light switch: ‘Dark!’
The lights dimmed slowly until they switched off. Johanne followed Hanne out and closed the door behind them. This sitting room was smaller. A huge gas fire with brushed-steel surrounds was on full blaze and filled the room with flickering shadows. Johanne sat down on a deep chaise longue and leant her head back on the soft headrest.
‘Helen Bentley doesn’t have any immediate need for a doctor,’ Hanne said and positioned her chair by the chaise longue. ‘But we should give her a little shake once an hour, just in case. She might have a bit of concussion. I’ll take the first shift. When does Ragnhild start to stir normally?’
‘Around six,’ Johanne said and yawned.
‘I’ll definitely take the first shift then. That way you can get at least a couple of hours’ sleep.’
‘Good, thank you.’
But Johanne didn’t get up. She stared into the flames dancing on the artificial logs. They almost seemed to hypnotise her: a beautiful airy blue base that rose into a yellowy-orange flame.
‘You know what,’ she said and caught a whiff of Hanne’s perfume. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite like this.’
‘Like me?’ Hanne smiled and looked at her.
‘Like you, yes, as well. But I was actually thinking about Helen Bentley. I remember the campaign so well. I mean, I normally manage to keep up with things pretty well…’
‘Pretty well!’ Hanne Wilhelmsen exclaimed with a laugh. ‘You’re obsessed with American politics! I thought my fascination with that country was bad, but you’re even worse. Do you…’
She cocked her head. She seemed to be evaluating whether her question would cross the important boundary between being friendly and friendship.
‘It would be nice, a glass of wine, wouldn’t it?’ she asked all the same, and then regretted it. ‘Sorry, that was stupid. It’s a bit late really. Forget it.’
‘It would be lovely,’ yawned Johanne. ‘Yes please!’
Hanne rolled her wheelchair over to a cupboard that was built into the wall. She opened it by pressing the door gently, and without hesitating took out a bottle of red wine with a label that made Johanne’s mouth fall open.
‘Don’t open that one,’ she said quickly. ‘We’re only going to have a glass!’
‘Wine is Nefis’ thing. I’m sure it would make her happy to know that I’d helped myself to something good.’
She opened the bottle, put it between her legs, grabbed two wine glasses, which she carefully placed in her lap, closed the door and then rolled back. She poured a generous glass for them both.
‘It was a miracle really that she was elected,’ Johanne said, and took a sip. ‘Fantastic! The wine, that is.’ She lifted her glass in a discreet salute and took another sip.
‘What was it that made her win?’ Hanne asked. ‘How did she manage it? When absolutely all the commentators felt that it was too early for a woman in the White House?’
Johanne smiled. ‘The X-factor, largely.’
‘The X-factor?’
‘The inexplicable. The sum of virtues that can’t actually be pointed out. She had everything. If anyone was going to have a chance as a woman, it was her. And only her.’
‘What about Hillary Clinton?’
Johanne licked her lips and swallowed the wine she had resting on her tongue.
‘I think this is the best wine I’ve ever tasted,’ she said and stared into the glass. ‘It was too early for Hillary. She realised that herself as well. But she can follow. Later. She’s in good health and I think the time might be ripe for her when she’s around seventy. But that’s not for a while yet. The advantage with Hillary is that everyone knows all her shit already. Her whole life was turned inside out on her way to becoming the First Lady. Not to mention her years in the White House. Her dirty laundry was hung out long ago. And we need a bit of distance from it now.’
‘But Helen Bentley’s life was also put under the microscope,’ Hanne said, trying to straighten herself up in her chair. ‘They were after her like bloodhounds.’
‘Of course. The point is that they didn’t find anything. Nothing of any importance. She had the sense to admit that she hadn’t exactly lived like a nun when she was at university. And she did that before anyone had the chance to ask. And she said it with a big smile. She even winked at Larry King, live. Knocked that one on the head. Genius.’
When she held the wine glass up to the fire, she saw a shifting range of colour in the wine, from an intense, deep red to a light brick red around the edges.
‘Helen Bentley even did one tour in Vietnam,’ Johanne said and had to smile again. ‘In 1972, when she was twenty-two. And she was smart enough not to say anything about it until some muttonhead, or perhaps I should say hawk, pointed out early on in the nomination process that the US was in fact at war with Iraq – and that the commander-in-chief had to have experience of war. Which is absolute nonsense! Look at Bush! Ran around for a while in an air force uniform when he was young, but never set foot nor wing out of the US. But you know…’
The wine was making her feel light-headed.
‘Helen Bentley turned it around completely. Went on TV and said, with a serious face, that she had never made a point of her twelve months in ’Nam out of respect for the veterans who had suffered serious physical and mental injury, as all she had done was basically sit behind a typewriter. She had not been forced to go to war, but had volunteered because she felt it was her duty. She came back, she said, as a wiser, more mature woman, and with the firm belief that the war had been a fatal mistake. And the same was true of the war in Iraq, which she had initially supported, but which had now developed into a nightmare, so that the country had to make every effort to find an honourable and responsible way in which to withdraw. As quickly as possible.’
She quickly put her hand over her glass when Hanne wanted to pour her more wine.
‘No thank you. It’s delicious, but I have to go to bed soon.’
Hanne didn’t protest and put the cork back in the bottle.
‘Do you remember sitting here watching the swearing-in ceremony together?’ she said. ‘And that we talked about how incredibly good they must be at planning their lives. Do you remember?’
‘Yes,’ Johanne replied. ‘I was, well… more engrossed, shall we say, than you were.’
‘That’s only because you’re not as cynical as I am. You still allow yourself to be impressed.’
‘It’s impossible not to be,’ Johanne said. ‘Whereas Hillary Clinton struggles with her image of being hard, uncompromising and wilful, I would-’
‘I see she’s trying hard to change that.’
‘Yes, definitely. But it’ll take time. Helen Bentley has something…’ She cocked her head and tucked her hair behind her ear. Only now did she notice that her glasses were dirty with Ragnhild’s sticky fingerprints. She took them off and cleaned them with her shirtsleeve.
‘… indefinable,’ she said after a while. ‘The X-factor. Warm, beautiful and feminine, and yet at the same time, strong, as she has shown in her career and the fact that she volunteered for Vietnam. I’m sure she’s hard as nails and has lots of enemies. But she treats them… differently.’
She popped her glasses back on her nose and looked at Hanne.
‘Do you know what I mean?’
‘Yes.’ Hanne nodded. ‘She’s good at fooling people, in other words. She even gets bitter enemies to believe she’s treating them with real respect. But I wonder what it is about her.’
‘What it is about her? What do you mean?’
‘Oh come on.’ Hanne smiled. ‘You don’t think she’s as shiny and pure as she makes out.’
‘But she has… If there was anything, surely someone would have discovered it. American journalists are the best at… they’re the meanest in the world.’
For the first time in their short nascent friendship, Hanne seemed to be strangely happy. It was as if having the kidnapped American president asleep on her couch had jolted her out of her impenetrable armour of friendly indifference. The whole world was holding its breath in growing fear of what might have happened to Helen Lardahl Bentley. Hanne Wilhelmsen obviously enjoyed keeping them in suspense. Johanne didn’t know how to interpret that. Or whether she liked it.
‘Don’t be silly.’ Hanne laughed and leant over to nudge her. ‘There isn’t a single person, not one person in the whole world, who doesn’t have something they’re ashamed of. Something they’re frightened that other people might find out. The higher up the ladder you are, the more dangerous even the most minor transgression in the past
