Calling Out For You aka The Indian Bride

town; there were three travel agencies there. He looked through the telephone directory. Then he remembered that Marie had once left a holiday brochure in his house to tempt him. So like Marie, he thought, and looked in the index under 'I'. Ialyssos. Ibiza. Ireland. Were there no holidays in India? He found Bali under the Indonesian islands, but dismissed the thought. It was India or nothing. He would just have to ring the airport directly and book. He would manage as always, he always had, and in a big city they would be used to travellers. However, it was evening now and too late to call. Instead he turned the pages of People of All Nations once more. For a long time he sat gazing at the Indian beauty. Imagine that a woman could be so wondrously pretty, so golden and smooth, so exquisitely delicate. She had gathered her shawl beneath her chin with a slender hand. She wore jewellery on her wrists. Her iris was practically black with a flash of light, from the sun perhaps, and she stared straight at Gunder. Into his longing eyes. They were large and blue and he closed them now. She followed him into his dream. He dozed in his chair and floated away with the golden beauty. She was weightless. Her blood-red costume fluttered against his face.

He decided to telephone from work during his lunch break. He went into the empty office they hardly ever used. It had been turned into a storeroom. Boxes of ring binders and files were stacked against the walls. A colourful poster on one wall showed a rugged man sitting on a tractor in a field. The field was so large that it disappeared, like the sea, into a blurred, blue horizon. No farmer, no Norway, it said on the poster. Gunder dialled the number. 'Press 2 if you are travelling abroad,' a voice said. He pressed 2 and waited. Then a new voice came on. 'You are now number 19 in the queue. Please hold.' The message was repeated at intervals. He doodled on the pad next to him. Tried drawing an Indian dragon. Through the window he saw a car pull in. 'You are now number 16 in the queue… number 10… number 8.' He felt that he was being counted down towards something very decisive. His heart beat faster, and he drew his clumsy dragon even more enthusiastically. Then he saw Svarstad, a farmer, emerging from his black Ford. He was a good customer and always asked for Gunder; he also hated to be kept waiting. It was getting more urgent. Music began to flow through the handset and a voice announced that he would soon be connected to an available travel consultant. Just then Bjornsson, one of the young salesmen, burst into the room.

'Svarstad,' he said. 'He's asking for you. What are you doing sitting in here anyway?' he added.

'I'll be right there. You'll have to keep him busy with small talk for a little while. Talk about the weather, it's been very fine recently.' He listened to the receiver. A female voice came through.

'He just ignores me and tells me to get lost,' said Bjornsson. Gunder motioned him away. Eventually Bjornsson took the hint and disappeared. Svarstad's disgruntled face could be seen through the window. The quick glance at his watch indicated that he didn't have all the time in the world and was irritated that they did not all come running at once.

'Well, it's like this,' Gunder said. 'I want to go to Bombay. In India. In a fortnight.'

'From Gardermoen airport?' asked the voice.

'Yes. Leaving Friday in a fortnight's time.'

He heard how her fingers swept across her keyboard and marvelled at how rapid they were.

'You need to fly to Frankfurt, departing at 10.15,' she said. 'From Frankfurt there is a flight at 13.10. It lands at 00.40, local time.'

'The local time is?' Gunder said. He was scribbling like mad.

'The time difference is three hours and 30 minutes,' she said.

'Very well. I would like to book the ticket then. How much is it?'

'Return flight?'

He hesitated. What if there were two of them flying back? That was what he was hoping for, dreaming of and wishing for.

'Can I change the ticket later on?'

'Yes, that's possible.'

'Then I'll take the return flight.'

'That will be 6,900 kroner. You can collect your ticket at the airport, or we can post it to you. Which would you prefer?'

'Post it,' he said. And gave her his name and address and credit card number. 'Blindveien, number 2.'

'Just one small thing,' the woman said when the booking was done. 'It is no longer called Bombay.'

'It isn't?' Gunder said, surprised.

'The city is called Mumbai. Since 1995.'

'I'll remember that,' said Gunder earnestly.

'SAS wishes you a pleasant flight.'

He put the receiver down. At that moment Svarstad tore open the door to the office and gave him an angry look. He was looking to buy a harvester and had clearly decided to terrorise Gunder to the limit. The acquisition made him sweat all over. He clung grimly to his family farm and no-one dared to buy a new machine jointly with Svarstad. He was utterly impossible to work with.

'Svarstad,' said Gunder and leapt to his feet. Everything that had happened had made his cheeks go scarlet. 'Let's get started.'

In the days that followed Gunder was unsettled. His concentration was poor and he was wide awake. It was difficult to fall asleep at night. He lay thinking of the long journey and the woman he might meet. Among all of Bombay's – he corrected himself – among all of Mumbai's twelve million people there had to be one for him. She was living her life there and suspected nothing. He wanted to buy her a little present. Something from Norway that she had never seen before. A Norwegian filigree brooch, perhaps, for her red costume. Or the blue or the green costume. Anyway, a brooch was what it would be. The next day he would drive into town and find one. Nothing big or ostentatious, rather something small and neat. Something to fasten her shawl with, if she wore shawls. But perhaps she wore trousers and sweaters, what did he know? His imagination went wild and he was still wide awake. Did she have a red dot on her forehead? In his mind he put his finger on it and in his mind she smiled shyly at him. 'Very nice,' said Gunder in English into the darkness. He had to practise his English. 'Thank you very much. See you later.' He did know a little.

Svarstad had as good as made up his mind. It was to be a Dominator from Claes, a 58S.

Gunder agreed. 'Only the best is good enough,' he smiled, bubbling over with his Indian secret. 'Six-cylinder Perkins engine with 100 horsepower. Three-stage mechanical gearbox with hydraulic speed variator. Cutting board of three metres, 60.'

'And the price?' said Svarstad glumly, although he knew perfectly well that the cost of this marvel was 570,000 kroner. Gunder folded his arms across his chest.

'You need a new baling press, too. Make a proper investment for once and get yourself a Quadrant with it. You don't have much storage space.'

'I need to have round bales,' Svarstad said. 'I can't handle big bales.'

'That's just giving in to a habit,' said Gunder unperturbed. 'If you have the proper tools, you can reduce the number of seasonal workers. They cost money, too, the Poles, don't they? With a new Dominator and a new press you can do the job without them. I'll give you an unbeatable price as well. Trust me.'

Svarstad chewed on a straw. He had a furrow in his weather-beaten brow and sadness in his deep-set eyes, which gave way slowly to a radiant dream. No other salesman would have tried selling one more piece of machinery to a man who could barely afford a harvester, but Gunder had gambled and as usual he had won.

'Consider it an investment in the future,' he said. 'You're still a young man. Why settle for second best? You're working yourself to death. Let the Quadrant make big bales, they stack easily and take up less room. No-one else in the area has dared to try big bales. Soon they'll every one of them come running to have a look.'

That did it. Svarstad was delighted at the prospect, a small group of neighbours poking their noses into his yard. But he needed to make a call. Gunder showed him into the empty office. Meanwhile he went away to draw up the contract, the sale was practically in the bag. It could not have worked out better. A substantial sale before the long journey. He would be able to make his journey with a clear conscience.

Svarstad reappeared. 'Green light from the bank,' he said. He was lobster red, but his eyes shone beneath the bushy brows.

'Excellent,' Gunder said.

After work he went into town and found a jewellery shop. He stared at the glass counter containing rings, only rings. He asked to be shown the national costume silver and the assistant asked him what kind.