Ю Несбё - The Kingdom

‘Ha! Men buying Christmas presents on 23 December at a service station,’ I said.

‘Typical, isn’t it?’ Stanley laughed. ‘I came here because there are queues in all the other shops. Dan Krane says in today’s paper that there’s a record turnover in Os, never before have so many spent so much on Christmas presents.’ He wrinkled his brow. ‘You look pale, nothing wrong I hope?’

‘No no,’ I said, and heard the low roar and then growling as it rolled away down the highway. ‘Seen that car before?’

‘Yes, I saw it driving off when I called in at Dan’s office earlier today. Smart-looking beast. Seems like a lot of people have been getting themselves these smart-looking beasts recently. But not you. And not Dan. He was looking pale today too, as it happens. I hope it’s not flu doing the rounds, because I’m counting on a quiet Christmas, you hear?’

The low white car slid away into the December darkness. Southwards. On its way home to the Amazon.

‘How’s that finger?’

I held up my right hand with the stiff middle finger. ‘It’s still fit for purpose.’

Stanley laughed obligingly at the stupid joke. ‘Good. And how’s Carl?’

‘Everything as it should be, I think. I only came home today.’

Stanley seemed to be on the point of saying something else but changed his mind. ‘We’ll talk later, Roy. By the way, I’m having my annual open-house breakfast on Boxing Day. Like to come?’

‘Thanks, but I’ll be heading back early on Boxing Day, have to get back to work.’

‘New Year’s Eve then? I’m having a party. Mostly single people you know.’

I smiled. ‘ Lonely hearts club ?’

‘In a way.’ He smiled back at me. ‘See you there?’

I shook my head. ‘I got Christmas Eve off on condition I work New Year’s Eve. But thanks.’

We wished each other a merry Christmas and I crossed the car park and unlocked the door to the workshop. That old familiar smell came rolling out as I opened it. Engine oil, car shampoo, scorched metal and oily rags. Not even pinnekjøtt , wood fires and sprigs of spruce smell as good as that cocktail there. I turned on the light. Everything was just as I had left it.

I went into the sleeping alcove and got a shirt from the cupboard. Entered the office, which was the smallest room and the quickest to heat up, turned the fan heater on full blast. Looked at my watch. She might arrive at any time. It was no longer that old, spotty-faced guy at the petrol pumps who was making my heart pound like a piston. Thud thud. I checked myself in the mirror, neatened my hair. Dry throat. Like when I was taking the theory exam. I straightened the licence plate from Basutoland, it had a tendency to slip round on its nail when the cold came and the walls compressed, same thing in the summer, only the other way.

I jerked so the office chair screeched when there was a sudden knock on the window.

I stared out into the darkness. Saw first just my own reflection, but then also her face. It was within mine, as though we were one and the same person.

I got to my feet and went to the door.

‘Brr,’ she said and slipped inside. ‘It is cold! Good job I’m getting toughened up with the ice-bathing.’

‘Ice-bathing,’ I repeated, and my voice was all over the place, just air and thickness. I stood there bolt upright, my arms sticking out from my body, as naturally relaxed as a scarecrow.

‘Yes, can you imagine? Rita Willumsen’s an ice-bather and she persuaded me and a few other women to join her, three mornings a week, but now I’m the only one left still with her, she bores a hole in the ice and then plop, in we go.’ She spoke quickly and breathlessly and I was glad it wasn’t just me who was feeling tense.

And then she stopped and looked up at me. She had changed the simple, elegant architect’s coat for a quilted jacket, black, as was the hat she wore pulled down over her ears. But it was her. It really was Shannon. A woman I had been with in a very concrete, physical sense, and yet it was as though she, here, now, had stepped out of a dream. A dream that had been recurring since 3 September. And now, here she stood, her eyes bright with joy, and a laughing mouth I had kissed goodnight 110 times since that day.

‘I didn’t hear the Cadillac,’ I said. ‘And yes, it’s really good to see you.’

She put her head back and laughed. And that laughter loosened something inside me, like a snowdrift grown so heavy that even the slightest thaw caused it to collapse.

‘I parked in the light, in front of the station,’ said Shannon.

‘And I still love you,’ I said.

She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again. I saw her swallow, her eyes glisten, and I didn’t know it was tears until one fell onto her cheek and ran and ran.

And then we were in each other’s arms.

When we got back to the farm two hours later, Carl sat snoring in Dad’s armchair.

I said I was going up to bed and heard Shannon wake Carl as I climbed the stairs.

That night, for the first time in over a year, I didn’t dream of Shannon.

Instead I dreamed of falling.

CHRISTMAS EVE FOR THREE.

I slept until twelve, had worked like a Trojan over the last few weeks and had a lot of catching up on sleep to do. Went downstairs, said Happy Christmas, heated up the coffee and browsed through an old Christmas magazine, explained some of the unique Norwegian Christmas traditions to Shannon, helped Carl mash the swedes. Carl and Shannon hardly exchanged a word. I cleared snow, even though it was obvious none had fallen over the last couple of days, changed the birds’ Christmas sheaf, made porridge and took a bowl to the barn for the barn elf, hit the punchbag a few times. Put my skis on out in the yard. Skied the first few metres along some unusually broad tyre tracks left by summer tyres. Stumped up and over the snow piled alongside the road and then made my own tracks as I set off in the direction of the hotel building site.

For some reason the view of the building site up there on the bare mountain made me think of the moon landing. Emptiness, stillness, and the sense of something man-made that was out of place in the landscape. The large, prefabricated timber modules Carl had talked about were held up on the foundations by steel cables that would, according to the engineers, keep everything in place even in gusts of hurricane force. This being Christmas week and holidays, there were no lights on in the workmen’s sheds. Darkness fell.

On the way back I heard a long, sad and familiar sound, but saw no bird.

I don’t know how long we sat around the table, probably not more than an hour, but it felt like four. The pinnekjøtt was probably excellent, Carl at least was full of praise for it, and Shannon looked down at the food, smiled and said thank you, politely. Carl had charge of the bottle of aquavit, but he kept refilling my glass, so that had to mean I was knocking it back too. Carl described the big Santa Claus parade in Toronto where he and Shannon had met for the first time, when they joined the parade along with mutual friends who had made and decorated the sleigh they sat in. The temperature had been minus twenty-five and Carl had offered to keep her hands warm beneath the sheepskin rugs.

‘She was shaking like a leaf, but said no thanks.’ Carl laughed.

‘I didn’t know you,’ said Shannon. ‘And you were wearing a mask.’

‘A Father Christmas mask,’ said Carl, looking at me. ‘Who are you going to trust if you don’t trust Father Christmas?’

‘It’s OK, you’ve taken the mask off now,’ said Shannon.

After the meal I helped Shannon clear the table. In the kitchen she rinsed the plates with warm water and I ran my hand over the small of her back.