by K. O. Dahl
She peered up at him with the telephone receiver tucked under her chin. He stood following the line of the cable coiled around one of her breasts. It looked like a pose for a men's magazine.
'And why aren't you dressed?' he barked.
'My dear Ole, I've just had a shower.'
'But you could get dressed, couldn't you?'
'Ole, I live here. I do as I like.'
'But I'm here now.'
She put down the telephone and leered. 'You're not usually that bothered whether I'm dressed or not.' She rose to her feet, took the towel hanging from a hook on the wall, made a big show of wrapping it around herself, so that it half-covered her breasts and reached mid-thigh.
She sat back down beside the telephone, held it and looked up. 'Happy?' 'No,' he said, irritated, still provoked and aggressive because she had put on her cool tone - she seemed to be sitting there and making a fool of him.
Then her eyes flashed. 'I have to make a call. Would you please go away and let me talk in peace.'
'Who are you ringing?'
'It's got nothing to do with you.'
Ole Eidesen felt the blood drain from his face. 'It's nothing to do with me?'
Katrine sighed and crossed her legs before adjusting the towel. 'Ole,' she said, 'drop it.' 'I want to know who you're ringing.'
'Why?'
'Because.'
'Ole, I never ask you who you ring.'
'But I want to know who you're ringing.'
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. 'Why?'
'I have a right.'
Her eyes narrowed. He hated it when her eyes narrowed, hated the determination that lay behind her cold, hard blue eyes.
'Ole. Don't start. You have to respect my wishes.'
He closed his eyes for a second. He didn't want to feel this. But it came. He was unable to stop: 'Closing the door on me is not right.'
'What did you say?'
'Don't close the door on me.'
'I decide if I want to be alone,' Katrine said in a low snarl. 'And everyone has to respect that. You, too.'
'You're not alone if you're talking to other people.'
Katrine dug deep. She stared at the wall as though counting to herself. Then she groaned and said in a low, imploring voice: 'Ole, don't. I've had enough of jealous men!'
'I want to know who you're ringing. You have no right to be so secretive.'
Katrine, cool, almost in a whisper, 'Don't I?'
Ole took a sudden step forward. Before he knew what he was doing, he had grabbed her plait and pulled her into a standing position.
'Ow,' she screamed, tottering forwards. She lost her towel; a soft breast fell against his arm. 'Let me go!' she gasped.
Just as suddenly as he had grabbed her, he let go, his innards cold as ice. 'Sorry,' he stammered and moved to embrace her. But she was juggling with the towel and shoved him away with tears in her eyes. 'Out,' she said.
'I'm so sorry.'
She put a hand to her hair. 'You're completely insane.'
'I said sorry, didn't I!'
'And I'm asking you to go,' she screamed. 'Out. I have to make a call.'
Stupefied, Ole backed into the sitting room. 'You have no right to keep secrets from me,' he mumbled. 'You have no fucking right!'
'Out!' Katrine hissed. And slammed the door again.
Ole sat staring at the outline of her body through the wavy glass. Watching her pull herself together, get up and stand in front of the mirror with her back to him. She paced to and fro. He followed the silhouette of her body as she sat down beside the telephone and took the receiver. He saw how her body language changed, how she flicked her hair and brushed it with long, casual strokes. Her voice was low and tender, a voice talking to another person, a voice articulating words he could not distinguish. He could hear her laughter, though. In the pit of his stomach, the embers of jealousy smouldered. He wanted to know who she was calling. She couldn't bloody do this. She would soon fucking see what happened if she went on like this.
The crowd cheered. Ole Eidesen watched the slow-motion replay. Frode Olsen, horizontal in the air, got three finger tips to the ball and pushed it over the bar. A blue Molde player clenched both fists in a demonstration to the spectators of how disappointed he was. Ole wasn't interested. He couldn't get his mind off Katrine, who had now cradled the receiver and was about to call another number. In his heart he was cold. She was cheating on him. She was sitting three metres away from him and cheating on him. Before his very eyes.
* * *
Chapter Three
The Party
Annabeth and Bjørn had set the table in the large L-shaped room. The table was L-shaped, too. The longest part of the table had been placed in-the longest part of the room. There was a neatly written place card on every plate. Katrine had been given a seat at the rectangle forming the short end of the letter L. Most of the guests were unknown to her. The only ones Katrine knew were those from the rehab centre; from where she sat, she could see just Sigrid and Annabeth. Annabeth's husband, Bjørn Gerhardsen, was opposite her. This could become tricky, she had thought as for a few brief minutes they stood facing each other. This could become very tricky. But Ole was there too, in the chair next to him as it happened. Ole and a plump guy she knew from sight at the centre; she had no idea what his name was - he may have had some function on the administrative board. In addition, she had an inkling that he was gay. He had all the buffoonery and the feminine movements. Between Ole and the gay man sat a woman in her late twenties. She didn't know her, either, although Ole seemed quite taken by her; he was indulging in furtive sidelong glances. The woman for her part was encouraging him by playing coy. That didn't bode well, thought Katrine, who had been able to study the woman's figure for the brief moments they had stood before taking a seat - she was not that tall, yet she had endlessly long, nylon-clad legs. The legs took the focus off other details, such as lifeless hair with split ends and stubby fingers with nails chewed down to the stumps. However, the face, despite a few irregular features, bore a deep sensuality with two sensitive eyes and wonderful, golden skin. The fact that the chemistry between Ole and the unknown woman seemed to be working so well led Katrine to examine her own feelings. She wondered whether Ole's undisguised interest in the other woman ought to have made her feel jealous. The strange thing was that it did not. All she felt was irritation; she was irritated by his clumsiness, irritated that he wasn't better at chatting her up. And this lack of jealousy frightened her. It made her think of her therapy sessions, what she had gone through with respect to her emotional life and the danger signals. She speculated on how she should interpret this. In a way the fact that Ole only irritated her by showing interest in another woman made Bjørn Gerhardsen loom larger, seem more powerful and dangerous. It became harder to avoid his gaze. For this reason conversation around the table seemed to be desperately sluggish. And, worst of all, she felt she was responsible for this sluggishness. Her irritability was putting a damper on others. The idea was silly. She knew that, but was still unable to stop herself thinking it. She was sweating and wished she were anywhere but here. The hushed lethargy was broken at various junctures by Annabeth standing up at the corner of the L-shaped table and shouting 'Skеl'. They were doing a lot of toasting over where the table joined the second room. Katrine toasted with mineral water and held her hand over her glass when Bjørn Gerhardsen tried to fill it with red wine.
After the main course the long-legged woman took out a cigarette. Gerhardsen fumbled in his jacket pockets. Ole didn't notice anything. But the plump gay man was first out of the blocks and lit her cigarette with a gallant bow.
'I won,' he grinned at Bjørn Gerhardsen.
Everyone laughed. The childish outburst relaxed the atmosphere. Even Katrine laughed. The laughter was liberating.
Annabeth squealed from the corner with a raised glass. 'Skеl, Georg!'
'Goggen,' shouted the gay man. 'Everyone calls me Goggen…To the young woman with the lo
ng legs he said: 'Did you see the new guy on TV on Saturday night? Do you remember the joke he told about the psychologist?'
The long-legged woman was already laughing. Cigarette smoke got caught in her throat and she started coughing. Ole was staring down the gap between her pitching breasts.
I don't belong here, thought Katrine.
'So the patient said: I'm not the one.…' Goggen sat up in his chair, puffed out his cheeks and put on a stupid face. Katrine realized this was meant to be an imitation. Goggen, in a lumberjack voice:'… he said to the psychologist. You're the one who's obsessed about sex. After all, you're the one doing the asking.'
The woman with the long legs screamed with laughter. Ole did, too. But Katrine felt icy tremors run up her spine because a foot was stroking hers under the table. It couldn't be Ole's. She didn't dare to look up. Don't let it be Bjørn's, she thought. Bjørn could not be so revolting. There was no one else it could be, though. It had to be Bjørn Gerhardsen. She shivered and flushed; she was sweating. The foot caressed her leg higher up. Up and down, up and down, slowly.
Katrine closed her eyes and kicked the foot away. And then there he was. The moment she opened her eyes he was there, Bjørn Gerhardsen, with a gentle, provocative smile.
She felt someone's gaze burning on her cheek and twisted her head. It was Annabeth. There was no mistaking where Annabeth was looking. For some reason Annabeth must have guessed something. The knot Katrine felt in her stomach went ice cold. Annabeth knows, she thought. The bloody bitch. She knows. And Bjørn knows she knows. So he must have told her. She turned her head and focused on Annabeth's husband again. He smiled; he had been following her eyes and now he winked at her without the slightest attempt at concealment. Who noticed anything? Annabeth, of course, and Goggen. The fat homosexual scented the magnetism in the air like a deer scents watchful eyes in the gloaming. Georg studied her with renewed interest. And Gerhardsen kept smiling. She lowered her eyes and, at the same time, despised herself for having lost the battle. She stared down at the table cloth and felt the perspiration trickling down her neck.
'It's so smoky in here,' she exclaimed. 'I could do with a bit of air.' So saying, she got up and stumbled towards the veranda. A woman's hand opened the door for her. As she staggered on to the terrace she heard the company at the table breaking up. Annabeth's voice boomed: 'Coffee with liqueurs in the lounge! Please help yourselves! I have just put it out, and I don't have the energy to serve you… self-service!' The voice cracked on the last word.
Katrine breathed in the fresh air. It was a grey June evening and she leaned against the terrace railing. She looked down at an illuminated swimming pool. You could dive in from here, she thought. The blue, luminous water formed the centrepiece of what looked like a tiled courtyard. And beyond the tiles grew a few fruit trees.
She could make out a lit street lamp between the trees; it cast an orange light on the pavement outside the fence. She let her eyes wander further afield and noticed that the view of Oslo was blocked by a large canopy of trees in the distance.
She knew he was there before he spoke. Knowing he was standing behind her caused perspiration to break out again.
'Is this where you are?' the smooth voice whispered.
The sound of his heels on the slate tiles was repugnant. She didn't turn. She didn't answer.
His reflection appeared in the pool below. 'Cognac?' he asked, putting a glass down on the broad balustrade. A square reflection of the light yellow veranda door formed on the glass containing the brown liquid. His fingers were rough, the skin around his wedding ring seemed swollen. His wristwatch was a bluish watch face inside a thick metal chain; it was naff, something that would not look out of place in a James Bond film.
'No, thank you,' she said. 'Have you seen Ole?'
'Do you like our garden?' Gerhardsen asked as though he had not heard the question. She observed her own reflection in the blue water beneath her. And she observed Gerhardsen's. Naff man in naff clothes beside a blonde wearing make-up. Shit, it was just like a James Bond film. 'Big garden,' she said politely. 'Must need a lot of work.'
He was leaning back against the balustrade sipping from his glass. 'Couldn't you come and help us from time to time?' he said with a smile. 'You're so good with your hands, aren't you?'
She stiffened. His smile was macho, self-assured.
But that didn't matter. These looks, these blatant advances were familiar territory to her. I can overcome this, she thought; she concentrated, looked him in the eye without any emotion and felt her nerves relax.
'You have a good memory,' she said, regretting the words at once, they could have been easily misunderstood. It was like giving him rope which, of course, he grabbed greedily.
'You, too,' he said.
The silence was transfixing. The sound of laughter and the usual drunken revelry carried from inside the house.
'If you want, I can show you round the garden now,' he said with a crooked smile.
Her face was numb. She could feel her mouth distorting into an artificial, transparent smile as she tried to stare him down. 'You are one big arsehole,' she said slowly and clearly so that he caught every single syllable. But it didn't help. She saw that. This was his arena. His home. She was here at their invitation. She was a part of the decoration for the evening, something exotic Annabeth and Bjørn could show off: Would you like to see the house - the African vase, the carved masks on the wall, the Italian table and the poor drug addict Annabeth managed to get back on an even keel. Which one is she, do you think? Yes, her over there, the blonde, and she's so good- looking, isn't she?
At that moment she felt his hand stroking her backside. 'Don't touch me,' she hissed as tears welled up, forming a humiliating, misty film across her vision.
He cleared his throat. His hand slid between her thighs.
'I'll scream,' she said, despising herself even more for these stupid words. Had it been anywhere else, in the street, on the staircase in a block of flats, any other place except for here, she would have kicked him in the balls and spat at him into the bargain. But she was a stranger here, and paralyzed.
He removed his hand. 'Just wait before you scream,' he said in a cool voice.
She turned and saw Annabeth through the glass door searching for her husband.
'Your wife's looking for you,' she said.
'No,' he said with a sardonic smile. 'She's looking for us.' He raised his glass and sought her eyes. Katrine stared into space and heard herself say from a long way off:
'You are nothing, nothing to me.' And sick of this game, sick of playing the role of an idiot, she stormed towards the door and into the smoke-filled room.
As she made her way between the people she could feel their gazes burning into her body. From the corner of her eye she saw heads huddled together. She lumbered across the floor feeling like an orangutan on a stage set for a ballet. She was completely numb. At the other end of the room she saw Ole bending over the woman with the long legs. He was whispering something in her ear. She was giggling and tossing back her hair. Apart from them, she recognized only the faces of Sigrid from the rehab centre and Bjørn Gerhardsen.
She appeared at Ole's side and he immediately lost his composure. He coughed and mumbled a forced 'Hi'. The stork woman fumbled for a cigarette. Katrine stood her ground. The stork woman was professional, turned away and moved on.
Ole took her arm. 'Shall we mingle?' They entered the room with a piano where Georg, alias Goggen, was sitting. Ole held her back. 'Not that man,' he whispered into her ear. 'He's a poof.' She sent Ole a weary smile and felt alienated, even by him. She said: 'Shout for me if he tries anything on you.'
They took their place in the circle around Goggen, who was talking about himself and an ex-lover - a waiter - and some fun they had had with a female TV celebrity. According to Goggen, the woman had thought it exciting to have been left alone with two gay men. They had been drinking hard all night, all three of them. In the daylight hours they had become
very intimate, and during a guided tour through her flat all three of them fell on to her large four-poster bed and 'did it'. 'We had her, both of us,' Goggen wheezed. 'And I mean at the same time.' He winked at Katrine and said to Ole: 'You know, he parked himself where pricks prefer… (pause for effect, audience cheering) while I found a spot a little further back.' (More cheering.)
Goggen continued with a raised voice, at one level below shouting: 'I was very aroused because we could feel our pricks rubbing against each other all the time. After all, there was just a thin membrane between them!'
Katrine peered up at Ole. Either he was embarrassed or he was furious. At any rate, his face was red. As red as Goggen's. You're all the same, she thought, and her eyes wandered back to Goggen, who was now employing body language. He was miming, leaning backwards, overweight, flushed. With his face distorted into a sick grimace, he puffed out both cheeks as though blowing a trumpet. Then he sat with his mouth open and revealed the white spots on his tongue. His eyes, dead and vacant, staring into empty space, Goggen said: 'She was screaming all the time.' Saliva dripped from his full bottom lip as he imitated her. 'Aah… aaahhh.'
Ole wanted to leave and grabbed her arm. She felt her alienation tip over into aggression. A sudden fury that had been building up. But now it was being released by Ole's smug self-righteousness. She stayed where she was. From the corner of her eye she could see that he, too, had chosen to stay.
The laughter among the listeners died away, and the long-legged woman, who in some mysterious way had also appeared among them, whispered to the man next to her so that everyone could hear: 'Now that was a bit vulgar, don't you think?'