Janne Drangsholt - The Marvelous Misadventures of Ingrid Winter

“But I’m not trying to hit on Peter. Sure, he does have a Bill Nighy–esque quality, but I’m not interested in him. Absolutely not. And besides, he is an idiot. It’s only right that someone tell him that.”

“You’re coming on too strong,” he repeated. “There’s nothing left. Everything’s been said. It’s like I said before. You’re like a parrot.”

“Well, this parrot has to go to the bathroom,” I said.

The little fairies parted politely as I got up. I was still a little hesitant for fear that the invisible shield between Pretty Putin and the icon would disappear with me when I went. But they must have kept it going for me, because when I glanced back, he wasn’t showing any interest at all in the sofa. He was staring blankly out at the snow again. He looked lonely. I longed for Bjørnar so much my chest ached.

Luckily some cough syrup helped.

Although now there was less than a quarter of the bottle left, and a small wave of panic started to build in me.

I decided to ask Pretty Putin to get me some more. Maybe I could even use the icon as a bargaining chip to get more bottles? Enough to bring home so that I could hold on to this numbness forever. And never have to give up the little fairies. They could hover over the road ahead of me, no matter which way I decided to go.

I giggled at the thought and walked out into the hallway on unsteady legs.

Just then Peter came walking toward me.

“Hi,” I said smoothly. “What’s up?”

“She threatened to kill me!”

Only now did I notice how pale and haggard he looked.

“Who?”

“Irina. She said that if I don’t bring the icon back within twenty-four hours, she’s going to shove my testicles so far up my body they would come out my nose.”

He put his hand up to his nose, looking like he could imagine how just such a maneuver would feel.

There was a faint whooshing in my head, while at the same time I was having trouble processing what he had said. But I couldn’t deny that the idea of shoving Peter’s testicles out his nose had occurred to me as well, several times.

“You’re an idiot,” I said.

He stared at me without answering.

“We have to return the icon,” he said.

Images of myself on the floor of a small cell flickered through my head. Drugged and brain dead. Lobotomized and ugly. And what about Peter? He wouldn’t last one week in the gulag.

I started to cry.

And then Peter started to cry.

“What’s with you guys?” called Ingvill, who walked up right then.

“We’re just a little sad,” I said. “And scared.”

“Why?”

“Peter’s concerned about internationalization. That things won’t work out with the… bilateralization.”

“How drunk are you?”

“Not drunk enough, Tropical Fruit Salad, not drunk enough.”

“I’m meeting Ivan in the bar,” she told Peter. “Are you coming?”

“Peter’s tired,” I said. “He wants to go to bed.”

“Really? I would have thought maybe you were the one who ought to go to bed. You’re a true embarrassment to our country. An embarrassment! Getting drunk like this.”

“At least I’m not roaming around massaging people,” I muttered.

“As if you haven’t been busy engaging in activities like that with your students? Oh, please.”

“What are you talking about? I have most assuredly never done anything like that.”

“I know what mindfucking is, let’s just say that.”

“She doesn’t think that mindfucking is sex, right?” I asked Peter. “Please tell me she doesn’t think that.”

“You think you’re so much better than everybody else,” Ingvill said.

“All right, ladies,” Peter said, holding his hands up to try to defuse the situation. “We’re all going to go get a beer together now. For the sake of internationalization. What do you say?”

I sighed.

As did Pretty Putin.

We sat around the table in the bar at the top of Designa Hotel in Saint Petersburg without saying a single word. Around us the snow swirled in its usual manner, around and around, probably not landing until it reached the Himalayas. Or some other high-altitude place. Some mountain where at this very moment a Mongolian Prince Igor was releasing a falcon to soar up, up, up into the big wide sky. Until it was just a black dot, hardly visible to the human eye.

Things were clearly falling apart.

Someone elbowed me.

“What?”

“Artemis wonders if we know anything about the icon? That one that disappeared from the dean’s office.”

“A dingo took it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Maybe a dingo took your baby!”

I cracked up, loudly, wondering if they even got the reference. I couldn’t remember where the line came from, but it was somewhere funny. Bjørnar would know.

“All you have to do is knock your heels together three times and command the shoes to carry you wherever you wish to go.”

I lay back on the sofa, closed my eyes, and felt someone pick me up. I put my arms around Pretty Putin’s neck. Now I would tell him everything. Calmly and honestly, I would explain that Peter had made a stupid mistake because he was a stupid man, and that the icon was taped to the bottom of the sofa he’d just picked me up off of, and all he had to do was unstick it and take it with him.

Then everyone could be on the same team again. I opened my mouth.

“Take me to your leader,” I said with a giggle.

“Shut up now,” he said calmly.

So I did. And I let myself be carried to a bed, where wondrously gentle hands tucked me in and tenderly caressed my cheek. It was so delightful and soothing. Human warmth. Someone who cared. And I tried to stretch toward the warmth, until the whole scene was pierced by a sharp voice.

“Did you get it?”

It sounded like Irina. I tried to raise my hand in a polite greeting, but my arm wouldn’t move, so I sent a signal with my eyelids instead.

“Nyet.”

They switched to speaking Russian. Diphthongs and consonants with variations that drew me into a darkness that was suspiciously reminiscent of Tehom. The deep that even God seemed to fear. That the Spirit of God made do with hovering over. That was only released one single time in history, in the days when God let the Flood flow over the earth.

I sank. Sank.

Until I was swirling with the other snowflakes.

Further and further. Without our ever having thought of falling.

My only thought was to stay afloat until I made it home to Bjørnar, and he could receive me.

When I woke up again, I was scared and called home.

“You woke me up.”

“If someone asked me who you thought was the best-looking man in the world, I would say that soccer player, Lars Bohinen, or David Byrne. Is that right?”

“Huh?”

“You said one time that you thought Lars Bohinen was good looking. But I think maybe you think David Byrne is better looking. Is that right?”

“Ingrid, I—”

“Right, we’ll cross off David Byrne.”

“What’s your point here?”

“To be or not to be isn’t enough. Under normal circumstances it would be enough, more than enough. But something happened to the universe. It’s off-kilter or something. The gyre is widening. Or there’s a sinkhole. I don’t know. We have to take precautions. Come up with some lists.”

“Ingrid, stop. Just listen—”

“And not just for this dimension. We need to think about the next world, too. After we’re dead. You have to promise you’ll find me. Do you promise?”

“You need to be quiet now and listen to me. First of all, are you drunk? I hope you’re drunk, because if you’re not, you’re psychotic. Are you drunk?”