Just as well he doesn’t expect an answer.
‘You must admit,’ he explains, unprompted by me, ‘that tectonics is the branch of geology par excellence with scope for mental constructs of genius. Is there anything more challenging than drawing inferences about the interior structure of the Alps or the composition of the Scandinavian Shield from a handful of observations and measurements?’
We have not reached the bottom of the stairs, but he halts anyway.
‘In a place like Holland you never have solid rock underfoot! When you arrive in Holland what is the first thing you see? The control tower at the airport with a sign saying: Aerodrome level thirteen feet below sea level. What a welcome!’
Laughing, he completes his descent, but once more pauses in the hall.
‘You would think the floods of 1953 had taught them a lesson. Other people would have left, they would have moved beyond the reach of the sea! But not the Dutch! Where could they go, anyway?
‘Sir, I will say this: if an entire population specialises itself, generation upon generation, in surviving in a country that is strictly speaking the domain of fish, then those people will end up inventing a special philosophy of their own, in which the human dimension is totally lacking! A philosophy based exclusively on self-preservation. A world view that amounts to keeping dry and making sure there’s nothing fishy going on! How can such a philosophy be universally valid? Where does that leave the big questions?’
Interjections come to mind: what good did universally valid philosophies ever do anyone? What are the big questions anyway? Isn’t survival a big question in a world fraught with danger? But the prospect of having to say all this in German is too daunting,
The clock in the vestibule indicates five past midday and the porter is nowhere to be seen.
Nummedal goes over to the reception desk, rests his hand on the top and sidles towards a cupboard, which he opens.
He takes out a walking stick and a hat. The stick is white with a red band beneath the handle.
Blind boss of a blind porter.
3
Out in the street I feel like a dutiful grandson accompanying his half-blind grandfather on a stroll because it’s such a sunny day.
But it is he who draws me to the restaurant.
It’s a large, posh restaurant. Or was. Now there are pink plastic chairs and small tables without tablecloths. The walls are panelled with hardboard in pastel shades, teak-finish chipboard and formica with perforations.
There are no waiters to be seen, just girls collecting dirty dishes.
Background music: ‘Skating in Central Park’ from the Modern Jazz Quartet.
I steer Nummedal carefully between the tables and chairs to the long counter.
I take two teakwood trays and place them end to end on the nickel-plated bars along the front of the counter. Nummedal is by my side, his white stick hanging on his arm. The stick swings in front of my face with each wave of Nummedal’s arm to attract the attention of the staff behind the counter. A whole row of scrubbed blondes wearing green linen tiaras.
Nummedal and I are in a queue of hungry customers, all of whom slide their teak trays along as they load them with dishes from the counter. But Nummedal is so agitated that he forgets to move on, causing a pile-up behind him. He makes a baying sound from time to time. Frøken!
Frøken!
Not one Frøken takes any notice. The Frøkens are busy replenishing the servings on the counter. Frøken hors d’oeuvre pretends not to hear, Frøken bread rolls ditto, Frøken soup isn’t listening, nor is Frøken meats.
What does Nummedal want, anyway?
Why does he need assistance? Why can’t he take his pick from what’s available? And if he can’t see properly, why doesn’t he tell me what to get for him?
My poor senile grandfather making a fuss over nothing. Nummedal … his name reminds me of the old Dutch word for ‘nothing’. Could that be what his name means?
Now and then I give his tray a nudge with the side of mine. We are reaching the desserts and still haven’t picked anything to eat. We’ll have to go back to the end of the queue if we’re not careful, and shuffle past the counter all over again. I haven’t dared to put anything on my tray, not even a glass, knife, fork or paper napkin.
At one point Nummedal refuses to budge at all, causing a gap in the line. Shall I help myself to a portion of pineapple and whipped cream, just for something to do? The people ahead of Nummedal have already gone past the cash register. I look round anxiously in case we’re causing a disturbance among the hungry patrons. No lamentations from them, not even a sigh. Dapper Vikings! Noble race of unhurried giants! Nummedal is still baying.
I can now make out a second word: gravlachs!
*
The girl in charge of the pineapple and whipped cream has heard it too. She leans forward to Nummedal, shakes her head, draws herself up again and calls back to the girls we have already gone past.
The word has also been heard on the customer side of the counter. Everyone starts looking for gravlachs. They’re still in the throes of selecting, inspecting and sniffing when the word gravlachs returns to the whipped-cream Frøken after passing from tiara to tiara. It is now presented in the negative.
Nummedal exclaims loudly, thankful that his question has been understood, apologetic about placing an impossible order.
‘No gravlachs in this place!’ he declares in English.
‘I understand. It’s not important.’
Next he apologises for not having spoken to me in German, and repeats: ‘Kein gravlachs hier!’
‘Ich verstehe, ich verstehe,’ I say.
Quickly I seize a bowl of pudding and set it on my tray. Arriving at the cash register I see mugs of hot coffee. Nummedal has left his tray behind, he has taken the coffees and is now paying for both of us, without checking his change.
A man leaves the queue and approaches me. His head is square and his spectacles are perfectly round. He points to the furled geological map tucked under my arm. He smiles and makes a little bow.
‘I understand you are a stranger here … This is a very bad restaurant, you know, where they don’t have gravlachs. In Oslo one can never find what a foreign visitor wants! I am ashamed of my native city. You must be accustomed to so much better in London. But you have a map, I see? Is it of the city? May I take a look?’
Balancing the tray on my left hand, I reach for the map with my right and pass it to him. He’s going to have to wait in line again, just because he wanted to help.
He unrolls the map.
‘There is only one restaurant where you can get gravlachs. I will point it out to you.’
‘Won’t that be too difficult on this map?’
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him it’s a geological survey. What will he think when he sees all that red, green and yellow, with the city itself no bigger than a potato sliced in half?
His finger is poised to trace the direction. The map springs back, I want to be of assistance, the tray balancing on my hand teeters.
It teeters in his direction. The coffee spills over him in a tidal wave, the pudding clings in evil little clots to his suit, the bowl shatters on the floor, but I manage to keep the tray from falling. He holds the map aloft with outstretched arms. I look round to see where Nummedal has got to. He’s seated at one of the tables, stirring his coffee.
‘No harm done! No harm done!’ cries the man who wanted to help, waving the bone-dry, unsullied map.
I take the map from him. Pushing me out of the way, two waitresses set about wiping him down with a sponge and a towel.
More helpful Norwegians gather round.
One of them has fetched a pudding for me, another coffee, and a third brings a salad with pinkish slivers of fish.