The Body in the Fjord

‘He’s fine, but there’s something else…. I can’t talk now. I’ll tell you tonight.’ She hung up without even saying good-bye. At the time, I thought the train must have started to move, but now I think maybe someone came along, someone she didn’t want overhearing what she was about to say.”

Pix nodded. “Two more things. Did she say anything about eloping? And who is Annelise Christensen?”

“I’ve told you everything she said as exactly as I can remember. And if she had planned to elope, I know she would have said something. But she never would have eloped. It was always her dream to get married in the domkirken in Tonsberg where she had been christened and confirmed. Erik, too. They spoke of it when you were here, Ursula, and we went to that concert there.”

“Yes, I remember. Kari was joking about how often she had been a bridesmaid lately. And you were reminiscing about your own wedding there during the war, wearing your grandmother’s dress and drinking the toast with some sort of raw alcohol mixed with orange soda your father concocted.”

“And Annelise?” Pix persisted.

“She was at school with Kari and now she lives and works in Bergen. She hasn’t been there very long, and you know how it is for us on the east coast. We cannot get used to the rain—and if you are not from Bergen, you are really an outsider to many people there. You know they always say Bergen, not Norway, when someone asks them where they’re from. I think Kari wanted to see how Annelise was doing—if she’d found friends.”

“Why couldn’t she just look her name up in the telephone book when she got there, or ask information? Why would she call you for it?”

“There are not so many names in Norway and there are as many Hansens as Christensens, I’m sure. That’s why we put our professions as part of our names so often. Without Annelise’s address, Kari would have had to call many A. Christensens, and she wouldn’t want to bother people.”

Heaven forbid, Pix thought. Bothering people was another sin in this very polite society.

“I phoned Annelise after I spoke to Carl, the tour guide. I thought maybe Kari had been in touch with her some way, but she hadn’t heard from Kari and was as surprised as I was that they had eloped. When the news of Erik’s death came, she called right away. She, too, is worried about Kari, of course, and if she hears anything at all, she said she would let me know at once.”

Pix nodded.

“I think you’re looking a little peaked, dear,” Ursula said to her daughter. “I’m sure Marit wouldn’t mind if you took a short nap before we leave for the station.”

Pix was about to protest that, like her mother, she could sleep on the long train ride, but she closed her mouth when she felt the meaningful glance from Ursula hit her full force in the face. Her mother wanted to be alone with her old friend. To comfort, console…plot?

“You can lie down in Kari’s room. I’ll show you.” Marit led the way out of the living room and down the

narrow hall. “The bathroom is just here.” She nodded at a closed door marked with the traditional heart.

Kari’s room also overlooked the bustling Oslofjord, and the thin muslin curtains let in the sunlight. Pix noted the heavy roller shades, necessary at this time of year, when the sky could still be bright at midnight. The walls of the room were covered with blue-flowered wallpaper that Pix recognized as Laura Ashley. Kari was something of an Anglophile after working as an au pair outside London one summer. Bracelets and necklaces hung from an assortment of wooden pegs. A bookshelf held childhood books, in addition to her university texts. She was studying to be an occupational therapist. The shelves also held a piggy bank, photo albums, and a funny-looking troll. There was a full stereo system, stacks of cassettes and CDs, and headphones—presumably for Marit’s sake. The antique pine bed was covered with a dyne, the down-filled comforter that served as bedding in Scandinavia, its crisp white cover changed, instead of a top sheet. Two fluffy pillows were at the head, and for a brief moment, Pix thought she might crawl in and pull the comforter over her head for a few minutes of blissful unconsciousness. But she didn’t like to sleep in the daytime. It made her groggy, cranky—and she had a lot to think about after talking to Marit.

Most important, though, was the realization that here she was in Kari’s room. What would Faith do in a similar situation? She’d snoop, of course. Pix felt fully justified in opening any and all drawers if it would give her a clue to where Kari might be and what could have happened. Kari’s small chest of drawers was covered with framed photographs, makeup, a silver comb and brush set. Pix picked up a photo of Erik and Kari. They were wearing their student caps. Erik, twenty-one—only a year older than Pix’s own son. The thought stabbed her and she put the photograph down.

She walked over to a print on the wall. It wasn’t by an artist she recognized—Munch or Kittelsen. It was of a small country house with trees, flowers, and animals, done

in a naive folk-art style. Very charming. She couldn’t read the artist’s signature, so she took it down to get a closer look. Marianne Arneberg. Moving to replace it, Pix realized that something was taped to the back.

It was an envelope.

She lifted the flap and removed the contents. There wasn’t much: a few letters, some photographs. One picture tumbled to the floor. It was of Kari—Kari arm in arm with a very handsome dark-haired man.

Kari with someone other than Erik.

Two

But she was wrong. It wasn’t Kari. It was Hanna.

The resemblance was remarkable. Mother and daughter looked almost identical. But the clothes were the giveaway. Hanna was wearing a long flowered dress, the kind love children made in the sixties from their Indian- print bedspreads. She had beads around her neck, as did the man in bell-bottom jeans. On the back, only one word was writ-ten—the name Sven—and no date. The couple was standing in front of a Volkswagen Beetle parked alongside an olive grove. Olives did not grow in Norway. Not much of anything grew in Norway, where only 3 percent of the land was arable. It must have been taken in Italy, or France, some other place far from home. The two were smiling. Pix searched her memory for an image of Hanna. She had never seen her at this age. She had never seen her smiling so happily.

Pix felt relieved. The fleeting notion that Kari—with a secret love other than Erik—might not be who she seemed had made Pix feel unsteady. She knew she was on unfamiliar turf, but that this turf might suddenly suck her down into some sort of underground even more complicated than what was presently before her eyes was frightening. She reminded herself that Kari and Erik were students, good

students, in love, planning for the future. Honest, loyal to each other.

She looked at the letters and the other photos. More pictures of Hanna. Hanna and a baby, Hanna and a toddler—Hanna and Kari.

The letters were written in a childish hand, the script rounded. Pix could recognize only a few of the Norwegian words. “Kj?re Mor og Far”—mor meant “mother”; “grandmother” was bestemor, your best mother, an appellation Ursula heartily applauded. Far meant “father.” “Dear Mother and Father.” The letters were signed “Hanna.” Hanna writing to her parents from some early trips with friends or her school? She’d drawn a little horse in the margin of one, a garland of roses in another.

Why weren’t these pictures framed and on Kari’s bureau with the rest, the letters in the big antique wooden box, ornately painted, that Pix had discovered held postcards and other letters? She thought a moment. There had been some photographs on the mantel in the living room, their silver frames well polished, like everything else in the apartment—Marit and Hans’s wedding picture, Kari’s graduation photo, Hans’s and one of Marit’s parents. But none of Hanna. Marit didn’t seem the type to be ashamed of her daughter’s suicide. Was it too painful to be reminded of what might have been? Or something else? Whatever it was, Kari had kept these links to her mother hidden. Pix imagined her sitting on the bed, reading the letters, looking at the faces, wondering. Long ago, a two- year-old would have asked many questions. Where did Mor go? When will she be back? How had her grandparents answered them? And Far? What about him?

There was a gentle knock on the door and Pix jumped a mile. “Pix, are you awake? We have to get ready to leave soon.”

Marit pushed the door open a crack. Pix shoved the envelope under the pillows. She was glad she was sitting on the bed and she hoped Marit wouldn’t notice the picture

was off the wall. She answered quickly. “I’ll just wash up and be right with you.”

“Fine. You don’t need to hurry too much. I have your tickets, but Ursula thinks it would be better to get to the