He considers what Brogeland has said. Henning’s face is plastered all over today’s newspapers. It won’t take long to find out where he works, where he lives or get to his relatives.
Damn, he says to himself.
Mum.
Chapter 45
Henning can no longer see the man across the street. He didn’t get a proper look at him, but he noticed that the man was short and compact. He was bald, too, and he wasn’t an ethnic Norwegian, he was a little more dark- skinned. He wore shorts and a white, open-necked, short-sleeved shirt with some sort of print on it, but it was hard to take everything in during the brief moment he looked at him. And now, the man has gone.
Henning calls his mother as he walks. Her telephone rings. It rings for a long time. He starts to worry. He tells himself that her mobility isn’t that bad, only that she needs time to move from one point to another if she gets a coughing fit.
He lets the telephone ring and ring. Perhaps she is cross and is leaving it to ring deliberately because she wants him to feel bad. That usually works. And it’s working now. For God’s sake, Mum, he says to himself. Pick up, please.
He crosses the road at the top of Toyengata. He stares at the pavement, trying to look inconspicuous. He can feel his heart beat faster and faster under his shirt. For God’s sake, Mum, he thinks again and speeds up. His legs protest, but he has already made up his mind to visit her. If she isn’t answering her telephone, he needs to hurry up. He looks around as he walks, but it is chaos, there are people everywhere, cars, taxis; he sees them, but he doesn’t see them. He has a constant feeling that someone is watching him, following him, He smells something sharp and spicy. He passes a video shop at the entrance to Gronland Underground Station and just as he is about to hang up, the telephone is answered. But there is no reply.
‘Mum?’ he whispers. He doubts that his voice can be heard through the noise from the station, but he can hear her breathing, or her attempts to breathe.
Nothing is wrong. No new disasters, at any rate. He can hear that she is angry — without her saying anything. That’s the strange thing about her. She can give a whole lecture without uttering a single word. A glance, a sigh, a grunt or a turn of her head is enough. Christine Juul has a whole arsenal of feelings or opinions which are never spoken. She is like Streken, the children’s television character whose background changes colour depending on what mood he is in.
Nothing good ever happens to Streken.
‘Are you there?’ he continues.
A snort.
Precisely.
‘How are you, Mum?’ he says, realising the pointlessness of his question immediately.
‘Why are you calling?’ she grunts.
‘I just wanted to — ’
‘I’m out of milk.’
‘Eh — ’
‘And I need more cigarettes.’
He doesn’t know why he waits for her to tell him that he needs to go to the off-licence as well, because she never does, she just lets it hang like an invisible bridge between his telephone and hers, as if she expects him to understand without the need for her to say so. And he does. Perhaps that’s why.
‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll come and see you soon. I don’t know if I can manage it today, because I’ve a lot on, but it won’t be long. And another thing, Mum. Don’t open your door to strangers. Okay?’
‘Why would I want to open the door? I never get any visitors.’
‘But if someone were to ring the bell, and it isn’t me or Trine, then don’t open the door.’
‘You both have keys.’
‘Yes, but you — ’
‘And I need a new magazine.’
‘I — ’
‘And some sugar. I’m out of sugar.’
‘Okay. See you soon.’
Click.
Chapter 46
Zaheerullah Hassan Mintroza is having dinner. Today, as yesterday, it is chicken biryani with chapatti, but it doesn’t taste like it does in Karachi. It rarely does. Hassan doesn’t know why, because the ingredients are the same, they are flown to Oslo almost daily and the food is cooked in Norway by Pakistanis. Perhaps it is to do with the cooking utensils, the air temperature, the humidity, the love with which the food is prepared?
Hassan remembers when Julie, the finest mistress he had some years ago, surprised him by cooking Pakistani lamb casserole with mint chutney and naan when he visited her one evening. She had got the recipe from Wenche Andersen on Good Morning, Norway. She had even tried to bake naan from scratch.
It tasted good, but that was all. Real naan is baked in a tandoori oven, at the far end, and it must cook for no more than fifteen to twenty seconds. The lamb casserole contained far too much coriander and ginger, and not enough chilli.
He dumped her a month later. None of his other mistresses has ever been allowed to cook for him. They know what he expects from them, and dinner on the table when he visits isn’t the reason he pays their rent.
In Pakistan all chefs are men. Women don’t measure up. That’s just the way it is.
Hassan is watching an episode of MacGyver when his mobile, which is lying next to his plate, starts to vibrate. He swallows a large chunk of chicken, slightly too large, and has to force it down. He washes it down with Coke before he answers the call. When he finally does, it is with a brusque ‘yes’ and still with food somewhere in his throat.
‘It’s Mohammed. We’ve found him.’
Hassan swallows again.
‘Good. Where is he?’
More Coke.
‘Walking down the street. He’s in Gronlandsleiret right now. Do you want us to take him out right away?’
Hassan prods the food on his plate with his fork.
‘In the middle of the afternoon? Are you stupid or something? We’ve attracted enough attention as it is.’
‘Okay.’
Hassan takes another bite.
‘By the way, I want a word with him before he dies. I want to know how he got those horrendous scars,’ he says, still eating. He puts down his fork and wipes his mouth.
‘Okay.’
‘I want to know where he spends the rest of the day. Don’t do anything until you’ve spoken to me.’
Another okay.
‘And put a car outside his place of work and his flat.’
‘Will do, boss.’
Hassan hangs up and finishes his dinner. Definitely not chicken biryani tomorrow. No, he fancies dhal, perhaps a kebab of grilled tandoori king prawns with onion and paprika. Yes. Definitely king prawns. A royal meal fit for a king.
