The Body in the Fjord ff-8

by Katherine Hall Page

  Or was the older Kari, undeniably a beauty, something more than a flirt? And what had this led to? It was not the sort of thing a grandmother picked up on. Pix realized that she had been so caught up in the tour and its multiple personalities that she had been losing sight of the two most important personalities of all—Kari and Erik. The key to finding out what had happened just might lie in figuring out who the young people actually were—or, in Kari’s case, she reminded herself vehemently, she hoped still was.

  Wide-awake, with a troubled mind, there was no danger of falling asleep in the sauna this time. She got up, filled the dipper from the bucket, both made of pine, and flung the water on the rocks. She almost wished there was a snowbank to jump into and someone to flail her lightly with birch branches, all die-hard sauna practices. She would have to content herself with the deeply satisfying hissing sound the water made and the equally satisfying sense that all her impurities were draining out with her sweat.

  Captain Hansen had a dark beard. The man on Jennifer’s balcony at Stalheim had had a dark beard. The man driving the car so swiftly away from the Stalheim Hotel just after she had overheard the argument on her walk—he had a dark beard, too. But many Norwegians had beards, light

  and dark. Sven had had a beard, or maybe still did. Sven, Kari’s father. He would be in his early or mid-fifties. Pix returned to her thoughts about Kari, about where she could be. Kari had definitely wanted to find her mother’s family. Had she picked up some clue about them on the trip, or one relating to her father? Was that where she was? Depressed, confused by Erik’s death, whether she witnessed it or not—for, if she was still alive and in Norway, she couldn’t have escaped the news of it—had she gone in search of her past? Her mother’s past? Her father’s? Were some newly found relatives even now sheltering her? Hiding her? Kari again. Pix wished she had a better idea who Kari was. Now, were Samantha missing, God forbid, Pix could put herself in her daughter’s shoes—not that they’d fit exactly. There are vast uncharted areas in every child’s life, as unknown to a parent as Amelia Earhart’s crash site. But Kari’s shoes…Pix didn’t even know the brand.

  The door opened, but it wasn’t Captain Hagen. It was an elderly Japanese gentleman wearing underwear that revealed nothing and carrying a towel. He gasped and tottered to the bench, looking at Pix, looking at the door, then looking at Pix again. For a while, he did nothing but breathe heavily and make some small throat-clearing noises.

  After a moment, he started to speak to her in Japanese. She nodded and smiled, yet that only seemed to increase his agitation. Finally, she picked out some English words—sorry and Japanese. At last, a sentence. “I am so sorry. I am Japanese. From Tokyo.” Obviously he had not expected to see a woman in the sauna. But what about the geisha tradition? Pix supposed that was very different and she was a far cry from it, swaddled in one of Kvikne’s towels. Maybe it was her height. If they were standing, she’d tower over him.

  “It’s all right.” She nodded and smiled some more. “No problem. It’s the custom here.”

  That produced another torrent of Japanese; then he said in English, “I go ticky-tocky, ticky-tocky,” accompanied by a fluttering hand gesture over his heart.

  Suddenly, she was afraid the heat was too much for the poor man and he had, in fact, been trying to tell her all this time that he was having a heart attack. He repeated the gesture and she asked, “Are you all right?” realizing she had fallen victim to the American disease of believing you can be understood in any language if you just speak English slowly and distinctly enough in a loud voice.

  She stood up, which seemed to alarm him even more, so she promptly sat down again.

  After some minutes filled with grunts of diminishing intensity, he stood up, obviously quite all right. He repeated the “ticky-tocky” routine, bowed several dozen times, and left. Pix laughed until she thought she’d pee, except she’d oozed so much sweat, there wasn’t any. Time to take a shower.

  She stood up and went to the door. The temperature was 60C, she noted, 140F. She pulled. Nothing happened. She pulled again. Somehow, the steam must have caused the wood to swell and stick. She put both hands on the handle and pulled with all her might. The door didn’t budge.

  Now, don’t panic, she told herself. This is ridiculous. She banged on it several times but doubted she could be heard. When she’d come in, she’d noticed how thick it was—and there was no window. She pulled at it again. Her towel slipped off.

  Now she did begin to panic. How could the door have gotten stuck? The hotel would obviously have had to be very careful about the construction of its sauna and it would be checked from time to time. More than that, since this was Scandinavia.

  She wrapped her towel around herself again. It made her feel less vulnerable. Had it been her imagination? She tried the door once again. This time, she was able to see into the crack between the door and the frame.

  See into it and realize it was locked.

  Locked? Locked!

  She sat down on the bench, feeling slightly stunned. She could be in here for a very long time. It was almost 10:30 when she’d gone to her room, taken her watch off, leaving it there with her earrings and a gold chain she’d been wearing. By now, it was certainly well past 11:30. It had taken time to find the sauna; then she’d luxuriated in a long shower. It had had those jets that squirted you from all sides. Then there was her nonadventure with the gentleman from Tokyo. What with the merriment in the lounge and other nocturnal activities offered officially and unofficially on the hotel premises, unless someone had an impulse for late-night sweating, she was stuck until morning. If her mother did knock at Pix’s door, she’d assume her daughter was taking a walk or kicking up her heels with the French ladies and she would go to bed. It would be breakfast time before Ursula and Marit missed her.

  The feeling of panic set in again—and increased. What would sitting in so much heat do to her? Could she dehydrate? Pass out? There was only a small amount of water in the bucket. She’d planned to refill it when she went to take a shower. Should she drink it?

  She went over to the bucket and stuck her finger in the water. It was hot and somehow the prospect of swallowing it made her feel queasy. The smell of the wood, so fragrant before, was also beginning to turn her stomach as she finally faced the question smack in front of her.

  Who locked the door?

  Was it routine? She hadn’t seen any signs stating hours of operation, and like the midnight sun, she imagined the sauna never set, either. In any case, hotel workers would surely have been instructed to see whether the sauna was occupied before locking up. She had been sitting in the middle of the bench, clearly visible to anyone opening the door, as the Japanese gentleman had discovered.

  The Japanese man. He was the last person in the sauna with her, but why on earth would he lock her in and where would he have found a key? He had been upset, all that “ticky-tocky” business, but he hadn’t seemed to bear her any ill will.

  Ill will. Given that the key was in some obvious position outside the door—say hanging from a nail—who might have wanted to keep her on ice, or rather, the reverse, for a while? With all the questions she’d been asking over the last two days, had she made someone nervous? So nervous that he or she wanted to give her a warning, or keep her from seeing something that was going on now?

  Her head was beginning to ache from the heat and the stress. Her thoughts were not companionable ones. What did people in solitary confinement think about? Her brain was beginning to turn to mush, or grøt. Such funny words. Such a funny language, Norwegian. Those three extra letters tacked onto the alphabet after z: æ, ø, and å. Why? And that rolling r sound they made in the back of their throats like a cat purring. Cats. She wondered what her cat, Stan, a gray tiger with a lively personality, was doing—Stan, Stan Miller. People sometimes thought they had another child. Well, the dogs and Stan were like children, she supposed. Her children. She slapped herself lightly on the cheek a few times. It felt good. She co
uld still feel things. The baking heat had been numbing.

  She stood up and paced back and forth. Her heart was pounding. Ticky-tocky, ticky-tocky was right. She tried to address herself sternly and calmly. Now Pix, she told her weaker sister, nothing is going to happen. You’re not in any real danger. At her last physical, the doctor had told her she was disgustingly healthy. Somehow her heart was still racing, though. She didn’t have a heart condition—at least that she knew of. Disgustingly healthy. At the time, Pix had felt somewhat embarrassed—it was such an odd phrase. Would she be less disgusting if the doctor had turned up a hemorrhoid or suspicious mole? More likely more.

  No, she’d make it through the night. There was just going to be a lot of time to kill. She wished she hadn’t thought of the phrase. She sat down again.

  Captain Hagen had been in the sauna. So he knew she was here. She spread her fingers out to count the people who knew where she was. The desk clerk, who had carefully counted out two towels for her, no more, no less; the distressed man from Tokyo; silent Captain Hagen; and Mother. That took care of pointer, tall man, ring man, and pinkie. Had she mentioned it at dinner? She was sure she hadn’t. But she had told Jennifer at coffee, hadn’t she? Yes. Thumbkin went down and she made a fist. She looked at her right hand with its fingers still stretched out and tried to recall if anyone had been near enough to overhear her talking to Jennifer. The Dahl sisters were leaving—but she’d mentioned it to them later—and the Felds were not too far away. Then again, the lobby had not been empty when she got the towels, and why else would she be requesting them? Their rooms were amply supplied. So any number of people knew she’d be here, the whole blasted tour. And the guides, plus the stewards. Scandie Sights—such a stupid name. Mermaids and trolls. She could use a bit less enchantment. She wiggled her fingers. Her grandmother’s diamond solitaire, her engagement ring left to Pix, sparkled. It felt tight. Her fingers looked like the little sausages that had been under the dome in a large silver chafing dish at breakfast this morning. This morning—at the Stalheim Hotel. Stalheim, the swastika. She realized her left hand was still clenched in a fist. She shook her fingers free. Her plain gold wedding band—the flowers that had decorated it originally had long worn smooth—reminded her of her husband. Husbands and wives. Newlyweds. Girlfriends and boyfriends. Sonja and Anders knew she was coming here. Sonja, her dislike of Kari so intense. As intense as her liking for Erik. The jealousy dance, one face forward, one face backward.

  Agitated, she stood up suddenly and felt dizzy. The heat was like armor and she must have lost several pounds of sweat. She walked slowly and deliberately from one end

  of the room to the other, counting her steps. It was something to do. She decided to set up a routine. She was beginning to get tired and she had to keep awake—walk, rest, walk, rest. What would happen if she fell asleep in here? In the morning would there just be a pool of perspiration where she’d reclined? Nothing but a very damp towel, a version of the Wicked Witch of the West after she gets doused with water? “I’m melting,” Pix heard herself say aloud, and she laughed. Her thoughts were definitely rambling. Maybe at some point the heat got switched off. She got up and looked at the temperature gauge. No switches.

  Dehydration. That’s what was going to happen to her. She wouldn’t melt. Not her bones, big bones. The Rowes were all big-boned women, although not heavy. Desiccation. She’d be like one of those dried fruits she bought at the health-food store for her children’s snacks, only she ended up eating them and they held out for Ritz Bits and Doritos.

  Her children. Her eyes filled with tears and she quickly tried to squelch them. She needed all the internal fluids she had. But her children. Motherless. Poor Sam. How would he cope? Remarry. She sat down on the bench and thought of possible candidates, convincing herself that she was thinking rationally. She wished she had something to write with. It was such an ignominious way to go—to dry up.

  Her family. Guilt washed over her so palpably, it almost felt refreshing. She hadn’t thought about them much since she’d arrived in Norway. She chastised herself. What kind of mother was she anyway? It had been wonderful to be unencumbered by her daily routines. Sailing down the fjord today, she’d been very happy, forgetting everything for a time—what she’d left behind and what had brought her here.

  The inside of her mouth seemed to be made of felt. Her throat was parched.

  She forced herself to drink the water in the pail, taking little sips. It wasn’t so bad. Damp felt now inside her mouth. She dozed off. Sleep—the sweet escape.

  A hand was on her shoulder. Someone screamed. She recognized the voice. It was hers.

  “Sorry we startled you, but I told you not to go to sleep in these things. Good thing we came along. The door was locked.” It was Lynette. Lynette and Roy junior, both nude and carrying their towels. Thank God for honeymooners. Pix mumbled her thanks and sat up. How long had she been in here?

  “What time is it?” She spoke very deliberately, like a drunk who doesn’t want to slur but who doesn’t fool anyone.

  “Almost one o’clock,” Lynette answered. Pix tried to think if she’d ever heard Roy junior’s voice. As soon as he’d seen her, he’d wrapped his towel around his waist, blushing furiously. His face was pretty red, too. Lynette didn’t bother to cover up.

  Pix rose slowly and realized she could walk. Suddenly, she felt very, very middle-aged—no, she would not say old. She managed a weak smile and pulled open the door with relief. Outside, the air felt like the Arctic, but it brought her to her senses. She understood the point of snowbanks or icy swims now. There was a chair. She sat on it. Roy appeared and spoke.

  “Lynette thought we’d better keep the key inside,” he explained as he removed it from the nail it did indeed hang on, around the corner from the sauna entrance. “Are you okay?” He had a pleasant deep voice, filled with midwestern sincerity.

  She was okay, she realized with great joy, and she offered some advice of her own.

  “Definitely keep the key with you.”

  It was a little after one. She’d showered and dressed, drunk several glasses of water, then gone up to her room with every intent of going straight to bed when she’d remembered she had to search the damn boat.

  Pix toyed with the idea of forgetting the whole thing. It was hard to believe there was a secret compartment on their Viking cruiser and even harder to believe anything illegal was in it. Yet there was never really any question. And it wasn’t simply the thought of facing her mother over hardboiled eggs and sardines in the morning. Pix had come to Norway to help Marit and apparently that meant an enormous amount of sleep deprivation. She crawled into bed and set the alarm for three o’clock.

  The alarm was ringing. Pix reached for it, instantly wideawake. She’d pulled on some corduroy pants, a heavy turtleneck, and a sweater before she realized that it was only two o’clock. The alarm hadn’t gone off. She’d dreamed it.

  “Damn and double damn,” she said aloud, and walked over to the window, pulling back the drapes. It wasn’t dark, but the light was dim enough for a trip to the dock. The problem was, there were still a great many people strolling about the hotel grounds. Again aloud, she grumbled, “Don’t these people ever go to sleep?”

  She went out onto the balcony and sat down. She didn’t blame them. It was so beautiful, so special—who wanted to go to sleep and miss it? The mountains seemed endless and, just as on the boat, almost within reach, a short walk at the very least. The landscape looked serene, secure even—put your trust in mountains—was that from a poem? A psalm? If it wasn’t, it should be. Immovable, invariable. All day these mountain images and pieces of half-remembered phrases had filled her mind. But, she thought, perhaps the mountains would not appear so poetic in the winter, especially during the endless dark days, days of bad weather. Then the slopes would press in on one and their nearness become a weighty barrier.

  The sky was starting to turn a slate gray. It was happening all at once. She hoped it didn’t mean rai
n, as Erna Dahl had said. Two figures emerged from beneath her balcony, walking slowly down the path across the lawn to the water. She leaned forward to see who it was before

  they moved out of sight. They passed under one of the lights. Oscar and Sophie—Sophie sans her cousine! The oh-sonaughty man had continental tastes. They were headed for the benches at the water’s edge. A rendezvous by the fjord.

  Next Pix heard a voice in the distance. A man’s. It sounded like Don Brady. The entire Scandie Sights tour, with the exception of her mother and the farmers, seemed to be up and about. The Petersons, minus Lynette, but not Roy junior came into view from around the corner of the hotel. This was interesting, but her eyelids were getting heavy again. Trusting that the alarm would wake her, she stood up and stretched, catching sight of Sophie returning from the water much more rapidly than she’d gone, and traveling alone. At one point, she broke into a run; then, seeing others about, she slowed down. As she passed under the light again, Pix could see that she was scowling. That naughty man.

  Pix went to bed.

  Minutes later, or so it seemed, the alarm rang. She hadn’t bothered to undress. Pausing only to make sure it wasn’t raining and/or still like Grand Central Station outside, she grabbed her jacket and stepped quietly into the hall. There had been no one about and the sky was streaked with ominous bands of dark gray clouds, but the ground was dry. She’d shoved a scarf in her pocket and hoped she wouldn’t need it.

  Earlier, she’d made sure the door to the stairs was not locked and now she took them quickly. The sooner this was over, the better. There was no early wake-up call and she might actually get some more sleep.