Norwegian by Night

He looks at his feet for a moment. Then he says, ‘Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. Dead in shower. John Travolta in Pulp Fiction. Very dead in shower. But never closets. I can’t think of anyone shot in a closet. This is why I hide in closets.’

Kadri scratches his stomach. ‘So, look. I’m taking the box and going for a coffee. Get well soon.’

Kadri checks her pulse, confirms that she’s alive, picks up the box, places it under his arm, and walks out the front door. He strides up the street directly past the police car, gets on his Vespa scooter, and heads directly to the nearest Kaffebrenneriet for a bun.

It is good to see the process working as it should. Burim is infiltrating the Serbs with more than his penis, and will come back with valuable information. Gjon is collecting the guns that Enver asked for. The box — whatever is in it — has been recovered.

The sun is shining, and the air is dry and bracing. If you wave your hands in front of your face, you can pull the summer into your lungs and feel its peace and serenity. Just what an accomplished man needs.

And peaceful it is. There is no history here. No weight. No echoes or whispers of tragedy on the breeze. It is odd, really. Because, for Kadri, when he leaves Oslo itself and meets colleagues in other towns to talk politics, play cards, buy and sell drugs and the usual, he can feel the expanse of Scandinavia — the big sky, the vastness of the land — reveal itself. It is as though the lonely cannot fill that much space. It taunts them, spreads them too thinly.

They should sing, like they do in the Balkans. And dance. Something in them, here, prevents them from expressing the few words that could free them, connect them, rejoin them to each other and the heavens. They should live life. And laugh at death.

But they don’t. Their Lutheran cloaks smother them and take their voices away.

Whatever is causing it, though, it is not history. There is no history here to speak of. Some old boats and a wooden church — that’s not history. This is the part of Europe without a history. No Romans. No Christians. No Crusades. No religious wars. Only old gods and trolls and blondes wearing fur. Really, what’s to be depressed about?

How I miss our sad songs sung together for joy!

But now is not the time for sadness. Or joy. It is the time for coffee.

Kadri rocks back and forth on his toes impatiently as a Swedish girl — here in Norway for the summer because of the higher wages — delicately pours the steamed and fluffed milk into his latte, leaving on top the signature flourish of the cafe.

Kadri plops his forty kroner on the table and then stares deeply at the coffee.

After a moment, the girl looks at it, too.

Kadri looks up at her and says, ‘Why did you paint a vagina in my coffee?’

‘What?’

‘Vagina. In my coffee. In the foamy bit.’

‘It’s a leaf.’

‘A leaf?’

‘Yes. A leaf.’

‘You ever seen a leaf like that?’

They both consider the design in the coffee foam again.

‘It’s my first day,’ she says.

‘You were trying to make a leaf?’

‘Yes.’

‘So it’s a leaf.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Keep the change.’

A middle-aged couple pushing a lime-green pram stands to leave one of the wrought-iron tables, and Kadri springs for it. He gives a little chuckle as he wiggles into the chair.

Ah, life. So many twists and turns. So much unexpected, and so little of it preventable. We do what we can to find balance. And to stay calm, we retreat to the simple pleasures. Like coffee and a good smoke.

Once he’s well seated, Kadri whips out his iPhone and jabs at some little icons. He waits for Enver’s phone to ring.

It rings a few more times than expected. Hell, who knows what Enver is doing from one minute to another? Besides, Kadri is going to do his part, be a good soldier, pay his respects. But he isn’t going to take the extra step towards making any of this his own problem. It isn’t his kid. Kadri didn’t kill anyone. Not in Norway, anyway. The sooner this all ends, the better. Let Zezake step into the process, if it comes to that. Kadri has the box. That’s enough for now.

Enver picks up the telephone. He is breathy and humourless as ever.

They speak in Albanian.

‘So, I got the box with the stuff in it.’

‘Was there any trouble?’

‘I hit a woman cop on the head, but she’s there, and the box and I are here. She’s alive. So, that’s pretty much that.’

Enver is silent for a moment. He does this when he’s thinking. It makes Kadri cringe. If you know your mind, why not speak it?

‘They take that sort of thing seriously here.’

‘Look, Enver. Whatever, OK? I was behind her. Thump. Like the good fairy asked the bunny not to do to the field mice. She knows nothing. Can I open the box? It’s an ugly box. I’d like to get rid of the box.’

‘No.’

‘No? No what? No, I can’t open it, or no, it’s not ugly? Because, believe you me, it’s ugly. It’s all pink with little silver…’

‘You can’t open it. I don’t want you losing anything. I assume it’s locked. I expect to find it locked when you bring it to me.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Glamlia.’

Kadri scratches his chest where the gold chain occasionally pinches some hairs.

‘Any chance that’s near Paris? I’d like to go to Paris.’

‘It’s near the Swedish border. Look it up on that stupid toy of yours.’

‘There’s something you should know.’

Enver says nothing.

‘The box? It wasn’t in her flat. It was in the apartment where it happened. And I was right. An old man lives there. And I had to hide in the closet. And it smelled bad. Like somebody peed. Maybe an old man. Maybe a young boy. I’m thinking he peed because something scary was happening outside the closet. If it was a boy, then maybe the old man got him out of there later. So I think I was right about the old man. I think maybe he knows something. And I think maybe he even has the boy. It doesn’t tell us where to look. But it tells us where not to look, you know?’

Enver hangs up without saying goodbye.

These calls are so unsatisfying. Never a thank you.

Yes, please, go back to Kosovo. Take your sullen attitude with you. The war is over.

Just before he can take a sip of his coffee, Kadri feels a tap on his shoulder.

He looks up and sees a uniformed police officer in his mid-thirties. He is wearing a blue shirt and tie.

‘What?’ Kadri says in English.

‘You’re under arrest.’

‘What are you talking about? I’m drinking coffee at a coffee shop. I’m smoking a cigarette outside, like everyone else.’

‘Like movies?’

‘What do you mean, “Do I like movies?”’

Petter had been holding his walkie-talkie, and now he raises it to his mouth and says, in Norwegian, ‘Is that