then or what? Women here willingly or unwillingly. They must have walked this mountainside, though, accompanied by what thoughts—guilt, fear, shame? She tried not to think about these shadows from the past and concentrated on the view. Through a gap in the trees, she could see the N?roy River far below, looking like a snake, the way rivers always did in aerial shots. Snakes: another unwelcome thought, but surely all were benign in Norway.
She started down the path and was surprised to hear voices ahead—loud voices, Norwegian voices. Two men were shouting at each other. That much was certain, but as to the nature of the dispute, Pix didn’t have a clue. Not knowing the language made everything so difficult. Who was it? Oscar Melling and one of the farmers who had caught him cheating at cards? She was determined to find out who it was, yet she didn’t care to be seen snooping herself. She climbed down closer, staying in the woods, well away from the path. But the trees were so dense, she still couldn’t make out who it was, although the voices were much closer now. Another problem with eavesdropping on a totally foreign language was that one couldn’t recognize voices. If they had been speaking English, she would be able to guess who it was from their accents, but all she was able to determine in native speakers was gender and some idea of age. Well, these were not children.
The argument was heated and she stopped suddenly. It didn’t sound like cheating at cards—or if it was, a lot of money had been lost. One man was doing most of the talking now. His words came so rapidly, he seemed not to draw a breath. Words, words flung out like a barrage of machine-gun fire. She thought if she could get down the next incline, she’d be able to see through some birches
growing not too far from the path. She started down and stumbled, her leg doubling under her. She almost cried out. That’s all she needed to do, twist an ankle. As she fell, she grabbed instinctively and her hand hit a pile of Hardanger roof tiles, sending them tumbling down. The moss cushioned her fall, but the tiles kept going, crashing against one another and the trees. The voices stopped. The fallen tiles were silent now. A bird cried. It was the only sound, then a muffled voice. Then nothing. Her heart was beating rapidly. She stood up. This is absurd, she told herself. She was not far from the hotel. If she screamed, someone was sure to hear her, and why would she scream? Two men were having some sort of disagreement. That was all. She climbed back up to the path and resolutely started back the way she had come. She tried to shake the feeling she was being watched. She wished Jan had never told them about the hotel’s past. This was what was producing all these fearful thoughts.
At the hotel, there was no sign of anyone. She crossed the parking lot, full of empty tour buses, like so many beached whales, dwarfing the few cars in between. A door slammed and an engine started. She stood to one side to let the car pass. It was going fast. She tried to see the driver but glimpsed only a profile—a dark profile with a beard.
Ursula hadn’t said anything when Pix woke her up from a sound sleep asking for the scotch. Pix didn’t say anything, either. What was there to say? I went for a walk behind the hotel in the folk museum and got scared by an argument?
And the scotch wasn’t really what she wanted, either. What she wanted was her husband, Sam, in bed with her, his familiar shape curved to hers. They were like puzzle pieces after all these years. Her eyes closed and she slept.
Pix sat up, wide-awake. It wasn’t even five o’clock. She wondered what the dawn light looked like and got out of bed, drawing back the heavy curtains. She opened the door and stepped out onto the balcony. It was cold and suddenly the warmth she’d just left seemed very attractive. She could get another hour’s sleep. The mountains had an even more intense lavender cast at this time of day, especially the largest at the end of the valley. It had been rounded by the melting snows of time, older than the rough peaks to its side. The timberline was jagged, a lush green, that slender birches growing farther down interrupted in exclamation points. The Norwegian flag at the front of the hotel was fluttering in the early-morning breeze. Her eyes moved across the picture-postcard scene, lingering over the view just beneath her window—a view that turned her gaze to stone as surely as if she had been a troll, caught by the sun’s first rays, an incarnation of those early pagan evil spirits, not the latter-day gift-shop item. Her stomach turned and she started to cry out.
For there had been an addition since last night—an addition to the lawn, smooth as velvet, shimmering with dew, stretching from the front of the hotel to the edge of the cliff. The addition was a swastika. A huge bloodred swastika right in the middle.
For an instant, Pix thought the swastika
“Hello, this is Pix Miller in room one oh seven. I’ve just noticed a large swastika painted on the front lawn.”
The clerk interrupted her. “
How to remove it? Pix slipped on a sweater and went to the balcony. A knot of people stared at the symbol, some bending down and touching the paint. Then someone on one of those riding mowers came around the corner of the hotel and they all stepped back. The grass was short, but not that short. Mowing removed all but the faintest traces. Afterward another crew raked and removed the grisly grass clippings. Then three people came out with some sort of solution in large pails that they proceeded to slosh on the paint that was left and then scrub with cloths.
Everyone moved rapidly. Guests would be making their way to breakfast soon and people like Jennifer Olsen were probably already up and about for their morning run. Fortunately, the road was behind the hotel—the main entrance was at the opposite end from the large picture windows, as was the dining room.
The phone rang. Pix was surprised and went in quickly. It was the six o’clock wake-up call, the clerk’s voice cheerful. Everything back to normal. Before Pix jumped in the shower, she took a last look outside. Not exactly a bright golden haze on the meadow—there was definitely a reddish cast to the lawn, which nature would soon obliterate.
While she let the warm water hit her full force, Pix tried to think what the act meant and who could have done it. The Germans had used the hotel during the war for some sort of eugenics experiment. This was the most obvious connection. Yet why the protest now? Or had it happened before? Other swastikas? Other reminders? She would ask at the desk. Since she had seen it, she thought she was entitled to ask some questions. As for the who, there was a hotel full of guests and it wouldn’t have been too difficult to slip out when it finally did get dark. Spray- painting the symbol wouldn’t have taken long.
She packed quickly and went across the hall to knock on her mother’s door, noting that Ursula’s bags were already outside.
“Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?” Her mother looked concerned. She hadn’t asked why her daughter had awakened her the night before in search of the flask, but clearly she hoped for an explanation now.
“Things seem to be happening, but I’ll be darned if I can figure out what any of them have to do with Kari and Erik—or anything else,” Pix said. She told her mother about overhearing the argument while walking among the buildings in the folk museum and the uneasy feelings she’d experienced.
“Then early this morning, when I pulled back my curtains, I saw a bright red swastika painted on the front lawn.”
Ursula gasped. “How strange? Because of Stalheim being used as a
“Exactly. They’ve managed to get rid of it. I mean, unless you knew it was there, you wouldn’t see it. Well, why don’t we have breakfast. I have the feeling we may need all the sustenance we can get.”
Her mother gave her a slightly sardonic smile. “Don’t wish for things. They might happen.”
After another ample
“What could this be like in the winter?” Pix wondered.
