The Body in the Fjord

could plead ignorance—once anyway. The other thing that struck her was Helene’s obvious familiarity with ferreting out country antiques. She’d been to Norway before, she’d mentioned, but she hadn’t described scouting the countryside for antiques, unless she’d been accompanying a Norwegian dealer or antiquarian. Kari’s last known request had been the phone number of her friend at the Museum of Decorative Arts in Bergen. Pix thought she’d give Annelise a call and ask her about the antiques market and what the laws were more precisely. Faith had said something was staring her in the face. Maybe it was an ancient ale bowl.

Pix went over to Ursula, who was standing at the head of the path. As they started down to the boat, the farmers emerged from the barn, all smiles. They grabbed fistfuls of sandwiches, drank hasty glasses of beer, and shook hands with the farmer, who seemed to be expressing, genuine regret at their departure.

“Obviously a good day for Ole Knudsen and Henry Amulfson. Now they finally have something to talk about when they get home,” Ursula said dryly, the corners of her mouth twitching. “I think I just might play pinochle with them after all. It’s been years.”

That reminded Pix of Oscar Melling. Certainly the farmers weren’t mourning him.

“Did you learn anything about the oil business from Mr. Harding?” she asked her mother.

“I’ll tell you about it later, dear. Wasn’t that fascinating? And do you see what’s over there? Such a shiny new boat. It must be their fjord taxi. What fun for the children to ride in.”

Pix looked over her shoulder. The guides and Jennifer Olsen were almost on their heels.

“Yes, it does look like it would be fun to ride in, and business must be booming for them to buy such a spruce little craft.” She felt as if she was reading from a script.

Jan reached for Ursula’s arm and helped her aboard. Sonja and Anders appeared to cast off and soon they were in the middle of the fjord again.

Carl addressed the group before they had a chance to scatter to various parts of the Viking cruiser.

“We hope you will enjoy the special trip we have arranged for you this afternoon to the Norwegian Glacier Museum at Fj?rland. To get there, we will sail back to the Sognefjord and into the Fj?rlandsfjord. It’s a very beautiful cruise and you will see the glacier just in front of you the whole way. The museum was designed by Sverre Fehn, our most famous architect. He calls it ‘an altar in a landscape.’ You see if you agree. It’s only a short bus ride from the quay, and if you have any questions, please ask me or Jan.”

Pix wanted to know why they were going to the museum. She was curious about what they’d say, but she decided not to ask. The somber mood of the group had changed entirely and her question would only make the guides uneasy. Besides, they’d probably just answer that they were doing it to make the Scandie Sights experience just that much more memorable for everyone. And maybe they were.

She was eager to find out what Ursula had talked about with the Hardings and the Golubs, that inseparable quartet. Her mother had apparently not had a chance to get Carol Peterson alone. Carol and Roy senior were the exceptions to the general lifting of spirits. The two elder Petersons were still obviously on the outs with the world. Carol had returned to the boat long before everyone else and Roy had moped about the shore after viewing the lunch distastefully.

It was definitely an odd sensation. Pix was walking through the model glacier at the museum. Technology had created authenticity and she truly felt she was beneath the

glacier—the bre. She could hear the ice breaking and rocks falling above her, then a series of high-pitched creaks—the ice, in constant motion, alone. It was chilly and the glistening fiberglass maze that had been created looked as if it could freeze one’s fingers off. The tunnel was dark, with occasional spots of light for safety; the ground beneath her feet was spongy, simulating clay. She stepped carefully, avoiding a pool of water. All very, very real.

They’d found two buses waiting for them at the quay and arrived minutes later at the museum, which was surrounded by walls of mountains on three sides and the fjord on the fourth. It was an altar, an altar to the powerful, massive glacier, which was so close that when one ascended the staircases to the museum’s roof, the bre would seem deceptively within reach. Ursula and Pix had been the last ones off the bus and, with several others, became separated from the rest of the group. Attempting to rejoin their comrades, they were imperiously pushed to the rear of a very long line by a guide from another tour. “My lot already has tickets,” she announced in English. Pix was annoyed at the way the woman had literally wedged her “lot” in front of them, but she had no idea whether Scandie Sights had tickets or what she should do. As she was about to explain to the woman that they were part of a group farther ahead, a lean figure jumped over the rope and, taking Ursula by the arm, led her and the rest of them to the front of the line, unleashing a torrent of invective—in Norwegian—at the other guide as they passed. It was Carl, a snarling sheepdog, protecting his flock. The woman responded. They obviously knew each other, but it was Carl’s day, and soon Pix found herself in the movie theater, staring at five screens and slightly out of breath.

“Quite a passionate young man when roused,” Ursula observed, unruffled. “The other leader didn’t have a chance.”

“We all have tickets,” he’d said—in English—pointedly, perhaps for the benefit of her group, which was re

garding the Scandie Sights stragglers with undisguised venom. Jumping the queue just isn’t done, you know.

Once inside, the film, on five screens, was breathtaking. Pix instantly resolved to come back to explore the glacier, the bre, itself with Sam and any family members who would still take a vacation with parents and siblings. Mark had made it clear that destination was everything, and she had the feeling he was thinking of Hawaii.

One group in the film was hiking across the glacier in pleasant, gentle stages—picnics in the sun, a hearty, happy throng of children and adults. The other glacial explorers provided the drama, wielding picks and dangling into dangerous-looking crevasses, their ropes taut. They started out tanned and fit and emerged yet more so at the end. Even the oldest, who looked Ursula’s age, could have qualified for a Ray Ban ad. The film ended and everyone filed out to explore the center’s exhibits.

“Makes it seem as if you really are two feet below the surface, with tons and tons of ice on top of your head.” It was Marge Brady, well informed as usual. For a moment, Pix resented the intrusion, both for its quantification and because it marked an end to her solitary fantasy. She’d deliberately waited until the model seemed empty to experience it alone.

“It’s remarkable,” she commented. Marge, undeterred by brevity, continued Pix’s private tour. “It was designed by the same person who designed the special effects for the Star Wars sets. The Norwegians call the glacier ‘the roof of Norway.’ Pretty big roof! I’m not sure I’d want to walk on it, even with a guide. How can they be sure you won’t fall through?”

Pix did not have an answer. “I’m sure they’re very experienced.” She made a mental note to check out the accident rate before they returned.

The two women emerged into the main hall. Marge was heading for a stationary bike, ready to test her ability to generate energy. Pix was sure she’d do well and ducked behind a large photo of a woolly mammoth. It was hard

to concentrate on the displays, excellent as they were, when she kept seeing Oscar’s body on the rocks. The question uppermost in her mind was not why the ice was turquoise blue, but how had the man died?

Ursula was buying postcards.

“Do you think Danny would like this one of the polar bear?” she asked.

Pix started to respond, “Danny who?” but fortunately she remembered that she did indeed have a twelve- year-old. She told her mother he’d love it.

Marge came sailing by. “We’re going to have time to visit the glacier after all!” she called, off to spread the news to others.

“I’m glad you’ll have the chance to see part of it. It really is extraordinary,” Ursula said. Then, lowering her voice, she added, “They certainly don’t seem anxious to get back to the hotel.”

“I think they’re counting on arctic memories to obliterate any other, less pleasant ones from the ‘Dear Scandie Sights’ evaluation forms I’m sure we’ll be filling out tomorrow,” Pix remarked.

They both headed for the ladies’ room, then rejoined the group. Jan was counting heads when someone from the museum came up to him and spoke into his ear. An anxious look crossed his face, quickly replaced by a neutral one. “Carl,” he called to the other guide, who was answering a question for Marge Brady.