The Body in the Fjord

“Fiskepudding?” Pix had never encountered this particular delicacy before. Some kind of piscatorial Norsk dessert? They did have a sense of humor.

“It’s a bit like a fish mousse. You just have to try it, and be sure to have some of the cream sauce with shrimp on top, and take some tytteb?r—lingonberries.”

“Lingonberries!” Pix knew what they were—a kind of small Nordic cranberry. You ate them with reindeer meat.

Louise nodded vigorously. “You can’t eat fiskepudding without lingonberries.”

Pix looked at Louise’s angular body. She would have expected plump Erna to be the one interested in food, but here was Louise, her eyes shining with delight as she contemplated the notion of blot kake—layer cake—and some kind of fruit grot—compote—to end her meal. Es

sential Norwegian food names tended to be monosyllabic and atonal: Bread was brod, butter was smor, cheese was ost, steak was stek, and above all, fish was fisk.

“It’s not a combination I would have thought of, but it works,” said Pix after polishing off her fiskepudding, cream sauce, lingonberries on the side. “They are not too sweet, not too tart, and the taste cuts the richness of the fish.” Since going to work at Have Faith, Faith Fairchild’s catering business, Pix had picked up some of the nuances of food pairings, although not even the barest whisper of any food preparation. When Faith had offered her a job, Pix had made it clear that accounts or activities such as counting salad plates would be fine, but not even turning on an oven or stirring a pot. Faith had assured her friend that this was the furthest thought from her mind. She knew the Miller kitchen well, and from the look of Pix’s cupboards, the family could have been mistaken for major stockholders in General Foods, et cetera. Many of the boxes had HELPER printed on the front.

“I’m glad you like it. We make it at Christmas. It was our mother’s favorite dish,” Louise Dahl said.

Ursula noticed the past tense. “Has your mother been gone long?”

The two sisters put down their forks simultaneously. “A year this January,” Erna replied. They both still seemed devastated.

A household of women. Obviously, the two sisters had never married, and Pix had a hunch all three women had lived together.

“Your mother was Norwegian, then? You know so much about the food…” her voice trailed off.

“We are all three born in Norway, but Louise and I don’t remember it very well. This is the first trip for either of us.”

“It’s a shame your mother wasn’t able to go back for a visit,” Pix commented. It had been her experience that every Norwegian-American not only longs to visit the land of his ancestors but considers it a sacred duty, as well.

“She didn’t want to go,” Louise said sternly, and for a moment the conversation came to a grinding halt; then Ursula picked up the ball.

“The newlyweds have disappeared and Mrs. Peterson doesn’t look too pleased.” She laughed.

A cartoonist would have had a fine time drawing the mother-in-law with steam coming out of her ears, arms folded across her chest, jutting elbows like the spikes on a mace. Her voice carried across the room loud and clear. “You know very well what they’re up to, and they can do that anytime. How often in their lives are they going to be at Kvikne’s Hotel? I ask you that,” Roy senior didn’t appear to have an answer and he wisely concentrated on his third helping of dessert.

“I thought they were going for more food. At least that’s where they headed. We might just as well have gone to Thunder Bay like we always do, but I wanted to make this trip special. It didn’t matter how much planning it took, and believe me, I had to give up a lot of things to do all that, but do they care? I ask you…. Roy, did you hear what I said!”

His mumbled reply was inaudible, whether from discretion or cake.

The Dahls giggled appreciatively. “It’s been like this since the beginning of the trip—a contest—and I think Lynette is ahead.”

Pix thought of how the young woman had looked in the sauna at Stalheim and compared her with Carol, who had been going in rather heavily for boiled potatoes over the years. Lynette was definitely ahead in some departments, but the older woman had genetic guilt induction honed to a farethee-well. Pix would still say it was even money.

The Dahls were telling Ursula about their jobs. Erna was a hairdresser and Louise worked as a secretary in a lawyer’s office. The dining room was beginning to clear. Sophie and Valerie walked by the table.

“Dancing in the lounge tonight. You must come,” Sophie urged. “Tres amusant, n’est-ce pas?”

Ursula explained in fluent French that her dancing days were over but that she was sure her daughter, la jeune fille, would be tripping the light fantastic. The Dahl sisters also seemed inclined to join the merriment. Although she gave a pleasant nod to Mother’s fait accompli, Pix had plans of her own. Dancing or no dancing, she wanted to work in another sauna. She had to have some time to herself to think about Marit’s revelation, and the macarena was not apt to provide an opportunity for contemplation of this sort.

But first there was coffee in the Dragon Room.

The dragon style harked back to the decorated prows of the Viking ships, translating the fierce beasts and other creatures into romantic works of art, a nostalgic nod to the past. Tapestrylike weavings, more landscapes, and several huge paintings of Norsk legends hung on the room’s warm red walls. But it was the carved furniture, wooden floor, and ceiling that gave the room its particular beauty.

“It’s hard to imagine how someone could have done such intricate work,” Pix said to Erna Dahl. Jennifer Olsen, who had joined them, agreed. “Some people think it’s really tacky—all these dragons and swirls, overdone, but I love it. Only in Norway.”

Erna was apparently about to add her own words of appreciation, having nodded vigorously at Jennifer’s words, when they were distracted by a heated argument behind them. A coffee cup was slammed down on the table, hard. It didn’t break.

“I started with nothing and nobody ever gave me anything. What these young people today want are free handouts. They have babies so they can get money from the government, and nobody wants to work!” It was Oscar Melling and his face was redder than ever. The fringe around his bald head bristled.

“All I said was that the Norwegian health-care system could be a model for us. I’m not talking about welfare,” Arnie Feld protested.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about! That’s your trouble,” Oscar blustered.

Don Brady walked into the fray. “Keep it down, Melling. We’re here for a vacation.”

“Are you telling me to shut up?” Oscar was ready for a fight and even assumed a pugilistic posture.

“Yes, I am!” Don was red in the face now, too. Wives were appearing like magic from their contemplation of carved rosettes.

“Honey,” Marge said to Don, her hand on his elbow as Helene linked her arm through Arnie’s and took a step backward. But equally by magic, Carl and Jan materialized.

“I thought you were going to buy us a beer, Mr. Melling.” Carl stood directly in front of the man, blocking the others.

“We get very thirsty talking all day,” Jan said. Both young men were smiling. Oscar muttered something and left with them, but not before casting a foul glance at his opponents.

“What do you suppose that was all about?” Pix was surprised. The group had seemed so friendly.

“I hate that man,” Jennifer said vehemently. “He’s a bully and would say anything to get a rise out of someone. He’s been a pain since we started.”

The rotten apple. Pix remembered Don Brady’s remark at dinner at the Stalheim Hotel.

Carl was back, working the crowd, a word here, a word there, more smiles all around. At the end of a tour, the guides must have aching facial muscles for days. Jan was presumably hoisting some flagons with the troublemaker. Soon everyone was talking and laughing again. Oscar had been relegated to an anecdote: “The trip was wonderful, except for…”