Anne Holt - Death In Oslo

Then there was silence. There was soundproof glass in the windows, so she couldn’t even hear the convoy of student buses that had decided it was a good idea to park right in the middle of Akersgate, outside the Ministry of Culture and Church Affairs.

All the windows were dark.

Johanne Vik had no idea how she was going to get through the day; she never knew how she would survive the 17th of May. She held the shirt of Kristiane’s national costume up in front of her. This year she had thought ahead and was going to take a change of clothes for her daughter with them. The first outfit was already dirty by half past seven. And now this one had jam on the arm and a piece of melted chocolate on the collar. The ten-year-old was dancing around the floor naked, thin and fragile, with eyes that seldom focused on anyone or anything. It was already nearly half past ten, and they didn’t have much time.

‘ Silent night ,’ the small girl sang, ‘ holy night. All is calm, all is bright. Round yon virgin mother and child. Holy infant so tender and mild …’

‘You’re a bit out on the date.’ Adam Stubo laughed and ruffled his stepdaughter’s hair. ‘There are special songs for our national day too, you know. Do you know where my cufflinks are, Johanne?’

She didn’t answer. If she had washed the first shirt and popped it in the tumble dryer, Kristiane could at least have started the party with clean clothes.

‘Look at this,’ she complained and showed the shirt to Adam.

‘Doesn’t really matter,’ he said and carried on looking for his cufflinks. ‘Kristiane has more white shirts in the cupboard.’

‘More white shirts?’ Johanne rolled her eyes. ‘Do you know what my parents paid for this damn national costume? And do you know how offended my mother will be if we turn up with Kristiane in an ordinary shirt from H &M?’

‘ A child is born in Bethlehem ,’ Kristiane chanted. ‘ Hip-hip-hurrah! ’

Adam took the shirt and examined the stains.

‘I’ll sort it out,’ he said. ‘In five minutes, with a bit of washing-up liquid and a hairdryer. And by the way, you underestimate your mother. There are few people who understand Kristiane better than her. Why don’t you get Ragnhild ready, so we can leave in quarter of an hour?’

The sixteen-month-old baby was sitting in deep concentration, playing with her building blocks in a corner of the sitting room. She was unperturbed by her sister’s dancing and singing. With astonishing precision, she placed one block on top of another, and smiled when the tower was as high as her face.

Johanne didn’t have the heart to disturb her. For a moment it struck her how different the two girls were. The older one thin and sensitive, the younger so very robust. Kristiane was difficult to understand; Ragnhild was healthy and direct. She lifted the block on top, saw her mother and grinned, revealing eight sparkling white teeth.

‘Cudduwl, Mummy. Agni cudduwl. Look!’

‘ On Christmas night all Christians sing ,’ Kristiane sang, clear as a bell.

Johanne picked her elder daughter up. She was happy to be held like a baby, lying in her mother’s arms with not a stitch on her body.

‘It’s not Christmas,’ Johanne said quietly, puckering her lips against the child’s warm, soft cheek. ‘It’s the seventeenth of May, national day.’

‘I know,’ Kristiane replied, looking straight at her mother for a second before continuing in a flat voice: ‘Constitution day, when we celebrate independence and freedom. This year we can also celebrate the hundredth anniversary of our separation from Sweden. 1814 and 1905. That is what we’re celebrating.’

‘My little sweetheart,’ Johanne whispered and kissed her again. ‘You’re so clever. And now you’ve got to get dressed again. OK?’

‘Adam can do that.’

Kristiane wriggled out of her mother’s arms and dashed, barefooted, across the room to the bathroom. She paused by the television for a moment, and turned it on. The Norwegian national anthem blared out of the loudspeakers. She had turned the volume right up the night before. Johanne grabbed the remote control and turned the noise down. Just as she was moving away to find her younger daughter’s party frock, something caught her attention.

The scene was familiar enough. A sea of people dressed in all their finery in front of the royal palace. Large and small flags, rows of pensioners on the few seats that had been put out, just under the balcony. A close-up of a Pakistani girl in a Norwegian national costume; she smiled at the camera and waved her flag with great enthusiasm. As the picture swept over all the flags and then focused on the glamorous reporter, something happened. The woman put her hand to her ear. She smiled sheepishly, looked at something that was possibly a script and opened her mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Instead she turned away, as if she didn’t want to be filmed. Two sudden, random and very short clips then followed. A sweep of the treetops just to the east of the palace, and a screaming child on its father’s shoulders. The images were out of focus.

Johanne turned the volume back up.

The camera finally focused on the reporter again, who now had her hand over her left ear, listening intently. A teenager stuck his head up over her shoulder and shouted hurrah.

‘And now,’ the woman finally said, obviously flustered, ‘and now we will leave the celebrations on Karl Johan for a moment… We’ll return here shortly, but first…’

A young lad stuck his fingers up like rabbit ears behind the reporter’s head and then howled with laughter.

‘Back to the studio at Marienlyst for some breaking news,’ the reporter said in a rush, and the picture was cut immediately.

Johanne looked at her watch. Seven minutes past eleven.

‘Adam,’ she called quietly.

Ragnhild toppled her tower. The news jingle played.

‘Adam,’ Johanne shouted. ‘Adam, come quick.’

The man in the studio was in a dark suit. His normally wild curly hair looked greyer than usual and Johanne thought she saw him swallow a couple of times before opening his mouth.

‘Someone must have died,’ she said.

‘What?’ Adam came into the sitting room, carrying a fully dressed Kristiane. ‘Has someone died?’

‘Shhh.’ She pointed at the TV screen, then put her finger to her lips.

‘We repeat, the reports are still unconfirmed, but…’ The lines of communication to NRK and the broadcasting house were obviously red hot. Even the experienced anchorman kept his finger on his earpiece and listened intently for a few seconds before he looked into the camera and continued: ‘And now over to…’

He frowned, hesitated. Then he pulled out his earpiece, rested one hand on top of the other and went free-range: ‘We have several reporters out following this story, and as you perhaps understand, there are some technical problems. We will talk to our reporters shortly. In the meantime, I repeat: the American President, Helen Lardahl Bentley, did not arrive as planned for the seventeenth of May breakfast at the palace this morning. No official reason has been given for her absence. Nor has a statement been given by the parliament, where the President was due to watch the parade with the President of the Storting, Jørgen Kosmo, and… One moment…’

‘Is she… is she dead?’

‘Dead and red with brown bread,’ Kristiane chanted.

Adam lowered her gently to the floor.

‘They don’t know yet,’ Johanne replied quickly. ‘But it would seem that she-’

There was a sharp screech from the TV before the picture switched to a reporter who obviously had not had enough time to take off his national-day ribbon, for a more sombre effect.