Norwegian by Night

holidays gone past.

Clove. Cinnamon. Pine. Marzipan.

‘No, no marzipan.’

‘It’s huge here,’ said Lars. ‘Covered in chocolate.’

‘So whose turn it is?’

‘Yours.’

Bells. Candles. Pie. Apples. Ski wax…

‘Really! Ski wax? Here, too. That’s exciting.’

‘I’m just screwing with you, Lars.’

‘Oh.’

Three words in a row. Sometimes four. That’s how much they had in common. A solid platform for a child.

Rhea sips her cafe-au-lait and looks at Lars reading Aftenposten’s front page. There is a picture of Kosovar independence from Serbia earlier this year. Something about Brad Pitt. Something about low-carb diets.

No, she hadn’t told Lars that she was trying to get pregnant. It was somehow unnecessary. As though he knew. Or that, being married, he didn’t have to know. What might have unfolded as opera in her New York culture passed here with a hug and his fingers moving through her hair, then gripping it all in his fist.

Lars is reading the newspaper like a normal person, whereas Sheldon is holding a piece of the newspaper up to the light as though looking for watermarks. It is, as always, unclear to Rhea what anything he is doing might mean — whether he is seeking attention like a child, whether his age is merely expressing itself, or whether he’s involved in some activity that, if probed, would sound childish and demented but logical all at once. When the three are combined in this way — his personality, his condition, his reason — it is impossible to distinguish one from the other.

This is Sheldon’s third week in the country. They wanted him to find his place here, to settle into his new life. They all knew there was no going back now. Sheldon was too old, the apartment in Gramercy was sold, and there was nowhere for him to go.

‘I’m not taking the bait,’ she says.

‘Huh?’

Lars and Sheldon each raise their newspapers a bit higher — one to hide, the other to provoke.

‘I said, you nutter, that I’m not taking the bait. I have no interest whatsoever in why you’re looking for the Da Vinci code in the newsprint.’

‘Norwegian sounds like English spoken backwards. I want to see if it reads the same way. I can check by holding it up to the light and reading the article on the other side. But the words on this side of the newspaper are blocking the words on the other side of the newspaper, so I can’t tell.’

Lars speaks: ‘It’s going to be good weather again.’

‘I think we should go out. Papa, how about a walk?’

‘Oh sure, they’d love that, wouldn’t they.’

‘The Koreans?’

‘You said that with a tone. I heard a tone.’

Rhea puts her empty cup in the sink and runs her fingers under some cold water. She wipes them on her jeans.

‘There’s something we need to tell you.’

‘Tell me here.’

‘I’d rather go out.’

‘Not me. I like it here. Near the food. All the pork. It needs me.’

‘We could slip out the back.’

At this, both newspapers drop.

‘There’s a backdoor?’ Sheldon says.

‘Bicycle entrance. Not many people know about it. It’s a secret.’

‘That’s good to know.’

‘Little things like that can save your life.’

‘You’re mocking me. I know you’re mocking me, but I don’t care. I know what’s what. I still got all my marbles, my family jewels, and a bit of savings from my book. And I’m over eighty. That’s something.’

‘So are we going out, or what?’

‘What’s with your neighbours?’ says Sheldon, changing the subject.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Sounds like the fascist beats his wife.’

‘We’ve called the police before.’

‘So you have heard it!’

‘Yes.’

‘You got a gun? Lars, you got a gun?’

‘Not here.’

‘But you’ve got a gun, right? I mean, you don’t run through the forest naked, blond hair flapping in the breeze, and tackle the reindeer with your bare manly chest, right? Kill ’em with your teeth? Blood-stained peach fuzz on your chin? Big grin? There’s a gun involved, right?’

‘Up at the summer house. Moses and Aaron. They’re in a locker by the sauna. One of them is broken.’

‘You have Jewish rifles?’

Lars smiles. ‘Ah, no. A Winchester and a Remington. They’re named after the two cannons in Drobak that sank the German ship during the war. In the fjord.’

‘Norway has Nazi-killing Jewish cannons?’

‘I never thought of it quite that way.’

Sheldon raises his brows and opens his palms as though to ask what other way one could possibly think about two cannons named Moses and Aaron in Norway that sank a Nazi ship.

Lars relents. ‘Yes, Norway has Nazi-killing Jewish cannons.’

‘But the guns aren’t here. Moses and Aaron are wandering.’

‘At the summer house. Right.’

‘That’s OK. I’m sure we can win a knife fight. What does the Balkan mafia know about knife fighting compared to the three of us?’

‘You know, the cabin is out by the Swedish border. The Norwegian resistance used to operate there. We called them the Boys in the Woods. My father says my grandfather used to hide them in the sauna out back. They used to wear paperclips on their lapels. Many people did. It was an act of rebellion against the occupation.’

Sheldon nods. ‘So Operation Paperclip was effective, was it? That must have been what broke their backs. Who could tolerate such impertinence?’

Rhea says, ‘Papa, I think you need to take a shower, put on some matching clothes — some underwear even — and in return we can slip out the back door.’

Sheldon changes the subject.

‘You know why I wear this watch?’

‘To tell time?’ answers Rhea, submitting to the diversion.

‘No. That’s why I wear a watch. The question is why do I wear this watch. I used to wear one with the heart of your father in it. I’ll explain someday. But I decided, on account of your news, and my coming to the land of blue and ice, to splurge and get a new one. And you know which one I bought? Not an Omega. Not a Rolex. I’ll tell you what I bought. One from J.S. Watch co.

‘Never heard of them? Neither had I. Heard about them by chance. They’re in Iceland. Between the old world and the new. Four guys at the base of a volcano in the middle of the Atlantic who want to try making a buck by crafting exquisite and refined timepieces because they love them. Because they understand that a timepiece is an affirmative and creative act of engineering and beauty in response to a pitiless structure of functionality and form. Like life itself in response to death. Plus, mine’s a looker! See this?’