by Jo Nesbo
‘Probably wasn’t back then, I guess,’ I said.
‘And what about now? How come you don’t have a girlfriend?’
‘I did have,’ I said as I finished washing off the food trays. Business had been good, but now the weekend visitors were all up at their cabins and we wouldn’t be seeing them again until they headed home. ‘Got married when we were nineteen. But she drowned on our honeymoon.’
‘Eh?’ exclaimed Julie, even though she knew I was making it up.
‘Tumbled overboard from my sailing boat in the Pacific. Bit too much champagne probably. Gurgled that she loved me and then down she went.’
‘Didn’t you dive in after her?’
‘A sailing boat like that moves faster than you can swim. We would both have drowned.’
‘But all the same. You did love her.’
‘Yes, so I threw her a lifebuoy.’
‘Oh well, that’s all right then.’ Julie sat leaning forward, the palms of her hands on the counter. ‘But could you still go on living, after you lost her?’
‘It’s amazing what we can manage without, Julie. Just wait and see.’
‘No,’ she said tonelessly. ‘I’m not going to wait and see. I’m going to get everything I want.’
‘OK. And what do you want?’
The question came automatically. Lazy and unfocused, I had just batted the ball back across the net. I could have bitten off my tongue when I saw that veiled gaze fasten on mine, and that flushed grin.
‘Then I guess you watch a lot of porn. Since your dream girl drowned. Seeing she was nineteen, do you search for Nineteen? With big boobs?’
I took too long to come back at her, and realised of course that she took this to mean she’d hit the nail on the head. It left me fumbling even more for my words. The conversation had already left the rails. She was seventeen, I was the boss she had persuaded herself she wanted, and now here she was a little tipsy, a bit too bold, playing a game she thought she could control because it worked with the boys sitting out there in their cars waiting for her. I could have said all this to her and salvaged my own pride, but that would have been kicking a champagne-tipsy teenager off my sailing boat. So instead I looked for the lifebuoy, hers and mine.
The lifebuoy arrived in the form of the door opening. Julie at once slid down from the counter.
A man stood in the doorway. I couldn’t immediately place him, but no car had pulled in to the forecourt so he had to be a local. His back was stooped, and the hollow cheeks gave his face the shape of an hourglass. A few wisps of hair across his otherwise bald head.
He stopped there in the doorway. Stared at me, looked as though most of all he wanted to turn and leave. Maybe it was somebody I’d once beaten up on the grass outside Årtun, somebody I’d made my mark on, somebody who hadn’t forgotten. He crossed hesitantly to the rack of CDs. Flipped through them, now and then glancing over at us.
‘Who’s that?’ I whispered.
‘Natalie Moe’s dad,’ whispered Julie.
The roofer. Of course. He’d changed. Looked a bit reduced, as people say. Maybe he was sick. He reminded me of my uncle Bernard, near the end.
Moe approached us and put a CD on the counter. Roger Whittaker’s Greatest Hits. Bargain-basement price. He looked a little sheepish, as though he wasn’t proud of his own taste.
‘Thirty kroner,’ I said. ‘Card or...’
‘Cash,’ Moe said. ‘Isn’t Egil working today?’
‘Not well,’ I said. ‘Anything else I can get you?’
Moe hesitated. ‘No,’ he said, took his change, picked up the CD and left.
‘Jesus,’ said Julie and pulled herself up onto the counter again.
‘Jesus what?’
‘Didn’t you see? He pretended not to know me.’
‘All I noticed was that he seemed stressed, and it sounded like he wished it had been Egil here. Whatever it was he wanted to buy from him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘No one leaves their house and comes here on a Friday night because all of a sudden the most important thing in the world is to hear Roger Whittaker. It wasn’t the choice of music he was embarrassed about, he just chose the cheapest one.’
‘Then he probably wanted condoms and chickened out.’ She laughed. She made it sound as though she’d been there herself. ‘He’s probably having a fling with someone. It’s in the family.’
‘Give over,’ I said.
‘Or else some antidepressants because he’s gone bankrupt. Didn’t you see him staring at the pills on the shelf behind you?’
‘You mean he thinks we might have something stronger than headache pills? I didn’t know he’d gone bankrupt.’
‘Jesus, Roy, I mean, you don’t talk to people, so of course they don’t tell you anything, either.’
‘Maybe so. Aren’t you off out to celebrate your youth this evening?’
‘Youth!’ she snorted, and went on sitting. Looked like she was racking her brain for an excuse to stay. A gum bubble oozed out in front of her face. Burst like a starting pistol. ‘Simon says the hotel looks like a factory. He says no one will invest in it.’
Simon Nergard was Julie’s uncle. I knew for sure I’d left my mark on him. He was a rough type, in the year above me, and he’d taken boxing lessons, even fought a couple of bouts in town. Carl danced with a girl Simon fancied, and that was enough. A crowd had gathered round where Simon was holding Carl by the scruff of his neck when I arrived and asked what the trouble was. I’d wrapped a scarf around my fist and swung at him as he opened his mouth to answer. Felt the soft pressure of teeth giving way. Simon staggered, spat blood and stared at me, amazed rather than afraid. Guys that train for martial arts think there are rules, so that’s why they lose. But give Simon his due, he didn’t give up. He started skipping about in front of me, fists raised in a guard in front of his chin. I kicked him in the knee, and he stopped the skipping. I kicked him in the thigh and saw his eyes widen with shock at the effect. He’d probably never considered what happens when muscles as big as that start to bleed internally. He couldn’t move any more, just stood there and waited to be slaughtered, like a platoon surrounded but determined to fight to the last man. But I didn’t even leave him the dubious honour of a getting a real thrashing. Instead I turned my back, looked at my watch and – as though I had an appointment and plenty of time left to keep it – sauntered off. The crowd urged Simon to get after me, they didn’t know what I knew, that Simon wasn’t capable of taking a single step. So instead they began shouting at him, mocking and ridiculing him, and that, and not those two, overly white teeth the dentist put in, that was the mark I left on Simon that night.
‘So your uncle thinks he’s seen the drawings?’
‘He knows someone who works at the bank in town who’s seen them. He says it looks like a cellulose factory.’
‘Cellulose,’ I said. ‘Above the treeline. That’s interesting.’
‘Eh?’
Outside an engine roared and another one responded.
‘The testosterone boys are calling you,’ I said. ‘Watch the carbon emissions drop once you go out and join them.’
Julie groaned. ‘They’re so childish, Roy.’
‘Then go home instead and listen to this,’ I said and handed her one of the five copies of J. J. Cale’s Naturally which I’d finally had to remove from the CD rack. I’d ordered them specially, convinced that people in the village were bound to go for Cale’s subdued blues and minimalist guitar solos. But Julie was right, I didn’t talk to people, didn’t know them. She took the CD, slipped sulkily down off the counter and walked towards the door, gave me the finger at the same time as she wiggled her arse in outrageous invitation, with all the cold and calculating innocence only a seventeen-year-old can muster.
A thought struck me – not quite sure why – t
hat in fact it was probably slightly less innocent than the sixteen-year-old she’d been when she first started working here. What the fuck was the matter with me? I’d never thought of Julie that way before, not ever. Or had I? No. It must have been when she put her arms out behind her to hoist herself up onto the counter, the way her jacket fell open, out past her breasts, with the nipples pressing, clearly visible through the bra and the T-shirt. But for chrissakes, the girl had had big boobs since she was thirteen years old and I’d never given them a second thought, so what was this now? I wasn’t a tit man or hot for teenage girls either, I never searched for either big boobs or nineteen.
And that wasn’t the only mystery.
There was that shameful expression on the face. Not Julie’s, when she thought I’d caught her out in her Friday version with the boy racer crowd. No. The roofer’s face. Moe’s gaze flitting about like a moth. Trying to avoid mine. Julie said it had been dancing over the shelves behind me. I turned and scanned them. A suspicion crossed my mind, I dismissed it at once. But it returned, like that white dot tennis ball thing Carl and I played with that time when the village got its first and only slot machine, next to the ice-cream dispenser at the coffee bar. Dad used to drive us there, we’d wait in line, and he’d have a look on his face as though he’d taken us to Disneyland.
I had seen that shame before. At home. In a mirror. I recognised it. It couldn’t be more profound. Not just because the sin committed was so despicable and unforgivable, but because it would be committed again. Despite the fact that your mirror swears to you this is the last time, it happens, over and over again. Shame at the act, but more than that, shame at one’s own weakness, at doing what you don’t want to do. If it was something that you wanted to do, then at least you could lay the blame on the pure, unadulterated evil of your own nature.
9
SATURDAY MORNING. MARKUS HAD TAKEN over at the station, and I drove up the hill in second gear. Stopped in front of the house and revved the engine to let them know I was back.
Carl and Shannon were sitting in the kitchen, studying the plans for the hotel and discussing the presentation.
‘According to Simon Nergard no one’s going to invest,’ I said with a yawn, leaning against the door jamb. ‘He heard that from a bank guy who’s seen the plans.’
‘And I have talked to at least a dozen people who love the plans,’ said Carl.
‘Here in the village?’
‘In Toronto. People who know what they’re talking about.’
I shrugged. ‘The people you have to convince don’t live in Toronto and they don’t know what they’re talking about. Good luck. I’m off to bed.’
‘Jo Aas has agreed to a meeting with me today,’ said Carl.
I stopped. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. I asked Mari at the party if she could set it up.’
‘Excellent. Was that why you invited her?’
‘Partly. And I wanted her and Shannon to meet. If we’re going to be living here then best if those two don’t have to walk around scowling at each other. And you know what?’ He rested a hand on Shannon’s shoulder. ‘I think my girl melted the ice queen.’
‘Melted?’ said Shannon and rolled her eyes. ‘Sweetie, that woman hates me. Am I right, Roy?’
‘Hmm,’ I said. ‘A bit less than she would otherwise have done had you not pulled that trick with the picture of the twins.’
For the first time since coming in I looked directly at Shannon. She was wearing a large white dressing gown and her hair was still wet from the shower. She hadn’t displayed so much skin before, always the black pullovers and trousers, but now I could see that the skin on her slender legs and in the neck of the dressing gown was as white and unblemished as her face. The wet hair was darker and less glossy, almost a rust red, and I discovered something I hadn’t noticed before, the scattering of pale freckles around her nose. She smiled, but there was something in her expression, something wounded. Had Carl said the wrong thing? Had I said the wrong thing? Of course it could have been that I more than hinted that she had been cynical in pretending to find the twins so fantastic, but something told me she wouldn’t have a problem admitting that kind of cynicism. That a girl like Shannon did what she had to without asking anyone’s pardon.
‘Shannon says she wants to cook us something Norwegian this evening,’ said Carl. ‘I thought—’
‘I’ve got to work tonight too,’ I said. ‘Someone’s off sick.’
‘Oh?’ Carl raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t you have five other people who could cover for him?’
‘No one can manage it,’ I said. ‘It’s the weekend, and short notice.’ Spread my arms as though to say such is the fate of the boss of a service station, got to cover for everybody. I could see Carl didn’t believe me for a moment. That’s the problem with brothers, they pick up every bloody false note, but what the hell else could I say? That I wasn’t getting any sleep because of all their screwing?
‘I’m going to get some shut-eye.’
* * *
—
I was woken by a noise. It wasn’t that it was particularly loud, but in the first place, there aren’t that many sounds up here in the mountains, and in the second, it didn’t belong up here, which was probably the reason my brain hadn’t filtered it out.
It was a kind of hissing hum, somewhere between a wasp and a lawnmower.
I looked out the window. Got up, dressed quickly, hurried down the steps and then walked slowly over towards Geitesvingen.
Sheriff Kurt Olsen was there with Erik Nerell and a guy who was holding a remote control with antennae. They were all looking up at the thing that had woken me, a white drone about the size of a dinner plate that was hovering a metre above their heads.
‘OK,’ I said, and they became aware of my presence. ‘Are you looking for posters for the investors’ meeting?’
‘Good morning, Roy,’ said the sheriff without touching the ciggy that bounced around in time to his words.
‘This is a private road, you know.’ I was buckling my belt, which I had forgotten in my hurry. ‘So that’s all right then, isn’t it?’
‘Well, there’s private, and then there’s private.’
‘Oh yeah?’ I said, and then realised I had better calm down. That if I wasn’t careful I was going to get too wound up. ‘If it was a public road then the traffic authorities might have coughed up for a safety barrier, don’t you think?’
‘True enough, Roy. But the whole area round here is a designated wilderness, so it’s all public right of way.’
‘I’m talking about the posters, not whether or not you’ve got the right to be standing where you are, sheriff. I’ve just got off a night shift, so if you were planning to wake me up with that drone you might have warned me.’
‘Might have done,’ said Sheriff Olsen. ‘But we didn’t want to disturb anyone, Roy. This won’t take long, just a few pictures. If we decide it’s safe enough for us to come back and lower people down there, then of course we’ll let you know in advance.’ He looked at me. Not coldly, just observing me, as though he was taking snapshots of me, like the drone, which by now disappeared beneath the edge of the ridge and was snapping away for dear life down there in Huken. I nodded, tried to keep my face expressionless.
‘I’m sorry,’ Olsen went on. ‘I know this business is...sensitive.’ He lingered over the word, like a priest. ‘I should have warned you, I didn’t remember how close to the house the ridge was. What can I say? You can be glad your taxpayer’s money is being used to establish exactly how the accident really did happen. That’s something we all want to know.’
All? I roared inwardly. You, don’t you mean? It’s that same old damned imperative, Kurt Olsen, you want to sort out something your father couldn’t sort out.
‘Fine,’ I said instead. ‘And you’re right, it’s a sensitive matter. Carl and I k
now the big picture of what happened, so our focus has been more on trying to forget than on getting to the bottom of every little detail.’ Calm down. Like that, yeah. Like that.
‘Naturally,’ said Olsen.
The drone appeared over the edge again. Stopped, just hovering in the air, nagging at the ears. Then it navigated in towards us, and landed in the hand of the guy with the remote control, like those trained falcons I’d seen on YouTube landing on their owner’s glove. It was unpleasant, like something from a science-fiction film set in a Big Brother Sees You fascist state, and you know that the guy with the drone has bundles of electric cable running under his skin.
‘That was a quick trip,’ said the sheriff, dropping his cigarette to the ground and stepping on it.
‘The thin air is a drain on the batteries,’ said the drone guy.
‘But did it get any pictures?’
The drone guy touched the screen of his phone and we huddled round him.
Lacking light and sound the video imagery was grainy. Or maybe there was sound recording and it was just that silent down there. The wreck of Dad’s Cadillac DeVille looked like a beetle that had landed on its back and died there, legs helplessly flailing in the air until a passer-by inadvertently trod on it. The rusting and partly overgrown chassis and wheels facing upwards were undamaged, but the front and rear of the coupé were crimped flat as though they’d been through Willumsen’s car-crusher. Maybe because of the stillness and darkness down there the pictures reminded me of a documentary film I had seen about divers going down to the Titanic. Maybe it was the sight of the Cadillac, another wreck with beautiful lines from a vanished age, another narrative of sudden death turned into a tragedy and related so often that in my imagination and the imagination of others it had, with the years, come to seem like something that had to be there, that it was written in the stars. The physical and metaphorically spectacular, the presumed invincibility of the machine exposed as it plummeted to the depth. Presentations of how it must have been, the fear of the passengers as it dawns on them that here it is now: death. Not just any old death, not a lived life gradually breaking down, but an unannounced and sudden departure, the murderous coincidences. I shuddered.
