Anne Holt: Fear Not

‘What man?’

Ragnhild licked the snot trickling from her nose.

‘The man who was talking to you. The man who-’

‘Don’t know him,’ said Ragnhild. ‘Look what a brilliant snowman we’ve made! And without any snow!’

‘It’s lovely. But now it’s time to come in. We’re going to a Christmas party, remember. What did he ask you?’

‘Dam-di-rum-ram,’ said Kristiane, smiling up at the sky.

‘Nothing,’ said Ragnhild. ‘Are we going to a party? Is Daddy coming?’

‘No, he’s in Bergen, isn’t he? But that man must have said something. I mean, I saw him-’

‘He just asked if we’d had a nice Christmas,’ said Ragnhild. ‘Aren’t your feet cold, Mummy?’

‘Yes, they are. Come along, both of you. Time to go inside.’

Amazingly, Kristiane started to walk. Johanne took Ragnhild by the hand and followed her.

‘And what did you tell him?’

‘I said it was absolutely the best Christmas ever – with bells on!’

‘Did he want… did he try to get you to go over to him?’

They reached the gravel path and walked along by the building towards the stairs. Kristiane was talking to herself, but seemed happy and contented.

‘Yeees…’

Ragnhild was taking her time.

‘But we know we mustn’t go up to strangers. Or go off with them or anything like that.’

‘Quite right. Good girl.’

Johanne’s toes felt as if they were about to drop off with the cold. She pulled a face as she left the gravel and put her foot on the ice-cold stone staircase.

‘He asked if I’d got any nice Christmas presents,’ Kristiane said suddenly as she opened the outside door, which had blown shut behind Johanne. ‘Just me, not Ragnhild.’

‘Oh? And how do you know he was only asking you?’

‘Because he said so. He said-’

All three of them stopped. Kristiane had that strange look on her face, as if it were turned inward, as if she were searching an archive inside her head.

‘ What are you doing out here, girls? Did you have a nice Christmas? And what about you, Kristiane, did you get anything nice?’

Her voice was expressionless, and was followed by complete silence.

‘I see,’ said Johanne, forcing a smile. ‘That was nice of him. And now we need to put on our best clothes as quickly as we can. We’re going to see Grandma and Grandpa, Kristiane. Daddy will soon be here to pick us up.’

‘Oh…’

Ragnhild immediately sat down and started whining.

‘Why does Kristiane get to have her daddy when I can’t have mine?’

‘Your daddy has to work, I told you that. And you always have a lovely time when we go to see Kristiane’s grandma and grandad.’

‘Don’t want to. Don’t want to!’

The child pulled back and started to slide down the stairs head first, her arms stretched out in front of her as if she were swimming. Johanne grabbed her arm and pulled her up, slightly more firmly than she had intended. Ragnhild let out a howl.

The only explanation Johanne could cope with was that Kristiane must have remembered wrongly.

‘I want my own daddy!’ Ragnhild screamed, trying to twist free of her mother’s grasp. ‘Daddy! My daddy! Not Kristiane’s stupid daddy!’

‘We do not say that kind of thing in our family,’ Johanne hissed, nudging Kristiane in through the door while dragging the little one behind her. ‘Do you understand?’

Ragnhild immediately stopped crying, stunned by her mother’s fury. She started laughing instead.

But Johanne had only one thought in her head: Kristiane never, ever remembered wrongly.

‘We all make mistakes. Don’t get so cross about it.’

Marcus Koll Junior smiled at his son, who was studying the instructions.

‘Come over here and we can work it out together.’

The boy sulked for a little while, but eventually stomped over and threw the little booklet on the coffee table. The helicopter was still on the dining table, only half-completed.

‘Rolf promised to help me,’ the boy said, pushing out his lower lip.

‘You know what Rolf’s clients can be like.’

‘They’re rich, stupid and they have ugly dogs.’

His father tried to hide a smile.

‘Yes, well. When an English bulldog decides that her puppies are coming out on Christmas Day, then out they have to come. Ugly or not.’

‘Rolf says that bulldogs have been totally overbred. That they can’t even feed properly. Shouldn’t be allowed. Animal cruelty.’

‘I couldn’t agree more. Now, let’s have a look at this!’

He picked up the booklet and leafed through it as he walked over to the imposing dining table. He had had the instructions translated by an authorized technical translator in order to make it easier for the boy to build the helicopter. The model in front of him was so big that he now regretted his purchase. Even if the boy had an unusual talent for mechanics, this was a little over the top. The man in the shop in Boston had stressed that the toy wasn’t suitable for children under the age of sixteen, not least because it weighed almost a kilo and would constitute a risk to anyone around it the moment it rose in the air.

‘Hm,’ said his father, scratching his stubble. ‘I don’t really get it.’

‘It’s the rotor blades that are the problem,’ said the boy. ‘Look here, Dad!’

The eager fingers tried to put the blades together, but something wasn’t right. The boy soon gave up and put down the pieces with a groan. His father ruffled his hair.

‘A bit more patience, little Marcus. Patience! That’s what you should have got for Christmas.’

‘I’ve told you, don’t call me that. And I’m not doing anything wrong, there’s something the matter with the instructions.’

Marcus Koll pulled out a chair, sat down and took his glasses out of his breast pocket. The boy sat down beside him, keen to help. The blonde, curly hair tickled Marcus’s face as his son leaned over the manual. A faint smell of soap and ginger biscuits made him smile, and he had to stop himself from hugging the boy, holding him close, feeling the glorious warmth of the son he had managed to have in spite of everything and everyone.

‘You’re the best thing in my life,’ he said slowly.

‘Yeah, yeah. What does this mean? Insert the longest batten through the unhooked ring at the bottom of rotor blade four . I mean, there is only one batten! So why does it say the longest? And where’s the stupid ring?’

The December sun filled the room with a calm, white light. Outside it was cold and clear. The trees were completely covered with crystals of rime frost, as if they had been sprayed for Christmas. Through the white branches beyond the window he could see the Oslo fjord far below, grey-blue and still, with no sign of life. The crackling of the open fire blended with the snores of two English setters, curled up together in a big basket by the door. The smell of turkey was beginning to drift in from the kitchen, a tradition Rolf had insisted on when he eventually allowed himself to be persuaded to move in five years ago.

Marcus Koll Junior lived his life in a cliché, and he loved it.

When his father died nine years ago, just before Marcus Junior turned thirty-five, he had at first refused to accept his inheritance. Georg Koll had given his son nothing but a good name. That name was his grandfather’s, and it had enabled him to pretend that his father didn’t exist when he was a boy and couldn’t understand why Daddy couldn’t come and see him at the weekend now and again. When he was just twelve years old he began to realize that his mother didn’t even receive the maintenance to which she was entitled for him and his two younger siblings. When he turned fifteen he resolved never again to speak to the man responsible for his existence. His father had wasted his opportunity. That was the year Marcus received 100 kroner in a card on his birthday, sent through the post and with five words in handwriting he knew wasn’t his father’s. He became a grown man when he put the money in the envelope and sent the whole lot back.