The cat jumped down from his lap and he decided to get away from Harwich Port.
He wouldn’t go far. A trip north to Maine. Only a few days. The university lady from Norway would surely give up after a few days. She had no business here. Even though she seemed to know the area, she was Norwegian. She had something to go back to. When she discovered that he’d gone, she would surely give up. He was not important. Aksel would go to Old Orchard Beach, where Patrick had his carousel and earned good money in the summer. Patrick and Aksel had been friends since he was in Boston, when he first came to the U.S., and Aksel was washing dishes in an Italian bar in North End. Patrick had gotten his friend a place on a fishing boat from Gloucester. After two good seasons, they felt rich. Patrick got a loan and bought the carousel he had always dreamed about. Aksel had just enough to buy the house in Harwich Port, before the nouveaux riches pushed prices up and made it impossible for normal people to get a place by the ocean on Cape Cod. The old friends seldom saw each other and didn’t say much when they did. But Aksel would be welcome at Patrick’s. There was no doubt about that.
The cat was meowing furiously. The cat door was closed. Aksel left the door to the garden ajar and went to get his suitcase from the back of the closet in the bedroom.
There were four pairs of clean underpants in the drawers. He folded them carefully and put them in the bottom. Four pairs of socks. Two shirts. The blue sweater. A couple of sleeveless undershirts. He didn’t need anything else. The clothes lay at the bottom of the suitcase, flat and pathetic; it wasn’t even half full. He tightened the straps over the sweater that lay on top. Then he closed the suitcase before he could change his mind. He would take the letters with him. He had never taken them before on his short trips to Boston or Maine. They were lying where they always lay, on the chessboard that he never used because he never had visitors, a pile tied up with a piece of string. This time it might be best to take them with him.
He shut the suitcase again.
Holding a bag with three cans of cat food in one hand and the suitcase in the other, he went out and locked the door. Mrs. Davis was always awake at this time. As soon as he approached the pickup, she popped her head around the kitchen door and shouted cheerfully that it was a lovely day. Aksel looked up. It could turn out fine; Mrs. Davis was right. The seagulls dropped shells from the skies and swooped down onto the beach to eat. Two boats glided out of Allen Harbor. The sun was already high in the sky. Mrs. Davis trotted over the grass in her eternal pink sweater and took the bag of cat food. It wasn’t enough, he explained, as he would be away for a while. Could she keep a tab? He would pay her as soon as he was back. When? To be honest, he didn’t know. Had to visit someone. Down south. New Jersey, he mumbled, and spat. It might be a while. He’d be grateful if she could look after the cat in the meantime.
“Thank you,” he said, without noticing that he said it in Norwegian.
“Sorry, sweety. He’s gone.”
Mrs. Davis cocked her head and arranged her face into an expression worthy of a funeral.
“Left this morning, I’m afraid. For New Jersey, I think. Don’t know when he’ll be back. Might take weeks, you know.”
Johanne stared at the cat that was lying relaxed in the lady’s arms and letting itself be tickled. Its eyes were alarmingly yellow, nearly luminous. Its gaze was arrogant, as if the animal was making fun of her, an intruder who imagined that Aksel would be waiting on the steps, excited to hear what she had to say, ready for questions, newly shaven and with fresh coffee in the pot. The cat yawned. Its two small canine teeth glistened as its eyes disappeared into two slits, far into the red fur. Johanne took a few steps back and then turned toward the car.
The only thing she could do was leave her card. For a moment she wondered whether she should give her card to the little woman, then she thought about the frightening cat and instead went over to Aksel’s house. She quickly scribbled a message on the back and dropped it in the mailbox. To be on the safe side, she slipped another one under the door.
“He seemed kind of upset, you know!”
The woman wanted to talk. She came closer, with the cat still in her arms.
“He’s not used to visitors. Not very friendly, actually. But his heart…”
The cat jumped lazily to the ground. The woman clutched her breast dramatically.
“His heart is pure gold. I tell you, pure gold. How do you know him, miss?”
Johanne smiled absently, as if she didn’t understand properly. Of course she should speak to the old lady. There was obviously nothing that went on in the small street that she didn’t know. All the same, Johanne retreated and got into the car. She was annoyed and relieved at the same time. It annoyed her that she had let Aksel leave the restaurant without making another arrangement. It made her angry that he’d fooled her and just left. At the same time, his disappearing act was an honest statement. Johanne was not welcome in Aksel Seier’s life, no matter what she had to tell him. Aksel Seier wanted to sail his own sea. She was free.
It was now Thursday, May 25, and she could go home. She should actually call Alvhild. When she got in the car and headed toward Route 28, she decided that she wouldn’t. She had so little to tell. She couldn’t even remember what it was that she’d seen in Aksel Seier’s house that was so surprising that it had kept her awake half the night.
TWENTY-EIGHT
A courier van approached the block of apartments. It was drizzling. The ring road was at a standstill by Ullevål due to an accident. The chaos had spread like an aggressive tumor; it had taken the courier more than an hour to drive a stretch that would normally take only twenty minutes. Finally, he neared his destination. The driver honked in irritation at a taxi that was parked across the flow of traffic. A young man with a plaster cast and crutches humped his way out of the passenger seat, stuck his finger up at the driver, and pointed angrily at a police car fifteen yards away.
“Damn it,” he shouted. “Can’t you see the road’s closed?”
That was all he needed. No way was he going to even bother carrying the package up to the apartments. He’d been on the go since seven o’clock this morning, and he had a cold. He wanted it to be the weekend. Friday afternoon was always hell. He just wanted to deliver this damned package and get home. Go to bed. Have a beer and watch a video. If only that damned police car could move. Even though it was blocking the whole road, nothing dramatic seemed to be happening. Two uniformed men stood beside the car chatting, one of them smoking and looking at his watch, as if he too was longing for home. The taxi finally managed to turn around, but not without breaking a few bushes by the pavement. The driver of the courier van revved the engine and the vehicle slid gently forward as he rolled down the window.
“Hi,” said the policeman officiously. “You can’t drive through here.”
“Just need to deliver a package.”
“No go.”
“Why not?”
“Strictly speaking, that’s none of your business.”
“For Christ’s sake…”
The driver slapped his forehead with his hand.
“It is my business! I’ve got a package here, a damned huge package, that has to be delivered up there, to…”
He waved toward the block of apartments while looking for something in the mess on the seat beside him. A half-full can of Fanta fell from a holder on the dashboard. The yellow liquid ran all over the floor. The driver started to lose it.
“Up there. Lena Baardsen, 10B, stair 2. So can you please tell me how…”