“Where did she go? ” Connie frowned out her front windows into the cold sunshine. The store had cleared out except for Bjarne, Maggie, Carter, and me.
“Sometimes the power of the wyrd becomes too strong for her and she must be alone,” Peter said.
“Ah,” Connie said, nodding. “I understand.”
Bjarne looked whiplashed. As Connie went to look down the street for Isa, I touched his arm. “Are you okay?” I asked.
He nodded, focusing on my face as if snapping out of a revelation. “Oh, sure.” We walked toward the door.
“Was that just me, or was that a little weird?”
“Weird?” He shook his head. “It was all in fun, right?” He smiled at me, a great smile. Maggie and Carter joined us, and we went into the street. I must just have a vivid imagination, I thought. It was fortune telling, for heaven’s sake. Nobody was bending spoons.
“So you’re going with Alix to meet that artist?” Carter asked, backing away as if it had been decided. What had Maggie been filling his head with? I gave her my best I-know-where-you’re-going smirk, and she winked at me again. That woman. I was going to have to get full details of her afternoon delight. She and Carter walked backward down the boardwalk, out into the street, turning and laughing as they ran, hand in hand, in the direction of Maggie’s apartment.
“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” Bjarne said, watching them go.
“And vice versa.”
We walked slowly down the boardwalk, across the alley, looking in the windows of leather shops, T-shirt stores, and jewelry emporiums. I dragged Bjarne into the bookstore and searched the shelves for a paperback to read tonight so I wouldn’t have to watch Hank’s slides again. We were all to go to dinner at Luca’s, but it would break up early enough for Hank to bring out the slide projector. He’d done it every night this week. I found a Marcia Muller mystery I hadn’t read yet and paid the bearded proprietor. Tucking the book into the pocket of the down coat, I pointed Bjarne across the square, passing by the ice carvers hard at work making mermaids and undisclosed ice maidens. Dieter was up on a ladder at his own block; I waved at him, but he was concentrating on something that looked like a cornucopia full of grapes, of all things.
The afternoon warmed a little, with the sunshine and the hum of tourists. I pulled the slouch hat lower over my face to keep the sun off, pushing the Ray-Bans up my battered nose. Bjarne walked next to me until we got to the camera shop next to the gallery. I stopped him by the arm.
“If you have something else you’d rather be doing, now’s the time to say it,” I said, taking off the glasses now in the shadow of the overhang. “Please, tell me.”
He had his hands deep in the pockets of his windbreaker. “Miss Thorssen, all I have been doing for the last two weeks is skiing. I can think of nothing I would rather be doing than strolling with you.” He smiled, his blue eyes lit up. “We Norwegians have simple needs.”
I laughed. “I heard once that Christ’s last words to the Norwegians were ‘Stay simple until I return.’ “
His turn to laugh. “Yes, and we are very religious.”
We stepped up to the door of the Second Sun. Inside I could see Glasius Dokken gesticulating wildly about his murals to a group of elderly tourists that included Una and Hank Artie was behind the display case showing jewelry to two women. No chaos, no panic, nothing gone to hell in a handbasket just because I took a couple hours off for lunch and a fortunetelling interlude with the White Queen of the Runes.
“One last thing,” I said. “You must call me Alix. Even though it is not a proper Norwegian name.”
Bjarne looked at me with those damn eyes. “Are you a proper Norwegian girl?” he asked.
“Of course not. Simple but not proper.”
“I doubt you are simple,” he said, flashing that smile again, then putting one hand over mine on the door handle, the other on the small of my back. “I doubt that very much.”
Chapter 4
Have thy eyes about thee when thou enterest be wary always be watchful always;
for one never knoweth when need will be to meet hidden foe in the hall.
“Did they lose his luggage?”
At the back of the small crowd gathered around Glasius Dokken and now including Bjarne Hansen, my mother stared at Bjarne’s bright blue Lycra tights, which showed every minute contour of two very muscled legs. He did look a little underdressed next to Glasius’s baggy tweeds. I’d made the introductions. Glasius and Bjarne spoke a little Norwegian to each other, then Glasius launched into his lecture about the mural to a curious tourist adrift in turquoise.
“No, Mom, he came from a workout. He’s a Nordic ski racer,” I said. “Cross-country skiing. Stop staring. He and Glasius are getting along fine, aren’t they?”
“Anyone could get along with Glasius,” Una said. “He’s such a dear. Did you have lunch, honey? I could go up and get you some dumpling soup. It’s still on the range.”
“We ate with Maggie. But thanks.” I wondered how much time Maggie had for middle-of-the-day rendezvous. “Did you go out?”
“We ate the soup, of course,” Una said, wandering away from Glasius’s lecture to look out the plate-glass windows at the passersby. There weren’t many in the middle of the afternoon. It would pick up again after skiing. “Glasius was looking at your mythology books. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, of course not.” I couldn’t imagine that he would find anything he didn’t already know in them. His mural of Odin hanging from the ash tree, the one he was now explaining in halting English, was the creation myth of the Viking people. In it the nine worlds are created, along with eighteen of the runes. I peered over the heads of the people and saw a gathering of small sticks under the bearded, inverted figure of the Allfather, Odin. Those must be the runes. Odin was nearly three feet long in the mural, with a spear piercing his side. Must have been a long nine days, hanging there, bleeding.
“You don’t have anything in Old Norse, do you?” Una asked. She was staring out the window still, her face away from me.
“Well, no, I don’t think so. Does Glasius read Old Norse?”
Before she could answer, the artist let out a bellowing, “Tank you fer comin’!” and the lecture broke up. Hank came over to Una and quietly said something to her. I stepped up to Glasius. Bjarne stood by as if waiting to be useful.
“Coffee, anybody?” I asked. Both Glasius and Bjarne looked relieved at the suggestion, as if they were unable to come up with any conversation on their own. We poured and stirred, and we all felt better. Una and Hank put on their coats and took off for the heated garage, where the longboat awaited its final decorations. They asked Glasius to come along and look at it. I told them about the fortune teller, thinking they might get a kick out of it if they ran out of things to do. After they left, I had time to sit down in the back and work on a brochure for my next show for a few minutes. I almost forgot about Bjarne; he and Artie were swapping jokes in the gallery.
“Miss Thorssen? Alix?” Bjarne rapped lightly on the doorframe. I turned in my seat, putting my finger on the spot in the copy that was giving me fits.
“Come in. I’m sorry, you’re probably ready to go back, aren’t you?”
Bjarne sank into the chair wedged into the corner of the cubbyhole space and rubbed his face with his hands. “I am pretty tired. I usually take a nap in the afternoon after my workout. But I didn’t even ski this afternoon.”
“I’ll call Maggie and see when Carter’s going back out to the Village.” I dialed Maggie’s home number and let it ring. I hung up and dialed her office. Her secretary Crystal put me through. “Back at work so soon?” I smiled at Bjarne, but he just looked bushed. I turned to admire the paintings on the wall under the shelves, my usual phone pastime. “We’re looking for Carter. Is he there?”
“Carter? Carter who?” Maggie’s tone was acidic.
“Oh, I see. What happened?”
“He called in to the center as soon as we got to
my apartment. Jerk. There was an emergency. A guy from North Dakota lost control and whacked a tree.”
“Is he okay?”
“Concussion. Broken arm. Carter had to go. I’m looking over his liability policy right now.”
“I’m sorry, Maggie.”
“Not as sorry as I am.”
“Well, I’ll get Bjarne back myself, then. And we’ll have to have lunch again soon.”
“Right.” She ruffled some papers on her desk. “Will you be at the parade tomorrow?”
“Of course. We’re watching from in front of the gallery. Come over and join us.”
She agreed, now sounding more hurt than angry. She recovered enough to ask me how Bjarne was doing and did I like him I assured her he was fine. She chuckled and hung up.
It was four-thirty. We were due at Luca’s at six. It would take me the better part of an hour to run Bjarne out to Teton Village. At seven I had to have Glasius back at the gallery for the reception. Bjarne was sitting with his head resting on the wall, eyes closed. His hair flipped insolently over one eyebrow. I put my chin on my palm and just looked at him for a minute after hanging up the phone, until I realized what I was doing.
“Bjarne?” I whispered, standing next to him. “Why don’t you go upstairs and lie down?”
He roused himself and straightened. “Um, okay. Upstairs?”
“Are you doing anything for dinner? Because we’re invited out for a quick bite, then back here for Glasius’s reception. Would you like to come with us?”
Bjarne stood up. He was only an inch taller than me, but then I was wearing my clogs. “Sure,” he said sleepily.
I leaned my head out into the gallery. “Artie? I’ll be right back.” Artie waved, engaged in deep conversation with three coeds.
I took Bjarne’s hand and led him up the back stairs to my apartment. I flipped on two floor lamps, illuminating the small space that functioned as a combination living room, dining room, and kitchen, with a counter separating the kitchen from the rest. The dark blue walls rose to a spangle of stars I had spent weeks stenciling just below the ceiling. The deep, dark blue was more than a bit morose to me now, but the thought of the time it took to paint the stars, and the time it would take to repaint the whole shebang, made me tolerant. I had once shared this apartment with Paolo, years before, and after he left it had seemed so spacious. Now, with my mother and Hank staying here, it felt intolerably cramped. The smell of dumpling soup filled the air, an old family odor with memories of the kitchen with the red chrome table, endless Monopoly games played on rainy days, chicken pox and measles, and Grandma Olava’s bony, loving hands.
I dropped Bjarne’s hand, but he squeezed mine quickly before he let go. “Do you want the sofa? Is that okay?”
“Anything.” He sat down and pulled off his running shoes. When he stretched out, his feet went up over the arms.
“Well, that won’t work. Come on.” I motioned him to the bedroom. “Take the bed. I’ll wake you in about an hour.”
He didn’t make any cracks about plumping the mattress for him or try to squeeze my hand again, I noticed as I went back downstairs. Was that really disappointment I was feeling? I shook it off and went back to work. The after-ski crowd streamed in, cackling and smelling fresh, their skin glowing. I poured coffee, sold earrings, passed out brochures about Glasius’s murals, and talked up the Nordic Nights festival. Two good-looking guys from New Jersey told me that one of the ice carvings was quite interesting. The carver had rolled two huge snowballs up to the base of his cylindrical ice sculpture. The Jersey boys got quite a kick out of describing it to me. I promised to look into it. If the carving was what these boys thought it was, I was going to catch it from the Chamber of Commerce.
Just before I was going to wake Bjarne, the phone rang. It was Carl. “You’re a hard one to catch.” His voice was tense, almost angry.
“Hi yourself. I called you this morning, but you were out.” I seemed to remember having this conversation last week, identical down to the semi-hostile breathy pauses. “You caught me now. How are you?”
“Okay. Good, really.” He didn’t sound convincing.
“Yeah? What’d you do today?”
“Flew the chopper. That’s what we do every day. Fly the chopper. Eat, sleep, fly the chopper.”
I frowned. “Well, that’s why you’re there.” Why did he sound so angry? And the big question: Did I really want to know? “So, how’s the weather?”
“Sunny. Same every day.”
Okay. Well, that about shoots my conversational skills. I waited for him to say something else. Behind me Una and Hank came into the gallery, talking to Glasius. I needed to gather up the troops to get to the next venue. Carl wasn’t saying anything, but I could hear him breathing into the phone. Finally I couldn’t wait any longer.
“Is everything okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know. I just thought maybe you had something to tell me.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” I rubbed my nose, feeling the bumpy cartilage of the break, remembering those shiners without fondness. “Carl?”
“Yeah?”
“I gotta go. I’m sorry.” He didn’t want to hear about dinner parties and foreign guests and stepfathers and wine and cheese. It would just make him feel worse, more lonely, more isolated. So I wouldn’t tell him.
“S’okay. Just wanted to make sure you were all right.” Had I told him that? No, he hadn’t asked. But now the phone call was done. We said good-bye and hung up.
paolo’s sister lived in the clapboard bungalow in the shadow of Snow King Mountain, where he had lived until last summer. When he died, he left me the house and his share of the gallery, along with some executor jobs that I would have preferred not having. But he trusted me, and in his way, he loved me. A friendship, yes, even a love like Paolo’s didn’t come along often in life. I didn’t expect it to ever come again.
But there was no way I could live in his bungalow, with its creamy siding, rose-colored door, lavish gardens in the back (now covered with snow)—there were too many memories here. So I sold it for a nominal amount to his sister. In exchange she gave me the old, listing garage in the back. I had been transforming the building into a studio over the last few months. Christmas had derailed the process, but so far I had painted it inside and out, installed a woodstove, bartered for and stacked a cord of wood, and bought art supplies. I had painted a couple pictures before Thanksgiving but hadn’t had time since to get back I was hoping to at least check the mousetraps tonight.
The small living room had changed since Paolo’s tenure, but not much. The mauve leather sofa still dominated the room, but now plants and flowers were perched everywhere, in the small bay window, hanging from the wall, on stands and end tables. Luca missed the lushness of Costa Rica, where she and her mother had lived after exile from Argentina, so she did her best to recreate it here. I spied two orchids blooming in the jungle, long sprays of waxy bright flowers.
“Good evening, hello,” she said, holding the door open for the group. Una and Hank filed in first, then Glasius Dokken, who hesitated at the door, dumbstruck by Luca in her pink silk tunic and slacks. I came in next, followed by Bjarne.
“Bjarne Hansen, Norwegian skier, Glasius Dokken, Norwegian painter,” I said quickly. “Our hostess, Luca Segundo.”
“Come in, come in, oh, it is so cold tonight,” Luca trilled, sweeping us into the room and closing the rose-colored door. “But not if you are Norwegian, I suppose.”
Glasius nodded, wide-eyed, apparently baffled by Luca’s accent. Bjarne wandered into the kitchen, where my mother and Hank stood next to a large kettle of hot cider, ladling the steaming drink into cups. Luca took the painter’s arm; she led him into the living room, where they sat down together on the leather sofa. Grateful someone had taken a fancy to old Glasius, I joined the others in the small kitchen. A forties gas stove dominated the space: the Big Mother, Paolo called it. Una
scurried past me with two cups of cider, intent on delivery.
“How is the longboat coming?” I asked Hank over my teacup.
“Almost finished. Just a little more painting, a little gilding on the prow,” Hank said.
“Will it have a sail?” asked Bjarne, his lips curling mischievously.
Hank frowned, pulling his eyebrows together. “It has a sail, a full, square one made from old parachute silk. But we’ll have to wait until the night of the parade to see if I can unfurl it. If there’s no wind, you know.”
“It would be quite a sight against the flare of the torches, and the fireworks,” I said.
“Torches?” Hank shook his head. “Oh, there’s a fire hazard, then.”
I laid my hand on Hank’s arm to reassure him. “We can line up the parade so there aren’t any torches near you. I can’t wait to see it all finished. Is it big enough to ride in?”
Hank scoffed. “Ride in? No, no. The main body is only twelve feet long, the oars are like toothpicks. No, I’ll be pulling it with the pickup.”
“I am supposed to ride in the parade,” Bjarne said, making a lace.
“In a boat?” Hank asked.
“As King Harald.” Bjarne struck a pose of the fierce warrior, one hand on an invisible battle-ax, the other over his heart. “Carter has some costume for me.”
“One of those awesome horned helmets, I bet. I went to a Minnesota Vikings game when I was in college at St Olaf ‘s. They’re quite attractive,” I said.
“Minnesota Vikings?” Bjarne asked.
“Football team. Professional. Lots of crazy fens with those helmets on.”
“Oh, football. ESPN,” Bjarne said, nodding.
“No, no. NFL,” Hank corrected. Bjarne frowned at him, sipping some cider.
“You mean Norwegians Fond of Lutefisk?” I asked.
Hank shot me a look that was worth every second of boring slide shows over the week. He put more cider in his cup and escaped into the other room I leaned over a big gunmetal gray pot, lifting the lid to peek inside. The smell of black beans with cinnamon and chilies engulfed me, taking me suddenly back to the last meal I had with Paolo. He had made this dish too, from his mother’s old family recipe. I shut the lid and blinked in the steam.
Nordic Nights (The Alix Thorssen Mysteries) Page 4
