Death In Oslo

father, except his eyes were glazed and difficult to read. He also had a moustache, which she didn’t like, a big moustache with pointy ends that curled down to his mouth and hid his upper lip.

‘Hi,’ she said quietly.

‘I told you that Uncle Fayed was maybe going to drop by today,’ Al said with forced cheer. ‘And here he is! Come on, let’s sit down. Louise has made dinner, so let’s see how she’s done.’

Catherine smiled cautiously.

‘I’ll just put my things in my room and wash my hands,’ she said and bounded up the stairs in four strides.

Louise came in from the kitchen with two plates in her hands, and two more balanced on her lower arms.

‘Wow, look at that,’ Fayed said. ‘A real professional!’

They sat down. Catherine came bounding down the stairs again, just as fast as she had gone up. She had short hair, a pretty, square face and broad shoulders.

‘So, you play softball?’ Fayed asked unnecessarily, and popped a piece of foie gras in his mouth. ‘Your father played baseball. Back in the day. That was a long time ago, wasn’t it, Ali?’

No one had called their father Ali since their grandmother died. The girls exchanged looks and Louise stifled a giggle with her hand. Al Muffet mumbled something inaudible that was supposed to put a stop to all this talk of his miserable career in athletics.

Fayed emptied his glass. Louise was just about to get up to fetch the bottle from the kitchen when her father stopped her with a hand on her leg.

‘Uncle Fayed’s had enough wine,’ he said mildly. ‘Here, have some refreshing, cold water.’

He poured a large glass and pushed it over to his brother, who was sitting on the opposite side of the table.

‘I think I’ll have a little bit more wine.’ Fayed smiled. He didn’t touch the water.

‘I don’t think so,’ Al said, giving him a fierce look.

Something was very wrong. Fayed might of course have changed a lot in the years since they last saw each other and started drinking. But it seemed unlikely. And he didn’t seem to be able to handle alcohol very well either. Even though he obviously had had something before he came into the kitchen, the one generous glass of wine had made him noticeably more drunk. Fayed was clearly not used to alcohol. And Al couldn’t understand why he was drinking now.

‘No,’ Fayed said loudly, breaking the embarrassing deadlock. ‘You’re absolutely right. No more wine for me. Very good in small quantities, daaangerous in more.’

When he said dangerous, he wagged his finger wildly at his nieces, who were sitting at either end of the table.

‘How’s the family?’ Al asked, with his mouth full.

‘How’s the family… well.’ Fayed had started to eat again. He chewed slowly, as if he had to concentrate on making sure his teeth ground the food. ‘Well, I assume. Yes. If you can say that things were going well for anyone in this country. With our ethnic background, I mean.’

Al was immediately on his guard. He put down his knife and fork and rested his elbows on the table as he leant forward.

‘We haven’t got any problems,’ he said and smiled at the girls.

‘I wasn’t really talking about people like you,’ Fayed said. He wasn’t slurring his words quite so much any more.

Al wanted to object, but not when the girls were sitting there. He asked if everyone had finished with their starter, and cleared away the dishes. Louise followed him out into the kitchen.

‘Is he ill?’ she whispered. ‘He’s kind of weird. So… inpredictable, in a way.’

‘Unpredictable,’ her father corrected in a hushed voice. ‘He always has been. But don’t judge him too harshly, Louise. He hasn’t had it as easy as we have.’

Fayed has never got over nine/eleven, he thought. He was on his way up the career ladder, in a demanding, well-paid job. But that all came to a standstill after the catastrophe and he only just managed to hold on to his middle-management position. Fayed is a bitter man, Louise, and you are too young to be exposed to the bitterness.

‘He’s a good guy really.’ He smiled at his daughter. ‘And as you said, he’s your flesh-and-blood uncle.’

They went back into the dining room, each carrying a plate of delicious caviar and home-grown shallots.

‘… and they have never managed to do anything about the injustice. And never will do either.’ Fayed shook his head and rubbed his temple with a finger.

‘What are you talking about?’ Al asked.

‘The blacks,’ Fayed replied.

‘Afro-Americans,’ Al said. ‘You mean Afro-Americans.’

‘Call them what you like. They let themselves be exploited. It’s in their genes, you know. They will never manage to redeem themselves.’

‘We don’t allow that kind of talk in this house,’ Al said calmly and put a plate down in front of their guest. ‘I suggest we change the subject.’

‘It’s genetic,’ Fayed continued, unabashed. ‘Slaves had to be hard-working and strong without being able to think too much. If there were any intelligent ones among them back there in Africa, they were allowed to go free. The genetic material that was transported over the ocean makes them unsuitable for anything other than sport. And crime. But we’re different. We don’t need to put up with that shit.’

Crash!

Al Muffet thumped his plate down on the table so hard that it broke.

‘That’s enough,’ he hissed. ‘No one, not even my brother, has my permission to say such rubbish. Not here, not anywhere. Do you understand? Do you understand?’

The two girls sat still as statues, only their eyes moving to and fro between their uncle and their father. Even Freddy, the little terrier, who was tethered out in the yard and normally barked his way through every meal he wasn’t allowed to join, was quiet.

‘Perhaps we should eat,’ Louise said after a while. Her voice was higher than normal. ‘Dad, you can have mine. I don’t really like caviar. And by the way, I think that Condoleezza Rice and Colin Powell are very smart. Even if I don’t agree with them. You see, I’m a Democrat.’

The twelve-year-old smiled carefully. Neither of the men replied.

‘Here,’ she said, and passed her plate to her father.

‘You’re right,’ Fayed said eventually. He shrugged something that resembled an apology. ‘Let’s change the subject.’

That proved to be difficult. For a long time they concentrated on eating, without anyone saying anything. If Al had looked over at his daughter, he would have seen that Louise had teardrops shivering on her eyelashes and a trembling lower lip. Catherine, on the other hand, seemed to be highly interested by the situation. She continued to stare at her uncle, as if she couldn’t quite understand what he was doing there.

‘You’re very alike,’ she said suddenly. ‘If you ignore the moustache, that is.’

The two men finally had to look up from their food.

‘We’ve been told that ever since we were boys,’ replied her father, taking a piece of bread to mop up the remains of his caviar. ‘Despite the age difference.’

‘Even Mother got confused sometimes,’ Fayed said.

Al looked at him with suspicion.

‘Mother? She never confused us. You were four years older than me, Fayed!’

‘When she died,’ Fayed said. There was an undertone to his voice that Al had never heard before and couldn’t interpret. ‘In fact, she thought I was you. Presumably because she loved you more. That’s what she would have wanted. Her favourite son to be sitting there talking to her in her final moments of lucidity. But you… didn’t make it in time.’

His smile was ambiguous.

Al Muffet put down his knife and fork. The room was starting to spin. He felt the blood leave his head and adrenalin being pumped into every muscle, every nerve in his body. The palms of his hands were glued to the table. He had to hold on so he didn’t fall off his chair.

‘I see,’ he said without expression, trying not to alarm the girls, who were staring at him as if he had suddenly