“If we can get ready really fast, do we have to have the call at six?” asked Jennifer Olsen.
“No, of course not. You can inform the desk and make any arrangement you want,” Jan answered.
They had been talking so much, they were among the last tables to leave the dining room, and Pix had the odd sensation that she was watching a play as the whole cast of characters walked past, nodding at them or saying a few words. The Bradys, the Petersons—with a playful injunction from Carol to hurry up or they’d miss the show— the North Dakota farmers, Valerie and Sophie, the Dahl sisters, and an older man who stopped to chat.
Arnie Feld made the introductions. “This is Oscar Melling. Mrs. Rowe and her daughter, Mrs. Miller. Is there a game tonight, Oscar? He’s been playing pinochle with the group from the Sons of Norway almost every evening,” he explained.
“Oh, they’re a bunch of sour losers. Said I can’t play anymore. That I was cheating too much.” He winked at Ursula. “You notice they said ‘too much.’ That’s because all of them were cheating like crazy. They’ll get over it
and we’ll probably have a game tomorrow. They’ve been playing with one another so long, they’re desperate to play with anyone new. Do either of you ladies play?”
He was a barrel-chested man of medium height, his bald head fringed with steel gray hair. The same hair protruded over his upper lip, from his ears, and snaked across his forehead in one long, scraggy brow. Oscar seemed intent on displaying any and all of a hirsute nature left to him. His eyes were deep blue and he had probably been quite handsome in his youth. He was not without charm now, partially because he worked so hard displaying it. Pix had noticed him before. He was never without a smile—or a companion. The tiny fretwork of red veins on his face indicated he was fond of supplementing this bonhomie with a glass or two.
“Sorry, I never learned the game.”
“I knew it once, but it’s been many years since I’ve played,” Ursula revealed.
“You’ll remember in no time. I’ll let you know if we get enough people for a game,” Oscar promised, then bowed slightly and left.
“What is Mr. Melling’s occupation?” Ursula asked the Felds.
“He had a grocery store in New Jersey that specialized in Scandinavian foods. He started doing mail order and now that’s the entire business, I gather. He was talking about going on the Internet this fall. A pretty astute businessman, I’d imagine,” Arnie answered.
The picture of her mother sitting in a smoke-filled room of pinochle players—the farmers all smoked pipes and Oscar had a cigar peeking out of his shirt pocket—was too much for Pix. She started to laugh, tried to explain, and gave it up. “I think I’ll go get some places for the dancing.” She assumed the Felds would sit with them.
“You do that. We’ll catch the end of the program. I want to take some pictures of the buildings in the folk museum. The light is perfect now,” Helene said.
Pix and Ursula had no sooner sat down with their coffee when three young couples dressed in their traditional regional costumes—
She was amused to note the twentieth century encroachments on the scene, which at first glance could have been a wedding celebration from the last century. One boy had a slightly purple streak in his hair. Two of the girls had multiple holes in each ear.
“Now, we need your help,” the fiddler said, giving her instrument to one of the dancers to hold and then tapping six people quickly. One was Jennifer Olsen, who sprang to her feet, not making even the token protest of the others.
“We call this the ‘Jealousy Dance.’ The two dancers on either side are trying to win the favor of the one in the middle. My friends will demonstrate; then you will do it!”
It was really very funny. As the dancers moved forward, they nodded and smiled to the person in the middle; then, moving back, they turned their heads and scowled at each other, shook their fists, and then, as the music changed, put on a pleasant face again.
Jennifer was very agile and dramatic. She was enjoying herself—positive vibes.
Pix watched and thought idly, Public faces, private faces. Which is real? What does that public mask hide? He was such a nice, quiet man, we never dreamed he…So many news accounts contained slight variations of those words. Behind one’s back. She watched Jennifer shake her fist at her competitor. Jealousy, powerful emotion. Erik and Kari, the two lovers. Was there someone in the middle—or at the side?
“Pix, dear, I think when they’re finished, I’ll go to bed early tonight. I want to be on time in the morning.” Her mother’s words broke into her thoughts.
Pix wasn’t tired at all. “I may stay down here or take a walk.”
The dancers finished to huge applause. Jennifer flopped into a chair next to Pix’s. “That was fun!”
One of the girls had stepped forward and was explaining the significance of her costume. “I have three rows of velvet on my skirt because I’m not married yet.” The boy she’d been dancing with looked very smug. She tossed her head.
“And if you want one like it”—she was referring to her elaborate brooch—“you will find them for sale all over Norway, and here, too, in the shop”—she gestured—“but not the real ones, of course. They are very old.” She wagged her finger playfully. “Norway is a small country and we don’t have very many old things, so we need to keep them here!”
“They are strict,” Jennifer said. “You can’t take anything out of the country that’s over a hundred years old unless you can prove it was in your family. If you get
caught, it’s a very stiff fine for you and the person who sold it to you.”
Pix nodded. “Helene Feld was telling us about this at dinner.”
A man on the other side of Jennifer joined the conversation. “You can’t blame them. Look at what’s happened to other countries. If you’re Greek, you have to go to London to look at your past. Norway also holds on to her land. It’s pretty impossible to buy property if you’re not Norwegian.” He mimicked the girl, “Norway is a small country and needs to keep everything here!” He laughed. “Doesn’t want to become a European vacation colony is more like it.”
Pix was glad. In a very short period of time, she had become remarkably partisan.
Another kind of music was coming from the bar, but Pix was intoxicated by her unusual freedom and the long light outside, not Ringnes beer or aquavit. She knew she would not be able to sleep for some time and so she strolled outdoors in the direction of the folk museum. It was farther up the steep road and separated from the hotel by a wooden gate. She assumed at this time of night, it would be locked, but it yielded at her touch. Soon she was admiring the old dark wooden farm buildings with their sod or slate roofs. The slate roofs looked like fish scales and when she stumbled across a pile of tiles leaning against a tree, she noted the shape of each one did indeed look like a whole fish. Lichen clung to the slate, touching the gray with yellow ocher and varied shades of green. One of the sod roofs was so overgrown with tiny fir trees and other vegetation that it wasn’t until Pix noticed a chimney that she realized there was a house below her on the mountain.
She climbed and climbed, smelling the sweet night air, air heavy with moisture. The moss beneath her feet was like a sponge. Her footsteps were silent. She peeked in the small windows, tried a few doors, only to find them locked, and spotted a small nest in the sod. Far above the
hotel, but still on the path, the air was colder. The character of these woods would have been the same during the war. She imagined those women, inhabitants of—what had Jan called it, a
