Then I hear Ingrid and Alfred out on the steps, Alfred with his deep voice and distinct twang—he must have been living in Norway for going on thirty years but he still speaks Norwegian with a strong American accent. He makes some derogatory remark about men in electric cars and Ingrid laughs and says, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Dad!”
“So where’s David?” Alfred asks.
“He’s here.”
“Really?”
“You sound so surprised.”
“No, I just thought he must be away,” he says. “What with that great pile of gravel in the middle of the driveway. There was no room for me to park.”
My spirits sink another notch at this, I feel like retreating to the kitchen to be on my own for a little while, but I can’t and there’s no time either, because here they come, first Ingrid wheeling a small lilac suitcase, then Alfred with a blue cooler in one hand and a big black suitcase in the other. It’s easy to see where Ingrid got her height from anyway, I almost forget how tall he is when I haven’t seen him for a while, he must be well over six feet and with his slight stoop, hunched shoulders, and those long arms that he flaps about when he becomes animated he has always reminded me of a large bird of prey.
“Hello,” I say.
“Hello.”
“Sorry I haven’t got that gravel raked out yet,” I say. I don’t want to say it, but I do. “I simply haven’t had the chance.”
“No problem. As long as you get it done sometime today,” he says, as if it’s he and not I who decides when I should rake out the gravel on my own property.
“Oh?”
“I’d prefer not to leave the car out on the street overnight. The things that go on out there—there’s no telling what might happen,” he says, then he thrusts the cooler at me. “Oh, and this is for you.”
“Er, thanks,” I say, taking it from him. “What is it?”
“Monkfish, cod, and a bit of halibut,” he says. “One of my friends caught more in his net than he could eat himself. But he caught it yesterday so it needs to be eaten today. While it’s still fresh. I thought maybe we could make bouillabaisse,” he says.
I nod, look at him, saying nothing, don’t quite know what to say, I’m fucking speechless. It’s one thing to bring fish that Ingrid and I could freeze and have some other time, that would obviously be very nice, but to bring fish and expect us to have it for dinner this very day, without letting us know in advance, I mean, you just don’t do that, it’s downright disrespectful. I glance at Ingrid, she smiles uncertainly, eyes me apologetically. She knows exactly how I feel about this side of her father and she’s worried that I’m going to lose my temper again, I can tell by her face.
“Osso buco tastes almost better the next day, doesn’t it?” she says with a wan little smile, but I don’t smile back.
“Yeah, maybe,” I say.
“But isn’t it a bit like lamb hot pot, that it’s even better when the flavors have had time to cook in?”
“Probably,” I say, then I turn and walk off, take the cooler through to the kitchen. I dump it on the floor, switch off the burner, and move the pan to the side, almost shaking with anger. I shut my eyes, take a deep breath, and slowly let it out, have to try to rise above this, it’s just him, he’s lived in Norway more than half his life, but he’ll never be anything but a brash, arrogant American who’s so sure everybody else would want exactly the same as he if they just thought about it. “Damn Yank,” I mutter to myself.
“Oh, you’ve made a few changes in here, I see,” I hear Rita say as they move into the living room, referring, I guess, to the fact that we’ve redecorated it.
“I know,” Ingrid says. “We’re not quite finished yet, but …”
I give a snort at this, we were finished over a month ago, but here she is saying we’re not finished yet, in an attempt to beat her mother to it: Rita is bound to find something to criticize or make some suggestion as to how the end result could be improved upon and by saying it’s not finished yet Ingrid gives herself the chance to counter any criticism by saying: Oh, yes, that’s what we were thinking, we just haven’t got that far yet. It annoys me, the way she’s always so defensive, she’s worked with fashion and design all her life and she’s far more artistic than her mother, but still she’s so defensive.
“Yes, well, I’m sure it will be eventually” is all Rita says. Not a word about how nice it looks, it hasn’t been done according to those ludicrous feng shui principles she’s started following in her own home, so I’m guessing she doesn’t think much of what we’ve done, but that’s not the point, she must know that Ingrid needs to hear her say we’ve done a lovely job, you’d think she could give her that much, it’s her own daughter, for Christ’s sake.
“Why don’t you have a seat on the veranda while I put the coffee on,” Ingrid says. “Or would you rather have a glass of wine?”
“I never say no to a glass of wine,” Rita says.
“Oh, wine, please,” says Alfred.
I lean against the kitchen counter, stand there waiting for Ingrid to come back into the kitchen, then I open the top drawer, take out the roll of plastic wrap, tear off a piece, and place it over the bowl of sliced mushrooms, then another to cover the bowl of Parmesan, want her to see me packing away all the food I had been planning to serve, don’t know why, but it feels somehow satisfying, maybe because it highlights the fact that I did all that shopping and cooking for nothing, and because I hope this in turn will make Ingrid see that I have every right to be pissed off, I don’t know.
“David, hey,” she says softly.
“What?”
“Don’t be mad, please. He’s just trying to be nice.”
“I know you think he’s doing it to be nice,” I say as I stow the mushrooms and Parmesan in the fridge.
“Think? Okay, so why do you think he’s doing it, then?”
I turn and look at her, about to say something about him being a brash, loudmouthed Yank who thinks he can do whatever he wants, but I don’t, and I won’t, I’ve every right to be annoyed and upset, but I need to cool down now, I need to grit my teeth and get through this as best I can.
“It doesn’t matter what I think,” I say.
“David, hey. I know you were looking forward to giving them osso buco, but …”
I shut the fridge door a little more firmly than normal, making the jam jars rattle inside.
“Looking forward to giving them osso buco?” I say, raising my voice. I don’t mean to, but I do.
“Shh,” she says, putting her finger to her lips and eyeing me in alarm. “Please!”
“For Christ’s sake, Ingrid, you talk as if I’m a little kid who’s been looking forward to showing the grown-ups what I can do,” I say, trying to keep my voice low, but not very successfully, so I reach out a hand and switch on the exhaust fan to mask the sound of my voice, the air in here is thick with cooking fumes so there’s nothing suspicious about that, I should have switched it on a while ago, but I forgot. “I know you turn back into a little kid when you’re with your dad, Princess Ingrid, but don’t think I’m going to do the same. And just so you know: if it’s to be bouillabaisse for dinner today, then your father’ll have to make it, because I’m not.”
“David …”
“I mean it. I’m sick of being stuck in the kitchen.”
“David,” she says, imploringly now, terrified that her parents will realize something’s up, she’s not even mad at me for calling her Princess Ingrid. “I know you’re offended, David. I would be too, I’m sure, but—look … can’t we … ? Come and have a glass of wine with us. Please.”
I almost say no, but I don’t, I don’t say anything, I hold her eye for a second, then look at the floor and shake my head resignedly to let her know that I’m seriously pissed off and don’t much feel like having a glass of wine with her parents, but that I’m willing to do it for her sake. A second more, then she curls her hand around the back of my neck and gently tilts my head back with her th
umb until our eyes meet. She swallows.
“I love you, David,” she says.
“I love you too,” I say.
We stand like that for a moment or two, then we both look away.
“Will you bring the corkscrew?” she says, smiling at me as she takes a bottle from the wine rack.
“Yep,” I say. I open the drawer, hear the clatter of cutlery and other utensils as they slam against the back of it. I find the corkscrew, take it out, and away we go.
“So, how are you both?” Ingrid asks as we walk into the living room.
“Well, we hardly see each other, but I think your dad’s doing all right, aren’t you, Alfred?” Rita says.
Ingrid and Alfred laugh, letting her know that she’s every bit as delightful and prima donna-ish as she likes to think she is.
“Yes, thank you, dear,” Alfred says. “And you?”
“As long as I don’t look in the mirror in the morning, I’m fine,” Rita says. “Until my hands start to act up, anyway.”
“Oh, my God, Mom,” Ingrid says as she rips the plastic seal off the wine bottle. She looks at me and laughs, shaking her head, wanting me to laugh along with her at how wonderfully droll her mother is, I can tell, but I don’t, I’m not in the mood, I just give a quick little smile as I hand her the corkscrew, then I cross to the cabinet on the other side of the room and take out four red-wine glasses.
“No, no,” I hear Rita say. “We’re absolutely fine. We’re both very busy, but we wouldn’t have it any other way. And you two?”
“Great, everything’s great,” Ingrid says.
“And business?” Alfred asks.
“Oh, it’s going really well. I don’t know if you remember, but I made a makeup bag and two handbags out of catfish skin a while back, a small one and a bigger one?”
“Yes, of course I remember.”
“Well, we thought we’d priced them too high, but there’s obviously plenty of money around because they’ve sold really well. And now an American chain has shown an interest in them as well.”
“Wow. Well, what a clever girl, I must say, even if you are my daughter.”
“Ah, but I had a good teacher,” Ingrid says.
“Oh, well, I may have given you a few tips, but …”
“You taught me everything I know about running a shop, Dad,” she says. “I wouldn’t have been able to do any of the things I’ve done if it hadn’t been for you.”
“Oh, I don’t know, I don’t know,” he says. I look at him, he’s standing there, wagging his head and trying to look suitably modest, but he’s not fooling anyone, he’s lapping up every word Ingrid says, enjoying it even more because I’m here to hear it: there, you see, when it comes right down to it there’s no one to beat Daddy, that’s what he’s thinking, or not thinking, maybe, but that’s more or less how he feels, at any rate, I know it is. I hum to myself as I set my glass down on the table, try to look as if I’m not really paying attention, try to spoil his moment of triumph by pretending not to have heard a word of all this.
“And David has designed a website for us,” Ingrid says as she works the corkscrew into the cork, talking me up a bit now as well, she probably feels obliged to after singing her dad’s praises like that, feels she has to redress the balance a bit. “It looks great.”
“Wonderful,” Alfred says.
“Yes, good marketing is so important. And online sales is the way to go, you know,” Ingrid goes on. She hunches over, trying to pull out the cork, but she can’t. “Oh, bother … ,” she says, then tries again, hauling on it until her cheeks turn pink, but it won’t budge.
“Shall I get it for you?” Alfred says.
“Oh, no you don’t,” Rita says. “Let David get it. We don’t want any heart attacks here.”
“Ah … I’m not that decrepit.”
She looks at him, raises her eyebrows, and sniffs.
“Uh-huh,” she says.
Chuckling.
“We’ll let David get it,” Ingrid says. “To be on the safe side.”
Alfred shakes his head.
“Talk about being put out of commission,” he mutters.
More chuckling.
“Here,” Ingrid says, handing me the bottle.
“Is it a Bordeaux?” Alfred asks.
“Yes,” I say and I hold out the bottle so he can read the label.
“We have a zinfandel as well, if you’d rather have an American wine,” Ingrid says, eyeing her father inquiringly. Alfred wags his head from side to side.
“Oh, say yes, Alfred,” Rita says. “We all know you prefer American wines.”
“Well, actually I prefer French wines,” Alfred says. “Although I’m not sure they’re as good as they used to be.” He looks at Ingrid, then me, waiting I suppose for us to ask him to explain so that he can say something about how disloyal it was of France to refuse to take part in the invasion of Iraq. I gather that a lot of Americans boycotted French wines after Chirac’s statements and the decisions he made and it wouldn’t surprise me if Alfred was one of them, although I don’t know, even if he did lose a son on 9/11 and tends, therefore, to take any criticism of American foreign policy rather too personally, he’s not as extreme as some of his countrymen, I don’t think he’s even a Republican. I regard him, manage a smile of sorts, I’m not going to ask what he wants me to ask, I can’t face getting into a discussion right now.
“I’ll get a zinfandel instead,” Ingrid says.
“No, Ingrid, don’t do that,” he says. I don’t know whether he means it or whether he’s saying it purely for form’s sake, but I’m guessing it’s the latter, he makes no further attempt to stop her, at any rate. She takes the bottle of Bordeaux from me and disappears.
“Talk about a difficult, demanding guest,” he says, looking at me and giving a little laugh, he’s angling for me to deny that he’s difficult and demanding, I know, but I don’t.
“So how was the drive?” is all I ask.
Silence for a moment. He looks at me, saying nothing, obviously rather offended by my failure to protest and assure him that he’s neither difficult nor demanding, I can tell by his face. He seems confused too, he probably hadn’t been expecting this.
“Oh, all right,” he says. “There was the odd RV home causing a traffic jam on the E6, but there was less traffic than I expected, actually.” I look at him and nod, say nothing.
Then Ingrid returns with another bottle of wine.
“We can drink this one with a clear conscience,” she says, smiling at Alfred as she hands me the bottle and the corkscrew.
“Oh, Ingrid, that really wasn’t necessary, I was only pulling David’s leg,” he says, glancing at me, but I have my head bent over the bottle, apparently concentrating on inserting the corkscrew into the cork. This is just another attempt to draw me into a discussion but I pretend not to hear him, I can’t be bothered discussing this with him, however much I might want to. I can’t bring myself to say or do anything that might be construed as criticism of the so-called war on terror, I know how personally they take it, Rita in particular, but Alfred too. Usually I do my best to be open to other people’s points of view, but he seems to take just about every objection to American foreign policy as an insult to Jonathan’s memory so he always ends up feeling hurt or angry or both. And such a reaction is understandable, of course, he and Rita were utterly devastated by Jonathan’s death, so I get that, but still, it’s hard to have a discussion about something that arouses such strong emotions and I certainly don’t want to go there. I pull out the cork with a loud pop and fill our glasses.
“There you are.”
They thank me and pick up their glasses.
“Oh, by the way, I brought the robe,” Rita says.
“Oh, right,” Ingrid says and immediately looks away. She starts toward the living room window, eyes wide, as though she has caught sight of something unusual in the garden.
“What is it?” I say.
“I thought I saw someone out
there,” she says, pushing the sofa a little to one side and going right up to the window, she looks right, then left. “But I don’t see anyone now.”
“That’s odd,” Alfred says.
Ingrid shakes her head as she pushes the sofa back into place, apparently just as puzzled.
“You really should get rid of some of this furniture,” Rita says, nodding at the sofa. “When a room is as overfurnished as this one, it blocks the energies, you know. And that’s actually one of the main reasons for many of the problems people have.” There she goes, starting with all that feng shui crap again. I feel an immediate surge of indignation. I quickly pick up my wine glass, put it to my lips, and take a big gulp, hide behind the glass, so they won’t see how ridiculous I think this is.
“Oh, really?” Ingrid says.
“And that mirror in the hall—you should hang that somewhere else,” Rita goes on. “All the fresh energy that flows in when you open the door is bounced back off that and out again. Leaving the air in here heavy and lifeless.”
“Okay. Well, I’ll have to do something about that,” Ingrid says, nodding and smiling and actually looking interested, as though she has absolutely no objection to being lectured like this. I don’t know how she does it, don’t know how she can be bothered, I mean, I realize that Rita’s neo-religious conversion has helped to fill the void left by Jonathan’s death, but it’s gone too far recently, the way she carries on now isn’t just stupid, it’s bordering on madness and Ingrid and Alfred should have told her that long ago. To do nothing when someone has become so embroiled in such lunacy is nothing but misplaced love, I don’t understand why they don’t do something, I don’t know how Alfred puts up with her nonsense, he’s normally so rational, so down-to-earth, I don’t know how he stands it. But maybe he doesn’t have the strength to set her straight. I’ve always seen Rita as a typical pampered rich-man’s wife. As a young woman she was very attractive in an Audrey Hepburn kind of way and I’m pretty sure it was the money that persuaded her to say yes to Alfred, who’s no oil painting, it has to be said. If that were true it would make it easier to understand why Alfred indulges her the way he does. What do I know?
Aftermath Page 36