrassed.
Harald laughed, slapping him hard on the shoulder. ‘How long will you stay in the village?’
‘Well the rest of our group are still up there. I’m going back tomorrow.’
‘You have missed your friends?’
Bo waggled her head. ‘Mmm, yes and no.’
‘No?’
‘It’s actually been really nice to have some time to myself. We . . . because of the size of our online following, we have to travel as a group.’
‘You mean an entourage?’ Harald asked, looking amused.
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that,’ she said quickly.
‘I would,’ Anders said drily.
Harald laughed loudly.
‘No,’ Bo said defensively. ‘We only have Lenny – he’s our photographer-slash-manager; he comes everywhere with us, organizes our trips and itineraries.’
‘And then there’s Anna too,’ Anders prompted.
‘But she’s just the marketing rep for the company we’re currently in partnership with. She’s only with us for a couple of weeks,’ she protested. ‘She’s not normally with us.’
‘And you’re all staying up at the farm?’ Harald asked.
‘Yes.’
‘That must get intense.’ He looked across at Anders questioningly. ‘Especially at this time of year. Once you’re up there on that ledge, you’re stuck there. It’s not like there’s anything else around besides the view; you can’t even move freely.’
‘That view could never get boring and I like the seclusion of it,’ she shrugged. ‘But I guess it’s a Marmite thing.’
‘Marmite?’
‘You either love it or hate it.’
Harald looked across at Anders. ‘I thought the farm was only available for summer lets.’
‘So did I. But my grandmother took the money, bought a new skidoo and forgot to tell me anything about it until they all turned up on the doorstep.’
Harald laughed loudly again; it was a generous boom, like a tuba in a hall of violins. ‘God bless your grandmother, no one gets in her way.’
‘That’s for sure.’ Anders grinned too, looking as though he’d been loosened at the stays. In fact, he looked completely different, full stop, tonight – seeing him out of his work clothes, relaxing with friends, his energy was totally different. The reserve that felt like a forcefield when he was around her and the others, was completely gone here. He was softer somehow. A flesh and blood man, rather than the bionic automaton guiding them up and down mountains. People kept touching him – patting his shoulder or shaking his hand as they passed by on their way to the kitchen – as though he was a favoured son, casting her curious glances as they went and she knew the tan drew more attention to her than even her accent. But not once did she think any of them recognized her; there was nothing grabbing in their looks, they didn’t want selfies or a shout-out. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel watched.
Bo drank her aquavit, not caring that it burned her throat, and she happily held out her glass for a refill when Harald offered it, the sharp edge of her nerves already blunted.
‘So, I imagine you’ve been enjoying the heady luxuries of staying at Anders’ house then, whilst you’ve been sick?’ Harald asked, as he poured. ‘Television? Internet?’
‘Hot running water’s been the best thing,’ she agreed. ‘Wifi, I’ve been less interested in. It’s been surprisingly good being off social media for a bit.’
‘Bo is one half of Wanderlusters,’ Anders said, with no apparent trace of sarcasm. ‘She and her fiancé have nine million followers.’
‘Nine mil—?’ Harald’s eyes bulged. ‘And you like that?’
Bo felt a surprised laugh escape her. It wasn’t the question that usually came after people heard that. ‘It’s fine. It’s a job.’
<
br /> ‘I thought you said it was a lifestyle?’ Anders challenged, his usual inscrutable stare making her shift her weight.
‘Well, it’s both. It started out as a lifestyle and then I started getting paid to lead it.’ She shrugged, looking between them both. ‘But in order to lead it, I need to be able to fund it, so . . .’
‘But doesn’t it feel . . .’ Harald frowned. ‘I don’t know, what is the word . . . ? Intrusive, all these people watching you?’
‘Sometimes, yes. I don’t like being recognized when we’re out. I like to feel there’s a line between online me and real me.’ She felt Anders’ gaze settle harder on her.
‘So you mean that these millions of people following you aren’t really seeing the real you? But then isn’t that deceitful? Misleading?’
‘No, I think of it more as they see a slice of my life and who I am, just not all of it. They see twenty per cent. It’s a curated version of my life – edited, sanitized, prettified, filtered. They can watch me, without really seeing me.’
‘That’s an interesting distinction: they can watch you but not see you,’ Harald mused, nodding wisely. ‘So, what does it take to give them this twenty per cent? I assume you are guilty of photographing avocados on toast?’
Bo laughed out loud; even Anders grinned.
‘Maybe once or twice,’ she admitted. ‘But I try to post two to three photos to my grid each day—’
‘The normal Instagram images,’ Anders clarified for him. ‘They call it the grid.’ He shrugged, as though it was a freemason’s handshake.
‘And then at least five or six fifteen-second videos to my storyboard.’
Harald looked intrigued. ‘And can you do that quickly or does it all need to be decided beforehand? Do you have meetings about what you’ll show?’
‘Well, this is where our photographer comes in. We’ll plan various trips and excursions and he’ll then shoot reportage-style throughout that. He probably takes two, three hundred images a day.’
‘Three hundred?’ Harald looked scandalized.
‘Minimum. That’s split between Zac and me but for every image we post, it takes probably twenty, twenty-five frames to get a decent one.’
He looked bewildered. Lost. ‘But I don’t understand – you’re a very pretty girl. Surely it is easy to take a photograph of you? Don’t you agree, Anders?’
Anders looked like he might choke. ‘What?’
‘She is pretty, no?’
He frowned as though he didn’t understand the question. ‘Uh . . . yes. She’s fine.’
Harald had a mischievous smile on his lips.
Fine? She’s fine? ‘Well, thank you,’ Bo said lightly, refusing to let the slight settle on her. ‘But I might be blinking in one snap, or the wind’s blown my hair in my eyes, or there’s a shadow on my face, or the silhouette’s wrong.’ She shrugged. ‘It can be harder than it looks.’
‘Well, I had no idea,’ Harald murmured, looking startled by the prospect. He glanced at Anders. ‘I guess that’s the difference between digital and film. Back in my day, you simply couldn’t afford to take so many frames. Every single one cost money to be developed.’
‘Yes, I guess.’
‘I suppose you might argue that photographs meant more back then?’ Harald suggested.
‘Oh, but I disagree,’ Bo said. ‘People document their lives in a way now that they never could before.’
‘Yes, but in so doing, haven’t they devalued the form?’ Harald debated. ‘When everybody’s taking multiple shots just to get one decent “selfie”, it doesn’t mean as much as when there were only limited chances to capture an image. There’s no sense of permanence now because everyone’s always on to the new, the next thing.’
Was he right, she wondered? It was a valid point.
‘And I hate how nobody prints their photographs any more,’ he said, getting on to a riff. ‘Posting them is the new photo frame! You can’t have a picture in your house where just your family and friends will see it, it has to be on the internet to be validated by strangers.’ He tutted. ‘It makes you wonder what would happen if a pandemic wiped out the human race and this planet was visited hundreds or thousands of years from now by another race – they would think that humanity ended in the 1990s! There would be almost no physical evidence of us because all the images are sitting on hard drives that no one would know how to work any more—’
A hand appeared on Harald’s shoulder suddenly and he turned. A short woman with light brown hair and kind eyes blinked back at them and then at him. She said something in Norwegian.
‘Yes, of course,’ Harald murmured, turning back to them. ‘I’m sorry, you’ll have to excuse me, Annika is wanting us to do the tree decorations now. Duty calls.’
‘No problem,’ Anders nodded.
‘Help yourself to drinks and food,’ Harald said. ‘There is risengrynsgrot over there.’ He looked at Bo. ‘If you have not had it before, you are in for a treat. My wife’s is the best in the province.’ And with a smile and a wink, he disappeared back into the kitchen.
‘Risenwhat?’ she asked Anders.
‘It is a porridge, with sugar and cinnamon and butter – a very traditional part of Norwegian Christmases.’
‘Then I think I should try some,’ she said; if nothing else, she hadn’t had supper and that aquavit schnapps had gone to her head. ‘I can record it too, post a little footage.’
‘Really?’ Anders sounded reluctant.
‘Yeah,’ she sighed, feeling the same herself. ‘People are already asking if Zac and I have broken up, just because I’ve not posted for a few days.’ He tutted but she held out her glass for him to hold as she reached for her phone from her jeans pocket. ‘It really is something when you can’t even be sick without the conspiracy theorists having a field day.’ She blew out through her cheeks. ‘But that’s how it is, right? Roll with the punches. The social media show must go on. People want daily contact, even if it’s just seeing the colour of the varnish on my toes.’
Anders frowned, shaking his head imperceptibly and staring at her as though she was a conundrum. ‘Come on, then,’ he said, leading her over to the buffet table. There was a vast spread laid out but the porridge was seemingly very much the centrepiece, being kept warm in a jug-eared silver tureen. He ladled some in a bowl for her and she began recording, showing his earnest concentration as he sprinkled on the cinnamon, sugar and butter. His face softened ever so slightly as he handed it over to her but the realization that he was being filmed saw him immediately arch out of shot and lapse back into his customary scowl. She laughed as she stopped recording. ‘You don’t have to look quite so horrified, Anders,’ she grinned, uploading the post. ‘It is only a camera, not a gun.’
‘Now, can you just quickly be Lenny and film me having a bit of it?’ she asked, handing the phone to him before he could say no. ‘It’ll prove to the followers that I am still alive and kicking in Norway and that rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated.’
He gave a sigh but did as she asked, filming her as she took a first, tentative sip. ‘Mmm-mmm!’ she said, doing her best Nigella and widening her eyes as the flavours hit. ‘My God, that’s delicious,’ she exclaimed, immediately going in for a second spoonful. She closed her eyes in bliss and then looked to camera. ‘Guys, this is a traditional dish called risen—’ She looked at Anders for help.
‘Risengrynsgrot,’ he said from behind the camera.
‘Right, that,’ she grinned. ‘It’s basically porridge, cinnamon, sugar and butter and it is delicious.’ She took another spoonful – only this time . . . She grimaced. ‘Ugh, what’s . . . what’s that?’ she asked, spitting into her hand.
Anders chuckled. ‘That’s a scalded almond.’
‘What? Why?’ she complained, staring down at it.
‘Tradition has it that whoever gets the almond will be first to marry.’
‘Tradition . . . ?’ She looked straight to camera. ‘Oh, jeez . . . You heard it here firs
t, guys,’ she winked.
‘And your prize for finding the almond will be a marzipan pig.’ Amusement continued to speckle his voice.
‘A marzi—?’
‘It’s stopped recording,’ he said, abruptly holding the camera back out to her as though it was a hot coal.
‘Oh. Thanks.’ She grinned, taking it from him. ‘Do I really get a marzipan pig?’
‘Along with a husband, yes,’ he shrugged but his eyes were dancing. He somehow always managed to say so much more with his silences than his words. ‘You cannot say we Norwegians are not generous.’
She smirked at his quip, playing the video back and holding the phone out so that he could see it over her shoulder. It was highly amusing – her grimace and surprise, his dry comments. And with the Christmas tree, twinkling lights, music, shrieking children and all the party guests in the background, it oozed authenticity. A genuine Norwegian Christmas. The fans would go mad for it. She uploaded it with a smile.
Slut.
The word flashed behind her eyelids every time she blinked, it glowed on the other side of the road as she looked to cross, it sucked out the brightness of that happy, festive room. Together, they walked in silence back to the house.
It had been a great night up till that point. She had had three aquavits – enough to make her head swim and her smile easy – and at first, as her phone buzzed constantly in her back pocket, she had shared some of the responses with Anders. A fair few of them had been about him: ‘Phwoar! Hello Blue Eyes’; ‘Viking style’; ‘Who heeee? #yesplease’; ‘Deets!’; ‘Zac who?’
‘Well, you’re a hit!’ she had laughed but he had looked away, refusing to engage. The prospect of global adoration hadn’t seemed to flatter or excite him and he’d turned down flat her plea to take a stand-alone photograph of him, ‘due to popular demand’. But the schnapps and festive mood had loosened her up and she had snuck a few of him anyway whenever he spoke briefly to other friends and neighbours; she found and tagged his Geraingerfjord Guided Tours account, watching as his number of followers ballooned from forty-seven to over three thousand in forty-five minutes. She had planned to show him his dramatic new following at the end of the night by way of a thank you, for it had been a great night.
