Johanne liked the routine of being at home. Life went at a different pace when she was with the children. She had always enjoyed making food, and the long mornings gave her the opportunity to do it from scratch. They had let the cleaner go, and even the cleaning was now part of the contemplative boredom that she had come to appreciate. Ragnhild slept for a couple of hours in the middle of the day, and sometimes Johanne felt that she really had time to think, for the first time in years.
It was a good life. For a while.
Maybe that time was over now.
Suddenly the idea of quiet mornings in the house was not so appealing. She listened for the sound of Ragnhild’s chattering, but then remembered that the one-year-old was still with her grandparents. She felt unusually stiff. Slowly she stretched her arms over her head and turned over.
Adam wasn’t there.
It was not like her to sleep so heavily. She usually woke up several times during the night, and would be wide awake within seconds if there was the slightest noise from the kids.
She sat bolt upright, cocked her head and held her breath so she could listen better. But the only thing she could hear was a car engine idling some way off and the spring chirping of ecstatic birds outside the bedroom window.
‘Adam?’
She got up and pulled on her dressing gown, then padded out to the kitchen. The clock on the cooker said it was nearly quarter past eight. Silence everywhere. There was a half-finished cup of coffee on the worktop. When she picked it up, she could feel it was still warm, so it wasn’t long since he’d left. There was a note beside the cup.
My love, I have to do my job, I’m sure you understand. And when you don’t even give me a good reason to try to get out of it, I have no choice other than to go. Not easy to say when I’ll be home, as I don’t even know what the job entails. I’ll ring as soon as I can. Your Adam.
Johanne took a sip of the lukewarm coffee.
Adam was going to be Warren’s liaison. She had asked him not to. She had threatened him with what she thought was his worst nightmare. And yet he had got up as she slept, quietly made some coffee, written a short, cool note, then slipped out.
She stood with the sheet of paper in one hand and the cup in the other for a long time.
She couldn’t go to her parents. Her mother would just get hysterical and her father would take it to heart, as he always did when the world was against him. Johanne often wondered if her parents were fonder of Adam than they were of her. Her mother certainly always bragged about him to anyone who bothered to listen. Adam was showered with attention by his in-laws, and he was the one who got all the honour every time Ragnhild impressed anyone with her language and motor skills.
‘It’s actually me who’s at home with her all the time,’ Johanne would sigh, before masking her irritation with a smile.
She couldn’t go to her sister’s either. Marie’s perfection had become an insurmountable hurdle between them. She was beautiful, well dressed and childless. The very thought of invading her harbourside flat with baby food and smelly nappies made Johanne hyperventilate.
She read the short note again. The letters became unclear. She tried to blink away the tears. They coursed their way down her nose and she wiped away some snot on her sleeve.
When they had gone to bed the night before, she had been certain that he had understood. He had snuggled up to her in bed, without saying a word, his hands warm and strong, just the way she loved them. Adam knew that she needed protection and that Warren Scifford must not be allowed anywhere near their safe, routined life in Haugesvei. When he stroked her hair, she had been convinced that he realised all this. She was certain that she’d seen the acknowledgement in his eyes that Warren’s very presence threatened all that they had that was beautiful and true and pure. And she had fallen into a deep, blissful sleep.
Then Adam had just left.
He hadn’t taken her threat seriously. He hadn’t taken her seriously. Well, he was going to find out how just serious she was.
Johanne packed the bare necessities. She folded enough clothes for a few days for herself and their younger daughter, and put them in a small suitcase.
‘Kristiane can stay with Isak,’ she whispered to herself as she tried to stop crying. She had to collect Ragnhild. Her mother would immediately notice her red eyes, the way she always noticed when anything was wrong with her daughter.
‘Pull yourself together,’ Johanne hissed and sniffed.
She didn’t know where to go. But she continued to pack. The suitcase was eventually so full that she struggled to close it. With some florid language and a forceful arm she finally managed to zip it up.
She had to seek refuge with someone who would leave her in peace. Not her family, or friends. She couldn’t go to anyone who might tell her how childish and irresponsible her behaviour was. She didn’t want to go to anyone who might state the obvious: that the drama would be over in a few days, and that she wouldn’t leave Adam, so she might as well go home again. And under no circumstances would she go to Line, her sociable best friend, who would undoubtedly drum up a party in the belief that there wasn’t a problem in the world that couldn’t be fixed with good food, good friends and buckets of drink.
The wind still felt cool as Johanne locked the front door behind her, even though the garden was bathed in sunlight. Then it struck her: there was only one place to go.
She dried her tears and forced a smile to a neighbour who waved to her from the road. Then she took a deep breath and got into the car. She had to collect Ragnhild. She should be able to think up a plausible lie for her mother as she drove over.
Johanne didn’t feel any better about things, but at least she knew where she was going.
IV
It was half past two in the morning in Farmington, Maine.
Al Muffet had been woken by a dream he couldn’t remember. It was impossible to get back to sleep. His sheets were sweaty against his skin and his quilt had bunched into a nest at his feet. He changed position. It didn’t help.
He had watched the news on TV all day. The disappearance of the President had shaken him as much as it had shocked the rest of the nation, but he also felt an inexplicable twinge of alarm.
His brother had phoned.
The last time his brother had called was three years ago, when their mother was dying. A stroke had stopped the industrious woman in her tracks, and she only had a matter of hours left. He had caught the first flight back to Chicago, but got there too late. His mother was already laid out in an open coffin, beautifully made up and dressed in her finest.
Even though she, like her husband, had maintained the Muslim faith of her childhood, the Muffasa family religion was flexible and well adapted to life in a suburb where there were few, if any, other Arabs. Mrs Muffasa was a highly appreciated asset to the Episcopal church that lay only a block away from the house. The best cakes at the harvest fete always came from her oven. She ran a youth club for young people from less fortunate backgrounds. No one could do flowers like Mrs Muffasa, and she looked after the reverend’s numerous children whenever his wife gave birth to another and was out of action for a couple of weeks.