The Body in the Fjord ff-8

by Katherine Hall Page

  “Did Hanna know?”

  Marit nodded. “We were stupid there, too. We should have told her as soon as she was old enough to understand, first that she was adopted and later how—but we waited until she was fifteen. I sometimes wonder about how our memories work. She was eight months old when we got her, but she was always asking questions. Where was she born? Why didn’t we have other children? When we made our first trip to the west coast and came by Stalheim, she was very small, but she cried and said the big mountains frightened her.”

  Fifteen, Pix thought. Between the ages of her own Danny and Samantha. The time when adolescents are forming the identities that will travel with them throughout their lives, making the choices that determine the journey’s path. Hanna must have been so confused. To find your mother was not your mother and your father not your father. And later she did virtually the same thing to her own daughter, not providing her with a father, then abandoning her.

  “Nothing was ever right after that. We never should have told her,” Marit said bitterly.

  “It would have come out,” Ursula said. “These things always do.”

  “And Kari?” Pix was asking all the hard questions. “Did she know about her mother?”

  “This winter, there was a show about the Lebensborn babies on television. Now fifty years later, it’s out in the

  open—all the problems these children have had, how they have searched trying to find out who they are. I wanted to change the channel, but Kari wanted to watch it. I had to leave the room, and she followed me out to the kitchen. Before I knew it, I was telling her everything. I thought she was old enough, that she could accept it. Kari is not Hanna. Emotionally, they are very different.”

  “What did she say?” asked Pix.

  “She said, ‘Then you’re not really my bestemor?’”

  Marit had wanted to lie down and reluctantly they’d left her, but not before she’d told them that Kari wanted to find her mother’s family and that Marit had agreed to help her. “I don’t want another grandmother,” she’d told Marit. “It’s a matter of the truth. I have to find out the truth.”

  Pix and Ursula were walking into the dining room at Kvikne’s, passing through several pretty Victorian-style sitting rooms all oriented toward the view and, unlike most Victoriana, comfortable-looking—inviting couches, light-colored walls, and the drapes pulled back. Oil paintings, genre landscapes of what appeared out the windows, hung in tiers on the walls. The surfaces of many of the tables were crowded with bric-a-brac, potted plants, and dozens of signed photographs dating back to the hotel’s early years. In pride of place stood those of the Norwegian royal family, starting with King Haakon VII, the Danish prince Karl, whom the Norwegians elected as their first constitutional monarch when they broke away from Sweden in 1905. He took a Norwegian name and reigned for fifty-two years. His grandson, Harald V, is king now. Small Norwegian flags on silver flag posts stood by the photographs. Bright red, with a blue-and-white cross off center, it seemed admirably suited to its surroundings, streaming out in a long banner from the porch at Kvikne’s, picking up the breeze from the fjord, or flying high in front of most houses all over the country, plus being scattered

  throughout Norwegian interiors as an indispensable objet d’art. The Norwegians are exceedingly proud of this flag.

  “My God, Mother, did you ever see so much food!” It was the smörgåsbord to end all smörgåsbords. There wasn’t one long table, but many—and side tables—one just for cheese, one for non-alcoholic drinks, a very large one just for desserts.

  “Where should we start?” Pix was bewildered, a feeling intensified by the behavior of the diners, who were descending on the food like predators, the only variation being in motion: Some were piling their plates as rapidly as possible; others were circling quietly before pouncing.

  “With a seat,” Ursula suggested, and led the way to the tables with the Scandie flags.

  “We have the window seats tonight,” Carol Peterson called out triumphantly as they passed. Her table was full. There was to be no tête-à-tête for the newlyweds.

  “Would you care to join us?” Louise Dahl asked.

  “Thank you so much,” Ursula responded, and motioned toward the groaning boards. “It’s hard to know where to begin.”

  “We start with herring, then a plate of other fish—shrimp and laks—there’s also gravlaks here. Do you know what that is? Fresh salmon is cured with dill and a mixture of salt, sugar, and white peppercorns, then placed under a weight for some days and—oh, maybe it’s simpler if I come with you. Everything is delicious and you may not know what it is.”

  “I don’t want to trouble you,” Ursula protested.

  “It’s no trouble. I want to get some smoked eel before I have my meat course.”

  “This is the food we grew up with and we still cook it, although nothing so elaborate as these dishes. Kvikne’s is known for its koldtbord—that’s what it’s called in Norwegian, although most use the Swedish word, smörgåsbord. Anyway, it’s the best food in the world to me! Let Louise show you what to do,” her sister, Erna, advised.

  Pix was only too happy. She’d eaten her share of Norwegian food, but this was a whole new level. Even Faith would be impressed by Kvikne’s.

  “We start with the herring by itself, because it’s salty and we don’t fill our plates too full, so we can appreciate the flavors.”

  And not look too greedy, Pix thought. Nothing in excess.

  As they strolled by the tables, Pix was delighted to see how much the Japanese were enjoying all the Nordic variations on sushi.

  “After your herring, I’d advise some laks and a little of this smoked eel, which is eaten with a bit of scrambled egg at room temperature. Maybe some shrimp, and the mussel salad looked good.” She then pointed out the enormous variety of cold meats, ranging from pâtés to slices of ham, salami, and roast beef. There were also salats—thinly sliced cucumbers with dill, cabbage with caraway, beets and sardines.

  “The last course before dessert is hot. I’m not sure I’ll have more than a meatball—they’re made of veal and beef, bound with egg and bread crumbs, a little nutmeg, and fried in salt pork—but you should definitely have some fiskepudding.”

  “Fiskepudding?” Pix had never encountered this particular delicacy before. Some kind of piscatorial Norsk dessert? They did have a sense of humor.

  “It’s a bit like a fish mousse. You just have to try it, and be sure to have some of the cream sauce with shrimp on top, and take some tyttebær—lingonberries.”

  “Lingonberries!” Pix knew what they were—a kind of small Nordic cranberry. You ate them with reindeer meat.

  Louise nodded vigorously. “You can’t eat fiskepudding without lingonberries.”

  Pix looked at Louise’s angular body. She would have expected plump Erna to be the one interested in food, but here was Louise, her eyes shining with delight as she contemplated the notion of bløt kake—layer cake—and some kind of fruit grøt—compote—to end her meal. Es

  sential Norwegian food names tended to be monosyllabic and atonal: Bread was brød, butter was smør, cheese was ost, steak was stek, and above all, fish was fisk.

  “It’s not a combination I would have thought of, but it works,” said Pix after polishing off her fiskepudding, cream sauce, lingonberries on the side. “They are not too sweet, not too tart, and the taste cuts the richness of the fish.” Since going to work at Have Faith, Faith Fairchild’s catering business, Pix had picked up some of the nuances of food pairings, although not even the barest whisper of any food preparation. When Faith had offered her a job, Pix had made it clear that accounts or activities such as counting salad plates would be fine, but not even turning on an oven or stirring a pot. Faith had assured her friend that this was the furthest thought from her mind. She knew the Miller kitchen well, and from the look of Pix’s cupboards, the family could have been mistaken for major stockholders in General Foods, et cetera. Many of the boxes had HELPER printe
d on the front.

  “I’m glad you like it. We make it at Christmas. It was our mother’s favorite dish,” Louise Dahl said.

  Ursula noticed the past tense. “Has your mother been gone long?”

  The two sisters put down their forks simultaneously. “A year this January,” Erna replied. They both still seemed devastated.

  A household of women. Obviously, the two sisters had never married, and Pix had a hunch all three women had lived together.

  “Your mother was Norwegian, then? You know so much about the food…” her voice trailed off.

  “We are all three born in Norway, but Louise and I don’t remember it very well. This is the first trip for either of us.”

  “It’s a shame your mother wasn’t able to go back for a visit,” Pix commented. It had been her experience that every Norwegian-American not only longs to visit the land of his ancestors but considers it a sacred duty, as well.

  “She didn’t want to go,” Louise said sternly, and for a moment the conversation came to a grinding halt; then Ursula picked up the ball.

  “The newlyweds have disappeared and Mrs. Peterson doesn’t look too pleased.” She laughed.

  A cartoonist would have had a fine time drawing the mother-in-law with steam coming out of her ears, arms folded across her chest, jutting elbows like the spikes on a mace. Her voice carried across the room loud and clear. “You know very well what they’re up to, and they can do that anytime. How often in their lives are they going to be at Kvikne’s Hotel? I ask you that,” Roy senior didn’t appear to have an answer and he wisely concentrated on his third helping of dessert.

  “I thought they were going for more food. At least that’s where they headed. We might just as well have gone to Thunder Bay like we always do, but I wanted to make this trip special. It didn’t matter how much planning it took, and believe me, I had to give up a lot of things to do all that, but do they care? I ask you…. Roy, did you hear what I said!”

  His mumbled reply was inaudible, whether from discretion or cake.

  The Dahls giggled appreciatively. “It’s been like this since the beginning of the trip—a contest—and I think Lynette is ahead.”

  Pix thought of how the young woman had looked in the sauna at Stalheim and compared her with Carol, who had been going in rather heavily for boiled potatoes over the years. Lynette was definitely ahead in some departments, but the older woman had genetic guilt induction honed to a farethee-well. Pix would still say it was even money.

  The Dahls were telling Ursula about their jobs. Erna was a hairdresser and Louise worked as a secretary in a lawyer’s office. The dining room was beginning to clear. Sophie and Valerie walked by the table.

  “Dancing in the lounge tonight. You must come,” Sophie urged. “Très amusant, n’est-ce pas?”

  Ursula explained in fluent French that her dancing days were over but that she was sure her daughter, la jeune fille, would be tripping the light fantastic. The Dahl sisters also seemed inclined to join the merriment. Although she gave a pleasant nod to Mother’s fait accompli, Pix had plans of her own. Dancing or no dancing, she wanted to work in another sauna. She had to have some time to herself to think about Marit’s revelation, and the macarena was not apt to provide an opportunity for contemplation of this sort.

  But first there was coffee in the Dragon Room.

  The dragon style harked back to the decorated prows of the Viking ships, translating the fierce beasts and other creatures into romantic works of art, a nostalgic nod to the past. Tapestrylike weavings, more landscapes, and several huge paintings of Norsk legends hung on the room’s warm red walls. But it was the carved furniture, wooden floor, and ceiling that gave the room its particular beauty.

  “It’s hard to imagine how someone could have done such intricate work,” Pix said to Erna Dahl. Jennifer Olsen, who had joined them, agreed. “Some people think it’s really tacky—all these dragons and swirls, overdone, but I love it. Only in Norway.”

  Erna was apparently about to add her own words of appreciation, having nodded vigorously at Jennifer’s words, when they were distracted by a heated argument behind them. A coffee cup was slammed down on the table, hard. It didn’t break.

  “I started with nothing and nobody ever gave me anything. What these young people today want are free handouts. They have babies so they can get money from the government, and nobody wants to work!” It was Oscar Melling and his face was redder than ever. The fringe around his bald head bristled.

  “All I said was that the Norwegian health-care system could be a model for us. I’m not talking about welfare,” Arnie Feld protested.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about! That’s your trouble,” Oscar blustered.

  Don Brady walked into the fray. “Keep it down, Melling. We’re here for a vacation.”

  “Are you telling me to shut up?” Oscar was ready for a fight and even assumed a pugilistic posture.

  “Yes, I am!” Don was red in the face now, too. Wives were appearing like magic from their contemplation of carved rosettes.

  “Honey,” Marge said to Don, her hand on his elbow as Helene linked her arm through Arnie’s and took a step backward. But equally by magic, Carl and Jan materialized.

  “I thought you were going to buy us a beer, Mr. Melling.” Carl stood directly in front of the man, blocking the others.

  “We get very thirsty talking all day,” Jan said. Both young men were smiling. Oscar muttered something and left with them, but not before casting a foul glance at his opponents.

  “What do you suppose that was all about?” Pix was surprised. The group had seemed so friendly.

  “I hate that man,” Jennifer said vehemently. “He’s a bully and would say anything to get a rise out of someone. He’s been a pain since we started.”

  The rotten apple. Pix remembered Don Brady’s remark at dinner at the Stalheim Hotel.

  Carl was back, working the crowd, a word here, a word there, more smiles all around. At the end of a tour, the guides must have aching facial muscles for days. Jan was presumably hoisting some flagons with the troublemaker. Soon everyone was talking and laughing again. Oscar had been relegated to an anecdote: “The trip was wonderful, except for…”

  The Dahl sisters excused themselves to titivate before the ball, or, as Louise put it, “We’ll just go freshen up a bit before the music starts.”

  Pix finished her coffee. It was impossible to get a weak cup in Norway, and this should keep her wide-awake for the night’s exploit. Searching their fjord cruiser for drugs or stolen oil-rig plans was not something she wanted to broadcast, however. So instead, she said to Jennifer, “I think I’ll go and see if my mother needs anything, then look in on the dancing. After that, I want to find the sauna. It should be a great one here.” What she really wanted to do was head straight for the sauna, but she wanted to check out who was dancing, and there might be a chance to talk to some of the people she hadn’t been able to talk to yet, or those she wanted to speak to further.

  Ursula answered the door. Marit was sitting on the balcony; the flask and two glasses were on a small table. Marit was laughing. Nobody needed anything, especially not Pix. She didn’t even bother to go in.

  “God natt, god natt,” Marit called.

  “Don’t forget about getting on board the boat” was Mother’s good night.

  As if, Pix thought, her children’s speech patterns having long ago invaded her own.

  Five

  “I got my thriilll on Blueberry Hiilll.”

  The music was blasting from the smoke-filled lounge and dancers crowded the floor. The air was warm and faces glowed, shining from exertion and alcohol. Pix wanted to keep alert and awake, although with all the coffee she’d drunk, she’d have to drink an enormous amount of beer to put a dent in the caffeine. By the end of the trip, her blood type would probably be arabica instead of B-positive. She ordered a Coke and sat down at a small table off to the side, where she was content to observe and not participa
te as tourists from every corner of the earth twisted and shouted their way through the group’s next spirited number. It was an interesting rendition of the old classic. The female vocalist didn’t sing at all like Chubby Checker and her accent occasionally made the English words sound Norwegian, but when she belted out “like we did last summer,” the dancers went nuts, gyrating even more madly. Thoughts of hip-huggers. Thoughts of blankets at the beach. Thoughts of youth.

  Pix was surprised to see Oscar Melling back in good graces, or at least with some of the tour. He was panting away opposite Carol Peterson, who was managing to stay with the beat even as her eyes scanned the room for her wayward daughter-in-law and poor benighted son. Pix

  could see Carol intoning the words over cups of coffee stretching endlessly into a future of neighborhood coffee klatches: “He was such a good boy, until he met up with her. Not that I’m criticizing, mind you, but…” Roy senior was talking to Don Brady. It was apparently a very serious subject. Their heads were bent close together and Don, who was speaking at the moment, had locked his fellow Scandie sightseer’s eyes in his own intense gaze. Suddenly, the two burst out laughing. What on earth could they be discussing? Pix tried to think how she could move closer to eavesdrop.

  The Hardings and the Golubs were, of course, playing cards, although the table was partially out the door—so they could hear each other. Pix wondered if they played for money. There was no sign of the bachelor farmers. No doubt, they stuck to their routines and had all gone to bed at what would have been sundown, to arise at sunup.

  The number ended and Pix was debating whether to have another Coke or not. Skipping it meant a week’s tuition for Samantha at Wellesley, where she was going to be a freshman in the fall. But Pix needed to have some reason for lingering and she had absentmindedly drunk the first small glass down while she was looking about. She ordered another one, wished she was on an expense account, and continued her surveillance.