Anne Holt - 1222

Berit ran a hand over her ponytail, which was caught up in a blue band. There was something helpless about the movement, a childishness that formed a stark contrast to the strong face with its intense, blue, open gaze.

She talked about us as guests.

Only a handful of us had ever bothered to thank Berit and the rest of the staff for their help during this dramatic interlude. Many people had commented that the food was good, but most were so preoccupied with themselves as victims of an accident that they took everything for granted. Some people complained about the beds, others about the fact that the dogs were constantly allowed to come down into Blåstuen, when they weren’t really supposed to be in there. A married couple in their fifties had struck a chord when they said that the selection of diversions available was poor; there were counters missing from most of the games, and there were far too few packs of cards. When the cheerful, friendly woman in the kiosk pointed out that such things were on sale, the woman pursed her mouth haughtily; she certainly hadn’t asked to end up in a train crash on the mountain, and she definitely had no intention of spending her money because of it.

Berit had dark circles under her eyes. A weary, almost sorrowful expression had settled around her mouth during the course of the night.

As far as I could see, it was only in the kiosk and the Millibar that anyone asked for payment. So far not one single credit card had been asked for to cover accommodation or food, not one guarantee had been requested. The staff had worked from morning to night. So far they had all functioned as a combination of spiritual mentor, nurse, child minder, waiter or waitress, wailing wall and cleaner.

Only Magnus Streng had clearly expressed the view that Finse 1222 must be one of the country’s most generous and charming hotels, ever since he first waddled in from the platform and set to work bandaging wounds and putting broken bones in splints.

We really were an ungrateful lot.

We really were Norwegians, the majority of us.

And yet Berit Tverre was still referring to us as guests, and she even managed a wan smile before she hurried off towards the stairs. As far as I could see, she was heading downwards.

I listened to the wind. During the night I had been sure that the storm was abating. It was no longer attacking us with the same fury. It was as if it had gradually realized that the buildings at Finse could be lashed, they could be buried in snow and severely damaged, but they could never really be conquered. The buildings around the little railway station between Hallingskarvet and Hardangerjøkulen had been built in an era when things were allowed to take their own time, by people who knew the mountain and the caprices of the weather gods better than they knew their own children. I discovered to my surprise that the lower part of the windows facing out towards Finsevann were covered in solid snow. I didn’t really know, but I assumed it must be three or four metres down to the ground in summer. Maybe more. Only through the upper third of the windows could I still see whirling snow, as if it were in some kind of madly spinning centrifuge, grey-white flakes illuminated from inside against the pitch-black morning sky outside.

The wind had not begun to die down; we were in the process of being buried in snow.

There were no longer thick walls against which it could batter. Up to now the snow had piled up in enormous drifts a couple of metres away from the walls facing the lake. I presumed this had something to do with both the wind and the heat from the buildings, but there were ramparts of air between us and the terrifying quantities of snow. Now these were being filled in. A covering of driving snow had settled around the building, protecting us from the worst of the onslaught. Only from the side wing, which was the highest part of the hotel as it was on a slope, could I still hear the familiar creaking from the walls.

I didn’t know whether I ought to be relieved or afraid.

I had no idea how much snow could actually fall from the sky once it had really started to play up.

Nobody came.

True, Berit had only just been here, but otherwise I was completely alone in the lobby. The chef and his two colleagues were already in the kitchen. From time to time I heard the clank of metal and other human noises, blending with the monotonous background roar of the storm.

It was making me feel hungry.

But most of all I was tired.

I’m used to getting up at six o’clock, but this felt like one o’clock in the morning. I couldn’t stop yawning, and my eyes were streaming. That’s why I noticed the dog that came rushing in as more of a blurred movement, a pale yellow shadow moving at full speed across the floor. Before I had time to wipe my eyes with the back of my hand, the dog was already halfway between the stairs and the Millibar, while I sat there in my wheelchair without a clue about what was going on.

Suddenly every sound disappeared.

A fuse had blown. It was as if my body didn’t have sufficient energy to keep all my senses working. It was more important to see, and I saw. The whole thing can’t have taken more than three or four seconds, but once again I had the experience of registering every detail. Every single one. It was neither the Portuguese water dog nor the nervous setter that was hurtling towards me. Nor was it the poodle, which I hadn’t actually seen at all since the first evening.

As I am always sitting down, I have a different perspective on life from other adults. In a literal sense as well. This can often be valuable; I see things that others miss. But I also miss some elements that others see. In many ways I see the world as a child sees it.

The pit bull terrier is not exactly a large dog. A fully-grown male can weigh up to thirty solid kilos, but since there is no breed standard, the variations are great. At any rate, they are banned in Norway. However, since the similarity with other fighting dogs is so striking that they can easily pass for a different breed, there are still plenty of them around.

The specimen that was hurtling towards me was more monster than dog. Its chest was broader than the length of its legs, and from its enormous mouth lolled the longest tongue I have ever seen on any creature. I don’t really know why, but I realized immediately that the dark patch on its yellowish-brown, short fur was blood. When the animal was just five metres from me I could see that its teeth were dripping with pale red saliva, splashing around its mouth every time its front paws hit the floor.

The eyes were colourless: clear, with an almost imperceptible hint of pale, pale blue. It looked as if the dog were blind, yet could see at the same time. Its gaze was fixed on me, but only as if I were sitting at the end of a dark tunnel, and there was nothing else in the room.

Fortunately, there was.

Suddenly I could hear again. A faint, muted thud as something soft and solid landed on the floor. Although everything I have read since about fighting dogs and their behaviour maintains that the dog should not have allowed itself to be distracted, it did. It didn’t take its eyes off me, but a slight turn of the head made it lose its rhythm and stumble without actually falling.

I just wished I was able to use my legs. I realized the only way I could defend myself would be to lift my foot and kick out just as the dog was about to take its final leap. If the dog got anywhere near my face I was lost. Every ounce of my strength and concentration was therefore focused on this one impossibility: raising my knee and extending my leg in front of me with full force and at exactly the right moment.

The miracle didn’t happen.

I was still crippled, just as I will be until the day I die.