All around them the world is alive and in bloom. The road winds and twists with gentle curves, and the wilderness is close enough to touch. The birches and spruce stand tall and gallant amidst the beech and pine. Birds, relishing the long summer days, sing full-bellied songs that dance through shimmering leaves and pipe above the gently swaying tips of tops of trees.
Paul’s rubber-clad feet flip and flop around inside the rubber boat as he waves his spoon at passing cars, and carries on almost like a normal child.
Sheldon shifts the tractor into the wrong gear about a dozen times before figuring out — to a point — how the thing works. Once he gets into a groove, at about twenty kilometres an hour, he holds his course and counts his blessings.
He pulls them out onto Husvikveien and then onto the 153, which also seems to be called Osloveien if he’s reading the map correctly. His first marker is Riksveg 23, which he hopes will be announced by some kind of sign or something, and is about thirty minutes away at their current pace. He figures he can settle into the trip for a bit and try to adapt to this unfamiliar place.
It doesn’t feel so unfamiliar, though. It feels like the Berkshires in western Massachusetts, where white-steepled churches keep vigil over the salt-box houses with their black, blue, and green storm shutters, and school children carry tin lunch boxes with cartoon characters, and policemen stop traffic on Main Street to make way for ducklings as they walk across the road with their stubby orange legs and curious little faces.
The last time he was in the Berkshires was in 1962, when Saul was ten. It was the perfect time to take the family ‘leafing’ to see the magnificence of the New England tapestry unfold all around them and envelop them in the seasonal bliss of autumn and the coming of Halloween.
They were staying in a bed-and-breakfast near the town where Sheldon was born. Saul had run down the carpeted stairs, absurdly early, to launch an untethered attack on the breakfast table as he and Mabel idly wondered what it might have been like to have had a girl.
‘Quieter,’ Sheldon figured.
‘For you. I was tough on my mother,’ she’d said.
‘Mothers and daughters.’
‘Right.’
‘But we might have slept later.’
‘Maybe.’
‘I can go down and keep him company. Wanna stay in bed a bit?’
And so Mabel slept for another hour as Sheldon watched Saul consume twice his body mass in cranberry muffins, blueberry pancakes, hot chocolate, eggs, bacon, maple syrup, and butter.
It was mid-October, and Sheldon was reading about the Cuban missile crisis in the Boston Globe when the story finally broke. The Soviets were trying to get missiles into Cuba, and Kennedy had set up a blockade to try to keep them out. The stand-off almost resulted in a nuclear war. This would have ruined Halloween entirely.
‘If there’s a nuclear war, you know what you’re supposed to do, right?’ he’d asked Saul.
‘Ruff and rubber.’
‘Don’t talk with your mouth full.’
Saul swallowed and then said, ‘Duck and cover.’
‘Right.’
Parenting done, Sheldon refilled his coffee and decided that today would be an excellent day to pick apples at the orchard. And after that, he’d take in the front nine on a round of golf. Mabel could do some leafing with the kid, and he’d give himself a break. Take a deep breath in his native state, and get the car fumes of New York out of his lungs.
The apple-picking went well. They paid ten cents for a big basket and set off into the rows of trees.
Mabel was in a red shirt and a white blouse. Remembering it now, he marvelled at how tiny her waist was, how shapely her calves. How she wobbled ever so slightly in her shoes over the uneven ground. He walked behind her and smiled as the heels speared the fallen leaves and followed her around like a stack of receipts on a spike back at the repair shop.
It was a pity that day was ruined.
Mabel came down with a bit of a headache in the afternoon, so Sheldon decided to take Saul to the golf course to teach him to hold the putter properly. What ten-year-old kid wouldn’t want to caddy for his dad?
There was an old country club with a low and long white colonial home at its centre, and the course stretched out behind it like puddles of emeralds. The blue of the sky lit out to the heavens, and a string quartet was playing on the terrace on account of some fancy catered event. It was a delightful place.
Sheldon and Saul walked into the lobby and smiled at the man who waited like a maître d’. The man smiled back.
‘Hi. My son and I want to play a round of golf. Just the front nine. He’ll caddy. We won’t hold anyone up.’
‘Your name, please?’
‘I’m Sheldon Horowitz, and this is my son, Saul.’
‘Mr Horowitz.’
‘Yes. So, who do I pay and where do I get some clubs?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, but the club is for members only.’
Sheldon furrowed his brows. ‘You’re the only course in town. I asked at the B&B. They said everyone plays here.’
‘Oh, no, no. They were mistaken. It’s members only.’
‘How can the guy be mistaken? He lives here and runs a tourist business.’
The man used the old technique of raising his ears and leaving the question unanswered in the hope that the other conversant would see where the conversation was headed and, not wanting to pursue it, leave off there. This technique was not designed with Sheldon in mind.
‘Sounds like you didn’t hear me. Allow me to repeat. “How can the guy be mistaken? He lives here and runs a tourist business?”’
‘I’m sure I don’t know.’
‘Fine. I come up here pretty often. How much for membership?’
‘It’s very expensive. And there’s a selection process. You need to be nominated by a member.’
In a gesture that surely harkens back to the Greek chorus, Sheldon looked around him for witnesses to the insanity he was experiencing.
‘What kind of thing is that to say? Are you trying to attract new members, or repel them?’
Out of habit, which can overpower learning, the man tried the same technique again, upon which Sheldon decided that the man had some screws loose, and so chose to speak slowly. As one does to foreigners and small animals.
‘Do you, or do you not, want to sell people memberships to your clubhouse so we can play on your shiny green fields with little white balls and then drink your drinkies in the bar?’
‘Mr Horowitz,’ he said with emphasis. ‘Surely you understand. And there’s no need to shout. We don’t want a scene.’
Sheldon, genuinely trying to do the maths, squinted as he looked at the man. Then, perhaps for moral support, or to be reminded of the face of normality, he looked down at his well-fed ten-year-old son. And, on looking at his son, his eyes fell upon the gold Star of David that Mabel’s sister had given him for Hanukkah last year.
Then Sheldon turned back to the man.
‘Are you saying you won’t sell me a membership to your country club because I’m a Jew?’
The man looked to the left and right, and then whispered, ‘Sir, please, there’s no need to use language here.’
‘Language?’ Sheldon shouted. ‘I’m a United States Marine, you pipsqueak. I want to play a round of golf with my son. You will make that happen now.’
It did not happen then or even later. A security guard, larger than him and with darker features, made towards Sheldon.
At this moment, Sheldon was undecided, and he looked back at Saul. He should have walked away. He should have accepted that the world was a big place and that change happens gradually. He did not want — sincerely — to do anything scary that could upset or even traumatise his son. He didn’t want to get arrested and upset Mabel. A hig
her wisdom was, even then, available for consultation.
But it was not convincing. Because what he saw on his son’s face was shame. And Sheldon, being no intellectual, made his decision. And the decision was based on what he felt was the least shameful way to respond, given who he was, and who he wanted his son to be. The line from this moment to Saul’s death in Vietnam was to be, for Sheldon, immutable and absolute.
As soon as the guard was in range, Sheldon sprang into the space between them and swung his right elbow like a punch into the man’s lower jaw, dropping him immediately. Then, for good measure, he jabbed the other guy in the nose and watched him drop behind the desk like a clown in a tank of water.
This is when Sheldon took Saul’s hand and led him from the country club, certain he would not be pursued and that the cops would not be coming for him. The only thing worse for an anti-Semite than a Jew is being beaten up by a Jew. The fewer people who knew about it, the better.
When they were good and far from the scene of the scene, Sheldon spun Saul around and wagged his finger at him and said this:
This country is what you make it. You understand that? It isn’t good and it isn’t bad. It’s just what you make it. That means you don’t make excuses for America’s bullshit. That’s what the Nazis and Commies do. The fatherland. The motherland. America isn’t your parent. It’s your kid. And today, I made America a place where you get your nose broken for telling a Jew he can’t play a round of golf. The only one allowed to tell me I can’t play golf is the ball.
Saul was wide-eyed, and clearly had no idea what his father was saying.
It was, however, a moment that Saul would never forget.
And, unlike the Cuban missile crisis, it ruined the whole day.
Chapter 12
Sigrid has received so many calls since the murder made the newspapers that she has donned a headset with a microphone in order to get some work done. The calls, she has decided, have nothing to do with her job.
In Norway, the police operate under the authority of the district offices of both the Prosecuting Authority and the National Police Directorate, allowing people like Sigrid to get slapped on both sides of her face at the same time.
This one, for example, comes from the chief of police for her district. She takes it with her eyes closed, as one does a colonoscopy.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘Need help?’
‘No. It happened yesterday. I think we’re doing fine.’
‘Pretty political, all this.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is.’
‘You have a suspect, right? This Serbian?’
‘Kosovar. And we suspect him, but we don’t have any direct evidence of his involvement. So I can’t charge him. And, for the moment, I also can’t find him.’
‘Muslim, right?’
‘Probably, but I don’t think religion is relevant to the case. Nationality may be. I’m not sure yet — it’s too soon to establish motive.’
‘Do you have any other suspects?’
Sigrid opens her eyes and looks around. Then she shuts them again. Something about being blind feels appropriate to the conversation.
‘There is someone we’re listing as a “person of concern”.’
‘What is that?’
‘It’s a new category I made up.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘I think so.’
‘Who is it?’
‘His name is Sheldon Horowitz.’
‘Albanian?’
‘Jewish.’
There is a very long pause on the other end of the phone.
A Very. Long. Pause.
The chief whispers. ‘Jewish?’
‘Jewish,’ Sigrid says, not whispering.
‘An Israeli spy? Mossad?’
‘No. Not Israeli. Jewish. He’s American. He’s an old Marine who may be suffering from dementia. Or sadness. Or something. He’s in his eighties.’
‘The Israelis are hiring old American Marines?’
‘This has nothing to do with Israel, and no.’
‘You said this has nothing to do with religion, but then said his name is Jewish.’
‘Yes, his name is Jewish.’
‘But you said religion doesn’t matter. But nationality does. So I said Israel.’
‘He’s not Israeli. He’s American. An American Marine.’
‘But … Jewish?’
‘And … Jewish.’
‘Why do Jews have Jewish names?’
Sigrid stares at the burnt-out light bulb.
‘Is this a trick question, chief?’
‘No, what I mean is … Norwegians don’t have Lutheran names; we have Norwegian names. And the French don’t have Catholic names; they have French names. And the Catholics don’t have Catholic names either, and the Muslims don’t have Muslim names. As far as I know. Though I suppose Mohammed is a Muslim name. So why do the Jews have Jewish names?’
‘Mohammed is a first name. Not a last name.’
‘That’s a very good point.’
‘If I had to take a guess …’ Sigrid says, wondering why she should guess, when surely someone else knows the answer to this, ‘I’d say … because the Jews were a tribe at least a thousand years before Norwegians, French, or Catholics ever existed. Maybe things were more combined back then. Like … with the Vikings. So if there were still Vikings, and they lived in different countries, they’d have Viking names. I guess.’
‘Do you think there were any Jewish Vikings?’ asks the chief.
‘I suspect that if there were Jewish Vikings it would have surfaced in conversation by now.’
‘Are the Palestinians involved?’
‘In what?’
‘The murder.’
Sigrid looks to the ceiling, eyes now open, for the hand of God to rescue her from this moment. She sees instead thin, old, cracked paint.
‘There are no Palestinians involved in this crime. There are no Israelis. There are no Arabs. None of it has anything to do with the Middle East. At all.’
‘But there are Jews.’
‘There is one single, solitary, old, probably confused, and definitely American, Jew. Who didn’t do anything wrong, may I add.’
‘Who concerns you.’
‘Who apparently concerns us all.’
‘The world is bigger than Oslo.’
‘I’ve seen the pictures, chief.’
‘So if you need help, you’ll ask.’
‘I have your number right here.’
‘Catch the bad guy, Sigrid.’
‘Yes, chief.’
Eventually — and Sigrid can’t say for sure when, because she’s lost track of time — the conversation ends.
Rubbing her eyes, Sigrid emerges from her office into the main room. This is not the morning she had in mind. She went to bed late last night, ate poorly, woke to find only decaffeinated instant coffee left in the cabinet above the refrigerator, and simply didn’t have the spiritual gumption to walk three blocks to stand in line for ten minutes at United Bakeries for a twenty-seven kroner cup of coffee that has been carefully engineered, in the last few years, to be served lukewarm because — according to the turtleneck-wearing elite barista — ‘it makes the coffee taste better’.
Try letting your customers tell you what tastes better.
Perhaps, though, it is the morning she deserves. Despite it being obvious to everyone connected to this case that the woman was killed by this Kosovar, there is no direct evidence at the moment, which is irritating. They have a shoe print on the front door, but no fingerprints. The woman was strangled with a cord, so there are no prints even to take off her body. The murder weapon is missing, and no one s
aw anything. Unless someone was in the closet, and saw something.
Sigrid takes a few steps further into the room, where she is generally ignored by her colleagues, who all seem remarkably busy and professional at the moment.
This is comforting, because she feels neither.
The hunt is on for the killer, of course, but Sigrid’s real concern is for the boy, and perhaps also for the old man. If the boy was in the closet, and the killer was his own father, he must be terrified beyond words. Ideally, she’d like to have him in custody and turned over to social services, but there is a niggling — though very unlikely — loophole at the moment. If there really is nothing connecting the boy’s father to the murder, what’s to stop him from walking in and demanding the boy?
There must be grounds for preventing it. It’s the morning, and there is insufficient caffeine in her veins, which is why she can’t think of the plug for the loophole. It still amazes her that her own father used to wake in the morning and take a shot of akevitt before going out to the barn to get on with the milking and other duties. He was never a heavy drinker, but times have changed. The Oslo intellectual types don’t go in for that sort of manly approach to facing the cold and dark of a northern morning. And surely they’re right. It’s unhealthy and old fashioned; we all need to take better care of ourselves now.
Or maybe we’ve become a nation of pussies.
‘You,’ she says to a young cop she’s never seen before.
‘Mats,’ he says, surprised she is speaking to him.
‘Go get me a cup of coffee.’
Admit it, though. Wouldn’t a shot of akevitt be better?
‘And everyone else, I need your attention. Gather round. Pull up a chair.’
It takes a minute for the room to wind down and for the office chairs to roll into position. When the circle has formed, Sigrid — sitting now, and still decaffeinated — addresses the troops.
‘Thank you all for working so hard. I know it was a long night. I see that we still don’t have any direct leads on the boy, the old man, or the suspect. So, to summarise, we have no CCTV footage of anything useful, no reports from other police stations or patrols, no leads from the flat itself that could point us in a direction, and no active theories about how everyone is slipping through our iron grip.’
Norwegian by Night Page 15