not easy to concentrate with a frisky 75-year-old elephant disappearing higher and higher up the stairs.
He opts for the direct approach.
‘You’ve a spyhole in your door, don’t you?’
He already knows the answer, but asks nevertheless.
‘Bet your life I do, ha-ha.’
Goma stops again and wheezes.
‘Arne on the third floor, HI ARNE,’ Goma shouts, before he continues: ‘Arne on the third floor gets so many lady visitors at night. Sometimes, I watch them through the hole in the door, ha-ha.’
Arne? Arne Halldis?
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘I’m not going to be at home much tonight, but it’s possible I might get a visitor. I was wondering, if you’re in anyway and if you hear someone, please would you have a peek through your spyhole and take a good look at them?’
Henning closes his eyes while he waits for Goma to reply; he must sound like a teenager taking the girl of his dreams to the cinema for the first time. Goma is clearly questioning Henning’s sanity.
‘What on earth do you want to know that for? If you’re not in, they’ll just come back another time, won’t they?’
‘Yes, but I’m not entirely sure that I’ll enjoy this visit.’
Silence. Even the acoustically perfect stairwell is quiet.
‘Lovesick woman, is it?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Not a problem. I’ll keep my eyes peeled.’
Stomp, stomp.
‘Thank you.’
The old man would have made a brilliant interview subject, Henning thinks. The only question is what would I interview him about? He also thinks, for some inexplicable reason, that the story would be subject to fairly heavy censoring by the news desk. Nevertheless, he leaves his flat certain in the knowledge that the stairwell is safely guarded for the rest of the evening.
He has a hunch that something might happen.
Chapter 53
As he is wearing a helmet, it will be hard for anyone to recognise him, especially since he has lowered the visor. He makes sure to pull his jacket high up under his chin.
The Vespa starts without problems and Henning feels like a sixteen-year-old on his way to a secret date, as he zooms up Steenstrupsgata and passes the School of Art and Foss College, still making good progress. The great thing about the small scooter is that he can go everywhere and, if a car were to chase him, he can always drive on the pavement, down a path or an alleyway.
It doesn’t take him long to reach Alexander Kiellands Square, where people are eating outside and he can see the gushing fountains on Telthusbakken. He crosses Uelandsgate and watches the homeless and druggies huddle up outside Cafe Trappa. It feels good to be back in on the road. It has been a long time.
The Vespa is one of the few of his father’s possessions he has kept. It would be wrong to say that he has taken particularly good care of it. He tends to leave it exposed to the elements in the backyard all year round, and it surprises him by starting contentedly every time.
He parks outside the Rema 1000 supermarket at the bottom of Bjerregaardsgate, hangs his helmet on the handlebars and looks to both sides, before walking up the right-hand side of the street. He passes number 20. Yngve Foldvik lives at 24B.
He stops outside the red-painted door to Foldvik’s building and looks at the doorbells. The middle one says FOLDVIK. He presses it and waits for a reply. While he is waiting, he thinks about the questions he will ask and how to phrase them. He is starting to believe that Yngve Foldvik might be Harald Gaarder in the script, after all. In which case, he plays an important part, but not one that makes a lot of sense. And that’s why Henning needs to talk to him.
He rings the bell again. Perhaps it doesn’t work, he thinks? Or they are simply not in? He presses it again, but soon realises it is a waste of time. He swears, tries another bell that says STEEN, just to make sure that it isn’t the bell or the cables that are faulty. Soon he hears a crackling voice say: ‘Hello?’
‘Hi, I’m from Mester Gronn. I’ve got a delivery for Foldvik. They’re not answering. Please would you let me in?’
He closes his eyes, knowing he is about to do something stupid. A few seconds pass. Then there is a buzz. He opens the door and enters. He doesn’t know why, Yngve Foldvik is obviously not at home. I’ll just take a quick look, he thinks, sniff around a bit, like Jarle Hogseth always told me to. Use your senses, Henning. Use them to form an impression of the people you’re interviewing.
He finds himself in a smallish backyard. Leaves he presumes to be from last autumn still cling to the ground like obstinate stickers. There is a strange absence of greenery. A pot plant, whose name he doesn’t know, is standing in the centre. An unlocked bicycle is tilted against the wall.
There are two doors, one directly in front of him and one to the right. He checks the one to the right first, because it is nearer. There are no doorbells with Foldvik or Steen. He tries the other door, quickly finds both names and presses the bell saying STEEN. Without him needing to identify himself again, the door buzzes and he opens it.
Stairwells. The first impression you get of how people live. A pram blocks a door which must lead to the basement. There is a broken umbrella behind the pram. A stepladder, stained with white and navy blue paint, is leaning against the wall. The letterboxes are green. It smells damp. The residents are undoubtedly plagued by dry rot.
Upstairs, a door is opened. Perhaps Mrs Steen wants to double-check that there really is a delivery man downstairs? Damn, he says to himself. What do I do now? The door slams shut. He stays where he is. Footsteps approach. A woman’s shoes. He can tell from the sound. Should he turn around and leave?
That same moment, another door is opened. Henning suppresses the urge to look up.
‘Oh, hi,’ he hears from upstairs. ‘I’m just popping down to the shops, Mrs Steen.’ He detects a certain fatigue in the voice. Friendly, but long-suffering.
‘Hi.’
How on earth do I explain my presence, he wonders, if the woman coming down the stairs wants to know who I am?
‘Do you need anything?’ she asks Mrs Steen.
‘Please would you get me a copy of Her og Na? I’ve heard there’s a story about Hallvard Flatland today. I do like him.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Wait a moment, let me get you some money.’
‘It’s all right, Mrs Steen. You can pay me later.’
The voices echo strangely off the walls.
‘Thank you ever so much. That’s very kind of you.’
Click, clack. Her footsteps sound like a drum roll to Henning’s ears. He grabs the stepladder and starts walking up. The woman is on her way down. Henning holds the stepladder in front of him and keeps his head down. They are on the same floor now. She comes towards him, he can only see her feet, high heels, ‘hello’ he mutters and carries on walking. She says hello, too, and he is overwhelmed by her perfume, which is so heady that he nearly gasps. She doesn’t stop and they both walk on. He hears her open the entrance door and leave. The door closes with a bang.
Henning stops and takes some deep breaths, letting the silence fill the space. Then he turns and walks softly down the stairs, praying that Mrs Steen won’t hear him. Back on the ground floor, he spots a wooden sign saying
