Authors: Anne Holt
‘Stupid idea! We’re ten minutes from home by taxi. Ten minutes!’
‘What’s a stupid idea? What are we … ? Let me carry her, Johanne. You’re dress is torn and it would be …’
‘It’s not a dress! It’s a national costume! It’s called a kirtle! And it was your idea! This ghastly hairstyle and this hotel and bringing Kristiane with us. She could have died!’
She was overcome by tears, and slowly let go of her daughter. The man with the strong arms gently took the child, and together they walked up the stairs. Neither of them said anything. Kristiane carried on singing in her thin, pure voice:
‘Hey hop fallerallera, when Christmas comes let every child rejoice!’
*
‘She’s asleep, Johanne. The doctor said she was fine. There’s no point in going home now. It’s …’
The man glanced over at the silent TV screen, where the hotel was still welcoming Mr & Mrs Stubo.
‘Quarter past three. It’s almost half past three in the morning, Johanne.’
‘I want to go home.’
‘But …’
‘We should never have agreed to this. Kristiane’s too young …’
‘She’s almost fourteen,’ said Adam, rubbing his face. ‘It’s hardly irresponsible to let a fourteen-year-old come to her aunt’s wedding. It was actually incredibly generous of your sister to pay for a suite and a babysitter.’
‘Some babysitter!’ She spat out the words in a mist of saliva.
‘Albertine fell asleep,’ Adam said wearily. ‘She lay down on the sofa
when Kristiane finally went to sleep. What else was she supposed to do? That was why she was here, Johanne. Kristiane knows Albertine well. We can’t expect her to do any more than she was asked to do. She brought Kristiane up here after dessert. This was an accident, a sheer accident. You have to accept that.’
‘An accident? Is it an accident when a child like … like Kristiane manages to get out through a locked door without anyone noticing? When the babysitter – who, incidentally, Kristiane knows so well that she still refers to her as ‘the lady’ – is sleeping so heavily that Kristiane thought she was
dead
? When the child starts wandering around a hotel full of people? People who were drunk! And then wanders out into the street in the middle of the night without proper clothes and without any shoes and without …’
She put her hands to her face, sobbing. Adam got up from his chair and sat down heavily beside her on the bed.
‘Can’t we go to bed?’ he said quietly. ‘Things will seem so much better in the morning. I mean, it all worked out fine after all. Let’s be grateful for that. Let’s get some sleep.’
She didn’t respond. Her hunched back trembled every time she breathed.
‘Mummy?’
Johanne quickly wiped her face and turned to her daughter with a big smile.
‘Yes, sweetheart?’
‘Sometimes I’m completely invisible.’
From the corridor came the sound of giggling and laughter. Someone was shouting ‘cheers!’ and a male voice wanted to know where the ice machine was.
Johanne lay down cautiously on the bed. She slowly caressed the girl’s thin, fair hair, and put her mouth close to Kristiane’s ear.
‘Not to me, Kristiane. You are never invisible to me.’
‘Oh yes I am,’ said Kristiane with a little laugh. ‘To you, too. I am the invisible child.’
And before her mother had time to protest – as the town-hall clock proclaimed that yet another half-hour had passed on this twentieth day of December – Kristiane fell into a deep sleep.
A
s the town-hall clock struck half past three, he decided that enough was enough.
He stood by the window, looking out at what there was to see.
Which wasn’t a great deal.
Ten hours earlier heavy snow had fallen on Oslo, making the city clean and light. In the empty silence of his office he had immersed himself so deeply in his work that he hadn’t noticed the change in the weather. The city lay dark and formless below him. Although it wasn’t raining, the air was so damp that water was trickling down the window panes. Akershus Fortress was discernible only as a vague shadow on the other side of the harbour. The grey, indolent crests of the waves were the only indication that the black expanse between Rådhuskaia and Nesodden, all the way out to Hurumlandet, was actually made up of fjord and sea.
But the lights were beautiful, street lamps and lanterns transformed into shimmering little stars through the wet glass.
Everything lay ready on his desk.
The Christmas presents.
A Caribbean cruise for his brother and sister and their families. On one of the company’s own ships, admittedly, but it was still a generous gift.
A piece of jewellery for his mother, who would turn sixty-nine on Christmas Eve; she never tired of diamonds.
A remote-controlled helicopter and a new snowboard for his son.
Nothing for Rolf, as they always agreed and invariably regretted.
And 20,000 kroner to charitable causes.
That was everything.
The personal gifts were quickly dealt with. It had taken less than
half an hour with his regular jeweller in Amsterdam in November, a walk around a mall in Boston the same week, plus twenty minutes on the computer this evening to produce an attractive gift card for his brother and sister’s families. There were plenty of tempting pictures of Martinique and Aruba on the shipping company’s home pages. He was pleased with the result, and he managed to make it personal by lining up the entire family along the railing on board MS
Princess Ingrid Alexandra
at sunset.
It was the charitable donations that had taken time.
Marcus Koll Junior put his heart and soul into each donation. Dispensing generous gifts was his Christmas present to himself. It always did him good, and reminded him of his grandfather. The old man, who had been the closest thing to God that little Marcus could imagine, had once asked him the following question with a smile. A man helps ten other men who are in need, and takes the credit for doing so. A different man helps one other man in need, but keeps it to himself and gets no thanks for what he has done. Which of the two is the better person?
The ten-year-old replied that it was the first man, and had to defend his position. Marcus stuck to his guns for a long time: the intention of the donor was not the issue. It was the result that mattered. Helping ten people was better than helping one. The old man had stubbornly argued for the opposite point of view – until, at the age of fifteen, the boy changed his mind. Then his grandfather did the same. The argument continued until Marcus Koll Senior died at the age of ninety-three, leaving behind a well-organized life in a pale green folder with the logo of the Norwegian state railway on it. The documents showed that he had given away 20 per cent of everything he had earned throughout his adult life. Not 10 per cent, as was traditional within the labour movement, but 20. A fifth of his grandfather’s earnings had been a gift to those worse off than himself.
Marcus looked through all the documents on the day his grandfather was buried. It was a journey in time through the darkest events of the twentieth century. He found receipts for deposits made to needy widows before the war and Jewish children after it. To refugees from Hungary in 1956. Save the Children had received a small amount each month since 1959, and his grandfather had made decent
donations after most disasters from 1920 onwards: shipwrecks in the years between the wars, the famine in Biafra, right up to the tsunami in Southeast Asia. He died on New Year’s Eve 2004, only five days after the tidal wave, but had managed to get to the post office in Tøyen in order to send 5,000 kroner to Médecins Sans Frontières.
As a train driver with a wife who stayed at home, five children and eventually fourteen grandchildren, it couldn’t have been particularly easy to nibble away at his wage packet and later his pension, year after year. But he never took any credit for it. The money had been paid at different post offices, always far enough away from his apartment in Vålerenga so that he wouldn’t be recognized. The name of the donor was always false, but the handwriting gave him away.
His grandfather hadn’t helped one person, he had helped thousands.
Just like his grandson.
Marcus Koll Junior’s contributions to charity and research were of quite a different order from those of the old man. As was to be expected. He earned more in just a few weeks than his grandfather had in his entire life. But he imagined the joy of giving was just the same for both of them, and that there was no real answer to his grandfather’s riddle. Sharing what you had was not a question of being noble for either man. It was simply about being contented with one’s own life. And just as his grandfather had allowed himself the small vanity of letting his grandson know what he had done, when it was all over and the discussion had literally died, Marcus Junior also kept a detailed record of his donations. They were made with great discretion, through various channels which made it impossible for the recipient to identify the real donor. The money was a gift from Marcus himself, not from one of his companies; it was declared and taxed before he passed it on via circuitous routes that only he knew about. And nobody would know, apart from the youngest Marcus Koll, eight years old in two months, who would find out one day, when he turned thirty-five, what his father had been doing every night up to the last Sunday in Advent.
It usually brought him a sense of calm; the calmness he needed.
His heart was beating too fast.
He walked back and forth across the room. It wasn’t particularly
large, and there was no evidence of the money generated behind the old oak desk. Marcus Koll’s office was located on Aker Brygge, which had been an impressive address a couple of financial crises ago, but the area was no longer so desirable. Which suited Marcus very well.
He clutched his chest and tried to breathe slowly. His lungs had a will of their own, gasping for air much too quickly, his breathing much too shallow. It was as if he had been nailed to the floor. It was impossible to move: he was dying. His fingertips prickled. His lips were numb, and the stiffness in his mouth made his tongue feel huge and dry. He had to breathe through his nose, but his nose was blocked, he had stopped breathing, he would be dead in a few seconds.
He saw himself in a way that he had read about, a sensation he had experienced so many times before. He was standing outside his body, leaning slightly at an angle with something approaching a bird’s-eye view, and he could see a stocky, 44-year-old man with bags under his eyes. He could smell his own fear.
A hot flush surged through his body, making it impossible for him to shake it off. He staggered over to the desk and grabbed a paper bag from the top drawer. He gathered the top loosely between his right thumb and forefinger, put the bag to his lips and breathed as deeply and evenly as he could.
The metallic taste didn’t diminish.
He tossed the bag aside and rested his forehead against the window.
Not ill. He wasn’t ill. His heart was OK, even though he had a stabbing pain beneath his left shoulder blade and in his arm – his left arm now that he thought about it. No, no pain.
Don’t think about it.
Breathe.
His hands felt as if they were covered in tiny crawling insects and he didn’t even dare to shake them off. His head felt light and alien, as if it didn’t belong to him. His thoughts were whirling so fast that he couldn’t catch them. Fragmented images and disjointed phrases kept spinning by on a carousel that made him sway. He tried to think of a recipe, a recipe for pizza, pizza with feta cheese and broccoli, an American pizza he had made thousands of times and could no longer remember.
Not ill. Not a brain haemorrhage. Not feeling sick. He was perfectly fine.
Perhaps it was cancer. He felt a stabbing pain in his right side, the side where his liver was, his pancreas, the side for cancer and disease and death.
Slowly he opened his eyes. A small part of his mind knew that he was fine. He must focus on that, not on forgotten recipes and death. The dampness on the window pane left its ice-cold impression on his forehead, and the tears began to flow.
It was becoming easier to breathe. His pulse, which had been pounding at his eardrums, against his breastbone, in the tips of his fingers and painfully hard in his groin, was slowing down.
Oslo still lay there on the other side of the window, outside this room with its view of the harbour, the fjord and the islands. Marcus Koll had just donated a fortune to charitable causes and he really wanted to feel the warmth that the last Sunday in Advent always gave him: the contented feeling of happiness because of Christmas, because of the gifts, because his son was looking forward to the holiday, because his mother was still alive, quarrelsome and impossible, because he had done the right thing, and because everything was as it should be. He wanted to think about his life which was not yet over, if he could just manage to calm his breathing.
Calm down. Just calm down.
He caught sight of someone out walking, one of the few people still wandering around down there on the quayside, apparently with no goal or purpose. It was almost five o’clock on Sunday morning. All the bars were closed. The man down below was alone. He was staggering from side to side, having difficulty staying upright on the slippery surface. Suddenly he took a couple of despairing steps off at an angle, grabbed hold of his hat as if it were a fixed point, and disappeared over the quayside.
Suddenly everything was different. His heart was beating normally once more. The pressure on his chest eased. Marcus Koll straightened his back and focused. It was as if his mucus membranes suddenly became slippery and smooth; his tongue shrank; his mouth was lubricated as it was meant to be. His thoughts gradually fell into line, one following the other in a logical sequence. He quickly worked out how long it would take him to get out of the office, down the stairs and over to the edge of the quayside. Before
he had finished he could see people running to the scene. Five or six men, including a Securitas guard, yelling so loudly that he could hear them from where he was standing, five storeys above them and behind a triple-glazed window. The uniformed man was already clambering down the side of the quay.