from the snake game are still fresh on her cheeks. He puts the basket on the table and sniffs them. ‘What a good girl you are.’
Her face broadens into a smile. Across the table Pal’s eyes take on a wounded expression. ‘You never tell me I’m a good boy when I wash my hands.’
‘That’s because you’re eight years old, Pal. You learned to wash your hands a long time ago. By the way, have you washed them this morning?’
Pal doesn’t reply, but his sulky face gradually changes into a mischievous smile.
‘Then you go and do it straight away.’
Pal gets up and runs to the bathroom. He bumps into Elisabeth who is coming from the opposite direction.
‘Remember to dry your hands properly!’ Thorleif calls out after him. ‘And hang up the towel when you’re done, please.’
He looks at Elisabeth. The night still lives in her eyes, but her face instantly lights up when she sees the breakfast table.
‘Oh, how lovely,’ she beams as she admires the food. ‘Candles and everything.’
Thorleif smiles.
‘What would you like to drink, Julie?’ he asks his daughter.
Pal runs back in and sits down. The water is still dripping from his hands.
‘Milk, please.’
Thorleif takes a glass and is about to fill it.
‘No, juice,’ she says. ‘I want juice.’
‘Sure?’
Julie nods adamantly. Pal leans across the table and helps himself to half a bread roll before he grabs his knife and tries to slice off the top of his egg. ‘Who boiled the eggs?’
‘Daddy,’ Julie replies.
Pal groans. ‘Mum is better at boiling eggs.’
‘Absolutely,’ Thorleif replies. ‘Mum is better at everything.’
‘Not at spotting roe deer,’ Julie points out.
‘No, definitely not when it comes to spotting roe deer,’ Elisabeth joins in. ‘Once we saw twenty-five of them along the road when we drove home from Copenhagen. Twenty-five!’
‘Is that true?’
‘Absolutely! Daddy was the first to spot nearly all of them.’
‘Is that true, Daddy?’
Thorleif nods and smiles proudly as he removes the top of his egg.
‘And not just roe deer. Cows and sheep too.’
‘And wind turbines,’ Elisabeth interjects. Thorleif smiles and sprinkles a little salt on the scalped egg. Around the table the rest of the family help themselves to rolls, butter, cheese, jam and cold cuts.
‘So,’ Thorleif begins. ‘What are we going to do today? Any suggestions?’
‘Can we go to the cinema?’ Pal asks.
‘I want to go swimming,’ Julie counters.
‘We’ve been doing that all summer. Can’t we go to the cinema? It’s been so long! Please.’
‘Going to the cinema is expensive,’ Elisabeth says. ‘Or it is if we all go.’
‘Mum is right,’ Thorleif says. ‘What would you like to do today, Mum?’
‘Bogstad Farm is open to visitors. I saw it in the paper. Perhaps-’
‘Is it?’ the children shout in unison. ‘Can we go there? Please? Can we? Can we?’
Elisabeth studies the children for a little while before her eyes find Thorleif’s.
‘Do you really think Bogstad Farm is cheaper than going to the cinema?’ he smiles.
‘No, but we can’t spend the whole day indoors when the weather is so nice.’
‘We want to visit the farm, Daddy. Please. Pleeease.’
Thorleif looks at his children in turn. ‘Okay,’ he says. The children whoop and start jumping up and down on their chairs immediately. ‘But then you need to eat a big breakfast first. One bread roll each, at least. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Daddy!’
Thorleif takes a bite of his bread roll and feels the crust between his teeth while he looks at Elisabeth, at all of them, one after the other. It’s Sunday morning. Everyone is happy.
Can life get any better?
Chapter 12
Ulleval Garden City lies in the borough of Nordre Aker and was built shortly after the First World War as a residential area for the working class. The intention was that the workers would leave their tenements in favour of bigger houses with their own patch of garden, but it didn’t take long before the better-off hijacked the idyll. Since then house prices in the area have been among the highest in Oslo.
It’s a lovely part of town, Henning thinks, as the cab comes to a halt on John Colletts Plass. Living in Ulleval Garden City bestows a certain status on its residents even though he doesn’t think that was the reason Tore Pulli and Veronica Nansen bought a home here. The properties are well maintained, plants climb up the walls, and the whole neighbourhood is characterised by immaculately landscaped gardens and attractive cafes.
It doesn’t take him long to identify the brick building where Nansen has chosen to remain despite her husband’s jail sentence. Perhaps it’s about holding on to what they had. Henning rings the bell and is admitted immediately. He wheezes as he climbs the stairs to the second floor where the front door has been left open for him. He enters a hallway with a large wardrobe concealed behind spotless mirrors. Further into the flat a chandelier sparkles from the ceiling even though no light is coming from its bulbs.
Veronica Nansen, wearing loose-fitting grey jogging pants, a pink top and a thin grey zip-up hoodie, appears in his field of vision. She has a pink baseball cap on her head, and her ponytail dangles from the back.
‘You found it, I see,’ she says, and smiles briefly.
‘Oh yes,’ Henning says, still panting, and smiles. His scars stretch, and he is aware of her looking at them as they shake hands. Her hand feels small, like the hand of a child.
‘Coffee?’ she asks.
‘Yes, please,’ Henning replies and follows her into the kitchen. There are warm-grey slate tiles on the floor, an integrated wine store, a heating cupboard for plates, a steam oven, a sophisticated espresso machine and two stainless-steel ovens, one of them extra wide. The island in the centre of the kitchen alone is bigger than Henning’s bedroom.
‘Let’s sit down here,’ Nansen says, indicating tall slim bar stools with shiny chrome legs and bright yellow seats and backrests. ‘The living room is a mess,’ she says, and it sounds like an apology. Henning, who always feels ill at ease in the presence of expensive objects, scales the chair and tries to make himself comfortable. Clumsily he rests his elbows on the surface of the table where a bowl of brightly coloured fruit is tempting him.
‘Nice house,’ he says. ‘Or, rather, nice flat.’
‘Thank you.’
Her voice is devoid of enthusiasm. She is probably used to being complimented, Henning thinks, and he watches her while she starts the espresso machine and finds two cups. She is shorter than he had imagined and refreshingly free of make-up. He had assumed that a woman for whom every pavement is a catwalk, or at least it was once, would make an effort to pose in male company, but Veronica shuffles her feet and slumps slightly. Her hunched shoulders make her look as if she has a puncture. Perhaps her guard is down when she is at home, Henning thinks. Perhaps that’s the one place where she allows herself to be exactly who she is.
Soon the aroma of freshly brewed coffee spreads across the kitchen. Henning thanks her when she puts a cup in front of him.
‘Tore said you’re a journalist,’ she says, half-asking half-accusing, and sits down opposite him.
