by Anne Holt
‘. . . indefinable,’ she said after a while. ‘The X-factor. Warm, beautiful and feminine, and yet at the same time, strong, as she has shown in her career and the fact that she volunteered for Vietnam. I’m sure she’s hard as nails and has lots of enemies. But she treats them . . . differently.’
She popped her glasses back on her nose and looked at Hanne.
‘Do you know what I mean?’
‘Yes.’ Hanne nodded. ‘She’s good at fooling people, in other words. She even gets bitter enemies to believe she’s treating them with real respect. But I wonder what it is about her.’
‘What it is about her? What do you mean?’
‘Oh come on.’ Hanne smiled. ‘You don’t think she’s as shiny and pure as she makes out.’
‘But she has . . . If there was anything, surely someone would have discovered it. American journalists are the best at . . . they’re the meanest in the world.’
For the first time in their short nascent friendship, Hanne seemed to be strangely happy. It was as if having the kidnapped American president asleep on her couch had jolted her out of her impenetrable armour of friendly indifference. The whole world was holding its breath in growing fear of what might have happened to Helen Lardahl Bentley. Hanne Wilhelmsen obviously enjoyed keeping them in suspense. Johanne didn’t know how to interpret that. Or whether she liked it.
‘Don’t be silly.’ Hanne laughed and leant over to nudge her. ‘There isn’t a single person, not one person in the whole world, who doesn’t have something they’re ashamed of. Something they’re frightened that other people might find out. The higher up the ladder you are, the more dangerous even the most minor transgression in the past can be. I’m sure that our friend in there has something.’
‘I’m going to go to bed,’ Johanne said. ‘Are you going to stay up?’
‘Yes,’ Hanne said. ‘Until you wake up, that is. I’m sure I’ll doze a bit in the chair, but I’ve got plenty to read.’
‘Until Ragnhild wakes up,’ Johanne corrected her, and yawned again as she padded out in her borrowed slippers to get some water from the kitchen.
She turned in the doorway.
‘Hanne,’ she said quietly.
‘Yes?’
Hanne didn’t turn the chair. She stayed where she was, staring at the dancing flames. She had poured herself some more wine and lifted her glass.
‘Why are you so set against telling anyone that she’s here?’ Hanne put down her glass. She slowly turned the wheelchair to face Johanne. The room lay in darkness, except for the fire and what little light remained of the May night that stubbornly pressed itself against the window. Her face looked even thinner in the dark shadows and her eyes had disappeared.
‘Because I promised her,’ she said. ‘Don’t you remember? I gave her my hand. Then she fainted. And you should always keep a promise. Don’t you agree?’
Johanne smiled. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘On that, we agree.’
XXXI
It was exactly six o’clock in the evening on the east coast of the United States.
Al Muffet had let his youngest daughter, Louise, make dinner. They had to celebrate the arrival of her uncle, she said. After the death of Al’s mother, they had had practically no contact with his family, so Louise had insisted. Al closed his eyes in a silent prayer to the kitchen gods when he saw her opening the cupboard for more and more delicacies.
There went the foie gras.
And now she was taking out the last jar of Russian caviar. He had been given a case by a very happy family after he had relieved their puppy of constipation.
‘Louise,’ he said in a cautious voice. ‘You don’t need to use everything we’ve got. Just hold your horses a bit now.’
The girl looked up with an injured pout.
‘You might not think there’s any reason to get excited about family, Dad, but I think it’s worth celebrating. And who are we going to give these things to if you won’t let my uncle have them? My uncle, Dad! My own flesh-and-blood uncle.’
Al puffed out his cheeks and let the air out slowly.
‘Remember that he’s a Muslim,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t use anything with pork in it.’
‘What about you, then? You love spare ribs! Shame on you.’
He loved it when she laughed. She had her mother’s laugh, the only thing that was left of her when Al Muffet closed his eyes and tried to recreate a picture of his wife, without seeing the thin shadow she had become in the final months of her life. He never managed. Her face had been erased. The only thing he could remember was the smell of the perfume he had given her when they got engaged, and that she had worn ever since. And her laughter. Melodious and clear as bells. Louise had inherited it, and sometimes he caught himself telling a joke just so he could close his eyes and listen.
‘What’s going on out here?’ Fayed asked from the doorway. ‘Are you the cook in the family?’
He went over to the counter and ruffled Louise’s hair. She smiled, then picked up an aubergine, which she started to cut with a practised hand.
I’m never allowed to ruffle her hair, Al Muffet sulked to himself. You don’t treat a teenager like that, Fayed. And certainly not one you barely know.
‘Great girls you’ve got,’ Fayed said, putting down a bottle of wine on the coarse oak table in the middle of the room. ‘I think this one’ll be good. Where are Sheryl and Catherine?’
‘Sheryl’s twenty,’ Al muttered. ‘She left home last year.’
‘Oh,’ Fayed said lightly, and had to take a quick sidestep to regain his balance as he opened a drawer. ‘Do you have a bottle opener?’
Al thought he caught a whiff of alcohol already. When Fayed turned to face him, Al could have sworn that his brother’s eyes were glazed and his mouth was sagging.
‘Do you drink?’ he asked. ‘I thought—’
‘Hardly ever,’ Fayed cut in and coughed, as if he was trying to pull himself together. ‘But on a day like today . . .’
He burst out laughing again and nudged his niece.
‘I can see that you’re preparing a celebration,’ he said. ‘And I agree with you. I’ve got some presents for you girls. We could open them after dinner. It really is so good to see you all!’
‘Well, strictly speaking, you’ve only seen two of us so far,’ Al said and pulled open a drawer. ‘But Catherine will be here soon. I said that dinner was around half past six. She had a match this afternoon. It should be over by now.’
The corkscrew was caught in a whisk. He eventually managed to separate the two utensils, and handed the corkscrew to his brother.
‘What are you saying?’ Fayed joked as he took it. ‘My niece is playing in a match and you don’t even tell me? We could have gone to watch! My children aren’t interested in anything like that.’ He shook his head and pulled an unhappy face. ‘None of them. None of them has a competitive spirit.’
Louise smiled in embarrassment.
Fayed opened the bottle and looked around for glasses. Al opened a cupboard and took out a glass and put it on the table.
‘Are you not going to have any?’ Fayed asked, astonished.
‘It’s Wednesday. I have to get up early tomorrow.’
‘Just a glass,’ Fayed pleaded. ‘Heavens above, you can manage a glass! Are you not pleased to see me?’
Al took a deep breath, then he got out another glass and put it down beside the first one.
‘Only so much,’ he said and indicated a couple of centimetres from the bottom. ‘Stop.’
Fayed poured himself a generous amount and then raised his glass.
‘Cheers!’ he said. ‘To the Muffasa family getting together again!’
‘We’re called Muffet,’ Louise said in a small voice, without looking at her uncle.
‘Muffet. Muffasa. Same thing!’
He took a drink.
You’re drunk, Al Muffet caught himself thinking in surprise. You, who was always the religious one, who I’ve never seen take even one beer
with the boys! You turn up like a jack-inthe-box without having been in touch for three years, and then you get drunk on something I haven’t even given you.’
‘Food’s ready,’ Louise said.
She seemed to be shy, which she wasn’t normally. It was as if she had suddenly realised that her uncle wasn’t quite as he should be. When he leant towards her to stroke her back, she pulled away with an embarrassed smile.
‘Please sit down,’ she said and pointed to the dining room.
‘Aren’t we going to wait for Catherine?’ Al asked. He nodded reassuringly at his daughter. ‘She’ll be here soon.’
‘I’m back,’ came a shout as the door slammed. ‘We won! I had a home run!’
Fayed took his glass with him into the sitting room.
‘Catherine,’ he said affectionately and stopped to fully appreciate his niece.
The fifteen-year-old stopped in her tracks. She looked suspiciously at the man who was incredibly like her father, except his eyes were glazed and difficult to read. He also had a moustache, which she didn’t like, a big moustache with pointy ends that curled down to his mouth and hid his upper lip.
‘Hi,’ she said quietly.
‘I told you that Uncle Fayed was maybe going to drop by today,’ Al said with forced cheer. ‘And here he is! Come on, let’s sit down. Louise has made dinner, so let’s see how she’s done.’
Catherine smiled cautiously.
‘I’ll just put my things in my room and wash my hands,’ she said and bounded up the stairs in four strides.
Louise came in from the kitchen with two plates in her hands, and two more balanced on her lower arms.
‘Wow, look at that,’ Fayed said. ‘A real professional!’
They sat down. Catherine came bounding down the stairs again, just as fast as she had gone up. She had short hair, a pretty, square face and broad shoulders.
‘So, you play softball?’ Fayed asked unnecessarily, and popped a piece of foie gras in his mouth. ‘Your father played baseball. Back in the day. That was a long time ago, wasn’t it, Ali?’
No one had called their father Ali since their grandmother died. The girls exchanged looks and Louise stifled a giggle with her hand. Al Muffet mumbled something inaudible that was supposed to put a stop to all this talk of his miserable career in athletics.
Fayed emptied his glass. Louise was just about to get up to fetch the bottle from the kitchen when her father stopped her with a hand on her leg.
‘Uncle Fayed’s had enough wine,’ he said mildly. ‘Here, have some refreshing, cold water.’
He poured a large glass and pushed it over to his brother, who was sitting on the opposite side of the table.
‘I think I’ll have a little bit more wine.’ Fayed smiled. He didn’t touch the water.
‘I don’t think so,’ Al said, giving him a fierce look.
Something was very wrong. Fayed might of course have changed a lot in the years since they last saw each other and started drinking. But it seemed unlikely. And he didn’t seem to be able to handle alcohol very well either. Even though he obviously had had something before he came into the kitchen, the one generous glass of wine had made him noticeably more drunk. Fayed was clearly not used to alcohol. And Al couldn’t understand why he was drinking now.
‘No,’ Fayed said loudly, breaking the embarrassing deadlock. ‘You’re absolutely right. No more wine for me. Very good in small quantities, daaangerous in more.’
When he said dangerous, he wagged his finger wildly at his nieces, who were sitting at either end of the table.
‘How’s the family?’ Al asked, with his mouth full.
‘How’s the family . . . well.’ Fayed had started to eat again. He chewed slowly, as if he had to concentrate on making sure his teeth ground the food. ‘Well, I assume. Yes. If you can say that things were going well for anyone in this country. With our ethnic background, I mean.’
Al was immediately on his guard. He put down his knife and fork and rested his elbows on the table as he leant forward.
‘We haven’t got any problems,’ he said and smiled at the girls.
‘I wasn’t really talking about people like you,’ Fayed said. He wasn’t slurring his words quite so much any more.
Al wanted to object, but not when the girls were sitting there. He asked if everyone had finished with their starter, and cleared away the dishes. Louise followed him out into the kitchen.
‘Is he ill?’ she whispered. ‘He’s kind of weird. So . . . inpredictable, in a way.’
‘Unpredictable,’ her father corrected in a hushed voice. ‘He always has been. But don’t judge him too harshly, Louise. He hasn’t had it as easy as we have.’
Fayed has never got over nine/eleven, he thought. He was on his way up the career ladder, in a demanding, well-paid job. But that all came to a standstill after the catastrophe and he only just managed to hold on to his middle-management position. Fayed is a bitter man, Louise, and you are too young to be exposed to the bitterness.
‘He’s a good guy really.’ He smiled at his daughter. ‘And as you said, he’s your flesh-and-blood uncle.’
They went back into the dining room, each carrying a plate of delicious caviar and home-grown shallots.
‘. . . and they have never managed to do anything about the injustice. And never will do either.’ Fayed shook his head and rubbed his temple with a finger.
‘What are you talking about?’ Al asked.
‘The blacks,’ Fayed replied.
‘Afro-Americans,’ Al said. ‘You mean Afro-Americans.’
‘Call them what you like. They let themselves be exploited. It’s in their genes, you know. They will never manage to redeem themselves.’
‘We don’t allow that kind of talk in this house,’ Al said calmly and put a plate down in front of their guest. ‘I suggest we change the subject.’
‘It’s genetic,’ Fayed continued, unabashed. ‘Slaves had to be hard-working and strong without being able to think too much. If there were any intelligent ones among them back there in Africa, they were allowed to go free. The genetic material that was transported over the ocean makes them unsuitable for anything other than sport. And crime. But we’re different. We don’t need to put up with that shit.’
Crash!
Al Muffet thumped his plate down on the table so hard that it broke.
‘That’s enough,’ he hissed. ‘No one, not even my brother, has my permission to say such rubbish. Not here, not anywhere. Do you understand? Do you understand?’
The two girls sat still as statues, only their eyes moving to and fro between their uncle and their father. Even Freddy, the little terrier, who was tethered out in the yard and normally barked his way through every meal he wasn’t allowed to join, was quiet.
‘Perhaps we should eat,’ Louise said after a while. Her voice was higher than normal. ‘Dad, you can have mine. I don’t really like caviar. And by the way, I think that Condoleezza Rice and Colin Powell are very smart. Even if I don’t agree with them. You see, I’m a Democrat.’
The twelve-year-old smiled carefully. Neither of the men replied.
‘Here,’ she said, and passed her plate to her father.
‘You’re right,’ Fayed said eventually. He shrugged something that resembled an apology. ‘Let’s change the subject.’
That proved to be difficult. For a long time they concentrated on eating, without anyone saying anything. If Al had looked over at his daughter, he would have seen that Louise had teardrops shivering on her eyelashes and a trembling lower lip. Catherine, on the other hand, seemed to be highly interested by the situation. She continued to stare at her uncle, as if she couldn’t quite understand what he was doing there.
‘You’re very alike,’ she said suddenly. ‘If you ignore the moustache, that is.’
The two men finally had to look up from their food.
‘We’ve been told that ever since we were boys,’ replied her father, taking a piece of bread to mop up the
remains of his caviar. ‘Despite the age difference.’
‘Even Mother got confused sometimes,’ Fayed said.
Al looked at him with suspicion.
‘Mother? She never confused us. You were four years older than me, Fayed!’
‘When she died,’ Fayed said. There was an undertone to his voice that Al had never heard before and couldn’t interpret. ‘In fact, she thought I was you. Presumably because she loved you more. That’s what she would have wanted. Her favourite son to be sitting there talking to her in her final moments of lucidity. But you . . . didn’t make it in time.’
His smile was ambiguous.
Al Muffet put down his knife and fork. The room was starting to spin. He felt the blood leave his head and adrenalin being pumped into every muscle, every nerve in his body. The palms of his hands were glued to the table. He had to hold on so he didn’t fall off his chair.
‘I see,’ he said without expression, trying not to alarm the girls, who were staring at him as if he had suddenly put on a red clown’s nose. ‘She thought—’
‘You’re acting weird, Dad! What’s wrong?’
Louise stretched her slim girl’s hand over the table and put it on her father’s large hand.
‘I’m . . . It’s fine. Everything’s fine.’
He pulled a face that was supposed to be a reassuring smile, but he realised he would have to follow it up with an explanation.
‘I just suddenly got a pain in my stomach,’ he said. ‘Maybe the caviar didn’t agree with me. It’ll pass.’
Fayed was looking at him. His eyes seemed even darker than usual. It was as if he had a supernatural ability to pull them back into his head, or push his forehead out to make his face more threatening, more frightening. Al remembered that his brother had looked at him like this, in exactly the same way, when they were little and Fayed had done something wrong and was lying through his front teeth, while their father embarked on one of his tirades that became more and more frequent and passionate over the years.
And he realised, without understanding why, the significance of the fact that his mother had confused her two sons on her deathbed.