The group played a slow number. Pix didn’t recognize the song, but she did recognize the tempo. It was make-out music. All those couples in her teen years embracing on the dance floor, rocking from side to side, maybe taking a step to the rear or the front to provide a semblance of motion. “What fun is that?” her mother had asked. “That’s not dancing! Why bother?” Pix, besotted over Sam Miller, two years older and two inches taller, had not explained. There were some things mothers would never get.
“All those dancing-school years with Miss Pat and Miss Nancy,” Ursula had complained. Yes, the adolescents of Aleford had been taught to dance properly. Girls wore
party dresses and white gloves. Boys had to struggle into suits and ties. Pix, with the arrogance of youth, had reminded her mother that people disapproved of the waltz when it was first introduced. “Nice eighteenth-century girls didn’t dance that way.”
But Ursula had the last word. “Someday you’ll be glad you learned to dance.” Many weddings, bar mitzvahs, and fund-raisers later, Pix was indeed glad she had.
The French cousins were dancing together. They had the air of professionals—impersonal smiles, eyes ahead, perfectly coordinated steps. They acknowledged her by dipping slightly as they passed.
Carol Peterson was still dancing with Oscar Melling, who was grasping her so tightly, Pix was sure the buttons on his sports shirt were embossing her flesh. She had changed from the brightly colored polyester pants suits she favored during the day to a wide-skirted floral-print cocktail dress—cruise wear. It was accessorized by matching beads, earrings, and several bangle bracelets. A white Orlon cardigan with plastic pearl buttons fluttered from her shoulders like a tiny cape, the gold-plated sweater guard threatening to choke her. She was chattering feverishly and Pix thought she heard her say, “You naughty man, you,” as they, too, passed by. Her hair, uniformly light brown, was styled in what Pix vaguely recalled as an “artichoke” cut from her youth. Carol’s leaves were all firmly lacquered in place, down to the wispy ones over her brow.
Pix noted again that jogging and whatever else Jennifer Olsen did to stay in shape had paid off. She was wearing a cotton-knit dress that clung to her body. It was very short and Pix remembered the equally provocative night wear Jennifer favored. Her dancing style fit these fashions. She was twisting, but not grinding gears to the floor and jumping up again, as the jack-in-the-boxes surrounding her were. Instead, her whole body seemed to shimmy and slither seductively, pulsating with the rhythm. Pix didn’t recognize her partner from the tour. She must have met
him at the hotel. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her—and the slight smile on her lips clearly stated she knew it. More power to her, thought Pix. Over fifty didn’t mean Ovaltine and early to bed these days. Well, maybe it meant early to bed, but not Ovaltine. Clearly, Jennifer was a boomer and proud of it.
Pix was beginning to feel as if she was watching a film, Fellini by way of Oslo. From the look of the crowd, intent on wresting every last drop of pleasure from their tour—they’d paid for it, after all—it would be many hours before she could count on slipping out of the hotel to search the boat.
And what if she did find something? Something Kari and Erik had also found out about. Something with which they confronted someone. Pix shuddered as she thought of the repercussions of such knowledge. If it concerned oil secrets, that meant big money, and the lives of two young Norwegians wouldn’t count for much.
What a strange tour this was, though—secret compartment or no secret compartment. Kari and Erik’s disappearance. Erik’s death. Then after Pix’s arrival, there had been the man on Jennifer’s balcony and the swastika on the lawn at Stalheim. That reminded her of Marit’s revelation. Did the war have anything to do with all this? She stared hard at the dancers, the Scandie Sights members in particular. There weren’t any young people on the tour, with the exception of Roy junior and Lynette Peterson. Then came Pix. She hadn’t been at this end of the age range for years. The check marks she’d been making on questionnaires were getting alarmingly higher and higher: 20-30, 30-40, 40-50!
So, a large number of the tour members would have been the newlyweds’ age during the war, young people whose youth was clouded by fear and deprivation. The swastika had been meant as a reminder, a reminder of the war and the Lebensborn homes. All the Norwegian-Americans on the trip—had one of them come from Stalheim or one of the other homes, a Lebensborn baby? Had
there been memories of the war that were so bad, they had driven someone to deface the lawn—and maybe to something else? Something Kari and Erik had discovered? Pix thought of Jennifer. She was certainly bitter, and with ample cause. Had she come to Norway to seek revenge for her father, her grandmother, and now in memory of her mother? Her mother, who had always been homesick but had never come back? There were many Norwegians during the war who had stood by and done nothing. And there were those who hadn’t been content to stand by, but who actively collaborated. Still, she hadn’t mentioned anything about Stalheim, and it had been Pix’s impression that Jennifer’s family came from the east coast. But then the woman hadn’t been explicit.
The swastika. At the time of the war, Norway had very few Jews, still didn’t. Jews, monks, and Jesuits were not even allowed into the country under the 1814 constitution, which named the Church of Norway, Evangelical Lutheran, as the religion of the government. The prohibition against Jews was repealed in 1851. The monks had to wait until the end of the century and the Jesuits until some time in the 1950s. From Marit, Pix knew that not too many Norwegians actually attended church services, although they belonged to the church. It had also been a surprise to find out some years back that only about half of Norway’s Jews had survived the war—those who escaped to Sweden at the very beginning of the Occupation, about seven hundred. Had the swastika been meant to symbolize collective guilt?
And what about the man in the beard on the balcony? A thief? All these beards. She was very aware of the photograph tucked away in her pocketbook, the picture of Sven and Hanna, Kari’s mother and father. Hanna, definitely a Lebensborn baby. Kari had been deeply upset at the discovery. Marit had said Kari wanted to find out about her family and that she had agreed to help. Pix would have to ask her if they’d started to search, and if so, how? Poor Kari. To discover suddenly that both sides were a
mystery. She’d grown up with no knowledge of her father or his people. Did she want to search for him, too? Or maybe she had found him? The beards. Pix had discovered the name of their hirsute captain, Captain Hagen, but his first name was Nils, not Sven. Still, people changed their names. Captain Hagen? But if Kari had found her father, why would she and Erik have gone off? And surely she would have said something to Marit. Could this have been what she wanted to talk about?
Pix was tired. And muddled. The chanteuse was crooning “Dream, Dream, Dream” and the couples on the floor slowly swayed. Pix liked the Everly Brothers better. She was in a grumpy mood. Time to hit the sauna and sweat all the bad vibes out. Sonja and Anders were directly in front of her table. She couldn’t get up without disturbing them. Their eyes were closed and they weren’t moving at all, her arms around his neck, his about her waist. The music stopped and they broke apart, seemingly startled to find themselves at the Kvikne’s Hotel and not whatever private neverland they shared.
Back on the job, Anders was polite and cordial. “Mrs. Miller, are you enjoying the music?”
Before she could answer, the drummer stood up, grabbed the mike, and exclaimed in several languages, “Time for everyone to wet their whistles. We’ll be right back.”
Roy senior, looking none too pleased, reclaimed his wife, and Oscar, whose whistle seemed drenched already, presumably went in search of more.
“May I get you something?” Anders asked, and Sonja sat down next to Pix.
“That’s very kind of you, but I still have some Coke, thank you,” Pix answered, realizing that in her effort to nurse the drink, she’d scarcely touched it.
“A beer for
you?” he asked Sonja.
“Ja, takk,” she answered, and he walked away toward the bar to join the long queue already formed.
Sonja repeated Anders’s question, but she broadened it. “So, are you enjoying the tour?”
“Very much,” Pix replied. “It’s so beautiful. I loved being on the boat, watching the mountains and waterfalls. I hadn’t wanted to dock, but this is lovely, too.” It was true. In the front of the ship, sailing along the fjord, she had felt so calm and all things had seemed possible. Kari would be found. There would be some sad but logical explanation for Erik’s tragic death. Draw your strength from mountains. If true, then the Norwegians must be the mightiest people on earth. Well, at one time, she supposed they might have been, if pillaging and far-flung travel counted. Even now, with a system that cared for all, they had managed things quite well. But on land, lovely as Balestrand was, the dark thoughts came and she recalled herself to her task.
“Only I can’t help but think of that poor young man, the one who was killed, and the girl who has disappeared. Those must have been difficult days in Bergen.”
Sonja’s cheeks flamed, and it was not the warmth of the room, or Ringnes beer.
“Better to put it out of your mind. Yes, it was hard in Bergen, but Anders and I were there already and could start work right away, so none of the guests suffered too much.”
“I mean everyone must have been upset. I heard Erik and Kari were very well liked.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” Sonja almost snapped. Would have snapped if the soft inflection her accent gave to her words allowed for emphasis.
“They weren’t well liked? But I thought…”
“He was a nice boy and we all thought very much of him. As for Kari, she did not deserve him. Last summer, he was always worried about what she was doing when he wasn’t there. I was only with her a few times, but I knew the type. I don’t know what the English word is for it—Kari liked to tease the boys, not that she wanted anyone but Erik. Oh no, she had him where she wanted—
with a ring through his nose for her to lead him around until she got the ring on her finger.”
Pix was taken aback at the vehemence of Sonja’s tone. She asked her, “Was Erik one of Anders’s friends, too?”
“No. Anders never met him. This is his first time working for the tour.”
Pix started to ask another question, but Sonja forestalled her. “You will enjoy the visit to the farm tomorrow. The farmer’s wife makes pancakes for everyone and usually serves little cakes, too. Their goat herd is not too far away. You can get some nice pictures.”
Anders sat down with the drinks and Pix realized that the girl had seen him approaching before Pix had.
“The band is going to start again soon. Have you ladies been having a nice chat?”
Neither lady said a word; then both said yes at once. Sonja burst into giggles and seemed once more sweet and unaffected—just like Pix’s notion of Kari.
Carl and Jan stood in the doorway. No rest for the weary, Pix thought. Tour guide was not the job for her, although she had been functioning as such unofficially for years during every family vacation. “And now you will see the famous Anasazi cliff dwellings, where we will spend some hours walking in their footsteps….” Carl and Jan didn’t have to cope with the “Oh, Moms” that greeted her efforts. Maybe being on a payroll wasn’t so bad.
The two young men were making for her table.
“Are you having a good time, Mrs. Miller?” Jan asked. “And your mother? She’s okay?”
“Oh, yes, we’re both enjoying the trip very much. Mother went up to bed after coffee.”
“Good, good.” Carl beamed. Pix was curious about what they did during the winter. The two guides had come in search of the stewards and the four were conversing rapidly in Norwegian. It must have to do with arrangements for tomorrow. Anders kept nodding and saying,
“Ja.” Sonja added a word or two and the four seemed to have finished their business.
“What do you do in the winter?” Pix asked. “I think someone mentioned you and Anders are at the University of Oslo,” she added, addressing Sonja.
“Yes, we are still students. I am studying economics and Anders is in a business course. We want to make a lot of money,” she quipped.
“And you?” Pix asked Carl.
“I work for Scandie Sights all year. We have many tours during the winter—ski holidays, trips to warmer places. We even go to the United States. The Norwegian Farmers Tour.”
Pix assumed he was joking and laughed.
“No, really. In the early spring, we go to Bismarck, Fargo, and places in Minnesota. I must admit, though,” he said ruefully, “I enjoy the summer tours more. The farmers all treat me like a city boy. Well, I am a city boy. I’ve never worked on a farm in my life. They give me quite a hard time and nothing impresses them. They visit each farm, rub some dirt through their fingers, and shake their heads. The most fun I’ve ever had on one of these trips was when I took them to the Mall of America. I didn’t know what it was and the weather was bad. It was the only thing I could think of to do with them. They weren’t interested in the art museum. They were like terrified children—it was so huge—and suddenly I was the big man. They clung to me like glue!”
Pix got the picture, and “Prairie Home Companion” ’s Garrison Keillor was ringing in her ears.
“And you, Jan? Do you work for Scandie Sights all year, too?”
“Nei. My family is in the oil business, and as soon as summer is over, it’s back to the office for me. I live now in Stavanger.”
The band returned; before they started, Pix decided to call it a night—at least close this chapter.
“I think I’ll see if the sauna is open,” Pix said, and stood up. Anders, Carl, and Jan stood up also.
“We’ll say good night, then,” Jan said. “It should be another good day tomorrow. You’ll like the farm.”
Sonja said, “I was telling Mrs. Miller about the pancakes.”
Anders smiled at his girlfriend. “Ja, the pancakes.”
The first strains of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” weem-awecked its way into the still of the Norwegian twilight. Looking back over her shoulder, Pix saw that Jan was asking Carol Peterson to dance and Carl was heading toward Helene Feld. She was impressed again with their healthy good looks, albeit a bit disheveled in Jan’s case. As usual, they were wearing matching Norwegian sweaters, issued by Scandie Sights, she imagined, and she decided to pick up some in the same patterns for her own children. And maybe Sam. He’d wear it for skiing. Even as she pictured her family Nordicly garbed, she realized she’d always be seeing these two. It would not be an unpleasant reminder. It was nice to be taken care of, instead of always taking care. She sighed and left the room.
The Dahl sisters were sitting in the lobby, drinking coffee, of course. Pix was not surprised, since Norwegians carry an extra gene, the caffeine gene, which means it has absolutely no effect on their ability to go to sleep or on their nerves, whether drunk at one o’clock in the afternoon or one o’clock in the morning. Just looking at the cups of steaming-hot dark brown liquid made her feel jangled—or maybe it was the Coca-Cola. In true Viking fashion, neither woman took cream.
“Isn’t it fun!” Erna exclaimed. “They were playing some traditional Norwegian folk tunes earlier—dances we learned when we were little girls.” She was wearing what Pix believed was called “a fascinator” in bygone days—a little wispy chiffon scarf pinned to her curls. Both women had “Norwegian Ladies Club” gold necklaces and large enameled pins. Erna’s was a daisy, Louise’s an elegant curving emerald green leaf. From the richness of the
enamel’s color, Pix assumed they were from David-Andersen, gullsmed, the premier jeweler and silversmith in Norway with tantalizing stores throughout the country.
“Good night. See you in the morning,” Pix said. “I’m going to relax in the sauna and then head off to bed.” And break into a closet on board our Viking fjord cruiser.
It was hard to resist a perverse temptation to blurt it out and watch their faces.
“Sleep well. Won’t it be fun to visit the farm tomorrow? And the weather is supposed to continue to be fine,” Louise said.
Pix thought she’d heard enough about this farm virtually to replace the visit, but she agreed cheerfully.
“We may get some rain tonight, but we’ll be asleep,” Erna said happily. “It’s all turning out perfectly.”
Pix thought of her mission. Maybe for them.
Pix got towels at the desk and followed the arrow down the stairs. Soon she was pushing the sauna’s solid wooden door open. The force of the heat and the steam took her breath away for an instant, but she slowly exhaled for what seemed like a long time and sat down on the lowest level of the benches. It felt wonderful.
The sole other occupant stood up, girded his towel securely about his loins, and strode down from the top level. He nodded in passing and left. It was their captain, Nils Hagen. His dark beard and hair had been glistening. She wondered if he’d gone to shower and would be back, although he didn’t seem the chatty type.
Her thoughts turned to Marit’s revelation about Hanna’s birth but did not linger long. It was Kari who was insistently occupying center stage. Sonja’s words kept echoing in Pix’s mind: “Kari liked to tease the boys.” The Scandie Sights steward hadn’t known the English word for it, yet Pix was pretty sure it was the same. A tease was a tease. A very different view of Kari from the one Pix held, but then, how well did Pix really know the young woman? Pix remembered Kari as a delightful, happy child, then
later, a delightful, happy teenager. Their contact had always been during the summer, vacation time, when judgment tends toward the benign.
Yes, the older Kari had had strong opinions and did fly off the handle a couple of times, but all teenagers did. Pix could not recall Kari acting provocatively with any of the boys around, but then, there weren’t too many eligible ones. Kari had been content to fit into their life, complete with much younger children and much older adults. There had been no mistaking Sonja’s antipathy, though. Her preference for Erik was clear. They had worked together the summer before—without Anders. Had Sonja fallen for Erik? Was it the jealousy dance?
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