He thought about the Christmas dinner in Dalj.
It was two years after the end of the war and the Serbs had withdrawn from what once had been Vukovar. The Croatian authorities had packed them into Hotel International in Zagreb. He had asked lots of people if they knew where Giorgi's family had ended up, and one day he had met another refugee who knew that Giorgi's mother had died during the siege and that he and his father had moved to Dalj, a small border town not far from Vukovar. On 26 December he caught the train to Osijek and then from there to Dalj. He talked to the conductor who confirmed that the train would go on to Borovo, the terminal, and would be back in Dalj by half past six. It was two o'clock when he alighted in Dalj. He asked for directions to the address, which was a low block of flats as grey as the town. He went into the hallway, found the door and before ringing said a silent prayer that they would be at home. His heart was pounding fast as he heard light footsteps inside.
Giorgi opened. He hadn't changed much. Paler, but the same blond curls, blue eyes and heart-shaped mouth that had always made him think of a young god. The smile in his eyes was gone, however, like a broken light bulb.
'Don't you recognise me, Giorgi?' he asked after a while. 'We lived in the same town; we went to the same school.'
Giorgi furrowed his brow. 'Did we? Wait. The voice. You must be Serg Dolac. Of course, you were the fast runner. Jesus, how you've changed. But it's great to see people we knew in Vukovar. They've all gone.'
'Not me.'
'No, not you, Serg.'
Giorgi embraced him and held him for such a long time that he could feel the heat beginning to tremble through his frozen body. Then he led him into the flat.
It was dark in the sparsely furnished sitting room as they sat talking about all the things that had happened, and all the people they had known in Vukovar and where they were now. When he asked whether Giorgi remembered Tinto the dog, Giorgi put on a rather perplexed smile.
Giorgi said his father would be home soon. Did Serg want to stay and eat?
He looked at his watch. The train would be at the station in three hours.
The father was very surprised to meet a visitor from Vukovar.
'This is Serg,' Giorgi said. 'Serg Dolac.'
'Serg Dolac?' the father asked, scrutinising him. 'Yes, there's something familiar about you. Hm. Didn't I know your father? No?'
Darkness fell and after taking their places at the table, the father gave them large, white serviettes and loosened his red neckerchief and tied the serviette round his neck. The father said grace, made the sign of the cross and inclined his head to the only picture in the room, a framed photo of a woman.
As Giorgi and his father took their cutlery, he bowed and intoned: 'Who is this that comes from Edom, coming from Bozrah, his garments stained crimson? Who is this, in glorious apparel, marching in the greatness of his strength? "It is I, who announce that right has won the day, it is I," says the Lord, "for I am mighty to save."'
The father eyed him in astonishment. Then he passed him the dish with the large, pale pieces of meat.
The meal continued in silence. The wind made the thin windows groan.
After the meat, there was dessert.
Palacinka
, thin pancakes filled with jam and chocolate spread over the top. He hadn't tasted
palacinka
since he was a child in Vukovar.
'Take another, dear Serg,' the father said. 'It's Christmas.'
He checked his watch. The train would leave in half an hour. It was time. He cleared his throat, put down the serviette and stood up: 'Giorgi and I have been talking about all the people we remember from Vukovar, but there is one person we haven't spoken about yet.'
'I see,' the father said, mystified, and smiled. 'Who is that, Serg?' The father had turned his head a little and viewed him with one eye, as though trying to identify something he could not put his finger on.
'His name was Bobo.'
He could see in Giorgi's father's eyes that now he knew. He might have been waiting for this moment. He heard his voice resound between the bare walls. 'You were sitting in the jeep and pointed him out to the Serbian commanding officer.' He swallowed. 'Bobo died.'
The room went still. The father put down his cutlery. 'It was war, Serg. We all have to die.' He said this with composure. Almost resignation.
The father and Giorgi were motionless as he took the gun from the waistband of his trousers, pointed it across the table and fired. The explosion was brief and dry, and the father's body jerked as the chair legs scraped against the floor. The father lowered his head and stared at the hole in the serviette hanging in front of his chest. Then it was sucked into his chest as the blood spread like a red flower over the white cloth.
'Look at me,' he ordered, and the father automatically raised his head.
The second shot made a tiny black hole in his forehead, which fell forward hitting the plate of
palacinka
with a soft thud.
He turned to Giorgi who was staring open-mouthed, a red line running down his cheek. It took him a second to realise that this was jam from his father's
palacinka
. He stuffed the pistol into the waistband of his trousers.
'You'll have to shoot me, too, Serg.'
'I don't have any scores to settle with you.' He walked out of the sitting room and took the jacket hanging by the door.
Giorgi followed. 'I'll get even with you! I'll find you and kill you, if you don't kill me!'
'And how will you find me, Giorgi?'
'You cannot hide. I know who you are.'
'Do you? You think I'm Serg. But Serg Dolac had red hair and was taller than me. And I'm not a fast runner, Giorgi. But let's just be happy you don't recognise me, Giorgi. It means I can spare your life.'
Then he leaned forward, kissed Giorgi hard on the mouth, opened the door and left.
The newspapers had written about the murder, but the police had never looked for anyone. And three months later, one Sunday, his mother told him about a Croat who had visited her to ask for help. The man had been unable to pay much, but he had collected some money from the family. A Serbian who had tortured his brother during the war had been found living nearby. And someone had mentioned something about the one they called the little redeemer.
The old man burned his fingertips on the thin roll-up and swore aloud.
He stood up and went to reception. Behind the boy on the other side of the glass partition was the red flag of the Salvation Army.
'Could I use the phone, please?'
The boy scowled at him. 'If it's a local call, yes.'
'It is.'
The boy pointed to a narrow office behind him, and he entered. Sat down at the desk and contemplated the telephone. He thought of his mother's voice. How concerned and frightened it could be, and gentle and warm at the same time. It was like an embrace. He stood up, closed the door to reception and punched in the number of Hotel International. She wasn't there. He didn't leave a message. The door opened.
'You're not allowed to close the door,' the boy said. 'OK?'
'OK. Sorry. Have you got a telephone directory?'
The boy rolled his eyes, pointed to a thick book beside the phone and left.
He found Jon Karlsen and Gøteborggata 4, and dialled the number.
Thea Nilsen contemplated the ringing telephone.
She had locked herself in Jon's flat with the key he had given her.
They said there was a bullet hole somewhere. She had searched and found it in the cupboard door.
The man had tried to shoot Jon. To kill him. The thought made her strangely agitated. Not frightened at all. At times she thought she would never be frightened again, not like that, not about that, not about dying.
The police had been here, but they hadn't spent much time looking. No clues apart from the bullets, they had said.
In the hospital she had listened to Jon breathing in and out as he gazed at her. He had looked so helpless there in the large hospital bed.
As though all she had to do was place a pillow over his face and he would be dead. And she had liked that, seeing him weak. Perhaps the schoolteacher in Hamsun's
Victoria
was right: for some women their need to feel sympathy made them hate their strong, healthy men and in secret they wished their husbands were cripples and dependent on their kindness.
But now she was alone in his flat and the telephone was ringing. She looked at her watch. It was the middle of the night. No one would ring now. No one with honest intentions. Thea was not afraid to die. But she was afraid of this. Was it her, the woman Jon thought she knew nothing about?
She took two paces towards the phone. Paused. The fourth ring. It would stop after five. She hesitated. Another ring. She surged forward and picked up the receiver.
'Yes?'
It was quiet for a moment at the other end. Then a man spoke in English. 'Sorry for calling so late. My name is Edom. Is Jon there?'
'No,' she said with relief. 'He's in hospital.'
'Ah, yes, I heard about what happened today. I'm an old friend and would like to visit him. Which hospital is he in?'
'Ullevål.'
'Ullevål.'
'Yes. I don't know what the department is called in English – it's
Neurokirurgisk
in Norwegian. But there's a policeman sitting outside the room and he won't let you in. Do you understand what I'm saying?'
'Understand?'
'My English . . . it's not very . . .'
'I understand perfectly. Thank you very much.'
She put down the receiver and stood rapt in thought for a long time.
Then she resumed her search. They had said there were several bullet holes.
* * *
He told the boy in reception at the Hostel that he was going for a walk and handed him the room key.
The boy glanced at the clock on the wall showing a quarter past twelve and told him to keep the key. He explained that he was going to lock up and go to bed soon, but the room key also opened the front door.
The cold assaulted him as soon as he was outside, biting and scratching. He lowered his head and began to stride out with purpose. This was risky. Definitely risky. But he had to do it.
Ola Henmo, the works manager at Hafslund Energi, sat in the control room at the load dispatch centre in Montebello, Oslo, thinking how great it would be to smoke while keeping an eye on the forty screens scattered around the room. During the day there were twelve people in here, but at night just three. They usually sat at their own workstations, but tonight the cold outside seemed to have driven them around one desk in the middle of the room.
Geir and Ebbe were arguing about horses, as always, and the V75 racing results. For eight years they had been doing that, and it had never occurred to them to place separate bets.
Ola was more concerned about the substation in Kirkeveien between Ullevålsveien and Sognsveien.
'Thirty-six per cent overload on T1. Twenty-nine per cent on T2 to T4,' he said.
'Christ, the way people are stoking up out there,' Geir said. 'Are they frightened of freezing to death? It's night-time. Why don't they snuggle up under the duvet? Sweet Revenge for the third? Are you out of your mind?'
'Folks don't turn down the heating because of that,' Ebbe said. 'Not in this country. They chuck money out the window.'
'It's going to end in tears,' Ola said.
'No, it won't,' Ebbe said. 'We'll just pump up more oil.'
'I'm thinking about T1,' Ola said, pointing to the screen. 'It's on six hundred and eighty amps now. Full capacity is five hundred nominal load.'
'Relax,' Ebbe managed to get in a second before the alarm went off.
'Oh shit,' Ola said. 'There she blows. Check the list and ring the guys on duty.'
'See,' Geir said. 'T2's down too. And T3 just went.'
'Bingo!' shouted Ebba. 'Shall we have a bet on whether T4—'
'Too late. She just blew,' Geir said.
Ola ran his eye over the small-scale map. 'OK,' he sighed. 'Power's gone in lower Sogn, Fagerborg and Bislett.'
'Bet you I know what's happened!' Ebbe said. 'A thousand on cable sleeving.'
Geir screwed up one eye: 'Meter transformer. And five hundred's enough.'
'Cut that out now,' Ola growled. 'Ebbe, ring the fire station. I bet there's a fire up there.'
'Agreed,' Ebbe said. 'Two hundred?'
When the light went out in the hospital room the darkness was so total that Jon's first thought was that he had gone blind. The optic nerve must have been damaged in the collision and the effect was only apparent now. But then he heard shouting from the corridor, made out the outline of the window and realised that the electricity was down.
He heard the chair scrape outside and the door swung open.
'Hello, are you there?' a voice said.
'Yes,' Jon answered at a higher pitch than he had intended.
'I'll just walk around and see what has happened. Don't go anywhere, OK?'
'No, but . . .'
'Yes?'
'Haven't they got an emergency generator?'
'I think they're for operating theatres and surveillance cameras.'
'I see . . .'
Jon listened to the policeman's footsteps fading away as he stared at the green illuminated exit sign over the door. The sign reminded him of Ragnhild again. That had also started in the dark. After eating they had gone for a walk in pitch-black Frogner Park and stood in the deserted square by the monolith looking eastwards to the city centre. And he had told her the story about how Gustav Vigeland, the singular artist from Mandal, had made it a condition of his decorating the park with sculptures that the park should be extended so that the monolith would be symmetrical in relation to the surrounding churches, and the main gate directly facing Uranienborg church. When the town council representative had explained that they could not move the park, Vigeland had demanded that the churches should be moved.
She had just looked at him with a serious expression while he was talking, and it had run through his mind that this woman was so strong and intelligent that she frightened him.