Ю Несбё - The Kingdom

‘Interest rate two per cent,’ he said after I had described my problem and the time limit. ‘Payable monthly. I can call the bank and transfer the money now.’

I took out my snuffbox and pushed a wedge in under my lip as I worked it out in my head.

‘That’s more than twenty-five per cent a year.’

Willumsen removed his cigar. ‘The boy can do his sums. You get that from your dad.’

‘And this time you’ve worked on the assumption that I don’t haggle either?’

Willumsen laughed. ‘Yup, that’s the lowest I can offer you. Take it or leave it. The clock is ticking.’

‘Where do I sign?’

‘Oh, this’ll be plenty good enough,’ said Willumsen, holding out his hand to me over the desk. It looked like a bunch of bulging sausages. I suppressed a shudder and took it.

‘Have you ever been in love?’ asked Unni. We were walking in the big gardens of the Brattrein Hotel. Clouds raced across the sky and Lake Heddal, the colours changing with the light. I’ve heard it said that most couples talk less as the years go by. In our case it was the other way round. Neither of us was the talkative type, and the first few times I was the one who had to do most of the talking. We’d been meeting about once a month for five years now, and although Unni was more forthcoming now than when we had first met, it was unusual for her to broach a theme like this with no preamble.

‘Once,’ I said. ‘How about you?’

‘Never,’ she said. ‘And what do you think?’

‘About being in love?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not something to hanker for,’ I said, turning up the collar of my jacket to the gusting wind.

I glanced at her, saw that almost invisible hint of a smile. Wondered where she was headed with this.

‘I read that you can only fall properly in love twice in your life,’ she said. ‘That the first time is action, and the second reaction. Those are the two earthquakes. The rest are just emotional aftershocks.’

‘OK,’ I said. ‘So that means there’s still a chance for you, then.’

‘But I don’t want any earthquake,’ she said. ‘I’ve got children.’

‘I understand. But earthquakes happen, whether you want them or not.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And when you say it’s nothing to hanker for, that’s because the love didn’t go both ways, am I right?’

‘That was probably it.’

‘So the safest thing is to get out of anywhere that’s prone to earthquakes,’ she said.

I nodded slowly. It began to dawn on me what she was talking about.

‘I think I’m beginning to fall in love with you, Roy.’ She stopped walking. ‘And I don’t think the house back home could withstand such a quake.’

‘So…’ I said.

She sighed. ‘So I’m going to have to get away…’

‘…from anywhere earthquake-prone,’ I concluded for her.

‘Yes.’

‘On a permanent basis?’

‘Yes.’

We stood there in silence.

‘Aren’t you going to…?’ she said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘You’ve decided for me. And I’m probably like my father.’

‘Your father?’

‘No good at haggling.’

We spent our last hours together in the room. I had booked the suite and from the bed we had a view over the lake. The sky had cleared by sunset, and Unni said it made her think of that Deep Purple song, the one about the hotel by Lake Geneva in Switzerland. The hotel burns down in that song, I said.

‘Yes,’ said Unni.

We checked out before midnight, gave each other a farewell kiss in the car park and left Notodden, each driving in our own direction. We never saw each other again.

Carl called me on Christmas Eve that same year. I could hear party voices and Mariah Carey singing ‘All I Want for Christmas is You’ in the background. As for me I was sitting alone in my room at the workshop with an aquavit and a plate of Fjordland’s ready-made lamb ribs with vossa sausage and mashed swede.

‘Is it lonely?’ he asked.

I hesitated. ‘A bit.’

‘A bit?’

‘Quite. And you?’

‘There’s a Christmas dinner here at the office. Punch. We’ve closed the switchboard and—’

‘Carl! Carl, come and dance!’ The female voice, half whining, half snuffling that interrupted us, came straight out of the speaker. It sounded as if she was sitting in his lap.

‘Listen, Roy, I’ve got to go now. But I’ve sent you a little Christmas present.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. Check your bank account.’

He hung up.

I did as he said. Logged in and saw there was a transfer from an American bank. In the comment field it said: Thanks for the loan, dear brother. And Happy Christmas! Six hundred thousand kroner. Far more than I had sent for college fees, even allowing for the interest, and the compound interest.

I was so happy I broke out into a grin. Not because of the money, I was managing. But because of Carl, that he was managing. Of course I could have asked questions about how he’d managed to earn such a large amount of money in just a few short months on starting salary at a property company. But I knew what I was going to do with the money. Proper insulation and a bathroom up at the farm. No fucking way was I going to spend another Christmas Eve down here at the workshop.

Here in the village – same as in the city – the only time heathens like me ever visit the church is at Christmas. Not on Christmas Eve the way they do in the city, but on Christmas Day.

On the way out after the service Stanley Spind came over and invited me over for Boxing Day breakfast – he’d asked several others too. It was a little surprising, and at such short notice that I realised something must have just told him that that Roy Opgard, he’s alone at his workshop this Christmas, poor sod. A good man, Stanley, but I told him I was working all Christmas and had given the other staff time off, which was the truth. He put his hand on my shoulder and said that I was a good man. So he’s no people expert, Stanley Spind. Because now I excused myself, hurried along and overtook Willumsen and Rita who were headed for the car park. Willumsen had swelled back up to his natural size again. Rita was looking good too, rosy-cheeked and probably warm inside that fur coat. And me, the lecher who had just been told he was a good man, took Willumsen’s bunch of sausages – which was fortunately gloved – and wished them a very merry Christmas.

‘Happy Christmas,’ said Rita.

I remembered of course that she had told me that in refined circles one says ‘Merry Christmas’ up until Christmas Eve, but that from Christmas Day onwards until New Year’s Eve it’s ‘ Happy Christmas’. But if Willumsen realised a country bumpkin like me was familiar with such niceties it might make him suspicious, so I nodded as though I hadn’t registered the correction. Good man my arse.

‘I just want to thank you for the loan.’ I handed Willumsen a single white envelope.

‘Oh?’ he said, weighing it in his hand and looking at me.

‘I transferred the money to your account last night,’ I said. ‘That there is the printout.’

‘Interest until the first working day,’ he said. ‘That’s another three days away, Roy.’

‘I’ve taken account of that, yes. Plus a little extra.’

He nodded slowly. ‘It feels good, doesn’t it? To clear a debt.’

I did and didn’t understand what he meant. I mean, I understood the words, of course, but not the way he said them.

But I would before the calendar year was over.

DURING THAT ENCOUNTER WITH WILLUMSEN and his wife outside church on Christmas Day Rita hadn’t given away a thing with her body language and her facial expressions. She was good. But the meeting clearly set something going inside her. Enough for her to forget what ought to stay forgotten and remember what was worth remembering. Her text message came three days later, on the first working day after the break.