The Body in the Fjord ff-8

by Katherine Hall Page

  Carl and Jan came by the table for their nightly check, picking up on the last word.

  “Antiques?” said Carl. “Mrs. Feld’s favorite subject! I hope you have been having a good time with Mr. Tønneberg’s collection. By the way, don’t miss the Hardanger bridal crown in the hallway. It’s in a glass case high up on the wall. This one is extremely elaborate and very rare. During the 1800s in Norway, silver became scarce and many families turned their old heirlooms over to the state to be melted down. Brass was used instead for jewelry.”

  “I did see it,” Helene enthused. “It’s gorgeous. Is the collection cataloged? I saw a bowl that looks like it was painted by the ‘Sogndal painter’—this area around the Sognefjord has spectacular natural beauty, but it hasn’t produced the art that other areas have, particularly those on the east coast and in Telemark. Too rugged a life, too

  poor, but this painter—we don’t even know his name—is the exception. He traveled all over the region in the mid-eighteenth century, which must have been difficult, and no other rosemaling has ever equaled his.”

  “I know the bowl you mean,” Carl said. “The colors are so bright and the background is very soft, the blue-green he traditionally used. Very beautiful.”

  “And worth a fortune,” Jan added. “If we had anything like it in my family, we probably used it for kindling. I grew up in the district and life was strictly practical!” He laughed.

  Helene looked pained. “I hope not.” The salmon arrived on a huge platter. There was enough for two tables.

  “Of course I am teasing you,” Jan told Helene. “My mother has her great-grandmother’s engagement spoons, and if there was a fire, she’d grab those, then think of us!” It seemed impossible for the young man not to make a joke out of most remarks.

  “Engagement spoons are two spoons connected by a long chain all elaborately carved out of one piece of wood,” Helene explained.

  “I like the symbolism.” Ursula was busy helping herself to the fish. Pix could see it was perfectly poached, moist flakes falling to one side. There was hollandaise sauce, but Pix knew she wanted hers plain.

  “We will leave you to enjoy your dinner,” Carl said. “We have a few announcements we’ll make during dessert.”

  Pix tried in vain during the rest of the meal to turn the conversation to Kari and Erik’s quarrel on the train, but short of rudeness, it proved impossible to get Helene off her favorite subject. They heard a great deal about tiner, the butter and pudding boxes used to bring gifts of food to relatives or friends at weddings or other occasions, and much more about jewelry, especially bunadssolv, wedding jewelry.

  “I wonder if modern Norwegians are as superstitious as their ancestors,” Ursula mused after a treatise from

  Helene about the use of silver to keep the trolls, those direct descendants of the Viking pagan gods, from harming mortals.

  “There is certainly a renewed interest in the old jewelry and its use and legends. Saga makes wonderful reproductions, with an explanation accompanying each piece. As for warding off evil, I’m not sure. I know I said Norwegians are exuberant, but they also seem remarkably down-to-earth and even-tempered.”

  It was now or never.

  Pix put down her fork. Her plate was clean; so was the fish platter. “Yet not without passion. I understand the tour had some sort of tragic incident before we joined you, a double suicide by two lovers.” She stifled the urge to give Ursula an apologetic glance. “They ran away together, then apparently took their own lives.”

  Helene stiffened and the color drained from her face. Arnie looked annoyed.

  “Well,” he said.

  “No, we can’t not talk about it, Arnie. Apparently rumors abound.” She pushed a stray strand of gray hair behind her ear to join the others loosely gathered in an ornate barrette at the nape of her neck. Then she waited while their plates were cleared and the table was swept clean of the crumbs their crusty dinner rolls had produced.

  “Kari and Erik were working as stewards for the tour, handling the luggage, helping people find their rooms, that sort of thing. What Anders and Sonja are doing now. First we heard that they had eloped, and while it was a bit inconvenient, these things happen and we could only wish them well, but then the police arrived at the hotel to question all of us. Erik’s body was found in the river by Flåm. Kari is still missing.”

  “How sad,” Ursula said, “and how difficult for all of you, being questioned, I mean.”

  Thank you, Mother.

  “Well, yes—yes, it was. It turned out I was the last person from the tour to have seen them and the police

  talked to me three times. It was a bit nerve-racking, especially as I didn’t have much to tell them.”

  “They must have thought you did.” Pix was eager to keep the woman talking. She’d been unstoppable on antiques but was understandably reticent now.

  “I was looking for something to eat and thought I’d see if one of those carts was in another car. I came up behind them and was all set to greet them when I realized they were arguing.”

  “A lovers’ spat?” Ursula was holding her own.

  “I don’t speak Norwegian, so I have no idea what they were quarreling about, but Kari’s face, was very red and she had tears in her eyes. She was doing most of the talking. Erik was sitting there. He didn’t look angry, just…Well, I think what I told the police was that he looked determined. Like someone who has made up his mind. And Kari seemed to be trying to get him to change it.”

  “Do you think he was contemplating suicide?” Pix asked. She could see Kari so clearly. The girl did have a temper, and when she lost it, the words flowed like lava.

  “I couldn’t say for sure, but I think if he had been, Kari would have looked more sad, more desperate than angry. She was shaking her finger at him, and somehow if he had been planning to kill himself, she would have perhaps had her arms around him. The whole thing looked…looked like she was scolding him.”

  Pix had been right. The woman had taken note of the body language.

  “It was very awkward. I didn’t want to intrude and go past them, yet I really was terribly hungry. Sometimes my blood sugar gets very low, and usually I carry some granola bars, but I’d used them up and needed something to eat.”

  So, Helene Feld had stood in the aisle for some time, Pix thought. Long enough to form a lasting impression.

  “Then what happened? Did they make up?”

  “The food cart came through the door. Kari got up to help the woman, saw me, and was immediately concerned that I find something to eat. She warned me that the

  lefse

  —you know, that flatbread that has potatoes in it—would taste like cardboard and recommended the yogurt with muesli. She was a very sweet girl. The whole thing is such a mystery.”

  The “fruits of the woods” arrived: blackberries, tiny strawberries, and a few precious multer—cloudberries—a delicacy that grew only above the timberline. Helene sighed. “I hope we find out what happened before we go home. I hate it when things are left up in the air.”

  Pix felt exactly the same way.

  Jan was clanking the side of his empty glass. Drinks were extra, even bottled water, milk, and soft drinks. Pix and Ursula had stuck to whatever was coming out of the tap at Stalheim after being reminded by the Felds. She’d have to wire home for more money or find an ATM somewhere in these mountains if she didn’t watch her kroner carefully, Pix realized.

  “Tomorrow we will board our Viking fjord cruiser and spend the day on the water, with one short stop to see a stave church, after which, we will arrive at the famous Kvikne’s Hotel in Balestrand. Then the following day, a stop in the afternoon to visit a farmer and taste his gjetost, delicious Norwegian goat cheese.”

  There were a few groans. Pix was tempted to add hers. She’d tasted the cheese, caramel-colored and sweet, sticking like peanut butter to the roof of one’s mouth, but with far greater tenacity. Marit used it in everything, even gravy. She’d given Urs
ula a recipe for pheasant in gjetost cream sauce that Pix, as a joke, had passed on to Faith, who still refused to believe it was real.

  Ursula tapped her daughter on the shoulder. “Look at Mr. Arnulfson and his friends.”

  The bachelor farmers were beaming. It was definite. A farm. Well, well, well, they’d have to have a look at this. Maybe set the man straight on a few things. Pix found herself giggling. She knew that in Norwegian spinsters

  were called “old girls.” She wondered what the term was for unmarried men. These were certainly “old boys.”

  “We will be spending the next two nights at Kvikne’s Hotel, as you know from your itinerary. Now the bad news. We have a wake-up call ordered for six A.M.”

  Groans again.

  “So, if you’ll please have your luggage outside your doors by seven, we’ll have breakfast and be on our way.”

  Pix had been forgetting she was on a tour. It all had been so pleasant and relaxed, except for the reason she was there. Still, six in the morning was nothing for the Rowe family. Ursula would no doubt be ready well before then.

  “When you have finished your dinner, we will take coffee in the lobby and watch a program of Norwegian folk dancing. They are very good and I think you will like it. Any questions?”

  “If we can get ready really fast, do we have to have the call at six?” asked Jennifer Olsen.

  “No, of course not. You can inform the desk and make any arrangement you want,” Jan answered.

  They had been talking so much, they were among the last tables to leave the dining room, and Pix had the odd sensation that she was watching a play as the whole cast of characters walked past, nodding at them or saying a few words. The Bradys, the Petersons—with a playful injunction from Carol to hurry up or they’d miss the show—the North Dakota farmers, Valerie and Sophie, the Dahl sisters, and an older man who stopped to chat.

  Arnie Feld made the introductions. “This is Oscar Melling. Mrs. Rowe and her daughter, Mrs. Miller. Is there a game tonight, Oscar? He’s been playing pinochle with the group from the Sons of Norway almost every evening,” he explained.

  “Oh, they’re a bunch of sour losers. Said I can’t play anymore. That I was cheating too much.” He winked at Ursula. “You notice they said ‘too much.’ That’s because all of them were cheating like crazy. They’ll get over it

  and we’ll probably have a game tomorrow. They’ve been playing with one another so long, they’re desperate to play with anyone new. Do either of you ladies play?”

  He was a barrel-chested man of medium height, his bald head fringed with steel gray hair. The same hair protruded over his upper lip, from his ears, and snaked across his forehead in one long, scraggy brow. Oscar seemed intent on displaying any and all of a hirsute nature left to him. His eyes were deep blue and he had probably been quite handsome in his youth. He was not without charm now, partially because he worked so hard displaying it. Pix had noticed him before. He was never without a smile—or a companion. The tiny fretwork of red veins on his face indicated he was fond of supplementing this bonhomie with a glass or two.

  “Sorry, I never learned the game.”

  “I knew it once, but it’s been many years since I’ve played,” Ursula revealed.

  “You’ll remember in no time. I’ll let you know if we get enough people for a game,” Oscar promised, then bowed slightly and left.

  “What is Mr. Melling’s occupation?” Ursula asked the Felds.

  “He had a grocery store in New Jersey that specialized in Scandinavian foods. He started doing mail order and now that’s the entire business, I gather. He was talking about going on the Internet this fall. A pretty astute businessman, I’d imagine,” Arnie answered.

  The picture of her mother sitting in a smoke-filled room of pinochle players—the farmers all smoked pipes and Oscar had a cigar peeking out of his shirt pocket—was too much for Pix. She started to laugh, tried to explain, and gave it up. “I think I’ll go get some places for the dancing.” She assumed the Felds would sit with them.

  “You do that. We’ll catch the end of the program. I want to take some pictures of the buildings in the folk museum. The light is perfect now,” Helene said.

  Pix and Ursula had no sooner sat down with their coffee when three young couples dressed in their traditional regional costumes—bunad—came dancing across the slate floor of the Stalheim Hotel’s lobby, accompanied by a seventh young woman vigorously playing the fiddle. It was wonderful. The boys were wearing dark knee britches with long white socks, silver buckles on their shoes, and silver buttons on their red wool vests, their white shirts starched crisply. The girls’ costumes were more elaborate, dark full skirts, long white aprons with intricate Hardanger lace panels, silver-buckled belts, red wool sleeveless bodices with bright, beautifully embroidered inserts and long, full-sleeved white blouses. The necks of the blouses were fastened with large silver brooches. As they danced to the lively music, Pix found herself missing Samantha in particular. She could imagine her daughter swirling around gracefully, a bright smile for the crowd. Not a bad summer job, although if it ever got hot, the costumes would be unbearable. As it was, one of the boys had taken his handkerchief out several times to mop his brow. One couple in particular danced beautiful, their steps in perfect synchrony. They reminded Pix of the older couples one saw at weddings whose steps, meshed by time, executed flawless fox-trots, rumbas, all those dances no one knew anymore. Vernon and Irene, Fred and Ginger, Kathryn and Arthur—the sixties had put a stop to the steps.

  She was amused to note the twentieth century encroachments on the scene, which at first glance could have been a wedding celebration from the last century. One boy had a slightly purple streak in his hair. Two of the girls had multiple holes in each ear.

  “Now, we need your help,” the fiddler said, giving her instrument to one of the dancers to hold and then tapping six people quickly. One was Jennifer Olsen, who sprang to her feet, not making even the token protest of the others.

  “We call this the ‘Jealousy Dance.’ The two dancers on either side are trying to win the favor of the one in the middle. My friends will demonstrate; then you will do it!”

  It was really very funny. As the dancers moved forward, they nodded and smiled to the person in the middle; then, moving back, they turned their heads and scowled at each other, shook their fists, and then, as the music changed, put on a pleasant face again.

  Jennifer was very agile and dramatic. She was enjoying herself—positive vibes.

  Pix watched and thought idly, Public faces, private faces. Which is real? What does that public mask hide? He was such a nice, quiet man, we never dreamed he…So many news accounts contained slight variations of those words. Behind one’s back. She watched Jennifer shake her fist at her competitor. Jealousy, powerful emotion. Erik and Kari, the two lovers. Was there someone in the middle—or at the side?

  “Pix, dear, I think when they’re finished, I’ll go to bed early tonight. I want to be on time in the morning.” Her mother’s words broke into her thoughts.

  Pix wasn’t tired at all. “I may stay down here or take a walk.”

  The dancers finished to huge applause. Jennifer flopped into a chair next to Pix’s. “That was fun!”

  One of the girls had stepped forward and was explaining the significance of her costume. “I have three rows of velvet on my skirt because I’m not married yet.” The boy she’d been dancing with looked very smug. She tossed her head.

  “And if you want one like it”—she was referring to her elaborate brooch—“you will find them for sale all over Norway, and here, too, in the shop”—she gestured—“but not the real ones, of course. They are very old.” She wagged her finger playfully. “Norway is a small country and we don’t have very many old things, so we need to keep them here!”

  “They are strict,” Jennifer said. “You can’t take anything out of the country that’s over a hundred years old unless you can prove it was in your family. If you get


  caught, it’s a very stiff fine for you and the person who sold it to you.”

  Pix nodded. “Helene Feld was telling us about this at dinner.”

  A man on the other side of Jennifer joined the conversation. “You can’t blame them. Look at what’s happened to other countries. If you’re Greek, you have to go to London to look at your past. Norway also holds on to her land. It’s pretty impossible to buy property if you’re not Norwegian.” He mimicked the girl, “Norway is a small country and needs to keep everything here!” He laughed. “Doesn’t want to become a European vacation colony is more like it.”

  Pix was glad. In a very short period of time, she had become remarkably partisan.

  Another kind of music was coming from the bar, but Pix was intoxicated by her unusual freedom and the long light outside, not Ringnes beer or aquavit. She knew she would not be able to sleep for some time and so she strolled outdoors in the direction of the folk museum. It was farther up the steep road and separated from the hotel by a wooden gate. She assumed at this time of night, it would be locked, but it yielded at her touch. Soon she was admiring the old dark wooden farm buildings with their sod or slate roofs. The slate roofs looked like fish scales and when she stumbled across a pile of tiles leaning against a tree, she noted the shape of each one did indeed look like a whole fish. Lichen clung to the slate, touching the gray with yellow ocher and varied shades of green. One of the sod roofs was so overgrown with tiny fir trees and other vegetation that it wasn’t until Pix noticed a chimney that she realized there was a house below her on the mountain.

  She climbed and climbed, smelling the sweet night air, air heavy with moisture. The moss beneath her feet was like a sponge. Her footsteps were silent. She peeked in the small windows, tried a few doors, only to find them locked, and spotted a small nest in the sod. Far above the

  hotel, but still on the path, the air was colder. The character of these woods would have been the same during the war. She imagined those women, inhabitants of—what had Jan called it, a Lebensborn home, one of Himmler’s projects? Pix shuddered. Had it been a kind of brothel then or what? Women here willingly or unwillingly. They must have walked this mountainside, though, accompanied by what thoughts—guilt, fear, shame? She tried not to think about these shadows from the past and concentrated on the view. Through a gap in the trees, she could see the Nærøy River far below, looking like a snake, the way rivers always did in aerial shots. Snakes: another unwelcome thought, but surely all were benign in Norway.