‘No one can say that that isn’t progress,’ Johanne continued. ‘After forty-three men in succession… finally a female president!’
‘…
‘You have to agree that it’s quite something,’ Johanne insisted, her eyes glued to the TV screen again. ‘I actually thought they’d elect an Afro-American before they accepted a woman in office.’
‘Next time round it will be Condoleezza Rice,’ the other woman said. ‘Two birds with one stone.’
Not that that would be much progress, she thought to herself. White, yellow, black or red, man or woman, the post of American president was male, no matter what the pigmentation or sex of the person was.
‘It’s not Helen Bentley’s feminine qualities that have got her to where she is,’ she said slowly, bordering on disinterested. ‘And definitely not Condoleezza Rice’s black heritage. Within four years they cave in. And that’s neither minority-friendly nor feminine.’
‘That’s pretty-’
‘What makes those women impressive is not their femininity or their slave heritage. They’ll milk it, of course, for all it’s worth. But what’s really impressive is…’
She grimaced and tried to sit up straight in the wheelchair.
‘Is something wrong?’ Johanne asked.
‘No. What is impressive is that…’
She braced her arms against the armrests, lifted herself and twisted her body slightly closer to the back of the chair. Then she absent-mindedly smoothed her sweater down over her chest.
‘… they must have decided bloody early on,’ she said finally.
‘I don’t understand…’
‘To work so hard. To be so clever. Never to do anything wrong. Never to make mistakes. Never, never to be caught with their trousers down. In fact, it’s totally unbelievable.’
‘But there’s always something… some little secret… Even the deeply religious George W had-’
The woman in the wheelchair lit up with a sudden smile and turned towards the living room door. A small girl of about eighteen months peeked guiltily round the door. The woman held out her hand.
‘Come here, sweetheart. You should be asleep.’
‘Does she manage to get out of the cot by herself?’ Johanne asked with some concern.
‘She goes to sleep in our bed. Come here, Ida!’
The child padded over the floor and let herself be lifted up on to the woman’s lap. Her black hair curled over her round cheeks and her eyes were ice blue, with a clear black ring round the iris. The little girl gave the guest a shy smile of recognition and then snuggled down.
‘It’s strange that she looks so like you,’ Johanne said, leaning forward and stroking the girl’s soft cheek with the back of her hand.
‘Only the eyes,’ the other woman replied. ‘It’s the colour. People are always deceived by the colour. Of the eyes.’
Once again they were silent.
In Washington DC, the people exhaled grey steam in the harsh January light. The Chief Justice was helped down from the podium; from the back he looked like a sorcerer as he was led gently indoors. The newly elected president was bare-headed and smiled broadly as she pulled her pale pink coat closer.
In Oslo, evening was advancing stealthily outside the windows in Krusesgate and the streets were wet and free of snow.
An odd-looking character came into the large living room. She limped, dragging one foot behind her, like the caricature of a villain in an old-fashioned film. Her hair was tired and thin and looked like a bird’s nest. Her legs resembled two pencils and went straight down from under her apron into a pair of tartan slippers.
‘That girl should’ve been in her bed ages ago,’ she muttered without saying hello. ‘Nothin’ gets done right in this house. She should sleep in her own bed, I’ve said it a thousand million times. Come over here, my princess.’
Without waiting for the woman in the wheelchair or the little girl to respond, she scooped the child up on to her difficult hip and limped back the way she had come.
‘Wish I had a woman-who-does like her,’ Johanne sighed.
‘It has its advantages.’
They sat in silence again. CNN switched between various commentators, interspersed with clips from the podium, where the elite gathering of politicians had admitted defeat in the face of the cold and were leaving to prepare themselves for the greatest swearing-in celebrations the US capital had ever seen. The Democrats had achieved their three goals. They had beaten a president who was up for re-election, which was a feat in itself. They had won by a greater margin than they had dared to hope for. And they had won with a woman at the helm. None of these facts were to be underplayed. Pictures of Hollywood stars who had already arrived in town or who were expected in the course of the afternoon flickered on the screen. The entire weekend was to be filled with celebrations and fireworks. Madam President would go from one party to the next, receiving praise and giving endless thanks to her helpers, and would undoubtedly change into an array of outfits along the way. And in between it all, she would reward those worthy of reward with posts and positions, compare campaign efforts and financial donations, assess loyalty and measure ability, disappoint many and please a few, just as forty-three men had done before her in the course of the nation’s 230 years of history.
‘Do you think you can sleep after something like that?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Do you think she’ll be able to sleep tonight?’ Johanne asked.
‘You are funny.’ The other woman smiled. ‘Of course she’ll be able to sleep. You don’t get to where she is without sleeping. She’s a fighter, Johanne. Don’t let her neat figure and feminine clothes deceive you.’
When the woman in the wheelchair turned the TV off, they heard a lullaby being sung elsewhere in the flat.
‘Ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-BOFF-BOFF.’
Johanne chuckled. ‘That would frighten the life out of my children.’
The other woman steered the wheelchair over to a low coffee table and lifted up a cup. She took a sip, wrinkled her nose and put the cup down again.
‘I guess I should go home,’ Johanne said, though it sounded like a question.
‘Yes,’ the other woman replied. ‘You should.’
‘Thank you for your help. For all your help over the past few months.’
‘There’s not much to thank me for.’
Johanne rubbed her lower back lightly before pushing her uncontrollable hair back behind her ears and straightening her glasses with a slim index finger.
‘Yes, there is,’ she said.
‘I think you just have to learn to live with it. There’s nothing you can do about the fact that she exists.’
‘She threatened my children. She’s dangerous. Talking to you, being taken seriously, being believed… it’s at least made things easier.’
‘It’s nearly a year ago now,’ the woman in the wheelchair continued. ‘It was last year that things were really serious. What happened this winter… well, I can’t help thinking that she’s… teasing you.’
‘Teasing me?’
‘She triggers your curiosity. You are a seeking person, Johanne. That’s why you do research. Your curiosity is what gets you involved in investigations that you actually want nothing to do with, and that’s what is driving you to get to the bottom of what it is this woman wants from you. It was your curiosity that… that brought you here. And it is-’
‘I have to go,’ Johanne interrupted, with a fleeting smile. ‘No point in going through it all again. But thank you all the same. I can see myself out.’
She stayed standing where she was for a moment. She was struck by how beautiful the paralysed woman was. She was slim, almost too thin, with an oval face and eyes that were remarkably like the little girl’s: ice blue, clear, and nearly leached of colour, with a broad black ring round the iris. Her mouth was shapely, with a clearly defined upper lip, surrounded by delicate, beautiful wrinkles that indicated that she must be well over forty. She was elegantly dressed in a light blue V-necked cashmere sweater and jeans that were presumably not bought in
