The Body in the Fjord

It didn’t sound like such a bad life—when the sun was shining.

“My husband is in the barn and will show you how the cheese is made.”

She was very pretty, tall, with short, shining blond hair. She was already deeply tan from being outdoors so much. She and her children radiated good health. After scampering after the group like puppies, the children had stripped off their clothes and were swimming in the fjord.

“It’s not so cold as it looks,” their mother told the group as she led the way into the barn.

Pix and Ursula first walked over to the herd of goats, scattered across the field, contentedly nibbling at what would become gjetost, that goat cheese so far removed from chevre that it seemed to be produced by a completely different animal. Partisan as she was, and becoming even more so, Pix preferred the fromage.

The Rowes and Millers had a friend in Maine who raised Nubians and took a blue ribbon every year at the Blue Hill Fair. Ursula was evaluating the Norwegian goats with a practiced eye. “Mountain goats, sturdy, and these have been well tended.”

Before her mother became overly immersed in goat husbandry, Pix suggested, “Come on, let’s go see how they make the stuff.”

They entered the dark barn, blinking for a moment. The farmer was embroiled in an argument with one of the Fargo farmers. Angry Norwegian was reverberating in the rafters. Pix translated it as “Call this a milking machine!” or something along that line. The Norwegian-American was gesturing contemptuously at the equipment and surroundings. His fellow Sons of Norway were “ja, jaing” in agreement, a rude pastoral version of some Greek chorus.

The farmer wasn’t giving any ground. He was older than his wife. Around her own age, Pix thought. Yet more

in the nature of an aging hippie. He had a long black ponytail, streaked with gray, pulled back with a leather thong. Instead of farmer’s overalls, he wore jeans and a faded tie-dyed T-shirt. His dark beard was flecked with gray also. Pix closed her eyes and listened intently. She was almost positive it was the man she’d heard at Stalheim, in the woods surrounding the folk museum. He’d been angry then. He was angry now. His accent was distinctive, especially when compared with the American’s. He had a peculiar way of chopping off the end of a phrase.

“Are you asleep?” Her mother tapped her arm.

“No, just concentrating.” Pix opened her eyes.

Yes—she was certain it was the same voice.

Seven

The farmer’s wife had set up long tables covered with bright checked cloths. There were platters of open- faced sandwiches, not all of them with gjetost, bowls of salads, and pitchers of beer and lemonade. At one table, there was a tempting array of the sweet pancakes, as well as fruit and pepperkaker—crisp ginger cookies—and a large bowl of some kind of grot, with a pitcher of heavy cream standing by to block any parts of one’s arteries the rest had missed. The North Dakota farmers were still in the barn, shouting at their host, having a fine old time, but the rest of the tour descended upon the tables with all the appearance of people who have not eaten for days. Pix took a cautious bite of the house specialty and found that this goat cheese was not as sweet as the kind she’d tasted before. She wasn’t crazy about it, but she finished her sandwich. She was thinking about the farmer more than his product. Given that it was the same man who had been at Stalheim, what had he been doing there at such an odd time? Was it also the man she’d glimpsed running through the rain from the boat last night? She couldn’t swear it was the same voice. She’d been under the tarp, and the two men hadn’t been arguing. And what about the bearded man on Jennifer Olsen’s balcony? The same person again?

“What do you think of our cheese?” her hostess asked, causing Pix to start guiltily, although she wasn’t sure why. Maybe the woman’s husband had been delivering cheese to the hotel and arguing over the price or some such thing. It had still been light, and perhaps that was the best time for him to get away. As for the possibility of his being on the balcony—well, that was really a stretch.

“I think it’s an acquired taste,” Pix answered diplomatically.

“You are brave even to try it. Most people stick to the Jarlsberg I get from the supermarket.”

“It must be difficult to live in such an isolated place. When I run out of something, I jump in my car and run to the store. You can’t do that.”

“No, not really. But we buy what we don’t raise in large quantities. I haven’t had too many problems, and this is a good way for the children to grow up.”

“You said there were four generations here. There’s you and your husband, the children, and—”

Helene Feld joined them. She had steered clear of all the cheese and was contentedly munching on some salad.

“Yes, I was wondering about that, too.”

“My parents and my grandmother live here, too, but they leave in the summer for their hytte in the mountains. We were all born right over there”—she pointed to a small house—“and will die here, I suppose.” Her contented smile made that event seem a very, very long time away.

“And your husband? Is he from the area?” Pix was curious about the husband.

“Oh, no.” His wife laughed. “He is a city boy from the east coast. I don’t know how my parents ever agreed to the marriage!”

“Your farm is lovely. I can see why he might have wanted to leave the city,” Helene told her. “The buildings are so interesting.”

“This one is called a stabbur. In the past, people stored their food for the winter there. Below you see the cellar.

That was for the potatoes. But the stabbur held the dried meat and other things high up.”

There was a remnant of old paint on the door to the sod-roofed stabbur, perched above the cellar dug into the side of the mountain. Weather had worn most of the design away, but there was a faint tracing of a man on horseback. The lower door still showed herringbone stripes.

“I suppose you must have some furniture and other things that have been in your family all these years,” Helene commented. Her neutral tone may have fooled the farmer’s wife, but knowing what she did, Pix easily detected the underlying obsession—those objects of desire—if not to own, at least to see.

“We do, but I’m not so interested in old things.”

This seemed to spur, rather than dampen, Helene’s ardor. “Would you mind if I had a look in the house? I wouldn’t touch anything, of course.”

“You are welcome to, except I’m afraid there isn’t enough time.” She waved to someone, and turning, Pix saw Carl with his hand up.

“Your guide is calling you now. Perhaps you will come back to see us another day. We will be here,” she added graciously.

As they walked toward the group, Helene grumbled, “So many people don’t appreciate what they have. I’ve seen beautiful old pieces that have been painted over or had the legs cut off to fit into another space. You name it. In one kitchen, the people had put their television set on top of a two-hundred-year-old chest. It was so blackened with soot that you could barely see the rosemaling!”

“I thought the folkemuseums had been recording the furniture and old buildings,” Pix said.

“Well, yes, but they can’t keep track of everything,” Helene responded peevishly.

Recalling how difficult it was to take antiques out of the country, Pix wondered about Helene. The woman had obviously wanted to discover a hidden gem. But for what purpose? To inform the museum in Bergen or Oslo? Or

to try to get it to Mount Vernon, New York, home of the Felds? Not a chest, of course, but things like the wedding spoons Jan had described might not be so hard to hide in one’s luggage. And if they were stopped, they