Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Karin Fossum
Dedication
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Copyright
Gunder Jomann, a quiet, middle-aged man from a peaceful Norwegian community, thinks his life has been made complete when he returns from a trip to India a married man. But on the day his Indian bride is due to join him, he is called to the hospital to his sister’s bedside. The local taxi driver sent instead to meet the bride at the airport returns without her. Then the town is shocked by the news of an Indian woman found bludgeoned to death in a nearby meadow.
Inspector Sejer and his colleague Skarre head the murder inquiry, cross-examining the townsfolk and planting seeds of suspicion in a community which has always believed itself to be simple, safe and trusting. For what can only have been an unpremeditated and motiveless act of violence, everyone is guilty until proven innocent.
Karin Fossum made her literary debut in Norway in 1974. The author of poetry, short stories and one non-crime novel, it is with her Inspector Sejer mysteries that Fossum has won the greatest acclaim. Winner of the Glass Key Award for best Nordic crime novel, Don’t Look Back was the first translated into English, followed by He Who Fears the Wolf and When the Devil Holds the Candle. The Sejer mysteries are currently published in seventeen languages.
With thanks to Finn Skårderud
THE SILENCE IS shattered by the barking of a dog. The mother looks up from the sink and stares out of the window. The barking comes from deep in the dog’s throat. All of its black, muscular body quivers with excitement.
Then she sees her son. He gets out of the red Golf and lets a blue bag fall to the ground. He glances towards the window, registering the faint outline of his mother. He goes to the dog and releases it from its chain. The animal throws itself at him. They roll on the ground, sending the dirt flying. The dog growls and her son shouts affectionate curses in its ears. Sometimes he yells at the top of his lungs and smacks the Rottweiler hard across its snout. At last it stays down. Slowly he gets to his feet. Brushes the dust and dirt from his trousers. Glances once more at the window. The dog gets up hesitantly and cowers in front of him, its head down, until he allows it to come and lick the corners of his mouth, submissively. Then he walks to the house and comes into the kitchen.
“Good God, look at the state of you!”
The blue T-shirt is bloodstained. His hands are covered in cuts. The dog has scratched his face, too.
“Never seen anything like it,” she says and sniffs angrily. “Leave the bag. I’m doing a load of washing later.”
He folds his scratched arms across his chest. They are powerful like the rest of him. Close to 100 kilos and not a hint of fat. The muscles have just been used and they are warm.
“Calm down,” he tells her. “I’ll do it.”
She can’t believe her ears. Him, wash his own clothes?
“Where have you been?” she says. “Surely you don’t work out from six to eleven?”
Her son mumbles something. He has his back to her.
“With Ulla. We were babysitting.”
She looks at the broad back. His hair is very blond and stands upright like a brush. Thin stripes have been dyed scarlet. It’s as if he were on fire. He disappears down the basement stairs. She hears the old washing machine start up. She lets the water out of the sink and stares into the yard. The dog has lain down with its head on its paws. The last remnant of light is disappearing. Her son is back, says he’s going to take a shower.
“A shower at this hour? You’ve just come from the gym?”
He doesn’t reply. Later she hears him in the bathroom, sounding hollow in the tiled space. He’s singing. The door to the medicine cupboard slams. He’s probably looking for a plaster, silly boy.
His mother smiles. All of this violence is only to be expected. He is a man, after all. Later, she would never forget this. The last moment when life was good.
It began with Gunder Jomann’s journey. Gunder went all the way to India to find himself a wife. When people asked, he did not say that that was why he had gone. He hardly admitted it to himself. It was a journey to see a bit of the world, he explained when his colleagues asked. What an outrageous extravagance! He never spent anything on himself. Hardly ever went out, never accepted invitations to Christmas parties, kept himself busy either with his house or his garden or his car. Had never had a woman either, so far as anyone knew. Gunder was not troubled by the gossip. He was in fact a determined man. Slow – it was undeniable – but he got where he wanted without making waves. He had time on his side. In the evenings when he was in his fifty-first year he sat leafing through a book – a present from his younger sister, Marie – People of All Nations. Since he never went anywhere except to and from his workplace, a small, solid business that sold agricultural machinery, she could make sure that at least he had the chance to see pictures of what went on in the great wide world. Gunder read the book and leafed through the illustrations. He was most fascinated by India. The beautiful women with the red dots on their foreheads. Their painted eyes, their flirtatious smiles. One of them looked back at him from the book and he was soon lost in sweet dreams. No-one could dream like Gunder. He closed his eyes and flew away. She was as light as a feather in her red costume. Her eyes were so deep and dark, like black glass. Her hair was hidden under a scarf with golden frills. He had been gazing at the photograph for months. It was clear to him that he wanted an Indian wife. Not because he wanted a subservient and self-sacrificing woman, but because he wanted someone he could cherish and adore. Norwegian women didn’t want to be adored. Actually he had never understood them, never understood what they wanted. Because he lacked nothing, as far as he could see. He had a house, a garden, a car, a job, and his kitchen was well equipped. There was under-floor heating in the bathroom, and he had a television and a video recorder, a washing machine, a tumble-dryer, a microwave, a willing heart and money in the bank. Gunder understood that there were other, more abstract factors, which determined whether you were lucky in love – he wasn’t an imbecile. However, it was not much use to him unless it was something which could be learned or bought. Your time will come, his mother used to say as she lay dying in the big hospital bed. His father had passed away years before. Gunder had grown up with these two women, his mother and his sister, Marie. When his mother was seventy she developed a brain tumour and for long periods she was not herself. He would wait patiently for her to once more become the person he knew and loved. Your time will come. You’re a good boy, you are, Gunder. One fine day a woman will come your way, you’ll see.
But he did not see anyone coming his way. So he booked a flight to India. He knew it was a poor country. Perhaps he might find a woman there who could not afford to turn down his offer of following him all the way to Norway, to this pretty house, which belonged to him. He would pay for her family to come and visit, if they wanted to. He did not wish to separate anyone. And if she had some complicated faith, then he certainly would not stop her from observing it. There were few people as patient as Gunder. If only he could find a wife!
There were other options. But he did not have the courage to get on the bus to Poland with others, strangers. And he did not want to jump on a plane to Thailand. There were so many rumours about what went on there. He wanted to find a woman all by himself. Everything should be down to him. The thought of sitting down browsing through catalogues with photographs and descriptions of different women or staring at a TV screen where they offered themselves one after the other – that was unthinkable to Gunder. He would never be able to make up his mind.
The light from the reading lamp warmed his balding head. On a map of the world he found India and her principal cities: Madras, Bombay, New Delhi. He favoured a city by the sea. Many Indians spoke English and he felt reassured by that. Some were even Christians according to People of All Nations. It would be the most happy coincidence if he were to meet a woman who was perhaps a Christian and spoke English well. It mattered less whether she was twenty or fifty. He did not expect to have children, he was not over-ambitious, but if she had one, he would accept that as part of the deal. He might have to bargain. There were many customs in other countries so different to the ones here at home; he would pay handsomely if it was a question of money. His inheritance after his mother died was considerable.
First of all he needed to find a travel agency. There were four to choose from. One in the shopping centre, consisting only of a counter which you stood leaning against while going through some brochures. Gunder preferred to sit. This was an important decision, not something you did standing up, in a hurry. He would have to go into 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 Bjørnsson, 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 Bjørnsson. Gunder motioned him away. Eventually Bjørnsson 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.
Gunder shrugged. “Well, anything. A brooch, I think. It’s a present. But she doesn’t have a Norwegian national costume.”
“You only wear filigree brooches with a national costume,” pronounced the woman in a schoolmistressy tone.
“But it has to be something from Norway,” Gunder said. “Something essentially Norwegian.”
“For a foreign lady?” the assistant wanted to know.
“Yes. I was thinking she would wear it with her own national costume.”
“And what sort of costume is that?” she asked, her curiosity increasing.
“An Indian sari,” said Gunder proudly.
Silence behind the counter. The assistant was evidently torn as to what she should do. She was not unaffected by Gunder’s charming stubbornness and she could hardly refuse to sell him what he wanted to buy. On the other hand the Norwegian Craft Council did have rules as to what was permissible. However, if a woman wanted to wander about in India wearing a filigree brooch on a bright orange sari, then the Craft Council would be none the wiser. So she got out the tray with the national costume silver and selected a medium-sized filigree brooch, wondering if the strangely self-possessed customer was aware of how much it was going to cost.
“How much is that one?” Gunder said.
“Fourteen hundred kroner. To give you an idea, I can show you this one from Hardanger. We have bigger brooches than this one and smaller ones, too. However, there is often quite a lot of gold in those saris, so I suppose it ought to be plain – if it’s to have the desired effect.”
Here her voice took on an ironic twist, but she suppressed it when she saw Gunder. He took the spiralling brooch from the velvet and held it in his rough hands. Held it up to the light. His face took on a dreamy expression. She softened. There was something about this man, this heavy, slow, shy man, that she warmed to in spite of everything. He was courting.
Gunder did not want to look at any other brooches. He would only begin to have doubts. So he bought the first one, which was anyway the best, and had it wrapped. He planned to unwrap it when he got home and admire it again. In the car on his way back he drummed on the wheel as he imagined her brown fingers opening the package. The paper was black with tiny specks of gold. The ribbon around the box was blood red. It lay on the seat next to him. Perhaps he needed to get some pills for the trip. For his stomach. All that foreign food, he thought. Rice and curry. Spicy and hot as hell. And Indian currency. Was his passport valid? He was going to be busy. He had better call Marie.
The village where Gunder lived was called Elvestad. It had 2,347 inhabitants. A wooden church from the Middle Ages, restored in 1970. A petrol station, a school, a post office and a roadside café. The café was an ugly cross between a hut and a raised storehouse; it stood on pillars and steep steps led up to the entrance. On entering you immediately faced a jukebox, a Wurlitzer which was still in use. On the roof was a red and white sign with the words EINAR’S CAFÉ. At night Einar switched on the light in the sign.
Einar Sunde had run the café for seventeen years. He had a wife and children and was in debt up to his eyeballs because of his grandiose chalet-style villa just outside the village. A licence to sell beer had meant that he was at last able to meet his mortgage payments. For this simple reason there were always people in the café. He knew the villagers and ran the place with an iron hand. He pretty soon found out which year most of the young people were born in and would put his hand over the beer tap if they tried it on when they were still underage. There was also a village hall, where weddings and confirmations were celebrated. Most of the villagers were farmers. Added to that were quite a few newcomers, people who had fled the city having entertained a romantic notion of a quieter life in the country. This they had got. The sea was only half an hour away, but the salty air did not reach the village; it smelled of onions and leeks, or the rank smell of manure in the spring and the sweet smell of apples in the autumn. Einar was from the capital, but he had no longing to go back. He was the sole proprietor of the café. As long as he had the café there wasn’t a living soul who would dare try setting up within miles. He would run this café until they carried him out in a box. Because he managed to prevent excessive drinking and fights, everyone felt comfortable going in there. Women for coffee and pastries, kids for frankfurters and Coke, young people for a beer. He aired the place properly, emptied the ashtrays and replaced the nightlights whenever they burned down, kept it impeccably clean. His wife washed the red and white chequered tablecloths in the machine at home. True, the place lacked style, but he had drawn the line at actual kitsch. There were no plastic flowers. He had recently invested in a bigger dishwasher to save him having to wash the glasses by hand. The health inspector was welcome to visit his kitchen, it was fit for use as far as the equipment and cleanliness went.
It was here, in Einar’s Café, that people kept abreast of what was going on in the village. Who was seeing whom, who was in the process of getting a divorce and which farmer might any second now have to sell up. A single minicab was at the villagers’ disposal. Kalle Moe drove a white Mercedes and could be contacted by landline or mobile, always sober and always available. If he wasn’t, he would get you a minicab from town. As long as Kalle Moe operated his minicab service in the village, there was no room for any other licence. He was past sixty and there were many waiting in the wings.
Einar Sunde was at his café six days a week till ten o’clock in the evening on weekdays. On Saturdays he stayed open until midnight, on Sundays the café was closed. He was a hard worker, moved quickly, a beanpole of a man with reddish hair and long thin arms. A tea towel was tucked into his waistband; it was replaced the moment it was stained. His wife, Lillian, who hardly ever saw him except at night, lived her own life and they had nothing in common any more. They couldn’t even be bothered to argue. Einar didn’t have time to dream of something better, he was too busy working. The chalet-style villa was worth 1.6 million kroner and had a sauna and a gym, which he never had the time to use.
All or part of the village’s hard core hung out at the café. It consisted mostly of young men aged between eighteen and thirty, with or without girlfriends. Because Einar had a licence to sell beer, they never went into town to meet girls from further away. You could walk home from the café, the village was no bigger than that. They would rather have a few more beers than pay for an expensive minicab from town. So they married local girls and stayed here. However, before it got to that, the girls were passed around. It created a peculiar solidarity, with many unwritten rules.
Following a great deal of debate in the local council, Elvestad had acquired a shopping centre, as a result of which the local shop, Gunwald’s one-stop shop, was languishing next to the Shell petrol station. Within the shopping centre some brave soul had set up shop with two sun beds, another had opened a florist’s and a third a small perfumery. On the floors above were surgeries for the doctor and the dentist, and Anne’s hair dressing salon. None of the young people from the village went there. Their hair had to be cut in town. Studs and rings in belly buttons and noses were also taken care of in town. Anne knew their parents and had been known to refuse. The older people, however, loyally shopped at Gunwald’s. They came with their granny trolleys and ancient grey rucksacks and bought hashed lung and blood pudding and soft, sharp cheese. It was a good business for Ole Gunwald. He had paid off his mortgage ages ago.
Gunder never went to the café, but Einar knew very well who he was. On rare occasions he would stop and buy a Krone strawberry ice cream, which if the weather was good he ate outside sitting by a plastic table. Einar knew Gunder’s house, knew that it was about four kilometres from the centre of the village toward Randskog. Besides, all the farmers in the village bought their machinery from Gunder. He was just coming through the door now, his hand already in his inside pocket.
“Just wanted to know,” he said self-consciously, and rather hurriedly considering this was Gunder, “how long would it take to get from here to the airport by car?”
“Gardermoen airport?” said Einar. “I’d say an hour and a half. If you’re going abroad you need to be there one hour before departure. And if I were you I’d throw in another half-hour to be on the safe side.”
He kept on rubbing a triangular ashtray.
“Morning flight?” he asked, curious.
Gunder picked out an ice cream from the freezer.
“10.15.”
“You’ll have to get up early then.”
Einar turned his back and carried on working. He was neither friendly nor smiling, he looked like a much-misunderstood man and did not meet Gunder’s gaze. “If I were you I’d leave by 7.00.”
Gunder nodded and paid. Asking Einar was preferable to revealing his ignorance to the woman from SAS. Einar knew who Gunder was and would not want to embarrass him. On the other hand, everyone in the village would know about his journey this very same evening.
“You going far?” Einar asked, casually, wiping another ashtray.
“Very, very far,” said Gunder lightly. He tore the wrapper off the ice cream and left. Ate it as he drove the last few kilometres home. That would have given Einar something to think about. That was quite all right with Gunder.
Marie was really excited. She wanted to jump into her car right away and come over. Her husband, Karsten, was away on business, and she was bored and wanted to hear everything. Gunder was reluctant because Marie was sharp and he did not like the thought of being found out. But she was unstoppable. An hour later she was on his doorstep. Gunder was busy tidying up. If he were to bring someone back with him the house had to be spotless.
Marie made coffee for them and heated waffles in the oven. She had bought crème fraîche and jam in a Tupperware box. Gunder was touched. They were close, but they never let on. He did not know if she was happy with Karsten, she never mentioned him: it was as though he did not exist. They had never had children. All the same, she was attractive. Dark and neat, as their mother had been. Small and round, but gentle and bright. Gunder believed she could have had anyone at all, but she had settled for Karsten. She found the book People of All Nations on the table and put it on her lap. It opened automatically on the picture of the Indian beauty. She looked up at her brother and laughed.
“Well . . . now I know why you want to go to India, Gunder. But this is an old book. I imagine she’ll be around fifty now, probably wrinkled and ugly. Did you know that Indian women look fifteen till they’re thirty? Then suddenly they grow old. It’s the sun. Perhaps you ought to find yourself one who has been through the process already. Then you know what you’re letting yourself in for.”
She laughed so merrily that Gunder had to join in. He was not scared of wrinkles, even if Marie was. She had not a single one although she was forty-eight. He put crème fraîche on a waffle.
“I am mostly interested in the food and the culture,” he said. “Culture. Music. That sort of thing.”
“Yes, I believe it,” Marie laughed. “When I next come to dinner I shall expect a casserole to make my eyes water. And there will be dragons all over the walls.”
“I can’t promise you that there won’t be,” he smiled. Then they were silent for a long time eating their waffles and drinking their coffee.
“Don’t go round when you get there with your wallet sticking out of your back pocket,” she said after a long pause. “Buy one of those little money belts. No, don’t buy one, you can borrow one from me. It’s quite plain, not in the least feminine.”
“I can’t walk around with a bag,” Gunder said.
“Yes, you’ll have to. A big city like that is teeming with pickpockets. Imagine a peasant like you alone in a city with twelve million people.”
“I am not a peasant,” said Gunder, hurt.
“Of course you’re a peasant,” Marie said. “You’re a peasant if ever anyone was. And what’s more, it shows. When you’re out walking you can’t just stroll around.”
“Not stroll around?” He was baffled.
“You have to stride, as though you were going to an important meeting, and look preoccupied. You’re a businessman on an important trip and, most importantly, you know Bombay like the back of your hand.”
“Mumbai,” he corrected her. “Mumbai like the back of my hand.”
“You look people straight in the eye when they come towards you on the pavement. You walk straight, taking determined steps, and button your jacket so the money belt doesn’t show.”
“Can’t wear a jacket there,” he said. “It’s 40°C at this time of year.”
“You have to,” Marie said. “You have to keep out of the sun.” She licked a blob of crème fraîche from the corner of her mouth. “Otherwise you’ll have to get yourself a tunic.”
“A tunic?” Gunder chuckled.
“Where are you staying?” his sister went on.
“At a hotel, of course.”
“Yes, but what type?”
“A nice one.”
“But what’s it called?”
“No idea,” Gunder said. “I’ll work it out when I get there.”
Her eyes widened. “You haven’t booked your hotel?”
“I know what to say,” he said, a little offended now. He looked quickly at her, at her white forehead and the narrow brows, which she darkened with a brush.
“Tell me,” she said, lapping up her coffee. “Tell me exactly what you’re going to say. You come out of this vast, complex, sweltering, chaotic airport teeming with people and you look around for a taxi stand. Then some stranger comes up to you, grabs your shirt and babbles something incomprehensible while taking hold of your suitcase and heads off in the direction of a dodgy vehicle. And you are so worn out and sweaty and confused that you can hardly remember your own name, plus your watch is several hours behind the time. You are desperate for a cool shower. Tell me what you’re going to say, Gunder. To this small, dark stranger.”
He put his waffle down, speechless. Was she joking? Then he pulled himself together and, looking straight at his sister, said: “Would you please take me to a decent hotel?”
Marie nodded. “Very well! But before that. What do you do before that?”
“I’ve no idea,” Gunder said.
“You find out how much it costs! Don’t get into a taxi without negotiating the price beforehand. Ask inside the airport. Perhaps Lufthansa has an information desk there, they’ll be on your side.”
He shook his head and reasoned that in all likelihood she was just jealous. She had never been to India. Only Lanzarote and Crete, places like that. That was where all Norwegians and Swedes went and the waiters called out “Hey, Swedish girl” after her and she didn’t like it. No, India was something else.
“What about a malaria vaccine?” she said. “Do you need one of those?”
“Don’t know,” he said.
“You have to call the doctor. You’re not coming back here with malaria or TB or hepatitis or anything like that, I can tell you. And don’t drink the tap water. Don’t drink juice or eat fruit. Make sure the meat is thoroughly cooked. Stay away from ice cream, too, you who are so fond of ice cream, and that’s fine, but just don’t eat the ice cream in India.”
“Am I allowed alcohol?” he said snappily.
“I suppose you are. But for God’s sake don’t get too drunk. Then you’d be in real trouble.”
“I never get drunk,” Gunder said. “I haven’t been drunk for fifteen years.”
“I know. And you will call home, won’t you? I need to know that you’ve arrived safely. I can collect your post. And water your flowers. I suppose the lawn will need mowing once or twice during those two weeks. You can drive the safe over to our place, can’t you? Then it won’t be here to tempt people. Are you parking at the airport? I expect it costs an arm and a leg.”
“Not sure,” he said.
“You’re not sure? You have to book long-term parking in advance,” she told him. “You’ll have to phone tomorrow. You can’t drive to Gardermoen and park just anywhere.”
“No, I don’t suppose I can,” he said. It was a good thing that she had come over. He was quite dizzy under all this withering criticism and went resolutely to fetch a bottle of cognac. Yes, by God, he deserved a drink.
Marie was wiping her mouth and smiling. “This is so exciting, Gunder. Imagine everything you will have to tell us when you come back. Have you got film for your camera? Have you got cancellation insurance? Have you made a list of everything you need to remember?”
“No,” he said, sipping his cognac. “Would you do it for me, please, Marie?”
Then she relented and hurried off in search of pen and paper. While Gunder savoured the cognac in his mouth, Marie wrote a “To Do” list. He watched her secretly. She sucked on the pen, tapped it lightly against her teeth to focus her thoughts. Her shoulders were so round and neat. He was lucky to have Marie. There was nothing unresolved between them.
Whatever happened, he would always have Marie.
THIS IS HOW Gunder looked as he sat in the plane: His back straight like a schoolboy. He wore a short-sleeved shirt from Dressmann, dark blue blazer and khaki trousers. He had not flown many times in his life and was very impressed by everything around him. In the overhead locker he had a black bag and in the inside pocket, zipped up, was the filigree brooch in its small box. In his wallet he had Indian rupees, German marks and Sterling. He closed his eyes now. Did not like the violent feeling of suction as the plane took off.
“My name is Gunder,” he said to himself in English. “How do you do?”
The man next to him looked at him.
“Your soul remains at Gardermoen. That’s good to know, don’t you think?”
Gunder didn’t understand.
“When you travel as fast as we do today the soul stays behind. Somewhere in the airport. It’s probably in a pub somewhere, at the bottom of a glass. I had a whisky before we left.”
Gunder tried to imagine whisky in the morning. He couldn’t. He had bought himself a cup of coffee and had stood by the long counter watching people rush by. Then he had wandered slowly around, browsing, noiseless in his new sandals. His soul was in its place under his blazer, he was quite sure of that.
“You should swap that whisky for a coffee,” he said simply.
The man looked at Gunder and laughed. Then he said, “What are you selling?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yes.”
“I sell agricultural machinery.”
“And now you’re going to a trade fair in Frankfurt?”
“No, no. This time I’m a tourist.”
“Who goes on holiday in Frankfurt?” the man wondered.
“I’m going further than that,” said Gunder happily. “All the way to Mumbai.”
“And where is that?”
“India. Formerly Bombay, if that means anything to you.” Gunder smiled importantly. “The city has been renamed Mumbai since 1995.”
The man signalled to a passing air hostess and ordered whisky on the rocks. Gunder asked for orange juice and reclined his seat and closed his eyes. He did not want to talk. He had so many thoughts to think. What should he say about Norway? About Elvestad. What the Norwegians were like. What were they like? And the food, what was there to say about that? Rissoles. Fish pie and brown cheese. Ice-skating. Very cold. Down to –40°C sometimes. Norwegian oil. His juice arrived and he drank it slowly. Sat sucking an ice cube. Squeezed the plastic cup into the little net at the back of the seat in front of him. Outside he saw the clouds drift by like candyfloss. Perhaps he would fail to find a wife on his trip to India. If he could not find one at home why would he be able to find one in a foreign country? But something was happening. He was on his way towards something new. No-one in Elvestad had been to India, as far as he knew. Gunder Jomann. A well-travelled man. He remembered that he had forgotten to check the batteries in his camera. But they would surely sell them at the airport. After all he wasn’t going to another planet. What were Indian women called? If he met one with a totally impossible name perhaps he could make up an affectionate diminutive. Indira, he remembered. Gandhi. It wasn’t hard at all. Sounded like Elvira. Human beings everywhere have so much in common, he persuaded himself. At last he fell asleep. Immediately she appeared in his dreams. Black eyes sparkling.
Marie went to Gunder’s house every day. She checked the doors and the windows. Picked up his post and put it on the kitchen table. Stuck a finger in all the potted plants one after the other. Always stayed a few minutes to worry about him. He was so trusting, like a child, and now he was milling around over there in the heat among twelve million people. They spoke languages he did not understand. Mind you, he was dependable. Never impulsive and certainly not liable to over-indulge. She looked at the photographs on the wall of their mother and of herself as a five-year-old with round cheeks and chubby knees. One photograph of Gunder in his national service uniform. One of their parents standing together in front of the house. He also had a wretched painting of a winter landscape, bought at an auction in the community hall. She looked at the furniture. Sturdy and reliable. Clean windows. If he ever found himself a wife, she thought, he would treat her like a princess. But he was going downhill a bit. He was still a fine man, but everything was beginning to sag. His stomach. His jowls. His hairline was receding slowly but surely. His hands were big and rough as their father’s had been. What a father he would have made. She felt sad. Perhaps he would grow old alone. What was he doing in India? Was he trying to find himself a wife? The idea had crossed her mind. What would people say? For herself she would say nothing at all except to be friendly. But the others, anyone who wasn’t as fond of him as she was? Did he really know what he was doing? Presumably. His voice down the phone, all the long way from India, crackling and hissing. Excited. I’m here now, Marie. The heat is like a wall. My back was wet before I was down the steps out of the plane. I’ve found a hotel. They speak English everywhere. There was no problem with the waitress. I said “chicken” and she brought me a chicken such as I’ve never seen the like of. You haven’t tasted chicken until you’ve been to India, he said eagerly. And it’s cheap too. When I returned the next day, she came to the table and asked if I wanted chicken again. So now I eat there every day. Every time there is a different sauce: red, green or yellow. No reason to look any further now that I have found this place. It is called Tandel’s Tandoori. The service is very good.
The waitress, Marie supposed, and smiled resignedly. Probably she was the first person he had met and on top of it she was nice to him. That was probably enough for Gunder. Now he would sit in this Tandel’s Tandoori for a fortnight and not contrive to see anything else. She told him that everything at home was fine. But was he aware that one of the hibiscus plants had greenfly? For a moment Gunder’s voice took on a hint of anxiety. Then he composed himself. “I have an insecticide in the basement. It’ll just have to stay alive until I get home. Or it’ll die. It’s as simple as that.”
Marie sighed. It was unlike her brother to speak about his plants so casually. When they died he took it for a personal insult.
The book she had once given him was there on the shelf. She noticed it because it stood out a little from the other spines. She took it down and once more it opened automatically to the same page. She studied the Indian woman for a while. Imagined her brother studying the beautiful picture. What would Indian women think of Gunder? In a way there was something impressive about him. He was tall and immensely broad-shouldered for a start. And his teeth were nice; he took good care of them. His clothes were clean, if old-fashioned. And he had this trustworthy character. The fact that he was slow, perhaps they wouldn’t notice that if they were busy working out what he was saying. Maybe for that reason they might be able to see him for what he really was: decent and good as gold. Not so quick off the mark, but honest. Unhurried, but industrious. Concerned, but focused. His eyes were nice. The beauty in the photograph had nice eyes, too, they were almost black. Looking into Gunder’s large blue eyes was probably exotic and different for an Indian woman. Then he had this big, heavy body. Indians were delicate, slender people, she believed, though she didn’t know very much about them. She was just about to put the book back on the shelf when a scrap of paper fell out. A receipt from a jeweller’s. Astonished, she stood and stared. A filigree brooch. 1,400 kroner. What did that mean? It was not for her; she had no national costume. Clearly there was more going on here than she had suspected. She put the receipt back in the book and left the house. Turned one last time and stared at the windows. Then she drove to the village. Marie was, according to Gunder and her husband Karsten, a terrible driver. Her entire concentration was directed at the road in front of the car. She never looked in the mirror, but held tight to the steering wheel and focused on 70 kilometres in all areas. She had never used the fifth gear in her car. It was not that she was better at everything, though of the two of them she was the one who took charge whenever anything needed doing. However, she knew her brother. Now she was sure. He had gone to India to find a wife. And given his tenacity and patience it would not surprise her if he turned up in a fortnight’s time with a dark woman on his arm, a filigree brooch on her dress. God help us, she thought, and went straight over a pedestrian crossing, giving a woman with a pram the fright of her life. What would people say?
She stopped at the café to buy cigarettes. Einar was polishing the jukebox. First he sprayed it with polish then he rubbed it with a tea towel. It was still the school holidays. Two girls sat at one of the tables. Marie knew them, Linda and Karen. Linda was a skinny girl with a shrill, almost manic laugh. She had very blonde frizzy hair, a gaunt face and pointy white teeth. Whenever Marie looked at the girl she immediately thought that here was someone who would turn out bad. She did not know why she thought this, but there was something about the girl’s personality, the almost unnaturally sparkling eyes, the frantic movements and the shrill laughter, which made Marie think that she was the type who wanted too much. She stood out like a lamp with too strong a bulb. One day something would sweep her away. The other one, Karen, dark and calmer, sat there more subdued. Spoke with a lowered voice, kept herself to herself. Einar picked out a packet of John Player’s and Marie paid. She did not like Einar. He was polite, but he always walked around as though he was hiding an unpleasant secret. His face was not open and broad like Gunder’s. It was tight, gaunt. It bore evidence of ill will. Gunder did not like him either. Not that he had ever said as much, because he never spoke ill of people. If he did not have anything pleasant to say, he simply kept his mouth shut. Like the time she had asked about the new chap at work, young Bjørnsson. He had looked up from his paper and said, “Bjørnsson is doing fine.” Then he went back to his paper and said no more. She knew at that moment that he did not like him. He could, however, talk about the village taxi driver for ages. Kalle Moe has bought car wax by mail order, he might say. Six hundred kroner for two tiny boxes. That man is unbelievable. I think the car has done half a million kilometres. But you would never know. I think he sings it to sleep at night. Gunder would laugh, and Marie would know that he liked Kalle. And Ole Gunwald in the one-stop shop. He suffers from migraines. Poor Gunwald. While she was contemplating these things she heard Linda’s laughter once more and she saw Einar glance quickly at the two girls. At least he had something to look at while standing there rubbing his jukebox.
“So Jomann has ventured out into the big wide world?” Einar said all of a sudden. Marie nodded.
“To India. On holiday.”
“India? Bless me. Oh well, if he comes back with an Indian wife I’ll be green with envy,” he laughed. Marie laughed. Was everyone thinking the same as she was? She left the café and drove home at an average speed of 68 kilometres an hour. A light flashed red on the dashboard. She must remember to tell Karsten.
Gunder was sweating, but it did not matter. In fact his shirt was wet, and he did not care. He sat quite still at the table and looked at the Indian woman. She was so nimble and light and smiled so pleasantly. She wore a money belt quite like his own around her waist, where she kept her change. She had on a floral dress, her arms were bare and she had gold rings in her ears. Long blue-black hair, which was plaited and coiled up at the back of her head. He sat there wondering how long it was. Perhaps all the way to her bottom. She was younger than he was. Maybe forty, and her face was marked by the sun. Her teeth showed when she smiled. Indeed her front teeth stuck out prominently. Her vanity resulted in frequent attempts to suppress the smile, but she had to give up. Smiling came easily to her. She is pretty when she closes her mouth, Gunder thought, and you can fix the teeth. He sat there observing her while drinking the strange, exotic coffee with cinnamon and sugar and he felt that she had noticed it and perhaps even liked it. He had eaten in this restaurant six days in a row. She had served him every time. He wanted to say something to her, but was fearful of making a faux pas. Perhaps she was not allowed to talk to the customers. He did not know the ways of this country and it inhibited him. He could stay here one evening till they shut and then follow her. No, no, of course he couldn’t! He held up his hand. She came over immediately.
“One more coffee,” said Gunder nervously. He was building up to something. The tension made his face look serious and she did notice that. She nodded without a word and fetched the coffee, came back very quickly.
“Very good coffee,” he said and fixed his blue gaze on her so that she would remain standing there.
“My name is Gunder,” he said eventually. “From Norway.”
She gave him a brilliant smile. The large teeth showed.
“Ah! From Norway. Ice and snow,” she laughed.