Even though winter had rattled its sabre, leaving the frostbitten grass as the first casualty, it had had to surrender to a normal dreary autumn. The debris of these latest preliminary skirmishes had lain for a few days as dirty white patches everywhere; now all were gone. The rain was two or three degrees too warm for snow, but felt much colder. The asphalt, which a short while before had glittered at night as if studded with millions of black diamonds, now lay like a flat slobbering monster swallowing every morsel of light the moment it hit the ground.
Hanne and Cecilie were on their way home from an excellent party. Cecilie had drunk too much, and was flirtatiously endeavouring to hold Hanne’s hand. They walked arm in arm for a few metres, between two streetlights, but as they came into the glow of the lamp Hanne pulled away.
“Coward,” Cecilie teased her.
Hanne just smiled, and withdrew her hands into her sleeves, guarding them from further attempts at intimacy.
“We’re nearly home,” she said.
Their hair was already drenched, and Cecilie complained that she couldn’t see anything through her glasses.
“Get yourself some contact lenses, then.”
“Well, I can hardly get any at this very moment, can I? And it’s now I need them! So I’ll just have to take your arm. Either that or I’ll break my neck and you’ll be all alone in the world.”
They walked on with their arms linked. Hanne didn’t want to be all alone in the world.
The park ahead of them was very murky. They were both afraid of the dark, but it would save five minutes, so they decided to risk it.
“You’re really witty sometimes, Hanne. You really are,” Cecilie chattered on, as if the sound of their voices would ward off any evil powers that might be lying in wait on an autumn night. “Your jokes make me die. Tell me the one about the National Theatre in Gryllefjord. It gets funnier every time. And it’s a nice long one. Go on!”
Hanne began it willingly enough. But when she came to the bit about their second performance at Gryllefjord town hall, she suddenly stopped. She made a quick imperative gesture and dragged Cecilie behind a giant maple tree. Cecilie misunderstood, and offered her lips for a kiss.
“Cut it out, Cecilie, keep quiet and control yourself!”
She extracted herself from the unwanted embrace, pressed up close to the tree, and peered out.
The two men had been incautious enough to position themselves under one of the few lamps in the entire poorly lit park. The women were thirty metres away and couldn’t hear what was being said. Hanne could only see the back of one man, standing with his hands in his pockets and banging his legs against one another to keep warm. That might mean they’d been there for some while. All four of them remained where they were for what seemed an eternity, the men conversing in low tones, the women silent behind the tree. Cecilie had eventually realised it was a serious matter and accepted that now was not the moment for an explanation.
The man with his back to them was wearing ordinary everyday clothes. His jeans were tucked into a pair of down-at-heel snow boots. His jacket, also denim, had imitation fur on the lapels and collar. His hair was short, almost a crew cut.
The man whose face Hanne could see was wearing a light beige overcoat and was also bare-headed. He wasn’t saying much, but appeared to be listening intently to the other’s flow of words. After a few minutes he took a small folder from the other man, possibly a slim file. He flicked rapidly through it and seemed to be asking questions about some of the contents. He pointed several times at the documents and held them out under the lamp for them both to see. Finally he folded them lengthwise and thrust them with some difficulty into an inside pocket.
The light coming from directly above, like a weak sun at its zenith, turned his face into a caricature, looking almost diabolical. Even so, Hanne had recognised him immediately. As the men shook hands and went off in opposite directions Hanne let go of the tree and turned to her partner.
“I know who that one is,” she said, in a tone of great satisfaction.
The man in the overcoat was hurrying off, his shoulders hunched, towards the far side of the park where he’d left his car.
“It’s Peter Strup,” she declared. “Peter Strup the lawyer.”
MONDAY 9 NOVEMBER
The paintings hung on the walls in dense profusion. It made for a pleasing impression, even though they did rather overpower one another. She recognised some of the signatures. Well-known artists. One rainy evening she had offered the proprietor a tidy sum for an almost metre-square picture of Olaf Ryes Plass. It was painted in watercolours, but was not like any watercolour she had ever seen: it looked as if it had been done on brown paper which had not absorbed the paint. It was rough and violent, full of urban life and vigour. In the background you could see the block where she lived. But the painting hadn’t been for sale.
The tables were too close together, which was the only annoying aspect of the place. It was difficult to conduct a private conversation when the neighbouring table was in such close proximity. There weren’t many customers on a Monday; it was so quiet that they’d rejected the table to which they’d been ushered and insisted on one at the other side of the room. For the moment there were no fellow diners next to them.
The black oilcloth that covered the table was in elegant contrast to the white damask napkins, and the wineglasses were perfect, with no fussy adornment. The wine itself was superb; she had to give him credit for his selection.
“You don’t give up,” said Karen Borg with a smile after tasting it.
“No, I’m not renowned for surrendering, at least not to beautiful women!”
It would have been banal, even rather impertinent, coming from anyone else. But Peter Strup made it sound like a compliment, and she realised-not without a degree of self-reproach-that she felt gratified by it.
“I couldn’t say no to a written invitation,” Karen replied. “It’s years since I last had such a thing.”
The invitation had been on top of her pile of mail that very day. An ochre-coloured card of quality paper from Alvoen, deckle-edged and headed in fine print:
The text itself was handwritten, in a manly but neat and legible hand. It was a humble request to meet him for dinner at a particular restaurant, considerately enough only two blocks away from where she lived. The time proposed was that same evening, and he had ended by writing:
He had signed off with his first name, like an American gesture of familiarity. It seemed a bit presumptuous, but only in this one respect. The note itself was tasteful, and gave her a free choice. She could turn up if she felt so inclined. She did. But before finally deciding she rang Hakon.
It was over a fortnight since she’d asked him to keep his distance. Since then she’d been wavering between a fierce desire to phone him and panic at what had happened. It had been the best night of her life. It threatened everything she had, and showed her that there was something inside her that couldn’t be controlled, tempting her out of the secure existence she was so dependent on. She didn’t want to have an affair on the side, nor did she want a separation, under any circumstances. The only rational conclusion was that Hakon had to be held at bay. But at the same time she was sick with desire and had lost several kilos in weight while striving towards a decision whose ramifications she still could not envisage.
“It’s Karen,” she said when she finally got through to him at the third attempt.
He gulped so hard that he started coughing. She could hear him moving the receiver away, but what she couldn’t hear was that the cough and the excitement at her call had made him vomit, and he had to grab the wastepaper bin. The bitter taste was still burning his mouth when he was eventually in a condition to speak.
