by Holt, Anne
“Sometimes you really are so childish, Billy T.,” Tone-Marit said angrily, fiercely drying her cheek.
12.30, PMO
She couldn’t settle properly. In many ways, it seemed like spreading gossip, and nothing could be more foreign to her. She had worked as secretary to the Prime Minister for eleven years, and her lifestyle reflected her responsibilities: she was quiet and circumspect, with no indulgences and a social circle smaller than most. Plenty of people had tried to pump her for information over the years – friends and acquaintances, and a journalist or two – but she was well aware of how she should conduct herself. The post had its own code of honor. Even if everybody else disregarded old-fashioned conventions, she would not betray her ideals.
The uncertainty had been painful to endure. For several days she had mulled it over, without coming any closer to a decision about what she should do. She was no longer entirely certain what had persuaded her. Perhaps it had been her friend’s genuine despair and confusion. Probably, though, it was knowing that the disloyalty she was about to disclose was many times more reprehensible than the indiscretion she would be committing by confiding everything in the Prime Minister.
Tryggve Storstein had been attentive and obliging, and had thanked her with a warmth in his voice that contrasted sharply with the discouraged, almost sorrowful expression that had crossed his face when she had stepped back through the door, still not convinced that she had done the right thing.
She liked the new Prime Minister. Of course, it was too early to say for sure, and nor did she wish to have a definite view about whether she liked her boss or not. But it was impossible not to feel comfortable in his company. Although he could appear absent-minded, almost out of place behind the massive, curved desk where he sat with a constant frown and the fleeting, odd and embarrassed little tug on his mouth when he cleared his throat or asked her about something. Usually he fetched everything for himself. It was as though he found it awkward to have servants; he had admitted as much one day when they had bumped into each other at the coffee machine in the kitchen: “I feel so stupid when someone does this sort of thing for me. People ought to be able to make and fetch coffee for themselves.”
Her friend had actually wept. She had whispered and sobbed quietly, her flame-red nails dancing nervously like big, spot-less ladybirds across her face as she stutteringly blurted out what was on her mind. When she had approached her, it was because she too felt totally bewildered, and because Wenche Andersen was not only an old friend, but also in a position of some authority; if not formally, then at least by virtue of her experience and competence. Her friend had only worked in the Minister of Health’s office for four years. In fact, she had got the job on Wenche Andersen’s recommendation, which added to her sense of responsibility.
“He was very pleased that we told him,” she reassured her in a low voice on the phone, but she put the receiver down abruptly when one of the undersecretaries entered.
Prime Minister Storstein had explicitly asked that the episode not be mentioned to anyone else. That had been on Friday, and since then nothing had happened. Not as far as Wenche Anderson knew at any rate, and that was probably as it should be.
The phone rang again as soon as she replaced the receiver.
“Prime Minister’s office.”
It was the car leasing company. She listened attentively for several seconds.
“Put it in a plastic bag, and whatever you do, don’t touch it any more than you already have. Drive it across to the police station immediately. Ask for Tone-Marit Steen. Steen, yes. With two ‘e’s. I’ll phone and let them know you’re on your way.”
The pass. They had found Birgitte Volter’s pass. It had been lying trapped in a crevice of the seat in one of the government limousines, and had not turned up until today’s thorough vacuuming.
Wenche Andersen lifted the receiver once again to contact the pleasant young officer who had interviewed her what now seemed like eons ago. As she dialed the number, she noticed her hands. It looked as if everything but the skin had shriveled; the skin itself lay in delicate folds, but the tendons and tissue beneath appeared to have lost all their strength. As Wenche Andersen slowly stroked the back of her hand, it struck her for the first time in ages that she was growing older.
Yet again she felt that stab, the longing to turn back the clock.
13.00, SECURITY SERVICE SECTION, OSLO POLICE STATION
“If we bring him before the court now, all hell will break loose, don’t you understand that?”
Severin Heger had never raised his voice to his boss before, but right now he was desperate.
“If this gets out, then we will have burned all our bridges! I’ve never heard of anyone managing to process a remand application without the press getting hold of it. For God’s sake, Hermansen, you’re worried enough about things leaking out downstairs in this building, but that’s nothing compared to what happens in a courtroom.”
The Security Service Chief began thrusting his lower jaw back and forth, making a clicking noise – a bad habit his wife thought she had managed to wean him off several years earlier. Then he started crunching his teeth together from side to side. He was ruminating so intently that it sounded as though he might literally crack up.
“I appreciate your point,” he mumbled, tearing at a corner of the desk blotter. “But we can’t hold him without a custody order. He’s been languishing here since Saturday morning as it is, and strictly speaking, we can’t keep him beyond today.”
Severin Heger clasped his hands and tried to sit still.
“Can’t we ask one of the permanent judges?” he asked quietly. “One of the ones we usually use. And then we can process the custody hearing quietly some time late this evening, when the courthouse is empty.”
Ole Henrik Hermansen gazed at a spider constructing a beautiful abode in a corner of the ceiling by the door. The enthusiastic insect rushed to and fro, then suddenly hung in mid-air, held by a thread so gossamer-fine that it was invisible to the naked eye. A midge was battling for its life in the center of the web, to no avail, as the spider had caught sight of it and was approaching threateningly, climbing its imperceptible, self-built funicular.
“Spring will be here soon,” the Security Service Chief grunted. “I’ll see what I can arrange. We can’t choose our judges, Severin. But we can go through the documents with a fine-tooth comb. I’ll ring the Chief Justice and see what I can do with regard to the timing. Late afternoon would at least be better than now.”
“You really must manage to fix it,” Severin Heger said, leaving his boss’ office to prepare the paperwork.
16.03, PMO
Tryggve Storstein had not yet settled in to his new office. There was not a single personal item in the spacious, rectangular room overlooking the city. Not even a photograph of his wife and children. Not even a coffee cup with “Dear Dad” or “Good Boy” on it. Even though he was entitled to both. At least, his children thought so; but the mug with “World’s Greatest Dad” in green writing on an orange background was lying inside the drawer marked “Private”. He did not feel comfortable; this did not feel like his domain. Not the office. Not the job. Not all these people running around who were supposed to be his administrative “machinery”. The office was too large, the view over the checkered clamor of the city too splendid. It made him dizzy. However, he had accepted, and he had meant it. He was the right person for this job, even though the suits so far had seemed too roomy, and he sometimes floundered, getting his wife to knot three ties in readiness for him every Sunday night. He would get used to everything. He just needed enough time. Who knew, he might even get used to nobody any longer using his first name.
“Send her in,” he muttered into the intercom when Wenche Andersen quietly declared that the Health Minister had arrived.
“Tryggve!”
Trotting determinedly across the floor toward him, she opened her arms for a hug. He avoided this by sitting down to concentrate on some
insignificant papers. He did not look up until she was seated.
“I think you know why I want to speak to you,” he said, looking up without warning.
Ruth-Dorthe Nordgarden had never noticed Tryggve Storstein’s eyes before. They made contact with hers like an unexpected shower of arrows. They were unpleasant, candid; for some reason he no longer had that half-sad, half-embarrassed fold above his eyes that meant you did not fix too specifically on his actual gaze or the eyes inside those deep hollows. He had changed. His eyes were his face now. A wide, green-gray expression of something she reluctantly – but immediately – recognized: open and undisguised contempt.
A blush of shame spread through her; she felt it prickling the skin on her hands, and without wanting to, she fell into her very worst nervous habit: scratching her neck.
“What do you mean?”
Ruth-Dorthe forced a smile, but the nerves in her face would not cooperate, contorting her mouth into a revealing grimace; he understood that.
“Let’s not make this unnecessarily awkward, Ruth-Dorthe,” he said, getting to his feet.
Taking up position beside the window, he spoke to his own reflection in the glass, the reinforced pane with a greenish tint that was supposed to protect him from external attack. He gave a thin smile, since it had not helped Birgitte one iota.
“Do you know what the point is of being a politician?” he asked. “Have you ever stopped and asked yourself what’s the purpose of it all?”
She did not move a muscle. He watched her reflection, frozen stiff except for her hand running up and down her slender neck; up and down.
“You should at least have done that. I’ve observed you for a long time, Ruth-Dorthe. Longer than you have observed me. I’ve never liked what I’ve seen. That hasn’t been much of a secret, either.”
All at once, he wheeled round and looked at her, trying to make eye contact. But she couldn’t even manage that, just stared intently at a point on the side of his shoulder.
“You don’t have any ideals, Ruth-Dorthe. I wonder if you ever have. That is dangerous. Without ideals, we lose sight of the actual aim – the fundamental reason for getting involved in politics. Damn it all, you’re a member of the Labor Party!”
Now he raised his voice, his cheeks inflamed and his eyes even larger.
“What is it we really stand for? Can you answer me that?”
Leaning forward, he placed his hands on her armrest, with his face now only thirty centimeters from hers. She could smell the faint fragrance of his aftershave, but she did not want to look. Could not manage to, or bear to.
“The public out there – voters, the majority, call them what you will – why should they vote for us rather than anyone else? Because we want to distribute wealth, Ruth-Dorthe. We’re no longer revolutionaries. We’re not even particularly radical. We manage a market-driven society, and enjoy a good quality of life in an international arena largely controlled by capital. That is fine by us. A great deal has changed. Perhaps we should even change our name. But what …”
She could feel the warmth of his face; microscopic droplets of spittle sprayed over her flushed countenance and she blinked repeatedly but did not dare turn away.
“Fairness,” he whispered. “A reasonable, fair division of all that milk and honey floating around out there. That can never …”
Abruptly, he drew himself up to his full height, as though he had suddenly felt a pain in his back.
At the window, he turned around again. Darkness was creeping across the city; together with the rain, it had lain in wait behind the Østmark hills, biding its time until evening. Two cars had collided on Akersgata, and he saw angry figures waving their arms, and an impatient bus trying to mount the sidewalk in order to drive past.
“We can never achieve total fairness,” he said bluntly. “Never. But being able to do something, trying to level things out … Have you ever been to the East End?”
He looked at her reflection in the glass; her complexion had acquired a greenish hue.
“Have you even been out there? Have you visited an immigrant family in Tøyen with five children and a toilet on the landing and rats as big as kittens in the basement? And then gone over there …”
He waved the palm of his hand toward the western hill.
“… and seen what their living conditions are like?”
Ruth-Dorthe had to bite the inside of her cheek to avoid breaking down entirely. She continued to blink, all of a sudden aware that her left hand was on the verge of seizing up with cramp, her knuckles livid as she tried to release her grip on the chair arm.
“You don’t often have the time,” Tryggve Storstein said.
His tone had altered, and softened, as though he were talking to an obstinate little child who needed a fatherly admonition.
“All too seldom do we have time to consider why. Why we keep going. But now and again we need to make time.”
Without warning, his voice shifted yet again as he sat down heavily in his own office chair, and his words lashed across the desktop.
“You’re in politics for yourself, Ruth-Dorthe. For your personal benefit. You are deadly. You don’t think about others. Not about the party, and not about most other people. Only yourself.”
She could not endure this. Her life was about to collapse around her; it was like standing in an earthquake zone, not knowing whether the ground was secure under her feet, or if an abyss would open in the next second. She would not put up with this. Furious, she thrust herself forward across the desk, grabbing a paperweight and hefting it threateningly.
“Now you’re really overstepping the mark,” she hissed. “Don’t forget that I’m the Deputy Leader of—”
He burst out laughing, throwing his head back with a loud guffaw. “And it’s a mystery how that came about.”
“But—”
“Shut up!”
She sank back into her seat, still holding the paperweight, clutching it tightly, clinging to the bulky cobalt glass ornament as if it were her last chance for something or other, she did not quite know what.
“You are a fool,” Tryggve Storstein said, his voice dripping with contempt. “Don’t you know anything about modern appliances? Didn’t you know that a fax machine keeps a record of all communications, and stores the numbers of all recipients?”
The room was whirling. What could she do? She had something on him. Didn’t she? Some old stories about his liaisons with women, something about an inheritance issue … She had heard something, she could look it up, throw it back at him, right in his face, he couldn’t do this, he mustn’t.
“You’re so egotistical that you don’t see other people, Ruth-Dorthe. You don’t understand them. They suddenly turn on you when you least expect it, because you never take the time to put yourself in other people’s shoes, to think about how they feel and how they experience the world. That’s why you can never be a politician. You’ve never been a politician. You desire power for its own sake. Power is your aphrodisiac. The problem is that you’re in love only with yourself. You can’t behave any differently, because you don’t like anyone else. Do you understand what you’ve done by leaking this commission report to Kveldsavisen?”
“But,” she ventured, in a dull, metallic voice, “I … It contained nothing but the truth!”
It seemed as though she had suddenly and surprisingly discovered a weapon, and she grasped it with both hands.
“But you’re afraid of the truth, you know, Tryggve. And you hate people like me, who actually believe we need greater press freedom … Yes, people like us who believe that free speech and an open society should mean more than franking ‘Withheld from the Public’ on government documents!”
He laughed uproariously, swiveling his chair to and fro, to and fro, chortling all the while.
“The truth! Are you so power-crazed and arrogant that you think you have the right to control access to the truth as if it were your own servant? Do you believe …”
Thr
owing back his head, he laughed hysterically.
“Do you believe the truth is something you can parcel out among your own press contacts, in order to get your back scratched now and again? I wondered about that, you see.”
Now he was no longer amused, his voice was trembling as he struggled not to shout.
“I wondered why someone like you – a disloyal, incompetent, unpopular and scheming character like you – was dealt with so incredibly lightly by the press. Why they haven’t hung you out to dry long ago has been something of a mystery. Not only to me. Now I know the reason why. You have paid them. Paid them with information. Huh!”
He stretched out his hand peremptorily.
“Give me that paperweight!”
She dropped her gaze, hesitating slightly, before setting it down, at the far edge of the desk. It was in danger of tipping onto the floor, and he had to rise from his seat in order to rescue it.
“I never thought … I never thought that I would have to instruct a minister in my own government about the fundamental democratic rules of the game. Don’t you understand, Ruth-Dorthe, that you are tasked with managing the Health Service on behalf of the Norwegian people? Instead, you have used your authority to pursue a personal vendetta against me. You leaked information to the press so that you could beat me by being first with statements, and so I would be caught off guard, totally ignorant. It’s such a crass breach of trust that … I simply don’t have words to describe it. A breach of my trust and a breach of the trust invested in you by the people on whose behalf you have been appointed to govern. And with these scraps of truth that you have allowed to leak out, you have succeeded in not only undermining confidence in the government and our credibility, but you have also contributed to the spread of fear and speculation. Fear and speculation! There you have your truth!”
He shut his eyes briefly, and his old face returned: the anxious, half-embarrassed expression was in place again. It gave her courage, and she tried afresh.
“But the truth can never be damaging! It is only by—”
“I’ll tell you something about the truth,” he said wearily, in a quiet voice. “Of course it should come out. Fully and completely. So I’ll give my report to Parliament. Not to the Akersgata press pack. They’ll receive everything, naturally, in the fullness of time, but Parliament is the appropriate forum for this extremely important matter. Only then can this be tackled with the … with the decorum a matter such as this demands. And in the meantime …”