‘Good morning, sir,’ he said. ‘I have something you might like to try.’
The daylight faded early, and it already felt late at night as Terry Våge crossed Operagata and stepped upon the Carrara marble. The choice of the Italian slabs had generated heated debate while the building was being constructed at the seafront in Bjørvika, but criticism had died away and the inhabitants had taken it to their hearts. Even on a September evening it was teeming with visitors.
Våge checked the time. Six minutes to nine. As a music journalist he used to arrive at least half an hour later than the artists were supposed to go onstage. Occasionally some weird band might go on at the advertised time and he would miss the first few songs, but then he would just ask some people who looked like fans what the opening number was, how the crowd had responded, and then embellish a little. It had always gone fine. But he wasn’t taking that chance tonight. Terry Våge had made up his mind. From now on there was no more arriving late or making stuff up.
He used the steps on the side instead of walking straight up the sloping, smooth marble roof like he saw most of the youngsters doing. Because Våge was no longer young, and he couldn’t afford any more slips.
When he reached the top he walked to the south side, like the guy on the phone had told him to. Stood by the wall between two couples and looked out over the fjord, which the wind was whipping white further out. He looked around him. Shivered and checked the time. Became aware of a man approaching him out of the gloom. The man raised something and pointed it towards Terry Våge, who stiffened.
‘Excuse me,’ the man said, in what sounded like a German accent, and Våge moved to give him a clear shot.
The man pressed the shutter button, the camera gave a low hum, and he thanked him and disappeared. Våge shivered again. Leaned over the edge and looked down at the people on the marble below him. Looked at his watch again. Two minutes past nine.
There was light in the villa windows and the wind rustled the chestnut trees along the side road off Drammensveien. Harry had instructed Øystein to drop him a little way off from Villa Dante, even though pulling up in a taxi would hardly be conspicuous. Parking your own car in front of the villa would after all be asking to be identified.
Harry shuddered, regretted not bringing a coat. When he was fifty metres from the villa, he put on the cat mask and the beret he had borrowed from Alexandra.
Two torches flickered in the wind by the entrance to the large, yellow-brick building.
‘Neo-baroque with art nouveau windows,’ Aune had noted when they found pictures on Google. ‘Built around 1900, I’d say. Probably by a shipowner, a merchant or some such type.’
Harry pushed open the door and stepped inside.
A young man in a dinner jacket standing behind a small counter smiled at him, and Harry showed him the membership card.
‘Welcome, Catman. Miss Annabell will be performing at ten o’clock.’
Harry nodded mutely and walked towards the open door at the end of the hall. Music was coming from there. Mahler.
Harry entered a room illuminated by two huge crystal chandeliers. The bar and furniture were in a light brown wood, perhaps Honduran mahogany. There were thirty to forty other men in the room, all with masks and dark suits or dinner jackets. Young, unmasked males wearing close-fitting waiters’ outfits sashayed between the tables carrying trays of drinks. But there were no male go-go dancers, like Alexandra had described, nor any naked man, caged on the floor, huddled with hands tied behind his back whom the guests could prod, kick or humiliate at will in other ways. The guests’ glasses suggested martinis or champagne were the tipple of choice. Harry moistened his mouth. He’d had a beer at Schrøder’s on the way back from Alexandra’s that morning but promised himself that would be the only alcohol today. A few of the guests had turned and taken brief notice of him before returning to their conversations. Except for one, a clearly young and effeminate man of slight build who continued to watch Harry as he steered towards an unoccupied part of the bar counter. Harry hoped it didn’t mean his cover was already blown.
‘The usual?’ the bartender asked.
Harry felt the twink’s eyes on his back. He nodded.
The bartender turned and Harry watched him take out a tall glass and pour in Absolut Vodka, add Tabasco and Worcestershire sauce, and something resembling tomato juice. Finally, he put a stick of celery in the glass and placed it in front of Harry.
‘I only have cash today,’ Harry said, and saw the bartender grin as though he had made a wisecrack. And realised at the same moment that cash was likely the sole currency in a place like this, where anonymity was demanded and accorded.
Harry stiffened as he felt a hand glide across his backside. He had been prepared for this; Alexandra had said it usually began with eye contact, then continued with bodily contact, often prior to a single word being said. And from there the possibilities were legion.
‘Long time no see, Catman. You didn’t have a beard then, did you?’
It was the twink. His voice was high, so high that Harry wondered if he was putting it on. The animal his mask was meant to depict was not obvious, but it wasn’t a mouse anyway. It was green, and the scaly pattern and narrow eyes pointed more in the direction of a snake.
‘No,’ Harry said.
The twink raised his glass and looked questioningly at Harry when he hesitated.
‘Tired of Caesar?’
Harry nodded slowly. The Caesar had been the number-one gay drink at Dan Tana’s in LA; apparently it was a Canadian thing.
‘Maybe we should have something that wakes us up, then?’
‘Like what?’ Harry asked.
The twink cocked his head to one side. ‘You’re different, Catman. Not just the beard, but your voice and—’
‘Throat cancer,’ Harry said. It had been Øystein’s suggestion. ‘Radiation treatment.’
‘Oh dear,’ the twink said without any appreciable interest. ‘Well, then I get the ugly hat, and that you’ve gotten so thin. Certainly was aggressive, I must say.’
‘You’re not wrong,’ Harry said. ‘How long has it been exactly, since we’ve seen each other?’
‘You tell me. A month. Or is it two? Time flies, and you certainly haven’t been here for a while.’
‘If I’m not mistaken, I was here on a Tuesday five weeks ago, wasn’t I? And on the Tuesday before that?’
The twink drew his head back a little between his shoulders, as though to regard him at slightly more distance. ‘Why the interest?’
Harry heard the scepticism in his voice and realised he had got ahead of himself. ‘It’s the tumour,’ he said. ‘The doctor says it pressed on the brain and is causing partial memory loss. Sorry, I’m just trying to reconstruct the last months.’
‘You sure you remember me?’
‘A little,’ Harry said. ‘But not everything. Sorry.’
The twink snorted at the affront.
‘Can you help me?’ Harry asked.
‘If you help me.’
‘With what?’
‘Let’s say you pay a little more for my blow than usual.’ The twink drew something halfway up out of his jacket pocket, and Harry saw the little plastic bag with white powder. ‘Then I can give it to you the same way as last time.’