“I believe more fault lies with the fiddle than the fiddler.”
Solveig shook her head. “I’m no fiddler.”
“I could teach you.”
She caught her lower lip between her teeth.
He took another step. “Would you like that?” His smile was beguiling.
Solveig felt herself slipping—perhaps into his eyes, perhaps into the promise of his music. She didn’t know. She didn’t care.
“Think about it,” Riis said. “You can give me your answer tomorrow.” With that he turned and disappeared back into the trees.
The next day, after finishing her late-day chores, Solveig sat on a bench in front of the cabin. She felt secure here, leaning against the old log building as it leaned against the mountain. It was too late in the day to worry about any family visitors.
Maybe, she thought, Jørgen Riis won’t want to come across the meadow and show himself at the cabin. But before long she heard his hardingfele singing hello from the trees beyond the clearing. Riis appeared with his fiddle beneath his chin, playing a lively tune. With perfect timing, he stopped in front of her just as he bowed the final note.
Solveig pressed a hand over her chest, the music still quivering in her bone marrow. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
He grinned and made a courtly bow. “I said I would, Solveig.”
“You know my name?”
“I heard one of the men who came here yesterday call you that.”
So Riis had been watching even then? He’d seen Father and Gustav visit, but hadn’t shown himself? Daylight provided her first good look at the fiddler, and she tried to gauge his secrets. His clothes were plain—heavy shoes, wool trousers, white shirt, a knit sweater inexpertly darned. But his eyes … his eyes were the color of the fjord on a sunny day. She had to look away.
“May I sit?” He gestured to the bench.
She nodded. He settled beside her, and seemed comfortable with the silence between them. Finally she asked, “Where do you come from?”
“Higher up the mountain.”
“Higher?” She frowned, perplexed. “At a seter?”
He smiled, leaning on his forearms. “No. Just a little stone cottage up among the cliffs.”
Every tale Solveig had ever heard of men who escaped personal or legal trouble by hiding themselves high in the mountains flashed through her memory. “Why are you living up the mountain?”
“I don’t always live there. I’m a wanderer.”
Like Uncle Erik, Solveig thought. Like I might have been, had I been born a man. “You’re not from around here.”
“No. But I always come back to Hardanger.” He shrugged. “This area is the richest source of fiddle tunes. My grandfather built the cottage years ago, and my father first took me there when I was a boy. I loved the wildness, the solitude. This summer I decided to stay there.”
“Why?” She watched a brown hare hop into the meadow, freeze, hop on.
“To listen. And to play music.” Riis patted his hardingfele.
“But … someone of your skill should surely be spending the summer playing for audiences, not hiding away.”
“I play in the winter, enough to earn my keep. I need the summer for myself.” He shrugged without apology. “People can be exhausting, don’t you think?”
She did, although she wasn’t sure if she should admit it.
“The last time I played, at a big dance near Odda, several men broke up the party.” His tone remained light, but his narrow face took on hard lines. “It wasn’t the first time someone tried to tell me that my fiddling is the devil’s mischief.”
Solveig thought of all the times she’d heard her father rail against dance and music and hard drink. She thought of her mother turning away, disagreeing but never arguing.
“It isn’t,” Riis added fiercely. “The music comes from in here.” He tapped his chest. “And it comes from out there.” He swept one arm open wide to embrace the mountains’ grandeur. “I think you understand that.” He leaned back against the wall. “Although I’d like to hurl your wretched fiddle off the closest cliff.”
“I’m lucky to have it,” Solveig retorted. “It belonged to my uncle, and to his grandfather before that. But it’s been hidden up here for years. Nobody knows I have it.”
“Your secret is safe. But if you want to play well, you need a new fiddle.”
Solveig thought of the coins she’d saved, hidden away in hopes of one day escaping the farm. Did she have enough to purchase a fiddle? She eyed Riis’s instrument. Not one like his, which had obviously been made by a master. Perhaps a simpler instrument—
Abruptly, she came to her senses. “I can’t really play, ever. Women don’t. And my father—”
“None of that matters.” He impatiently waved her words away. “Here.” He offered his fiddle.
She was afraid to take it … but she couldn’t resist. The wood felt warm in her hands.
“Take the bow.”
She accepted his bow in her right hand, and raised the fiddle.
“Not against your arm. Try it on your shoulder, under your chin … yes. Just so. Now, play. Play anything. Get to know the instrument.”
It occurred to Solveig belatedly that she had not, in fact, given Jørgen Riis permission to teach her. Her father’s harsh voice echoed somewhere in the back of her mind. She almost balked.
But somehow the bow slid across the melody strings. The tone was haunting and rich. She glanced at Jørgen, saw only encouragement in his blue eyes … and she knew she was done for.
“You are a quick learner.” Jørgen smiled, and tiny lines fanned from the corner of his eyes.
They were sitting in front of the seter cabin as the sky faded toward night. Solveig lowered his fiddle, more pleased than she could remember. He’d been visiting every evening for a week now. Already she felt more confident. “It is a joy to play such a fine instrument. Where did you get it?”
“I made it.”
“You did?” It hadn’t occurred to her that such a skilled musician might also be a superb craftsman.
“My father taught me when I was a boy.” He shrugged. “I don’t make fiddles as some do, dozens and dozens a year just to sell. I won’t make a fiddle for someone without a musician’s heart.”
“Did your father teach you to play as well?”
“He did.”
Solveig wanted to ask more questions, for there was still much that she didn’t know about Jørgen Riis. What she did know was that winter was creeping closer day by day, and that would bring an end to her fiddle lessons. She would soon have to leave the seter, and surely he wouldn’t spend the dark months of blizzards alone on the mountain. She tried to smile, and handed back his fiddle. “Thank you for the lesson.”
Jørgen stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles, and shoved hair away from his forehead. The gesture was already familiar. Astonishingly, many things about Jørgen already seemed familiar: the long nimble fingers, the sparkle in his eyes when she did well, the way he tipped his head when hearing night sounds, the faraway look on his face when he played, the smoky-sweet scent of him …
He reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
“I’m so grateful to you.” The words burst from her. “For teaching me. I’ve longed to play the fiddle since I was a girl, but I never dreamed I’d have the chance.”
“It’s so silly. The idea that women shouldn’t play the hardingfele, I mean.”
“It’s not just that.” Solveig cupped her elbows, watching the cows graze. Jørgen had done nothing to encourage secrets, but she felt a need to explain. “My father is one of those who believes the fiddle is the devil’s instrument. If he knew that I … well. He must never know. So you see, it will all come to an end when I go back down the mountain.”
Wind sighed d
own the slope, rustling the meadow grasses. Jørgen said simply, “I’m sorry.”
“I am too.” Her voice caught in her throat. She wouldn’t have missed these visits from Jørgen for anything in the world. But now that she knew how it felt to play such a fine hardingfele, and to listen as he played just for her and the cows and the night birds … how could she return to her father’s house?
“What do you yearn for?” Jørgen asked.
The question surprised her, and her eyebrows arched as she considered. “To play well.” She wanted to lose herself in the music, forgetting all sorrows. She wanted listeners to do the same.
And she wanted to spend more time with Jørgen. “What do you yearn for?”
“I want to learn from fiddlers who come from different places. Different traditions.” He rubbed his chin pensively. “I’ve been thinking of going to America.”
The mention of America made Solveig’s heart skitter like a tumbling leaf. “I’ve thought of emigrating too. I’ve been saving money, but I don’t have nearly enough.” She gave a little shrug, trying to suggest that it didn’t really matter.
Jørgen studied her. Then he touched her face again, tracing the curve of her cheekbone. Solveig raised her palm and trapped his hand against her face. She felt the heat of him. Her skin tingled.
“You know,” he said, “there are many ways to make music.”
She felt a teetering sensation, as if she stood dizzy on the edge of a mountain cliff. She was twenty-four years old and had decided long ago that no man was meant for her. But Jørgen’s astonishing appearance in her life made her reconsider.
“Solveig,” he said hoarsely, “let’s go inside.”
When Solveig woke the next morning, Jørgen was gone.
A flash of disappointment was almost immediately replaced with an intangible joy. Life suddenly felt luscious, ripe with promise. She had met the man she wanted to marry.
Then her contentment seeped away. Jørgen had said nothing about marriage. He was a wanderer, letting music shape his days. She had no reason to believe he had room for her in his life. Had she been a fool?
Worse than that! her father thundered.
She curled into a ball, considering. She didn’t know how much time she’d have with Jørgen … but he’d already given her more happiness than she’d ever imagined. However things ended, she could not regret a moment spent with him.
With that resolve she stretched and threw off the blankets, shivering as her bare feet hit the floor. The cows and goats were waiting. After dressing quickly, she stamped into shoes and headed for the door.
Humming, her mind on other things, she almost stepped on the gift left on the front step. “Oh!” She blinked at the wooden mangle, embellished with detailed fish and flowing vines. Her initials were carved at one end. Such mangles, once used to iron linens, were old-fashioned betrothal gifts.
For an instant she thought Jørgen had left it for her. She was reaching for the board when she saw the small initials carved by the handle: GN.
GN. Fish. Of course. Gustav Nyhus, fisherman.
She snatched her hand away and studied the meadow. When a man left a mangle for a woman he usually waited, crouched behind a woodpile or thicket, to see if she accepted his proposal by taking it inside. She saw no sign of anyone.
When had Gustav left the offering? The mangle had definitely not been on the front step when she and Jørgen had gone inside the night before. Had Gustav started his hike before dawn that morning, wanting to come and go and still salvage some time with his nets on the fjord?
And … when had Jørgen left? Dear God, what if Gustav had seen Jørgen leave her cabin with fiddle case in hand? What if Gustav was even now hurrying down to tell her father? Solveig’s mouth went dry. She pressed one hand against her chest, trying to calm her racing heart. Trying not to panic.
Then she tamped it down. Gustav wouldn’t have left the mangle if he knew that she’d not spent the night alone. She remembered the loneliness in Gustav’s eyes, imagined him creeping to the cabin, still hopeful. She was sorry to disappoint him—again.
But I will not marry Gustav Nyhus, she thought. Most especially after last night. She picked up the mangle and leaned it gently against the front of the cabin.
She spent much of the day roaming the woods with a burlap sack, gathering fodder. When she returned to the meadow, the mangle was gone.
That evening she waited for Jørgen by the waterfall. He found her just as deep blue shadows began stretching across the mountain. She’d been watching, but still jumped when he stepped silently from the trees, holding his fiddle case. He grinned and kissed her, and by the time he stepped away she was shivering with pleasure.
Jørgen sat on the flat rock by the pool and opened his case. “I want to teach you a new tune.”
“Before that—I need to talk about something.” Solveig settled down and told him about Gustav and the mangle.
“You’re not going to marry him?” Jørgen’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp.
“No.” Solveig shifted as the stone’s cold leached through her skirt. “I will have to leave, though. Find work in Bergen.”
Jørgen drew up his legs and wrapped his arms around his knees as if he felt the chill, too. For a long moment only the waterfall’s constant song filled the evening. Finally he said, “You should go to America.”
She caught her breath.
“That is …” he amended, “we should go to America.”
Yes, yes, yes, she wanted to say. But it was not so simple. “I don’t have enough money for the passage.”
“The same is true with me. And autumn is not the time to make the trip. But I plan to go to Kristiania for the winter.”
“Kristiania?” she echoed, dismayed. That city was much farther away than Bergen.
“There are more opportunities for me there. I’ll play as many dances and concerts as I can, and travel if I need to. If you get work in Bergen, we should be able to leave in the spring.”
“But … how will I know where you are?”
Jørgen nodded as if he’d anticipated the question. “Every Midsummer I play for a big dance held at Tollef’s Danseplass, near Kinsarvik. We can meet there. From Kinsarvik it’s just a two-day trip to England by steamer. From there we can arrange passage to America.”
Solveig had dreamed of leaving Norway for years. Still, the reality was overwhelming. “America is big.”
“I have a friend there who’ll help us. A fiddler. He lives in a place called Stoughton, Wisconsin. There are many Norwegian people there.” Jørgen picked up a small stone and tossed it into the pool.
Solveig waited, pinching and unpinching her skirt, wondering if he had anything else to say.
Finally he asked, “Will you come with me?”
“I want to. But there is something you have not mentioned.” She moistened her lips with her tongue. “Marriage.” Jørgen was the only person she could ever love. She was willing to leave her mother and sisters, eager to leave her father and the farm, excited about the prospect of emigrating. But she was not willing to do all of those things if he was unwilling to wed.
He leaned close and kissed her temple. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “I have gone about this badly. Of course we will marry. But you must let me propose in my own way.”
Solveig wasn’t sure what that meant, but it was enough. She leaned against him, savoring his smoke-sweat scent, lulled by the waterfall, trying to imagine life as a fiddler’s wife.
Twenty-Eight
So this is what it means to be a dancer’s spouse, Roelke thought as—against his better judgment—they set out on the road. After taking the ferry to Kinsarvik they followed a narrow lane that wound up a mountain. Nothing about his driving-in-Norway experience advocated throwing caution to the proverbial wind. They’d get there when they got there. He braked on a turn and
was relieved to feel Reverend Brandvold’s old sedan respond. He’d been gently testing the brakes ever since they left Utne. Evidently he was still a bit freaked.
“I think this is it.” Chloe pointed ahead. There was no sign for Tollef’s Danseplass, but two dozen or so cars were lined up in a mowed field.
He pulled off and parked. “So, where’s the dance?” All he saw was a family on a path that disappeared into the trees. A little boy ran ahead while a little girl rode on her father’s shoulders.
Chloe checked her directions. “It’s a short walk from here.” She unclicked her seat belt and grabbed her daypack.
“‘Short’ is a relative term in Norway.” As Roelke got out of the car, though, he ordered himself to quit grousing. Chloe had worn her hair loose, and she looked especially lovely. She’d traded jeans for a red blouse and full denim skirt, too. She was looking forward to this.
His job was to make sure that no one harmed her. He felt the way he did when serving a warrant to someone likely to start shooting—tense, hyper-alert. He wasn’t letting Chloe out of his sight.
After crossing the field the trail ascended, of course, but soon the strains of a rollicking tune reached through the trees, and they emerged into a clearing.
Chloe stopped, hands clasped joyfully. “Oh, look!”
Dancers young and old already crowded the wooden floor. On a raised platform at the far end, two young men bowed fiddles and a grinning woman played an accordion. Onlookers had settled into folding lawn chairs, or were munching goodies from picnic hampers. Two little blond girls were blowing bubbles.
Torstein and Ellinor beckoned from a bench they’d claimed near the trailhead. Torstein wore his fancy bunad but still looked like hell, Roelke thought. His cheeks seemed hollow. Dark smudges showed beneath his eyes. But of course it had only been a few days since his girlfriend, Klara, had been killed.
As if reading Roelke’s thoughts Torstein said, “I almost didn’t come.”
“We’re glad you did,” Ellinor said.
“Good thing you could get away from the museum, Ellinor,” Roelke said. “We stopped by this morning, and the place was hopping.”
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