‘Actually, Peer Gynt didn’t open at the National Theatre. It was premiered at the Christiania Theatre.’
‘Oh. I’d presumed it was the same building that had simply changed its name?’
‘Sadly, the old Christiania Theatre is long gone. It was in Bankplassen, fifteen minutes or so away from here. It’s now a museum.’
I stared at Erik’s back as my mouth fell open in amazement. ‘Do you by any chance mean the Museum of Contemporary Art?’
‘I do. The Christiania Theatre was closed in 1899 and anything musical moved to the newly built National Theatre. Here,’ he said, handing me the photocopied sheets.
‘Well, I’m sure I’ve taken up far too much of your time, but thank you very much for seeing me.’
‘Before you leave, let me give you the email address of the curator at the Grieg museum. Tell him I sent you. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you far more than I have.’
‘Herr Edvardsen, I promise you, you’ve helped me very much indeed,’ I assured him as he scribbled down the email address then handed it to me.
‘Of course, even I bow to the fact that the fame of Grieg’s music for Peer Gynt has far outstripped that of the poem itself,’ he said with a smile as he led me towards the lift. ‘It’s become iconic across the world. Goodbye, Miss D’Aplièse. I’d love to know if you manage to solve the mystery. And I’m always here if you need any further help.’
‘Thank you.’
As I left the museum, I almost skipped back to the Grand Hotel. The coordinates from the armillary sphere finally made sense. And as I entered the Grand Café, which occupied the front corner of the hotel, I gazed at the original mural of Ibsen on the wall and knew for certain that somehow, Jens and Anna were part of my story.
Over lunch, I emailed the curator of the Grieg museum, as Erik had suggested. Then out of curiosity, I took a taxi to the site of the old Christiania Theatre. The Museum of Contemporary Art stood in a square behind a fountain that played in the centre of it. Modern art really wasn’t my thing, though I knew CeCe would love it, and I decided not to go in. Then I saw the Engebret Café across the square, walked towards it and pushed open the door.
Glancing around, I saw rustic wooden tables and chairs, which were just as I’d imagined from Jens’ description in the book. A distinctive smell – of stale alcohol, dust and the very faint odour of damp – pervaded the air. I closed my eyes and pictured Jens and his orchestral cohorts in here well over a century ago, spending long hours drowning their sorrows in aquavit. I ordered a coffee at the bar and drank the hot, bitter liquid, feeling frustrated that I couldn’t read any more of the story until the translator had sent me the rest of the book.
I left Engebret and, pulling out my map, decided to wander slowly back to the hotel, imagining Anna and Jens walking these very streets. The city had obviously grown since their day, but while parts of it were ultra-modern, many lovely old buildings remained. As I arrived back at the Grand Hotel, I decided that Oslo had an innate charm. There was something comforting about its compactness, and I felt very at home here.
Back in my room, I checked my emails and found that the curator of the Grieg museum had already responded:
Dear Miss D’Aplièse,
Yes, I am aware of Jens and Anna Halvorsen. Edvard Grieg was something of a mentor to both of them, as you may already know. I am here at Troldhaugen, just outside Bergen, from nine until four every day, and would be happy to meet you and help you with your research.
Yours sincerely,
Erling Dahl Jr
Having no idea where Bergen actually was, I googled a map of Norway and saw that it was up on the north-west coast, clearly a plane journey away. I hadn’t realised before just how vast the country actually was. There was another huge chunk of it continuing past Bergen, leading up towards the Arctic. I decided to book a flight for the following morning and emailed Mr Dahl back to say I’d be in Bergen by midday tomorrow.
It was just past six o’clock and still light outside. I imagined the long winters here when the sun disappeared after lunchtime and the snow fell heavily, blanketing everything it touched. And I mused on how my sisters had often commented that I seemed impervious to the cold, constantly opening windows to let in fresh air. I’d always thought I was simply used to it due to my sailing. But as I remembered Maia’s ability to take any level of heat and turn a sultry brown within the space of a few minutes, compared to my tendency to turn beetroot, perhaps winter was part of my heritage, as sunny climes were part of Maia’s?
My thoughts turned unbidden to Theo, as they always did when the night drew in. I knew he would have loved to accompany me on this journey, probably analysing my reactions to the situation every step of the way. As I climbed into the bed, which tonight felt far too big just for me, I wondered whether there would be anyone in my future who could possibly take his place. And I doubted there ever would be. Before I became maudlin, I set my alarm for seven o’clock the next morning, closed my eyes and tried to sleep.
24
The bird’s-eye view of Norway from the plane was simply glorious. Below me were dark green forests lining the sides of deep blue fjords, and shining white snow-capped mountains, forever frozen, even at the start of September. On arrival at Bergen airport, I jumped into a taxi and instructed the driver to take me straight to Troldhaugen, once Grieg’s home and now a museum. The view of the countryside from the busy dual carriageway was a blur of endless trees, but eventually we turned off the main road and drove up a narrow country lane.
The taxi drew up outside an enchanting pale-yellow clapboard villa and I paid the driver and climbed out, hoisting my rucksack over my shoulder. I stood for a few moments gazing up at its exterior, taking in the large picture windows with their green-painted frames, and the latticework balcony that jutted from the upper floor. A tower rose from one corner and the Norwegian flag flapped in the breeze from a tall pole.
I saw the villa was perched on a hillside overlooking a lake and was surrounded by grassy slopes and tall, majestic spruce trees. Marvelling at the tranquil beauty of the location, I walked inside a modern building that declared itself to be the entrance to the museum and introduced myself to the girl sitting behind the counter of the gift shop. As I asked her to tell the curator I was here, I looked down into the glass display case under the counter and caught my breath.
‘Mon Dieu!’ I murmured, the shock of what was staring up at me spinning me back to my mother tongue. There in the case was a row of small brown frogs identical to the one in Pa Salt’s envelope.
‘Erling, the curator, will be along in a moment,’ said the girl, replacing the receiver of the phone.
‘Thank you. Can I ask you why you’re selling these frogs in the gift shop?’
‘Grieg kept the original version with him at all times as a good luck talisman,’ the girl explained. ‘It sat in his pocket everywhere he went and he would kiss it goodnight before he slept.’
‘Hello, Miss D’Aplièse. I’m Erling Dahl. How was your flight here?’ An attractive silver-haired man had appeared beside me.
‘Oh, it was fine, thank you,’ I said, trying to gather my senses after the frog revelation. ‘And please, call me Ally.’
‘Okay, Ally. May I ask if you’re hungry? Rather than sitting in my cramped office, we could go next door to the café, grab a sandwich and talk there. You can leave your luggage with Else.’ He indicated the girl behind the counter.
‘That sounds perfect,’ I agreed, handing over my rucksack with a nod of thanks, then following him through a set of doors. The room we entered had walls made almost entirely of glass, allowing a breathtaking view of the lake through the trees. I took in the glistening expanse of water, dotted with tiny pine-fringed islands, before it receded to the distant shore on the misty horizon.
‘Lake Nordås is magnificent, is it not?’ said Erling. ‘Sometimes we forget how lucky we are to work in such a place.’
‘It’s amazing,’ I breathed. ‘You are inde
ed lucky.’
When we had ordered coffees and open sandwiches, Erling asked me how he could help. Once again, I pulled out the photocopies I’d taken of Pa Salt’s book and explained what I wanted to know.
He took the sheets and studied them. ‘I’ve never read this book, although I know the bones of what it contains. I’ve recently helped Thom Halvorsen, Jens and Anna’s great-great-grandson, with research for a new biography.’
‘Yes. I have it on order from the States. You actually know Thom Halvorsen?’
‘Of course. He lives only a few minutes’ walk from here and the musical world in Bergen is small. He plays violin in the Philharmonic Orchestra and has recently been promoted to assistant conductor.’
‘Then would it be possible to meet him?’ I asked as our sandwiches arrived.
‘I’m sure it would, yes, but presently he’s on tour in the States with the orchestra. They return in the next few days. So how far have you got in your research?’
‘I haven’t finished reading the original biography yet as I’m still waiting for the rest of the translation. I’ve reached the point where Jens has been asked to leave his family home and Anna Landvik has been offered the role of Solveig.’
‘I see.’ Erling smiled at me, then checked his watch. ‘Sadly, I don’t have the time to tell you anything further now as we have our lunchtime concert here in half an hour. But perhaps it’s best if you read the rest of Jens’ original words anyway, and we can talk when you have.’
‘Where is the concert?’
‘In our purpose-built hall, which we call Troldsalen. We have guest pianists here performing Grieg’s music throughout the summer months. Today the performance is the Piano Concerto in A Minor.’
‘Really? Then would you mind if I came along to listen?’
‘Not at all,’ he said, standing up. ‘Why don’t you finish your sandwich, then make your way across to the concert hall, while I go and make sure all is well with our pianist?’
‘I’d love to, thank you, Erling.’
After forcing down the rest of the sandwich, I followed the signs through the thickly wooded hillside to the building that nestled cosily within the pine trees. Once inside, I made my way down the steps of the steeply-raked auditorium and saw it was already two thirds full. The small stage, in the centre of which sat a magnificent Steinway grand piano, was framed by more huge glass windows, forming a stunning backdrop of fir trees and the lake beyond.
Shortly after I’d settled myself in a seat, Erling appeared on the stage with a slim, dark-haired young man who, even at a distance, was singularly striking in appearance. Erling addressed the audience, speaking in Norwegian first and then in English for the benefit of the many tourists present.
‘I am honoured to present to you the pianist Willem Caspari. This young man has already made his mark performing across the globe, most recently playing at the Proms at the Royal Albert Hall in London. We are grateful that he has agreed to grace our small corner of the world with his presence.’
The audience gave a round of applause and Willem nodded impassively before sitting down at the piano, waiting for the auditorium to fall silent. As he began to play the opening bars, I closed my eyes, the music transporting me back to my days at the Conservatoire in Geneva, when I would attend concerts weekly and often perform in them myself. Classical music had once been such a passion for me, and yet I realised to my shame it must be at least ten years since I’d attended even the most modest of recitals. I felt my tension abate as I listened to Willem play, watching his skilled hands dancing lightly across the keys. And I promised myself that from now on, I would remedy the situation.
After the concert had finished, Erling sought me out and took me down to the stage to introduce me to Willem Caspari. His face had a dramatic angular bone structure, his white skin drawn tightly across high cheekbones, framing a pair of turquoise eyes and full, blood-red lips. Everything about him was immaculate, from his neat dark hair to his polished black shoes, and he rather reminded me of a handsome vampire.
‘Thank you so much for that,’ I said to Willem. ‘It was absolutely beautiful.’
‘My pleasure, Miss D’Aplièse,’ he replied, discreetly wiping his hands with a snowy white handkerchief before shaking mine. He studied me intently as he did so. ‘You know, I’m pretty sure we’ve met before.’
‘Have we?’ I said, embarrassed that I couldn’t place him.
‘Yes. I was a pupil at the Conservatoire in Geneva. I believe you had just started there when I was in my final year. Apart from having an excellent memory for faces, I remember your surname, because it struck me as unusual at the time. You’re a flautist, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I said in surprise, ‘or at least I was.’
‘Really, Ally? That’s something you didn’t mention to me earlier,’ said Erling.
‘Well, it was a long time ago now.’
‘You don’t play anymore?’ asked Willem, at the same time fastidiously straightening his lapels in what was obviously a subconscious ritual rather than an attempt to impress.
‘Not really, no.’
‘If I remember rightly, I came to a recital of yours once. You played “Sonata for Flute and Piano?”’
‘Yes, I did. You really do have an incredible memory.’
‘For things I want to remember, yes. It has its good and bad points, I can assure you.’
‘How interesting, given that the musician Ally is currently researching was a flautist himself,’ interjected Erling.
‘And who is it that you’re researching, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Willem queried, his luminous eyes fixed on mine.
‘A Norwegian composer called Jens Halvorsen and his wife, Anna, who was a singer.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know of them.’
‘They were both very well known here in Norway, especially Anna,’ said Erling. ‘Now, depending on your plans, perhaps you’d like to take a look around Grieg’s house and maybe visit the hut on the hillside where he composed his music?’
‘Yes, thank you, I will.’
‘Would you mind if I came with you?’ asked Willem, still studying me with his head cocked to one side. ‘I only arrived in Bergen last night and I haven’t yet had the chance to look around myself.’
‘Not at all,’ I said, deciding it would be preferable to be walking alongside him rather than standing here being subjected to his seemingly dispassionate yet highly focussed scrutiny.
‘Then I’ll leave you both to it,’ said Erling hastily. ‘Pop into the office and say goodbye when you leave. And thank you for a breathtaking performance today, Willem.’
Willem and I followed Erling out of the hall and then together we wandered up the steps through the trees towards the house. We entered the villa itself and went into the wood-floored drawing room, which contained an old Steinway grand piano set next to a wall. The rest of the room was filled with an eclectic mix of rustic country furniture and more elegant pieces in walnut and mahogany. Portraits and landscape paintings jostled for attention on the mellow, pine-clad walls.
‘It still feels like a real home in here,’ I commented to Willem.
‘Yes, it does,’ he agreed.
Framed pictures of Grieg and his wife Nina were dotted all around the room, and one in particular, of the two of them standing beside the piano, drew my eye. Nina was smiling gently and Grieg’s expression was impenetrable beneath his thick eyebrows and heavy moustache.
‘They’re both so tiny compared to the piano,’ I said, ‘like two little dolls!’
‘They were barely five feet tall, apparently. And did you know that Grieg had a collapsed lung? He used a small pillow inside his jacket to fill it out for photographs, which is why his hand is always across his chest, holding it in place.’
‘How fascinating,’ I murmured, as we wandered round the room, examining the various exhibits.
‘So, how come you gave up music?’ Willem asked abruptly, repeating a conversational patt
ern I was beginning to recognise: it was as though he’d mentally ticked a box that said ‘Item Processed’, before moving on to the next topic on the list.
‘I became a professional sailor.’
‘And played the hornpipe instead?’ He gave a short chuckle at his own joke. ‘Do you miss playing?’
‘To be honest, I haven’t had time to in the past few years. Sailing has been my life.’
‘And I can’t imagine a life without music,’ Willem said as he indicated Grieg’s piano. ‘This instrument is my passion and my pain, the driving force in my life. I actually have nightmares about getting arthritis in my fingers. Without my music, I’d have nothing, you see.’
‘Then perhaps you have a stronger belief in your own ability than I did. I felt that I plateaued while I was at the Conservatoire. However much I practised, I didn’t feel I was improving.’
‘I’ve felt that every day for years, Ally. I think it goes with the territory. I must believe I do improve or I’d kill myself. Now, shall we take a look at the hut where the great man composed some of his masterpieces?’
The cabin was a short walk from the villa. Peering through the glass panes of the front door, I saw a modest upright piano standing against one wall, with a rocking chair placed next to it and a desk positioned directly in front of the large window facing the lake. And there, sitting on the desk, was another little frog, identical to mine. I chose not to share the thought with Willem.
‘What a view,’ he sighed. ‘It’s enough to inspire anyone.’
‘But very isolated, don’t you think?’
‘I wouldn’t mind. I’d be quite happy alone. I’m very self-sufficient,’ he said with a shrug.
‘So am I, but I still think it would eventually drive me mad.’ I smiled at him. ‘Let’s walk back up, shall we?’
‘Yes.’ Willem checked his watch. ‘There’s a journalist coming to interview me at my hotel at four o’clock. The receptionist here said she’d call me a taxi. Where are you staying? Perhaps I could give you a lift back into town?’
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