Authors: Anne Holt
Time had stopped.
*
Her watch had stopped. She shook her wrist crossly and realized she was much later than she wanted to be. She had to get the children inside and in their best clothes without Kristiane playing up.
She went over to the window.
In the courtyard in front of the house, behind the fence on Hauges Vei, Ragnhild and Kristiane had scraped together enough rime frost to build the smallest snowman in the world. It was no more than ten centimetres high, but even from the second floor Johanne could see that it had been kitted out with a yellow oak-leaf hat and a mouth of tiny pebbles.
Johanne folded her arms and leaned on the window frame. As usual Ragnhild was directing operations and taking care of the construction. Kristiane was standing up straight, completely motionless. Although Johanne couldn’t make out the words, she could hear Ragnhild chattering away as if addressing the most spellbound audience in the world.
Perhaps she was.
Johanne smiled as Ragnhild suddenly got up from her small work of art and began to sing with great enthusiasm. Now Johanne could hear her voice inside the apartment.
Å leva det er å elska
rang out over the neighbourhood. Wherever had she learned that particular hymn? At any rate, it had most likely been Kristiane’s idea to sing it once the snowman was complete.
A figure caught Johanne’s attention. It looked like a man, and she wasn’t sure where he had come from. Nor did it seem as if he was sure where he was going. For some reason this made her uneasy. Of course, there were youngsters in the area who turned up out of nowhere from time to time, but if she saw adults walking the streets they were always heading somewhere with a purpose. She recognized most of them after living for so many years in this little side road.
The man was strolling along with his hands in his pockets. His hat was pulled down over his eyes and his tightly knotted scarf obscured the lower half of his face. But there was something about the way he walked that told her he wasn’t all that young.
Johanne shook her right arm again. Her watch still wasn’t working. It must be the battery. They were probably running late. She was about to turn away from the window when the man stopped by the bins.
By their bins.
Johanne felt the fear racing inside her, as always when she didn’t have full control over Kristiane. For a moment she stood there, not knowing whether she should run downstairs or stay where she was and
see what happened. Without making a conscious decision, she stayed where she was.
Perhaps he called out to them.
At any rate, both girls looked at him, and Ragnhild’s gestures indicated that she was talking to him. He made some reply and waved her over. Neither of the girls went towards him. Instead, Ragnhild took a step back.
Johanne ran.
She raced through the apartment, out of the living room, along the hallway, out through the extension that had become the girls’ playroom, she ran, half-stumbled down the stairs and hurtled out into the cold wearing neither shoes nor slippers.
‘Kristiane!’ she shouted, trying to inject a calm, everyday tone into her voice. ‘Ragnhild! Are you there?’
As she came around the corner of the house she saw them.
Ragnhild was once again crouching down in front of the little snowman. Kristiane had spotted a bird or a plane. She was gazing up at the sky and without taking any notice of her mother she stuck out her tongue to catch the feather-light flakes that had begun to fall.
There was no sign of the man.
‘Mummy,’ Ragnhild said sternly. ‘You are not allowed outside in your stocking feet!’
Johanne looked down at her feet.
‘Goodness me,’ she said with a smile. ‘What a silly mummy you have!’
Ragnhild laughed and pointed at her with a toy spade.
Kristiane carried on catching snowflakes.
‘Who was that man?’ Johanne asked casually.
‘What man?’
Ragnhild licked the snot trickling from her nose.
‘The man who was talking to you. The man who—’
‘Don’t know him,’ said Ragnhild. ‘Look what a brilliant snowman we’ve made! And without any snow!’
‘It’s lovely. But now it’s time to come in. We’re going to a Christmas party, remember. What did he ask you?’
‘Dam-di-rum-ram,’ said Kristiane, smiling up at the sky.
‘Nothing,’ said Ragnhild. ‘Are we going to a party? Is Daddy coming?’
‘No, he’s in Bergen, isn’t he? But that man must have said something. I mean, I saw him—’
‘He just asked if we’d had a nice Christmas,’ said Ragnhild. ‘Aren’t your feet cold, Mummy?’
‘Yes, they are. Come along, both of you. Time to go inside.’
Amazingly, Kristiane started to walk. Johanne took Ragnhild by the hand and followed her.
‘And what did you tell him?’
‘I said it was absolutely the best Christmas ever – with bells on!’
‘Did he want … did he try to get you to go over to him?’
They reached the gravel path and walked along by the building towards the stairs. Kristiane was talking to herself, but seemed happy and contented.
‘Yeees …’
Ragnhild was taking her time.
‘But we know we mustn’t go up to strangers. Or go off with them or anything like that.’
‘Quite right. Good girl.’
Johanne’s toes felt as if they were about to drop off with the cold. She pulled a face as she left the gravel and put her foot on the ice-cold stone staircase.
‘He asked if I’d got any nice Christmas presents,’ Kristiane said suddenly as she opened the outside door, which had blown shut behind Johanne. ‘Just me, not Ragnhild.’
‘Oh? And how do you know he was only asking you?’
‘Because he said so. He said—’
All three of them stopped. Kristiane had that strange look on her face, as if it were turned inward, as if she were searching an archive inside her head.
‘
What are you doing out here, girls? Did you have a nice Christmas? And what about you, Kristiane, did you get anything nice?’
Her voice was expressionless, and was followed by complete silence.
‘I see,’ said Johanne, forcing a smile. ‘That was nice of him. And now we need to put on our best clothes as quickly as we can. We’re going to see Grandma and Grandpa, Kristiane. Daddy will soon be here to pick us up.’
‘Oh …’
Ragnhild immediately sat down and started whining.
‘Why does Kristiane get to have her daddy when I can’t have mine?’
‘Your daddy has to work, I told you that. And you always have a lovely time when we go to see Kristiane’s grandma and grandad.’
‘Don’t want to.
Don’t want to!’
The child pulled back and started to slide down the stairs head first, her arms stretched out in front of her as if she were swimming. Johanne grabbed her arm and pulled her up, slightly more firmly than she had intended. Ragnhild let out a howl.
The only explanation Johanne could cope with was that Kristiane must have remembered wrongly.
‘I want my own daddy!’ Ragnhild screamed, trying to twist free of her mother’s grasp. ‘Daddy!
My daddy!
Not Kristiane’s stupid daddy!’
‘We do not say that kind of thing in our family,’ Johanne hissed, nudging Kristiane in through the door while dragging the little one behind her. ‘Do you understand?’
Ragnhild immediately stopped crying, stunned by her mother’s fury. She started laughing instead.
But Johanne had only one thought in her head: Kristiane never, ever remembered wrongly.
*
‘We all make mistakes. Don’t get so cross about it.’
Marcus Koll Junior smiled at his son, who was studying the instructions.
‘Come over here and we can work it out together.’
The boy sulked for a little while, but eventually stomped over and threw the little booklet on the coffee table. The helicopter was still on the dining table, only half-completed.
‘Rolf promised to help me,’ the boy said, pushing out his lower lip.
‘You know what Rolf’s clients can be like.’
‘They’re rich, stupid and they have ugly dogs.’
His father tried to hide a smile.
‘Yes, well. When an English bulldog decides that her puppies are coming out on Christmas Day, then out they have to come. Ugly or not.’
‘Rolf says that bulldogs have been totally overbred. That they can’t even feed properly. Shouldn’t be allowed. Animal cruelty.’
‘I couldn’t agree more. Now, let’s have a look at this!’
He picked up the booklet and leafed through it as he walked over to the imposing dining table. He had had the instructions translated by an authorized technical translator in order to make it easier for the boy to build the helicopter. The model in front of him was so big that he now regretted his purchase. Even if the boy had an unusual talent for mechanics, this was a little over the top. The man in the shop in Boston had stressed that the toy wasn’t suitable for children under the age of sixteen, not least because it weighed almost a kilo and would constitute a risk to anyone around it the moment it rose in the air.
‘Hm,’ said his father, scratching his stubble. ‘I don’t really get it.’
‘It’s the rotor blades that are the problem,’ said the boy. ‘Look here, Dad!’
The eager fingers tried to put the blades together, but something wasn’t right. The boy soon gave up and put down the pieces with a groan. His father ruffled his hair.
‘A bit more patience, little Marcus. Patience! That’s what you should have got for Christmas.’
‘I’ve told you, don’t call me that. And I’m not doing anything wrong, there’s something the matter with the instructions.’
Marcus Koll pulled out a chair, sat down and took his glasses out of his breast pocket. The boy sat down beside him, keen to help. The blonde, curly hair tickled Marcus’s face as his son leaned over the manual. A faint smell of soap and ginger biscuits made him smile, and he had to stop himself from hugging the boy, holding him close, feeling the glorious warmth of the son he had managed to have in spite of everything and everyone.
‘You’re the best thing in my life,’ he said slowly.
‘Yeah, yeah. What does this mean?
Insert the longest batten through the unhooked ring at the bottom of rotor blade four
. I mean, there is only one batten! So why does it say the longest? And where’s the stupid ring?’
The December sun filled the room with a calm, white light. Outside it was cold and clear. The trees were completely covered with crystals of rime frost, as if they had been sprayed for Christmas. Through the white branches beyond the window he could see the Oslo fjord far
below, grey-blue and still, with no sign of life. The crackling of the open fire blended with the snores of two English setters, curled up together in a big basket by the door. The smell of turkey was beginning to drift in from the kitchen, a tradition Rolf had insisted on when he eventually allowed himself to be persuaded to move in five years ago.
Marcus Koll Junior lived his life in a cliché, and he loved it.
When his father died nine years ago, just before Marcus Junior turned thirty-five, he had at first refused to accept his inheritance. Georg Koll had given his son nothing but a good name. That name was his grandfather’s, and it had enabled him to pretend that his father didn’t exist when he was a boy and couldn’t understand why Daddy couldn’t come and see him at the weekend now and again. When he was just twelve years old he began to realize that his mother didn’t even receive the maintenance to which she was entitled for him and his two younger siblings. When he turned fifteen he resolved never again to speak to the man responsible for his existence. His father had wasted his opportunity. That was the year Marcus received 100 kroner in a card on his birthday, sent through the post and with five words in handwriting he knew wasn’t his father’s. He became a grown man when he put the money in the envelope and sent the whole lot back.
Severing all contact was surprisingly easy. They saw each other so rarely that the two or three visits per year were easy to avoid. Emotionally, he had chosen a different father: Marcus Koll Senior. When he was able to grasp the fact that his real father simply didn’t want to be a father and would never change, he felt relieved. Liberated. Free to move on to something better.
And he didn’t want his inheritance. Which was considerable.
Georg Koll had made a lot of money in property in the sixties and seventies. The majority of his fortune had been moved to other, much safer arenas in plenty of time before the crash in the housing market during the last financial crisis of the twentieth century. When it came to looking after his money he more than made up for his great inadequacies as a father and provider. Unlike others, he had used the yuppie era to secure his investments rather than risking them for short-term gain.
When Georg Koll died he left behind a medium-sized cruise-ship company, six centrally located and extremely well-maintained properties, plus a skilfully compiled share portfolio which had provided the
majority of his very respectable income for the past five years. Death had obviously surprised him. He was only fifty-eight years old, slim and apparently fit when he had a massive heart attack on his way home from the office one day in late August. Since he hadn’t remarried, and no will was found, his entire estate went to Marcus Koll, his sister Anine and his younger brother Mathias.
Marcus wanted no part of it.
When he was fifteen years old he had returned his father’s blood money, and when he was twenty he had received a reply. His father had heard that his son was a homosexual. Marcus had glanced through the letter and realized all too quickly what his father wanted. For one thing, he expressly dissociated himself from Marcus’s lifestyle, which was a not uncommon attitude in 1984. What was worse was that his father, who had never been well in with any God, went on to paint a picture of Marcus’s future along the lines of the blackest descriptions of Sodom and Gomorrah. He also reminded him of a new and dangerous plague from America, which affected only homosexual men. It led to an agonizing death, complete with boils, like the Black Death itself. Of course, Georg Koll didn’t believe this was a punishment from any higher power. No, this was Nature herself taking revenge. This fatal disease was a manifestation of natural selection; in a couple of generations people like him would have been eradicated. Unless he changed his ways. Life as a homosexual meant a life without a family, without security, without ties, obligations and the happiness that came with being a good member of society and someone who made a real contribution. Until his son realized this and could guarantee that he had seen the error of his ways, he was disinherited.