Ю Несбё - The Jealousy Man and Other Stories

I got her number up onto the screen, stared at it for a moment, then dropped the phone into the console between the seats and turned up the radio.

I parked outside Palle’s garage at five. By five thirty I’d showered, changed and was in the hall waiting for Wenche, who was in the bathroom putting on make-up and talking on the phone.

‘Yeah yeah yeah!’ she said irritably as she emerged and caught sight of me. ‘We’ll only be even later if you start going on at me.’

I hadn’t said a word and knew that the only thing to do was carry on like that. Keep my mouth shut and keep hold of the string of that balloon.

‘Do you have to stand there like that?’ she groaned as she struggled into her long black boots.

‘Like what?’

‘With your arms folded.’

I unfolded them.

‘And don’t look at your watch,’ she said.

‘I’m not loo—’

‘Don’t even think about it! I’ve told them we’ll be there when we’re there. Christ, you do get on my nerves.’

I went outside and sat in the car. She followed, checked her lipstick in the mirror, and for a while we drove in silence.

‘Who were you talking to on the phone?’ I asked her.

‘Mamma,’ said Wenche, drawing an index finger beneath her lower lip.

‘For so long and just five minutes before you’re due to meet?’

‘Is there a law against that?’

‘Anyone else coming today?’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Besides your parents and us? Since you’re all dolled up.’

‘No harm in trying to look smart if you’re invited out to dinner. You, for example, you could have worn that black blazer instead of looking like someone off for a holiday in his cabin.’

‘Your dad’ll be wearing his knitted sweater, so I’m doing the same.’

‘He’s older than you. It won’t do you any harm to show a bit of respect.’

‘Respect, yeah,’ I said.

‘What?’

I shook my head to say it was nothing. Keep a hold of that string.

‘Nice earrings,’ I said, without taking my eyes off the road.

‘Thanks,’ she said, in a tone almost of surprise, and from the corner of my eye I saw she automatically raised one hand to her ear.

‘But why aren’t you wearing the ones I gave you for Christmas?’ I asked.

‘I wear those all the time.’

‘Yes, so why not now?’

‘Christ, you do go on.’

I could see she was still fiddling with her earrings. Silvery things.

‘I got these from Mum, so maybe she’ll think it’s nice to see me wearing them. OK?’

‘Sure sure,’ I said. ‘I only asked.’

She sighed, shook her head and didn’t have to say it again: I was getting on her nerves.

‘So I hear it’s soon going to be your turn to get a taxi licence,’ said Wenche’s father as he poked the big, three-pronged serving fork into one of the dry slices of roast beef and dumped it onto his plate. I hadn’t tasted it yet, but knew it was dry, they always had roast beef when I was there, and it was always dry. Sometimes I imagined it might be a kind of test, that they were just waiting for the day I threw the plate at the wall and bellowed that I couldn’t fucking stand it any more, not them and not the roast beef and not their daughter. And that they would heave a great sigh of relief.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Brorson inherits the licence when his uncle retires this summer, and I’m next on the list after that.’

‘And how long do you think that might turn out to be?’

‘That depends on when the next taxi owner retires.’

‘I understand that, what I’m asking is, when will that be?’

‘Well. Ruud is the oldest. He’s probably about fifty-five now.’

‘Well then, he might carry on driving for at least another ten years.’

‘Yes.’ I raised the glass of water to my lips, knowing I needed moistening up for the chewing job ahead.

‘I was just reading that Norway has the most expensive taxis in the world,’ said my father-in-law. ‘It’s probably not surprising, bearing in mind we also have the world’s most dysfunctional taxi business. Idiot politicians who let the villains who run the business rob people who have no alternative form of transport and who in any other country would have something approaching a halfway decent taxi service.’

‘You must be thinking of Oslo,’ I said. ‘And don’t forget either, running costs are very high in this country.’

‘There are lots of countries more expensive than Norway,’ said Wenche’s father. ‘And the taxis in Norway are not only the dearest in the world, they’re in a class of their own completely. I read that, in Oslo, five kilometres during daylight hours costs twenty per cent more than in Zurich, the next dearest, and fifty per cent more than in Luxembourg, which is third. Oh yes, you’ve got everyone else on the list beaten hands down. Did you know that in Kiev — which is not even the cheapest city in the world — you can, for the price of one taxi in Oslo, hire not just two. Not three. Not five. Not ten. But twenty. I could transport an entire class of schoolchildren in Kiev for what it costs to drive one poor sod here down to the railway station.’

‘In Oslo,’ I said, and shifted in my seat. The earring in my trouser pocket was sticking into me. ‘Not here.’

‘So what surprises me,’ said Wenche’s father as he wiped his thin lips with a serviette while her mother filled his glass of water, ‘is why a taxi driver in this country, even if he doesn’t own his own car, can’t earn himself a decent annual wage.’

‘Yeah, you tell me.’

‘OK then, I will. In Oslo they issue so many taxi licences that they have to screw up the price to maintain the high standard of living they’ve become accustomed to, which means fewer customers, so prices have to rise even higher, so in the end it’s the handful of people with no alternative form of transport who are being ripped off, so they can keep a whole army of taxi drivers parked up at cab ranks with nothing to do but scratch their arses and complain about people living off unemployment benefit. Whereas in actual fact they’re the ones living off unemployment benefits, only it’s the passengers who are paying for it. So when Uber comes along and shakes things up a bit in a business that’s already a bit shaky, the taxi drivers’ union and all its tax-dodging members fly into a rage and insist on keeping their sole right to get paid for just sitting in a parked-up cab. And the only winner is Mercedes, who can sell cars there’s no use for.’

His voice hadn’t got any louder, only more intense, and I knew that Wenche was looking at me in a sort of amused way. She liked it when her father laid down the law for me like that. She even actually said that the way he acted and spoke was how a real man should, and I should try to learn from him.

‘That, at any rate, is the plan,’ I said.

‘What is?’

‘Wait until I get the licence and then buy a Mercedes there’s no use for.’ I gave a little laugh, but no one else around the table even smiled.

‘See, Amund is the same as the taxi drivers in Oslo,’ said Wenche. ‘He likes to wait in a queue and hope that sooner or later something good will happen. He isn’t a doer, like some I could mention.’

Her mother spoke up and changed the subject, I don’t remember to what, only that I sat there chewing and chewing on a slice of beef that tasted as though it too had had a tough life. And wondered what Wenche had meant by some she could mention.

‘You can drop me off at the pub,’ said Wenche as we drove home.

‘Now? It’s nine o’clock.’

‘The girls are there already. We agreed to meet up for a hair of the dog tonight.’

‘Sounds like a good idea. Maybe I should come along...’