Then she put her arm around his waist, pressed herself up against him as they walked the few paces to the stone staircase.
– And your name is Katja, he said, to regain his composure.
In the afternoons, the bedroom lay bathed in sunlight. It made its way through the tree crowns in the back yard and the heat inside could become tropical. Sigurd Woods got up and switched on the ceiling fan; it turned slowly a couple of times before accelerating and filling the air with a deep murmur. If Katja had opened her eyes now, perhaps she would be looking at him from behind as she lay there in his bed. Our bed, he corrected himself. Said it aloud in a low voice, to hear what it sounded like. Three weeks ago, when she arrived with her bag, he’d said it was stupid to waste thousands on a box room in Tøyen that she had to share with lots of other people. As though it was all about the money. A few days later she’d let herself in carrying two large suitcases.
He stood there looking at the branches of the huge oak tree. Imagined what he looked like to Katja, his silhouette in the sunlight, the broad back, the biceps. Even when she wasn’t there, he would sometimes try to see himself with eyes that might be hers.
The phone on the table started blinking. It was Jenny. He did nothing, knowing that the call would be followed by a message. When it arrived, he waited a minute before reading it. His mother wanted to talk to him. He knew what it was about.
As he turned back towards the bed and saw that Katja was indeed lying there watching him, he realised what he had to do. Sooner or later the two of them would have to meet, she and Jenny. It was a ritual they had to go through. It had become necessary to reveal more of himself, like where he came from. It also meant Katja telling him more about herself. In the early days, it was part of the excitement to know as little as possible about each other. She appeared from somewhere or other to stand in front of him that night at Togo, went ahead of him down to the basement, as though knowing that he would follow her. But now that phase was drawing to a close. She lived with him, he needed to know more about her, a sort of map to relate to. For the time being it was a simple sketch, with a few details prominently marked. She had grown up in Malmö, was a couple of years older than him, had worked as a model, wanted out of it, which was why she had come to Oslo, city of opportunities as she had several times referred to it, without a trace of irony in her voice. One twilight evening in the bedroom she had revealed that she was adopted, and he had expected to hear more. But each time he approached anything to do with family, she placed a finger over his lips, or turned away with the same smile she had given him that first evening at Togo.
He stepped across the room, stood in front of her beside the bed; she stretched, touching him at the conclusion of the movement, acted surprised at his reaction to the touch.
– Let’s go for a ride, he said as he glided down on to her, grinning as he noticed the idiotic and unintentional pun.
The previous year, Jenny had moved away from the farm and into a small apartment at the hospital where she worked. Sigurd helped her; it had to be him, otherwise his father might have ended up doing it, in spite of the fact that Jenny’s moving out had crushed him. Sigurd had been expecting it for years, but it seemed to hit his father like a bolt of lightning.
Sigurd had made four or five trips, taking clothes and personal possessions, kitchen equipment, but no furniture. Jenny intended to buy everything new. He’d assembled it all for her, and connected up the washing machine, the TV and the stereo. Jenny couldn’t thank him enough for all his help; she seemed to take it as a statement of support for her decision to leave his father. That wasn’t the case, but he didn’t make an issue of it.
Nor had he revealed how he felt about the new man in Jenny’s life. On the two or three occasions when they had met, he had been polite but without showing any particular interest in who the man was. The fact that it was he who opened the door to his mother’s flat when they arrived that evening didn’t surprise him at all.
– Hi, Sigurd, said his mother’s partner and held out his hand.
Sigurd took it and shook it, a little harder than he usually did, remembering as he did so that this Zoran was a man who lived through the work of his hands, and that to damage them would have a dramatic effect on his life.
– This is Katja, he said, ushering her in front of him in through the tiny hallway.
As the two of them shook hands, he studied Zoran’s face. A friendly, relaxed expression. Definitely the type she would like.
The muted sound of music from the living room, someone laughing out loud. He had been prepared to find Zoran there, but not other guests. Just then Jenny emerged from the bathroom. She had a new hairstyle, the bleached hair hanging in a bob on each side, shorter at the back. She brightened as she saw him, until she realised he had someone with him.
– This is Katja, Sigurd said again, and this time studied his mother’s face. It had always been easy to read. She blushed, and a muscle above her brow bulged and flickered.
– Jennifer Plåterud, she said quickly. People she liked called her Jenny, and for a moment or two Sigurd wondered whether she would invite Katja to do so.
She didn’t know about Katja. Over the last four weeks, Sigurd had spoken to his mother less frequently than usual on the phone. The last time he had hinted that he and Siri were no longer seeing as much of each other, and Jenny had reacted with surprise. What are you saying, and surely you can’t mean it, and but she’s so nice.
The two of them had hit it off at their very first meeting, and soon it was obvious that Jenny felt a closer bond to Siri than Sigurd ever had. It wasn’t just that Siri was studying medicine and could share the codes and secrets of the profession with his mother; there was something in the way they talked together, not least when talking about him, as though they were joint owners of something, some rare object, or a holiday home.
It wouldn’t be like that with Katja. And bringing her here, on Jenny’s birthday, was a pretty dubious idea, he didn’t need to read his mother’s face to realise that.
– You’ve got guests, he said. – We won’t stay long.
It looked as if she was still struggling to get over her shock. She tidied the two bobs of her newly cut hair behind her ears and they immediately sprang free again.
– Now don’t be so silly, she said. – Zoran. She turned to him. – This is … was it Kaja?
Zoran smiled with his whole face. He was two heads taller than her, taller than Sigurd too, with cropped greying hair and a powerful jawline.
– Katja, he corrected her. – I’ve just said hello to her.
For a moment they stood there looking at each other, mother and son, each with a new lover. There was a break in the music from the living room; no one spoke. Sigurd usually brought flowers on his mother’s birthday, but on this occasion he had not done so.
– But come on in, for goodness’ sake, Jenny exclaimed, her voice a little too loud. – Are you Swedish?
A coolness had descended into Katja’s eyes, making them even darker. Sigurd held her back, pulled her close and tried to kiss her. She turned aside with a look that reminded him of that first evening at Togo, and it occurred to him that perhaps it wasn’t so much the smile as the way she turned aside that had made him follow her down into the basement.
Three candles were burning on the dining table. A couple sat there; they looked to be about the same age as his mother.
– The only thing that was missing to make this into the perfect birthday, Jenny enthused. – A visit from one’s son … one of them at least. Zoran, will you fetch some chairs from the kitchen.
Introductions ensued. The balding man was Knut Reinertsen. He wore rectangular spectacles with a green frame and had a surprisingly limp handshake.
– Knut is a psychiatrist, Jenny explained, and Sigurd wondered why that had to be the first thing he knew about him.
– And this is Lydia, his wife, originally from Russia.
Making that the most important thing about her,
rather than the fact that she was a gynaecologist heading a research project into childlessness in which Jenny was involved, all of which he later learned. He smiled at his mother’s clumsiness. She was doing her best, and he was the one who had put her in the position in which she was struggling. Suddenly he felt for her.
He turned to Katja. – And this is Jenny, my mother. Apart from also being doctor to the dead.
– I already gathered that.
– I’ve always got on well with the dead, Jenny announced. – The relationship’s really quite simple.
– I couldn’t agree more, Knut Reinertsen chimed in, his voice a rumbling bass that didn’t match his handshake.
– Although right now I’m working as much with those not born yet, Jenny went on.
– They’re not all that demanding either, Knut Reinersten boomed. – Although sometimes I wonder. Days can go by with that being all Lydia ever thinks about. In a world threatened by overpopulation, women like you spare no attempt to ensure that there are even more of us, even quicker.
Sigurd sat down next to Katja, pinched her thigh below the edge of her skirt. She removed his hand.
They were offered some of Jenny’s moussaka. Sigurd took one look at it before declining on behalf of both of them. But he couldn’t refuse the cakes when they made their appearance on the table, a sort of sweet and sticky Australian delicacy that he’d grown up with and never had the heart to admit he couldn’t stand. They were accompanied by a Russian dessert wine that Lydia Reinertsen had brought along. She was a little grey mouse of a woman who could have come from anywhere, though it turned out to be St Petersburg. As he sat there, it occurred to Sigurd that of all of them sitting round that table, only the psychiatrist Knut Reinertsen was a hundred per cent Norwegian. They had obviously made a point of the fact, because there was something from each person’s country of origin on the menu. Zoran produced a bottle of slivovitz to go with their coffee, apologising that it was the only speciality he’d had time to produce after a week on duty in the surgical ward. Sigurd stuck to fizzy water; he was driving and anyway didn’t feel a need to get intoxicated in this company. Katja clearly did, draining her glass in two large swigs and unhesitatingly accepting Zoran’s offer of a refill. She seemed to be getting on better with Jenny’s new partner than with any of the others.
Knut Reinertsen was knocking it back too, his deep rumble acquiring an increasing nasality as the evening wore on. Clearly a man who was used to being listened to. Apparently he was doing research into the ways people who had been exposed to war and torture found of coping. He lectured away for a while in an increasingly loud bass, but then suddenly decided it was time for him to arrange for contributions from others. He began by asking Sigurd what it was that he did.
– Business, Sigurd answered, knowing that his brush-off would not be enough to discourage the man’s persistence.
– Business? Well well—
Zoran interrupted: – Sigurd is twenty-three years old and already earns more than you and I will ever earn, Knut.
It wasn’t completely true, but Sigurd had no objection at all to Zoran’s saying it.
The mention of money seemed to make the psychiatrist genuinely curious; he wanted to know more. Network marketing was clearly a concept that made him turn up his nose.
– Isn’t that some kind of pyramid scheme?
Sigurd declined to be provoked; he’d fielded the question many times. He described the idea behind Newlife. Every month recruit three new people with the motivation to sell specific products, these recruits in turn bringing in three more, and so on. Working like that, you could quickly make a million.
He looked at Katja as he said this. The first time he’d explained to her what he’d achieved with Newlife, she found it hard to believe and he had to show her the books. Then her jaw dropped. Now she sat there with this cool look in her eyes and no apparent interest in the conversation.
– What kinds of products? the psychiatrist wanted to know, and Sigurd gave him a couple of examples and a brief account of some of the research behind the health products.
– Newlife is the second-fastest-growing company in the USA, well ahead of Apple.
Knut Reinertsen dried around his mouth with his napkin. Sigurd could see that he was disguising a smile. – Research that has produced skin products that can completely reset the genes? What does that mean—
Jenny interrupted: – Besides earning a fortune, Sigurd studies at the business institute. By the time he finishes, he’ll have a master’s in business and economics.
He’d teased her a number of times by saying this wasn’t necessary. That for him it was a waste of time to sit for exams he didn’t need. That it was actually all about one single thing, succeeding. This time he couldn’t be bothered to correct her. He wasn’t there looking for recruits for his business.
As in all such gatherings, the evening was dominated by those who preferred to talk about their own affairs rather than pay attention to what others had to say. Sigurd reckoned he was a good listener. It gave him several advantages. Now he sat listening to what they were all saying, and the way they were saying it. Zoran with his accent, not really more than a dislocation of the rhythm, even though he’d only been in Norway a few years. Jenny, on the other hand, still spoke with a broad Australian accent even after a quarter of a century, and had given up any attempt to get rid of it a long time ago. It had occurred to Sigurd that there might be an element of protest in it, an admission of the fact that she would never become a Norwegian. He glanced over at Lydia Reinertsen. Her eyes would be all he would ever remember of her. She had an outward squint, and it was fascinating to try to decide which eye was looking at him. As he attempted to work out the way to meet her gaze, he engaged her in a conversation about Russia, a country in which he had never been interested.
– What about you, Katja?
Knut Reinertsen leaned across the table. Sigurd had noticed his gaze flickering over her on a couple of occasion, as though trying to find out whether her breasts were the real thing.
– What about me?
She stared back at him. Knut Reinertsen drank some slivovitz; she did the same.
– What do you do?
Sigurd groaned inwardly, but Katja gave a tolerant smile, a hint of that teasing light back in her eyes. – I work as a waitress.
Knut Reinertsen nodded as though he had guessed as much a long time ago.
– She’s starting to study in the autumn, Sigurd interjected, to his own annoyance. There was no need to decorate her with a bit of status. And she could speak for herself. Which she did, announcing that she had applied to do a course in film and TV at Westerdal’s media college. Sigurd knew that her answer wasn’t meant as an invitation to proceed to further enquiries, but the psychiatrist did not. He wanted to know where she was from, and failed to pick up her signals to the effect that this was not something she intended to talk to him about.
Sigurd tried to move the conversation on to another subject, but Katja interrupted him.
– I’ll mail you my story, she said to Knut Reinertsen. – Or perhaps better if you send me a questionnaire that I can fill in.
She was still smiling, but it was not a smile Sigurd recognised. It struck him how quickly she could turn into someone quite different from the person he thought he was in the process of getting to know. He balled his napkin and dropped it on to his plate alongside the half-eaten cake, determined to leave now and get her out of there.
– Because I think it’s about time to pay some attention to your wife, she went on, still staring straight at the psychiatrist. – You haven’t said a word to her all evening.
In the car he said to her: – Well at least you made him shut up.
– He didn’t shut up enough.
He felt she’d gone too far, tried to work out the right way to say this to her.
– I thought you’d taken your mother’s name, she said before he’d found it. – But her name isn’t Woods.
/> – She still calls herself Plåterud, my father’s name. I don’t know why, they’ve been separated for over a year.
That his name was Sigurd Woods and not Sigurd Plåterud had nothing to do with the ongoing divorce proceedings. He had decided to use the name years ago; it felt like it had always been his real name. In taking it he didn’t become someone else, he became himself. Moved differently, thought differently, took decisions that he had previously postponed.
– Does it bother you? she asked.
– Does what bother me?
– That they split up?
He smiled, shook his head. – I’m twenty-three, he said as he turned down on to the motorway and put his foot down, letting the BMW use up some of the power that had been accumulating under the bonnet. – I’d been waiting for it to happen. For thirteen years at least.
Suddenly he saw an image of the room in the loft of the barn back home. The peephole in the wall through which they could follow everything that went on in front of the house.
– Why exactly thirteen years?
He shrugged. He’d put it behind him. And if he was going to start talking about something like that, he’d need to know more about her. As though it were a game: don’t reveal your best cards before the other person does. Don’t be left there with nothing more to show.
– I’m not sure it was necessary to make such a fool of him, he said instead.
– Who the hell are you talking about?
– The psychiatrist.
He could feel her gaze boring into him from the side.
– If you’re going to start talking shit, you can just let me out right here.
He moved out into the overtaking lane, accelerated. The sky above Groruddalen was a shading of pink and orange light dotted with grey-black smoke and shafts of blue. He imagined the air full of swirling grains whipped up from the asphalt, and metal shavings so finely fibred they could scarcely be seen, glinting in the light from the fjord far ahead of them, like tiny flakes of snow in the warm evening.
Fireraiser Page 50
