The Marvelous Misadventures of Ingrid Winter (The Ingrid Winter Misadventure Series)

by J. S. Drangsholt

  And then it was all over.

  33

  After a mechanical kiss at the airport, Bjørnar and I spent the next week packing, moving, and cleaning out the old house. We took possession of the new house, but it didn’t really feel genuine. And once we were done transforming the old one into an empty, alien building, we stood motionless in what used to be our living room. There were a few things left on the floor that we didn’t have any boxes left for or that we didn’t want anymore—a lamp, a cutting board, a few pictures, some clothes hangers.

  We had hardly said a word throughout the whole process, and we didn’t say anything now, either. Just looked around. At a loss, as if wondering where we really belonged.

  The awareness that I was responsible for forcing us out of this house and into a new one where we had no bearings also sat between us. And even though it felt like I had worked through something in Russia, it all reverted when I returned home. The house still hadn’t sold. The iron fist still squeezed inside my chest. And I was probably still in danger of being transferred to the preschool-teacher education program, our own local version of Omsk.

  Plus Bjørnar seemed to increasingly regard me more like an annoying lab partner than a life partner. It was like he was Bobby Simone and I was Andy Sipowicz in NYPD Blue. Before they became good friends. Or after Sipowicz became an unpleasant alcoholic again. And before Simone found out that Sipowicz had been making out with Russians.

  My first day back on the job there was a departmental meeting. I ran into Ingvill on my way down to the lecture hall. She was wearing a fluttering flannel cardigan, and had gone back to wearing her hair in pigtails. It was impossible to know if she planned to say anything to me, and I didn’t know if I should say anything, either.

  “Hi,” I finally said.

  “Whore,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Whore. You’re a W-H-O-R-E.”

  “What’s wrong with you? Did you come down with Tourette’s? I know you’re trying to get me transferred to the preschool-teacher education program and I hate to tell you this, but mindfuck doesn’t mean what you think it does. It means messing around with people’s heads. It doesn’t have anything to do with sex, OK?”

  I took a step closer and stared hard into her dull eyes with a look I hope resembled the secret-agent look Pretty Putin had given me.

  And I won. She backed down and scurried off down the hallway. I slowly followed and found myself a seat way in the back so that I could sneak out just as soon as we had received our due recognition for having secured this gilt-edged cooperation agreement for the university.

  People flocked in, but no one sat by me. Ingvill took a seat next to Frank very close to the front. Even closer to the front, the office manager was struggling to get the projector to work while the chair stood in the corner chatting quietly with Peter. It seemed like they were disagreeing about something, which made me a little nervous.

  I hadn’t told Peter the expensive icon wasn’t priceless in the way we’d thought it was, mostly because it was completely irrelevant to our agreement. If I helped Peter with his icon problem, he was going to help with my preschool-teacher education program problem. That was our deal, and as far as I could see, I’d upheld my end of the bargain.

  But now I noticed him casting furtive looks my way, and I didn’t like that. Plus he kept touching the chair’s arm, which wasn’t reassuring, either. Why was he doing that?

  Ultimately the chair sent Peter back to his seat, right next to Ingvill. As he sat down, he cast a glance back in my direction, one that seemed to be a blend of “Sorry” and “Good luck, kid.” I pulled out my phone and sent him a text.

  What did that look mean?

  Nothing.

  What were you talking to the chair about?

  Nothing.

  You remember our deal?

  No response.

  You remember our deal?

  No response.

  Dickhead!!!

  :-)

  “Hello, everyone. Welcome!” the chair said. “And a particularly warm welcome to our Russia delegation. The university has been trying to set up a collaboration with Saint Petersburg State University for years, and this year Peter finally accomplished this feat. Let’s give him a big hand! I’ll be sure to bring this up with the administration, Peter!”

  The chair gave Peter the thumbs-up. He stood up halfway to accept the scattered applause.

  “Thank you all,” he said. “But I couldn’t have done this without my colleague, Ingvill Christensen. She deserves a big round of applause as well.”

  He gestured with his hands to get a new round of applause going for Ingvill, who stood up and raised her arms in triumph, as I sat in the last row with my mouth open.

  When the applause died out a few seconds later, Frank raised his hand.

  “What about the rest of the English section?” he squeaked. “There were quite a few of us who wanted to be part of that delegation, you know. In the current climate, in these times of course revisions, internationalization is particularly precarious, and—”

  “Yes, the English section,” the chair said with a grin. “We have some good news there as well. Ingvill has been selected to join the preschool-teacher education program, and they are really looking forward to having her on board as the newest addition to their team. Another round of applause for Ingvill. Stand up, Ingvill!”

  Ingvill reluctantly rose again, but this time she looked extremely confused, and mostly seemed to be trying to catch Peter’s eye. He, however, stared fixedly at the floor.

  This round of applause was much louder and lasted quite a bit longer than the one for the cooperative agreement, and Ingvill kept standing with her arms hanging limply at her sides until it died down. Then she opened her mouth.

  “I just want to say,” she said, in a shaky voice, “that this process wasn’t fair. Or transparent. And that there are other people here in this department who should have been reassigned instead of me. I’m not going to name names; I won’t stoop to that. But you can be darn sure I’ll be contacting the Office of the Auditor General. And then we’ll see how this all turns out. I’m not some little cog in a machine! I’m not—”

  “Yes, yes, Ingvill,” the chair said, gesturing with her hand for Ingvill to take a seat. “We’re sure you’ll be very happy in your new position, and I think I speak for everyone when I say that we’ll miss your cheerful presence. Oh, and Ingrid, I’m going to need the summary report for the Russia delegation from you. Ten pages by Friday. Thanks!”

  I opened my mouth again but couldn’t think of anything to say, so I closed it.

  Shortly thereafter we were engulfed in yet another debate for and against the course revision, even though the preannounced subject of this meeting was a presentation of the results of the work environment study.

  That was when I stood up with an apologetic smile and scanned the room for any kind of nod of approval, but as usual had to leave before one materialized. I took up position outside Peter’s office and waited until he came squeaking down the hall five minutes later.

  “I’m done playing on the team.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Am I wrong in thinking that you tried to convince the chair to banish me to the preschool-teacher education program instead of Ingvill? Completely counter to our agreement?”

  He smiled wryly and shrugged.

  “Ingvill won’t last five minutes there,” he said. “Do you know how much teaching they have to do? We managed to protect her here by making up about seventy percent of her work duties. Nonexistent reports and pseudoresearch. Mark my words, in the preschool-teacher education program she’ll be out on a medical leave of absence for some made-up condition within six months. Laid off within a year. Besides, you’d have done just fine there.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  He smiled again.

  “Well, at least that’s the end of the bad-cop strategy,” I said. “From now on we’
re going to be pragmatic about the course revision and try to make the best of it.”

  He laughed.

  “We gave up on that strategy ages ago! Now we have a new one. Frank tipped me off to it: Zen Connection. It’s called Mindful Presence. It’s about playfulness, motion, spontaneity, moments of connection.”

  “But Frank hasn’t mastered any of those things.”

  “Now you’re being a little unfair.”

  “Besides, the priority rankings are already done. Ingvill’s being demoted to the preschool-teacher education program. There’s nothing left to fight for!”

  “Ah, that’s where you’re wrong! Just because the chair has decided to protect you, the battle isn’t over. We’re going to try to get Oddvar sent down there. That’s the plan.”

  “I won’t be part of anything like that. You can just forget about it.”

  “Honestly, Ingrid, that’s not very collegial. I think you could benefit from some Mindful Presence training. Maybe that would give you a clearer idea of who is actually on your team. In addition to your own self, that is.”

  “I pulled off the cooperation agreement with Russia! The only one of its kind! Is no one going to thank me for that?”

  He chuckled good-naturedly.

  “That cooperation agreement only benefits the chair. Now there’ll be four more years of her. But it means zilch to us. How many of our students are going to go to Russia? None! We don’t offer any programs that have anything to do with Russia. I mean, would you go to Saint Petersburg to study Ibsen? Really, Ingrid, you’re so naive.”

  “I’m not naive. I’m the bad cop!”

  34

  I eventually managed to convince both Alva’s preschool teacher and Bjørnar that I wasn’t an alcoholic. Yet I was informed that it would be preferable if my husband were responsible for preschool drop-off and pickup and that under no circumstances should I speak to Titus’s au pair.

  We eventually sold the house, too, to a young couple expecting their first child and living in a mildew-infested basement apartment way outside of town.

  I watched them as they stood there looking around the kitchen.

  “Look, a door opening right onto the backyard,” she said, rubbing her belly. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

  So, we sold. For five hundred thousand kroner below our asking price.

  “You should have waited until May,” the realtor said. “The 17th of May. The market’s always really hopping by then.”

  “‘Really hopping’ can’t compete with stress cancer,” I said.

  “Sunk cost,” Bjørnar said after sitting beneath the chandelier in the big new dining room for three days crunching numbers.

  “What?”

  “Money that’s gone and can’t be recovered so we don’t need to think about it.”

  Sunk cost, I thought as I noticed the bottle of champagne that was still sitting unopened in the fridge. We were going to open it once we were settled. Once there was no longer any need to fear the monster lurking in the darkness below. Once Tehom had settled back down again.

  But this was not that time.

  Deep inside I knew that the panic attacks and the fear of death wouldn’t let up until I had talked to Bjørnar about one last thing. It was just so hard to find a time and place that seemed right for a conversation that could potentially usher in the final doom. Which would be the impetus for my transformation into the cough-syrup lady.

  So I kept my eyes and ears open and bided my time, waiting for the right moment.

  Which turned out to be five minutes before Bjørnar was supposed to take Ebba to soccer practice.

  I stood outside the bathroom, pounding on the door.

  “Can I come in?” I yelled.

  “I’m on the toilet in here. Can’t you use the other bathroom?”

  “No.”

  Five minutes later he opened the door.

  “You know I don’t like it when someone stands outside the door, waiting like that.”

  “I wasn’t doing that!”

  “Yes, you were. I could hear you breathing.”

  “Fine. I was. But I have to talk to you about something.”

  There was a pounding in my chest.

  “I’m late. We’re training for the merit badge. Everyone has to be able to do it.”

  “Yeah, but just hold on for a second. I did something.”

  He sighed.

  “Don’t sigh! That distracts me.”

  “OK.”

  “I did something dumb.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “And the dumb thing was . . . You know how I went to Saint Petersburg?”

  “Yes?”

  “Right when we weren’t doing so well?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, not that we weren’t doing so well, the two of us. Although actually we weren’t doing that well, but obviously I knew that was because of all the stuff with the house, that we hadn’t sold it yet and we were just so busy and . . . It was a stressful time and everything was so dark and gloomy and depressing. And then I got sick while I was there and I was taking some pretty strong medicine. You know, that cough syrup I told you about.”

  “Are you going to get to the point anytime soon?”

  “Well, it’s just that I’m really not looking forward to this . . .”

  I waved my hands around in the air.

  He looked at me.

  “OK, I’m starting to get a little concerned. What did you do?”

  I inhaled. Exhaled. Closed my eyes and clenched my flailing hands.

  “I kissed a Russian! Or—I kissed him one time. And then he kissed me. One time. I’m sorry! It wasn’t anything more than that, I promise! One kiss. Well, or two. Kind of depends on how you count. It didn’t mean anything, but I’m very, very sorry and I’ll never do anything like that again!”

  Everything was still for a moment, completely still.

  For a moment, my heart quit beating.

  And I knew this was it.

  This was the awful thing.

  I tried to think positive thoughts, but it didn’t work.

  Now the seams ripped apart.

  Now it was over.

  Bjørnar started to laugh.

  I opened my eyes.

  “Why are you laughing?”

  “I’m sorry. You’re just so unexpected. I thought you were going to tell me something terrible.”

  “So you don’t want to get divorced?”

  “Divorced? No, you know there’s no way we could afford that.”

  “But you want a divorce? You feel betrayed?”

  “No.”

  My heart was beating; I could breathe. There was an effervescent sensation in my chest.

  I stepped closer and wrapped my arms around him.

  “Anyway, I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll never do it again. Like I said.”

  “Fine. It’s not cool to go around kissing other people. Certainly not Russians, anyway. What were you thinking? Was it Stockholm syndrome?”

  “I didn’t think of that. A mix of Stockholm syndrome and being hopped up on cough syrup, maybe.”

  “Well, I suppose we all have our skeletons in the closet.”

  “Our what? Wait, have you kissed someone else?”

  “One time.”

  “When?”

  He blushed a little.

  “At the Christmas party.”

  “What Christmas party?”

  “The office party at the Høyfjell Hotel. My first year out of law school. I had a little too much to drink. And I kissed Merethe from work.”

  “One time?”

  “One time.”

  “Just that?”

  “Just that.”

  I thought this over. Mulled over what had happened. Not a bomb blast, really. Not Nagasaki.

  Actually balance, equilibrium.

  Yin and yang. Harry and Sally. Hall and Oates.

  A gift instead of a disaster.

  So completely unexpected.


  I kissed him. It was a kiss that had been repeated many times. It wasn’t the same, but it wasn’t different. It had the same warmth, taste, feeling, and consistency as the year before and ten years before that.

  It was a kiss I felt at home in. Which was home.

  Maybe I didn’t need to be scared it would disappear. Maybe I could just be grateful. For right now.

  “Are you guys going to suck face all day or what?” Ebba was in full soccer regalia, holding out her cell phone. “Come on, we’re late. Jenny’s standing by the front door waiting. You said we were going to give her a ride. Could you get a move on?”

  “I’m coming,” Bjørnar said. “Just had to do a little kissing with your mother first.”

  “How much do you love me?” I asked him.

  “Six percent.”

  “Six percent?”

  “Well, twenty-seven then.”

  “Twenty-seven percent? You love me ninety-seven percent, right? At least?”

  He and Ebba walked out the door.

  “To be or not to be,” I called after him.

  And as the door closed, he responded, “That is the question.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2016 Anita Hamremoen

  J.S. Drangsholt lives in Norway with her husband and three daughters. She is an associate professor of literature at the University of Stavanger and has previously published one novel.

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  Photo © 2006 Libby Lewis

  Tara F. Chace has translated more than twenty-five novels from Norwegian, Swedish, and Danish. She earned her PhD in Scandinavian languages and literature from the University of Washington and lives in Seattle with her family.