‘What?’ She looked at me, confused. ‘Erm … other things.’ She moved her gaze to the poster on the wall above me. ‘How the earth’s going to fare, for example.’
‘Gaia?’
‘Yes?’ Now she looked aggrieved. ‘If only a few more people thought the way we do, then …’
‘Then everything in the garden would be lovely and green?’
‘Anything else you’d like to talk about? If not I …’ she snapped, making for the door. Then she turned to me again.
I got up as well. ‘No, I don’t think there is, for today.’ I gave her my card. ‘Here you are. If you hear from your father, or if you remember something that might be significant, then don’t hesitate to contact me.’
She glanced at the card. ‘Alright.’
She accompanied me to the apartment door. The smell of food was stronger now. From the kitchen I heard voices, a high-pitched woman’s voice and a darker bass. Their laughter mingled like a musical piece they were rehearsing.
Else Mæland closed the door as soon as I was in the corridor, as though afraid I would turn back on the threshold and ask another unpleasant question. I trudged down the stairs and out.
While I was waiting for the green man at the zebra crossing further up the street, I wondered what Ibsen had done for Bergen to have this street named after him. However, when the street was named it was probably a great deal more idyllic up here, with grass to the south, where FC Brann would soon site its football ground, scattered houses up towards Kronstad and horses and carts on the road to and from the farms in Fridalen and Landås. Now the traffic crept past in one long, slow stream, like an endless cortege on its way to burying someone, whoever the dead person was this time.
8
Fløenbakken had a free parking area, which was primarily used by hospital employees who found the fee for designated places in the car park below Haukeland Hospital, a couple of stone-throws away, too expensive. At this time of day shifts were changing and I found a free spot not far from the block of flats where Karin lived.
As I was going to the islands the next day she had decided to cook ‘sidl og pote’: salami and potatoes, complemented with sour cream, beetroot and sliced leeks. I didn’t object at all, especially as she had opened a beer and put a bottle of Simers on the table beside her best aquavit glasses.
‘Are we celebrating something?’ I asked cautiously.
‘Nothing special,’ she said with a smile.
After we had eaten she made some coffee in the kitchen. When it was on the table she poured herself a liqueur and a brandy for me. Once again I asked, with no little trepidation, if there was some special date I had forgotten: ‘Are you sure we aren’t celebrating something?’
She sat close to me, turned her face to me, leaned forward and kissed me on the mouth. ‘Have you forgotten what you asked me? Two weeks ago?’
‘You’re thinking about …?’ Gradually the gravity of the situation dawned on me.
‘Yes. You haven’t changed your mind, have you?’
‘You mean that you, that we …?’
She kissed me again, held her head back a little way, looked me in the eye and said: ‘The answer’s yes anyway.’
‘Well, I’m …’ I put my arms around her, hugged her tight and felt my heart beating unnaturally and a kind of breathlessness seize me. ‘Does that mean we have to start planning for something?’
She smiled warmly. ‘Yes, we probably do. But we’ll wait until you’re back.’
‘I’m very happy now, Karin.’
‘Me, too. I was when you asked.’ Suddenly she turned serious. ‘I love you, Varg. A lot. Now you be careful when you go wherever it is you’re going.’
‘Even more now. You can bet on that.’
‘Do you believe in premonitions?’
‘Not much. What is it?’
‘Well, ever since this morning, out at Mons and Ranveig’s cabin, I’ve had an unpleasant sense that something was going to happen.’
‘Something’s always going to happen,’ I said flippantly. ‘How well do you actually know Ranveig?’
‘What can I say? We’ve never been close, intimate friends, but as I told you, we were in the same class at secondary school. At Tanks gymnas. Then we lost contact for a few years. She stopped when she married Mons, but afterwards we still met. Not that often, but for a couple of walks in the mountains, usually when Mons was on his travels or busy. The occasional glass of wine or lunch in town. I still didn’t really know her though. It was as if she always maintained a façade. Found it difficult to open up. And actually that suited me just fine. It meant I could do the same.’
‘When did they get married?’
‘Mmm …. I would guess 1984. By then they would have been together for more than a year already. ‘
‘So he didn’t grieve for very long.’
‘No, he didn’t.’
‘She has expensive habits, her stepdaughter said. Costly trips abroad, that kind of thing.’
‘Maybe. She has a sort of shell around her. I don’t know if you noticed as well. Attractive, well-dressed, articulate. Impeccable down to the last detail. No scratches on her nail varnish, as far as I know.’
‘But no children.’
‘No.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Neither have I, Varg.’
I arched my eyebrows. ‘It’s too late now, isn’t it?’
‘Yes …’
‘Else was so small when it happened, but both she and Kristoffer felt that Ranveig came into their lives too quickly after their mother was gone. One could be tempted to think something was going on before the mother disappeared.’
‘If so, she never said anything to me.’
‘Did you know her at that time?’
‘Yes, we were colleagues, but then she stopped work.’
‘Why did she stop?’
‘There was a job going at his company and, well, he could offer a higher salary than the state could. I didn’t like it. It smacked too much of … erm … nepotism. That’s the right word, isn’t it?’
‘But you still met her?’
‘Sporadically, as I said.’
‘This Bjørn Brekkhus, has she ever mentioned his name?’
‘Never. Do you think that …?’ She didn’t complete the sentence.
‘In my line of work we tend to believe the worst of most people, so why not?’
‘But in that case they wouldn’t have shown their cards so openly – or called in the likes of you, would they?’
I smirked. ‘What do you mean? The likes of me?’
She laughed. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘I’m sure you’re right. It’s unlikely.’
‘What do you think has really happened to Mons?’
‘I can tell you one thing. It’s rare for someone to vanish without a trace in this day and age. We leave all manner of electronic trails after us. We only have to pass a road toll, ring someone from a mobile or swipe a card at a till. Big Brother sees you.’
‘In other words …’
‘If you haven’t left an electronic trail – no card use, no computer activity, nothing at all – then there’s a strong chance you’re dead.’
‘But then it would be a police matter.’
‘Of course. As soon as there’s a body. Until then … well, I’ve got rent to pay too.’
This time she kissed me with a little more passion. Her mouth tasted of coffee and liqueur. ‘You …’
‘Yes?’
She smiled at me brightly. ‘You know the old fisherman’s custom, don’t you? What they did before they set out to sea?’
‘Are you referring to the belief that the act of sexual communion the night before departure foretokened a good catch?’
She assumed an expression to imply that her mind was on something quite different, but the way she snuggled up to me told me the opposite. ‘Or two,’ she whispered in my ear as we made our way to the bedroom.
There we made love as passionately as if it wer
e the first time and with such vigour that her solid bed creaked ominously. Afterwards we lay chatting until we took up her suggestion and did it again, but this time with an almost mournful tenderness, as though we would never see each other again. As though I would never return with the big catch, but would remain out there, somewhere at the bottom of the sea, beneath the dark waves and the wind that blew and blew and never abated.
9
The fifteen minutes or so the ferry trip from Leirvåg to Skipavik took was just enough to buy and knock back a cup of bitter black coffee of the classic Norwegian ferry genus plus a sad-looking Vestland flatbread spiced with cinnamon and wrapped in plastic.
From the quay at Skipavik the journey was through rolling countryside with tiny patches of green, isolated houses and mountain formations scoured clean by the wind, over the three bridges that had brought the westernmost islands together for the last ten years, and north to Byrknesøy to the very last bridge, as far out to the sea as it was possible to go. In a couple of places I was stumped as to which road I should take and had to get out the map. In another I was distracted by a large, white-tailed eagle peacefully hovering above the road before it was roused out of its reverie by an aggressive gull and both disappeared westwards to the sea.
The bridge over Brennøy Sound was so new that the scars in the rock by the bridge abutment were still visible. It wasn’t a high bridge; if it had been there was a good chance you would be blown away by the wind when it was at its worst. All the buildings on the island were collected around the old quay south of the bridge. There weren’t many houses to speak of: a couple of smallholdings, a chapel, what looked like an abandoned fish hall on the quay, some cabins and summer houses of more recent origin. South of the quay was a little marina and a row of six conspicuously large fishermen’s cabins painted in a classic combination: red, yellow and white.
A spruce forest had been planted around the oldest buildings. To the north of the island the terrain rose to the sky, naked and unpopulated, though not much higher than eighty metres above sea level. What they wanted with a bridge out here was best known to the Sogn and Fjordane Highways Department. It was possible they had been farsighted enough to visualise the current plans for the wind farm or some modern industry, unless it was the age-old collaboration between politicians and businessmen that had given the Brennøyers a bridge they had happily survived without for all the years they had lived there.
The road from the bridge down to the community had recently been tarmacked. As I approached the quay I turned towards the fishermen’s cabins, where a sign informed me that this was where Naustvik Hotel & Harbour had their premises. There were two cars parked outside: a ten-year-old, unwashed, red Opel Kadett and a white VW of even older vintage.
The light drizzle dampened my forehead as I got out of the car and looked around. There was no sign of life, but I assumed that every single person who happened to be on the island had observed my approach a long time ago. As I made my way down to the fishermen’s cabins I had my assumption confirmed. The door of the first house opened and a robust woman with remarkably beautiful features appeared in the doorway.
She was wearing practical clothes: a checked flannel shirt and baggy work pants stuffed into a pair of boots, not that the masculine clothing could camouflage her natural radiance. Her dark brown hair was tied into a plait, which hung over one shoulder.
‘Veum?’ she said, and I recognised the voice from the telephone the previous day.
‘Correct,’ I said, proffering my hand.
She gave me a firm handshake. ‘Kristine Rørdal. I run this place.’
‘Oh, yes. Are you related to Ole Rørdal?’
‘Do you know Ole? He’s my son.’
‘Your son? You must have been young when you had him.’
She tossed her head back and pouted. ‘Not that young … but thank you anyway. I’m expecting him here some time today. This evening, he said.’
‘For the big survey tomorrow?’
‘Of course. But come in and we’ll get you registered.’
I followed her into the white cabin. It turned out to contain a little reception area with a wardrobe and toilets, a mezzanine floor where there were sofas and a main room with several long roughly hewn tables and a view of the sound through a high window. Behind a small glass desk there were a bowl of waffles, covered in cling film, and a variety of jams in jars, and the smell of coffee wafted over from the machine on the counter by the wall.
Kristine Rørdal took a seat behind the reception desk and pulled out a guest book. ‘Name and address, please.’ When she had entered my details, she asked: ‘It was only one night, wasn’t it?’
‘For the time being, yes.’
‘Breakfast from seven, and you wanted dinner in the evening, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, please. What’s on the menu?’
‘Fresh fish in a white sauce.’
‘Sounds good.’
She turned to the board behind her, took one of the keys hanging there and gave it to me. It was number six. ‘It’s the second cabin you come to.’
‘Thank you.’ I looked around.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’
‘Yes, please. And the waffles look very good.’
‘Coming up. Just find yourself a table.’ She slipped behind the desk and got everything ready.
‘It seemed very quiet here. When I arrived.’
‘The calm before the storm, eh?’ She flashed a smile. ‘A Tuesday morning in September. You know what it’s like. Holidaymakers have long since decamped. The boat people have as good as packed up for the season. The locals who aren’t on the North Sea have jobs inland, in Sløvåg or Mongstad.’
‘No one fishes any more?’
‘A few do.’ She came round the desk with the cup of coffee, a little jug of cream and some sugar cubes on a tray. ‘How many waffles?’
‘Two’ll do me. Blueberry jam on one, brown cheese on the other.’
She beamed. ‘I like a man with a good appetite.’
I met her eyes. ‘You’re not from these parts, I can hear.’
‘No, no. I’m from Bergen. We spent our summer holidays here when I was small, and later I met the man I would marry, as you do.’
‘So perhaps you know Mons Mæland from that time?’
‘Oh, yes. They had a cabin just down from us. Now I’d better …’
She turned round and went towards the reception desk.
When she returned with the waffles, I said: ‘Your son’s involved in the campaign against the wind turbines. How do people feel about that?’
The smile vanished. ‘Well, they don’t like it, as you can imagine. There’s talk about quite a few jobs being created – and it’s a handy income for the local council.’
I nodded towards the big window. ‘And big, beautiful electricity-producing towers right along the coastline …’
‘Our family is split down the middle.’
‘Not just yours, from what I understand.’
‘Personally, I think it’s a good idea. It’s good for local trade. But my husband says it’s a crime against creation, and you already know what my son thinks. You’re against it, I take it.’
I shrugged. ‘As with most things, there are compelling arguments for and against. But I definitely don’t believe the tourist industry – which you might be part of – will benefit from it. And there won’t be that many construction workers here either, at least not when the wind farm is up and running.’
‘Oh, they’ll always need to do maintenance and repair work. And they’ll need surveillance people, but what do I know?’ She pulled out a chair and sat down at my table. ‘When you rang yesterday you said that Mons … that he’d disappeared.’
‘Yes, that was why I asked when you last saw him.’
‘He was definitely here a week or two ago. How long has he been missing?’
‘Since Saturday.’
‘Several days then! And you haven’t heard anything
?’
I shook my head. ‘Not a sign of life. No mobile activity, no card use, in short, nothing.’
‘Sounds scary.’
‘Tell me about him.’
‘About Mons?’ Her eyes became distant, and the corners of her broad mouth drooped. ‘What can I say? I’ve known him since we were children, as I told you. In fact, we’re roughly the same age.’
She gave me just enough time to raise my eyebrows to emphasise my previous surprise and smiled quickly. I folded the waffle with brown cheese in the middle and took a bite, without releasing her gaze.
‘Well, he might be a year or two older, but he was here every single summer, with his parents. When we were children we were as thick as thieves – with all the other children too. The population multiplied during the summer, and for us kids this was paradise. Later, when we were in our teens, we went dancing together. To Byrknes by boat. Sometimes all the way to Eivindvik.’
‘Dancing was allowed then?’
‘Not in all circles, of course.’
‘What about your husband?’
‘Lars? Do you know him?’
‘Ole mentioned his name.’
Her lips parted. ‘He went dancing too … in those days.’
‘But you met him again later, as an adult?’
‘Mons?’
I nodded.
‘Yes. Now and then. My mother was from Byrknesøy, so while we she was alive he came over regularly. After she was gone visits were rare because he bought a property on the north of the island. In recent years he’s been here quite often, since the grand project was launched. Planners, investors and others. They always stayed here when they needed accommodation. And he had conferences and seminars here as well.’
‘Then I can see why you’re a fan of the project.’
‘And I’m not the only one! Most of the locals share my viewpoint. The Deputy Chairman on the council often came here with him.’
‘I see. And what’s his name?’
‘Jarle Glosvik. He’s from Byrknesøy, across the sound from here.’
‘Jarle Glosvik?’ I recognised the name from the documents I had leafed through at Mons Mæland’s. ‘He’s got vested interests as well, hasn’t he?’
We Shall Inherit the Wind Page 6
