So I hung up the telephone. I think I must’ve stood gazing at it for a while before I took myself to a café and sat down. I ordered a black coffee, and a bowl of ice cream, and I started to cry, and for the first time in my life Monica wasn’t there to stop me.
* * *
‘First time in Oslo?’ the driver asked for the second time.
‘No, I’ve passed through here before.’
‘Can get cold.’
‘Yes, who would have thought it in Norway?’
He stole another glance through his mirror; I could see lines of concentration scoring into his brow; he was desperately trying to place me.
‘Business or pleasure?’ he asked.
‘Neither.’
He laughed and geared down, pointing the car in the direction of the military academy. ‘So you’re not here for business and you’re not here for pleasure. That doesn’t leave you much to do in Oslo.’
‘Except for research,’ I said.
‘Well, I would have said that counted as business, but I suppose you could say—’
‘I’m Brigit Brenna.’
The car came to a screeching halt. I slammed my hand into the headrest to stop myself being pitched over the passenger seat. The air filled with the sound of car horns while the taxi driver adjusted the mirror so he could take a good long look at me. He scratched his nose, restarted the engine and we were moving again. He stayed quiet while I felt strangely empowered; I’d spent my whole life hiding myself as best I could. And now, after only a few hours away from my mother, I was shouting our wretched name from the rooftops.
‘So your father is—’
‘Yes, he is.’
‘The Traitor of Fólkvangr.’
People like to say it, even when they don’t have to.
‘Then can I ask you a question?’
‘I don’t imagine for a minute I can stop you.’
‘What business could you possibly have at the Resistance Museum?’
‘I’m looking for someone.’
‘Who?’
‘My father.’
‘Oh.’ He made a right turn and drove past the academy gardens.
‘The museum seemed like the best place to start.’
‘Right.’
‘And I can’t think of anywhere else to begin.’
‘Well, you may have come to the right place,’ he said, stopping the cab at the museum steps. ‘Head straight for the basement; there’s someone there who may be able to help you.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Most of Oslo knows; he’s something of an exhibit himself.’
I thanked him and dragged my luggage up the four stairs to the museum entrance. On the other side of the glass doors, a security guard told me that the museum wasn’t open to the public yet.
‘You’re looking for volunteers.’
He nodded. ‘What can you do?’
‘I can help.’
He rubbed his chin and then disappeared for a few minutes without saying a word. I waited, feeling the cold whip around my legs.
I was hopping from one foot to the other when he came back and opened the door. ‘No one here to speak to you, I’m afraid, but the old fella saw you on the monitor.’
‘The old fella?’
‘Says he’d like to talk to you.’ He moved aside so I could step past him. ‘I need to take your case though.’
My chest tightened and my mouth went dry.
‘Security,’ the guard said crisply. ‘There’s no need to worry; we’ll take good care of it.’
The further I walked from my old life, the more lost I became. I understood why Monica sometimes cried when we had to sell things so we could eat; everyone needs an anchor – her wedding band was hers, she was mine, and now all I had left of us was the suitcase.
A short and narrow flight of stairs led down to the basement, a large, dimly-lit floor space telling the story of Norway at war through a maze of picture-covered walls and glass cabinets filled with relics, sketches and photographs. One of the glass cases contained a model of the ship the Germans used to transport Norwegians to labour camps; another contained the striped tunics worn by the Norwegian Jews transported to their deaths. Every exhibit told a story of courage and sacrifice that left me numb. I should have felt more: anger, pride, sorrow; but it just seemed so far removed from me, or perhaps I believed that I’d already had been through my own share of suffering because of the war.
I wandered through history until I came across the shrine the curators had laid out for Fólkvangr. Unlike the rest of the floor, the Fólkvangr exhibit was lit to draw people to it. It was the penultimate exhibit you would see before leaving, a shining testament to those who were brave and true to Norway until the very end. Every name was there: Soren, Kolsberg, Von der Lippe, Staffe, Nilsen, Ohnstad…
My father’s picture hung on the wall of traitors, a black space next to the toilets and the exit. They’d placed him next to Quisling, his portrait illuminated in demonic red. There were score marks near the frame and across his neck; the picture had been attacked even before the museum had opened, yet no one had thought to replace it.
I looked up to see an ancient face staring at me, reflected in the glass. His skin was milk-white where it wasn’t mottled with liver spots. His eyes, dulled by misery, continued to stare at the back of my head as I moved away from my father’s portrait. He wore a plain brown suit and a brown tie, and he stood tall, which made me think that he was ex-military and not as old as he first appeared. I turned and headed back the way I’d come. I stopped and pretended to look at the equipment exhibit.
‘They used it for transporting secret messages.’ The old man tapped on the glass, and I looked down to see what he was pointing at: a long thin metal cylinder, polished to a mirror shine, and rounded at both ends.
‘Are you following me?’
‘You seemed a little lost.’ He smiled crookedly and turned his attention back to the exhibit. ‘Actually, I think you may be looking for me. Brigit, isn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘And you are…?’
He sniffed and tapped on the glass again. ‘Ingenious when you think about it.’
I looked at the cylinder. ‘Hiding messages in cigar cases?’
‘Where they hid the cigar cases, that’s the ingenious part.’
‘Oh.’
‘There were places even the Nazis were loath to search. Follow me.’ He limped away, one hand behind his back. I followed, strangely grateful for having someone to tell me what to do.
‘You still haven’t told me your name.’
‘I wondered if you’d ever come here. I wondered if either of you would ever have the courage.’ He stopped at a small wooden door that was almost hidden by a case containing the camp tunics. ‘You should have come sooner.’
I wanted to say that I couldn’t, that the place wasn’t open yet, but before I could speak he opened the door and disappeared inside. I followed him, and found myself in another part of the basement that was easily as large as the one I’d just left. Bundles of paper were tied and stacked up to the ceiling; ancient artefacts ranging from pens to jackboots lay scattered around the floor. The old man walked unsteadily to his desk which lay at the centre of the chaos. He sat heavily in his chair. Several books lay open on the desk, along with a dismantled Luger pistol. ‘I’ve been cataloguing this crap for five years,’ he said. ‘It just keeps coming in. You’d think the Nazis were here for centuries judging by the amount of shit they left behind.’ He started wheezing and I realised that the room had a cloying, damp feel about it.
‘I’m looking for my father.’
‘Well, he’s not here.’
‘He left the country. He wasn’t a clever man so I think someone helped him, maybe a sympathetic Norwegian, or maybe a German.’
The old man raised an eyebrow and made a show of dusting down his trousers. ‘He may not be alive.’
‘Oh, he’s alive. He has to be.’
He scratched his chin and a flurry of d
ead skin snowed down onto his desk.
‘I don’t know anything about him,’ I said, ‘but I need to learn everything there is to know if I’m going to find him.’
He looked at me through dull, wet eyes. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
I refused, through force of habit more than anything else.
He shrugged and produced a flask from somewhere by his feet. He placed it in front of him and switched on the table lamp, training the light on the disassembled Luger.
‘Do you know what they say about sleeping dogs, Miss Fossen?’
I had no idea what he was talking about.
‘So you want to change your life. And how will tracking down your father help with that?’
‘I don’t know. I just want to—’
‘You just want to find him so that Norway will punish him instead of you.’
Perhaps his eyes weren’t as clouded as they looked. ‘Who are you?’
He looked down the barrel of the assembled Luger and pulled the trigger. The click echoed around the chamber and died away. ‘I will not tell you.’ He picked up a pen and began scribbling something on a notepad. ‘But I have some things I keep at home which may help you.’ He thrust the paper in my direction. ‘Come tomorrow morning at ten o’clock. I will make you breakfast; you look like you need it.’
‘Is this a joke?’
‘Do I strike you as a joker?’ He waved the paper.
Of course I didn’t trust him. I couldn’t, but he was an old man and there was nothing between me and the door.
And besides, I could always scream.
I took a tentative step forward, and then another. I snatched the note from his hand.
‘Ten o’clock,’ he said, amused and making no attempt to hide it. ‘Do not be late.’
‘I’ll think about—’
‘One other thing; it’s probably best you do not ask anyone who I am.’
‘Really. And why would that be?’
‘Because if you knew my name, young lady, I’m not sure you’d come.’
* * *
There was an Astoria Hotel just a few miles north-east of the museum. It wasn’t cheap but I still had plenty of money from blackmailing Strande, even after I’d given half of it to Monica.
I ate alone in the hotel’s restaurant, just fish soup and a bread roll. I waited in the lobby until six and then tried to call her. She didn’t pick up, and I didn’t feel like trying again. I wandered into the bar, perched myself on the stool closest to the exit, and ordered a vodka and lime. The bar was empty except for a group of business types seated around a large coffee table. The men were trying too hard; the women smiled politely but looked bored. One of the older men caught me staring, a second of eye contact which his tiny mind translated into an invitation. He picked up his drink and slid across the room to stand next to me. I looked behind him, though I’m not sure why; I think I was expecting to see some sort of mucus trail.
‘You seem to be on your own,’ he said.
‘I prefer it that way, thank you.’
‘I don’t think you do. Why don’t you come and join us? We don’t bite.’
‘I’d rather not.’
He narrowed his eyes to get a better look at me. ‘Wait a minute. I know you.’
‘I don’t think you—’
‘Don’t say anything. I’ll have it in a second.’ He massaged the bridge of his nose while he sieved through his memory. His lips moved, apparently outside his control.
‘Look, I really should be leaving.’
‘You’re that Fossen woman, aren’t you?’
There seemed little point in denying it. I nodded and stepped down from my seat.
‘Then I insist! You really must come and join us.’ He smiled, a little too inanely, and tried to take my hand.
‘Come on. We’ve been stuck on a pipeline materials conference for almost a week. We don’t know each other and quite frankly, aside from tubular steel, we have nothing in common. Please, come over and take us out of ourselves. We won’t judge. I’m Tor, by the way. What shall I call you?’
‘Brigit is fine.’ I took him at his word and carried my drink to the other side of the bar, dangerously far from my only exit point. Monica would’ve spit rivets if she’d seen me.
‘Everyone, you will never believe who this.’
One of the women, a tall, rather round lady squeezed into a grey business suit, shrieked and leapt to her feet. ‘Oh my good God! You’re her, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am.’
‘Nicely done, Kirsten,’ said Tor.
Kirsten hopped out of the way and offered me her spot on the sofa. ‘I have never ever ever met an honest-to-god celebrity.’
‘Is that what you think I am?’
The others looked at each other, reached a silent majority and then looked back at me, nodding enthusiastically.
‘I can’t imagine what it must be like for you,’ said a young man with receding blonde hair, who was the only one not wearing a jacket. He smiled, or grimaced; I wasn’t sure which.
Then came the questions.
Do you blame your father?
Where is your mother?
What happened to your father?
Don’t you get tired of being hounded?
Are you actually being hounded though? I mean, we’re not hounding you, are we?
The surprising thing was that we only talked about me for five minutes. The conversation quickly turned to them and the shipwrecks they’d made of their lives. They hated their careers, all of them. They hated steel, especially steel shaped into cylinders, steel that would be used to move oil from one end of Norway to the other. I listened without saying much. They paid for all my drinks, which I felt a little guilty about because I still had plenty of money.
Harriet was a dark-skinned English woman in her early thirties, and I barely understood anything she said. She told me she was rich, the illegitimate daughter of a well-heeled gangster, and that she had ‘dropped out of Cambridge and wound up in pipes’. Every time I spoke she squeezed my knee and said, ‘You’re lovely, you are. Do you know how lovely you are?’ At first I thought she was attracted to me, but as the evening wore painfully on I realised she was just being patronising.
The other man was a watcher. He was grey, slim, in his fifties; he drank heavily, said nothing, but hung onto the few words I uttered when Harriet gave me the chance. I tried smiling at him once; he raised his glass, drained it and went to order more drinks.
The bartender closed up at around eleven, and alcohol withdrawal set in an hour later.
Half an hour after that, I struggled to my feet.
‘You’re not going?’ Kirsten was horrified. ‘We can find another bar.’
‘Thank you, but I can’t. Really.’
‘Oh come on! I thought that’s what you Norwegians did,’ said Harriet. ‘Get lubricated at home, then go out.’
Tor grumbled about the price of alcohol in Oslo.
Harriet said, ‘You like us, don’t you?’
‘Of course I like you.’ I wasn’t entirely sure.
‘Then come on!’
‘She can’t.’ It was the first thing the Watcher had said all evening.
‘My God, it speaks,’ said Tor.
The Watcher ignored him. ‘It could be dangerous, in a bar I mean. Someone might recognise her and…’ an appropriately delicate phrase eluded him at first ‘… take offence. Is that right, Brigit?’
I nodded. ‘Sorry.’
The Watcher finished his sixth whisky sour. Kirsten coughed, and Tor made a face like he was trying to eat his own teeth.
‘I’m going to call it a night. Thank you. Feels like years since I’ve spoken to anybody.’
Harriet tried one last time. ‘Evening’s still young.’
‘It’s past midnight.’ The Watcher didn’t like Harriet; I’d only just noticed it.
I said my goodbyes and shook hands. Harriet stood up to kiss me on the cheek.
I
staggered from the bar, picked up my room key from reception and made my way to the elevator. I stared blankly at the ‘call’ button, unable to remember what floor I was on. Not that it mattered: I couldn’t remember my room number either. While I fumbled in my skirt pocket for the room key, a hand with long, yellowed fingers reached over me to tap the ‘call’ button.
‘Hello,’ said the Watcher.
I smiled and tried to read the key fob in the dim light.
‘As you can see, we hate pipework.’
‘So you do.’ I peered at the key as though it were being deliberately obtuse.
‘It’s not the life any of us would have chosen.’
I said, ‘Amen to that,’ and he laughed, stopping suddenly to say, ‘Come back to my room. Sleep with me.’
It wasn’t that I was surprised he’d asked me; I was just taken aback by his… terseness. He stood frozen with his finger on the button and his eyes closed; he’d clearly surprised himself.
‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but I’m not planning on being anyone’s souvenir conquest. Not tonight.’
He opened his eyes. ‘It’s not like that.’
‘No? So tomorrow morning you won’t tell the others you fucked the Traitor’s daughter.’
He looked mortified, which was to his credit. The lift arrived and I stepped in. He followed and thumbed for the third floor. I pressed the button for the fifth.
‘I don’t normally—’
‘Do things like this. Yes, I know.’ I stared straight ahead.
‘I just wanted—’
‘To get laid.’
‘Company! I don’t know why I asked you like that. I’m so sorry.’ He drew his hands down his face. ‘God, I don’t even want to sleep with you.’
‘Then what the fuck do you want?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Just a friendly ear for a few hours.’
‘But you’ve said nothing all night.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I don’t like them, any of them. But I like you. Look, I’ve spent the last five years on the road, talking about metal pipes. I drove around Scandinavia while my wife was sleeping with my boss and my daughter was sleeping with everyone else. My boss is still my boss and my wife is now his wife. She’s happier than I’ve ever seen her, and my girl has stopped sleeping around because he’s a better father to her than I ever was.’
The Quisling Orchid Page 6