Chapter 3: Monday Night

“Cómo quisiera poder vivir sin aire,” Gerd sang along with Pandora radio.

“Cómo quisiera poder vivir sin agua. Me encantaría …….”

And what she would love appeared as a dark shadow outside her kitchen door. She hadn’t heard his steps, hadn’t heard a thing over her own tone-deaf accompaniment to Maná. She turned and smiled as he opened the door.

He walked in, grabbed her around the waist and swung her nearly to the ceiling. Not such a feat: the ceilings were low in these old houses. But for all her 1 meter 68 centimeters, she ducked her head and giggled anyway.

“Jonasito, put me down. I’m making the roux for the soup.”

“The what? I’ll make you rue such a request. And me a starving man.” Jonas bent his tall frame over her and nibbled her neck. “Mmmm. Something smells good. Are you baking?”

Gerd laughed again and turned to the stove.

“Simplest of dinners after a hard night and a long day. Fresh baked bread and fish stew.”

“You had a hard night? Let me tell you ….”

“No,” Gerd interrupted. “Me first. I just need to add some more milk to this, then I can push it aside. Could you get me a glass of wine?”

Jonas loomed tall in her diminutive kitchen, 1m. 90 in his stockinged feet. Tall and somewhat gangly, Jonas van der Linden was a few years older than her 33. Sometimes he grew a brown beard; right now he was clean shaven. Brown curly hair a tad too long (she liked it that way); hair one could run one’s fingers through and hold on to when necessary. Brown eyes. Long face, gentle mouth. Jonas was a teacher at the local high school. He had arrived in Storesand as a substitute teacher a few years ago, not long before they met. And that had been nearly three years ago now, on a cold night much like this one. He had taken one look at the short, plump woman arguing with the fish buyers like a longshoreman and promptly decided to stay. They had offered him tenure soon afterward.

He pulled two glasses off the shelf and filled them both from the wine box. Nearly spilled the wine when something soft touched his leg and tried to lick his pants. “What on earth is that?”

“Does it look like a dog?”

“It decidedly does. Hey little dude, where did you crawl out from?” He gave her one glass, put his on the counter and pretzeled himself all the way down to the floor. He rubbed the little dog’s ears and was treated to ecstatic face-washing.

“Two questions. One, where did he come from and two, how is he holding his own against Bamse?”

The feline in question was glaring at them both from his throne in the living room. Such shenanigans were beneath contempt as far as Bamse was concerned. He has just started getting used to the male human – it had only taken 36 months – but now this almost-respectable human had shown that he would lower himself as far as greeting a stinky dog before coming directly to him to pay his respects. Completely unacceptable.

“Thereby hangs a tale.” Gerd added homemade vegetable stock and a cup of fish stock (her own recipe) to the roux, emptied in the vegetables she had cut up, and put all to simmer. The fish and shrimp would go in last. She added a few sprigs of dried herbs tied with string that she would ladle out before serving the soup. The bread probably had another 30 minutes to go. She brought her wine into the living room and sat down on the couch. Jonas settled in beside her. The as-yet unnamed dog lay down by her feet, another slave to love.

“I went out to empty the salmon nets this morning,” Gerd began. Jonas started to interrupt but thought the better of it. He nodded.

“Over 90 kilos!” Gerd continued proudly. Then a shadow came over her face.

“When I was coming back I suddenly saw some flashes of light over by Treungene. There was barely a cloud in the sky; it couldn’t be lightening. I saw it again, several times. Actually, I thought someone was signaling with something. I was the only one out (Jonas glared at her, but she paid no attention), so I decided I had to go investigate. It was so sad.”

“So? Are you going to make me guess?”

She shook her head. “No, no. I was just thinking ….. When I got out there I saw it was old Einar Iversen’s boat. It was all properly tied up, not shipwrecked. He was inside. Jonas, he was dead.”

“And you were all alone? What’s with you and dead bodies, anyway?”

“It’s not as if I make a habit of this, Johnnie,” Gerd said defensively. Yes there had been that time last year when she had had to help the police interpret graffiti that was continuously sprayed on the wall of the kiosk in the central plaza in town (the language had turned out to be Catalan) and then one of the innvandrer gang members had turned up dead, and ……. Better not to think about that.

“I was about to tow the boat into town with Einar’s body in it when I heard something that sounded like whining. It took me a while to find, but guess,” she looked down with a maternal smile, “Nurket there was hiding in a little cave all wet and hungry and very lost. I brought him home, of course. We’ll find out later who he belongs to.”

Jonas wasn’t going to argue, neither with her grammar nor with her stated intentions. It was obvious that the two had already bonded and Bamse realized it as well. Intruder number two. What was the world coming to?

“That’s his name, Nurket?”

“Well, he’ll need a better name later, but for now he is.”

The object in question was dozing, tummy full to stretching and snuggled up against a warm, human foot. Life was good.

“How old do you think he is?” Jonas looked at the paws so out of proportion with the rest of the furry ball.

“I don’t know. Three or four months, I guess. He still has his milk teeth.”

“So what happened with Einar?”

“When I got within range, I called the hospital and they sent down an ambulance to meet us. An orderly, I think his name was Jenssen, said he’d take care of the boat. I gave them my number; I’m sure the police will need to talk to me. Funny that they haven’t called yet.”

She smelled that the bread was almost ready. “Could you set the table? Plates and the deep soup bowls. I’ll just add the cod and the shrimp to the soup and let it simmer a few more minutes.” She went into the kitchen, lifted the lid off the pot and inhaled the aroma. The lemon verbena she had dried in the fall was heavenly with fish stew. She had steamed the cod pieces and defrosted the shrimp earlier; they would need no more than 5 minutes to warm up.

Gerd opened the oven door and knocked on the bread crust. Nice and hollow. Yes, they were done. She brought out a crock of home-churned butter she got from the Metzinger farm in return for salmon and the occasional woven piece. “Never eat newly baked bread,” her mother had always warned. “You’ll get a stomach-ache.” No, she wouldn’t. Gerd had put that maternal advice into the big basket of “things my mother believes she knows but truly doesn’t.”

Jonas carried the big pot to the table and they ate peacefully, talking of inconsequential things. He was suddenly reminded of their morning, so out of character, but wisely decided that this was not the time to bring it up. More of that later – he smiled to himself.

After dinner they tidied up the dishes. Jonas made two espressos in the fancy machine he had given her (he knew she mostly used the regular coffee side of the machine, but when he was here it was espresso and cake or cookies for dessert). Gerd brought out some coconut macaroons Gamlefru Andresen had baked and they munched happily down to the last coconut crumb.

“Want to go for a walk?”

Well no, that wasn’t what Jonas wanted most, but it was only 6:30 after all. In February the sun at this latitude – when there was sun – rose around 9am and set before 3. But the twilight began before 7 in the morning and lasted well past 5 at night. L’heure bleu. Now, though, it was black as midnight. He glanced out: actually it wasn’t as dark as it should have been. Ah, full moon.

“Yes, let me get a sweater. How cold is it?”

“Not cold at all, 2 above zero. We haven’t had much snow this winter, have we?”

“No, not nearly enough.” Jonas was a skier – only recreational of course – but he did love to stretch out his long legs on cross-country skis and cover the miles. Down here on the south coast of Norway they either got 2 meters of wet snow dumped on them or nothing. This seemed to be a nothing year.

They pulled on sweaters and parkas and headed out. Gerd grabbed two flashlights, but the moon was so brilliant that they didn’t really need them. Halfway down the path, Jonas stopped.

“Something wrong?”

“Not a thing. I just remembered that I hadn’t kissed you properly.”

Gerd smiled and let him embrace her. One of the best things about Jonas, one of the many best things, was the way he kissed. Soft yet firm, insistent but not demanding. Several heartbeats later she was somewhat out of breath. Even through layers of clothing she felt his obvious response. She pulled out of his arms and pointed to the big spruce at the entrance to the path.

“He has grown so big I’m thinking of asking Henkie to cut him down.”

She was thinking what? Oh, the tree. Jonas grinned and offered her his arm. They could barely walk side-by-side on this narrow path, but they made a good attempt.

The beach was breathtaking in moon- and starlight. A few patches of old snow from Christmas lingered in hollows here and there. Not a soul on the water; anyone sensible would be inside, kids probably playing video games and the grown-ups waiting for the news at 7. Waves the color of petroleum and rose pink watered silk lapped the shore and the sand was moon-bleached white. Only a few seagull tracks marred its perfection.

They passed the old customs house and several closed-up vacation houses and cottages. Gerd really did live in the most isolated spot she could have found on this island of less than 50 souls. In the summer of course the population tripled and quadrupled, but for now it was just them. The locals.

In Tante Anita’s window the porcelain dogs turned their eyes to the sea. They had never been turned any other way that anyone could remember. Who was she waiting for? Anita never said and no one dared ask.

Coming down the second hill, Gamlefru Andresen’s house was on the left. It was a huge house, probably built in the 1880s. Two full stories with stone steps down to her docks (there were two) and the boat sheds and other sheds. The story was that Captain Andresen needed two docks so that when he came home the worse for wear, if he missed one of them he could always make the other. Andersen had passed away long before Gerd came to the island.

They saw flickering blue light in the downstairs daily room. As she aged, fru Andresen needed less and less space. She lived in the kitchen, the day room with the sleeping alcove, and– wonder of wonders – the running water bathroom she had installed to everyone’s surprise. A tub for soaking in, a flush toilet, a sink, and even (it was rumored) heating cables in the floor under the marble tiles. She was probably dozing in front of the news; Gerd and Jonas didn’t want to disturb her sherry dreams.

But Jutta Juve was in the window doing the dishes and she noticed the strollers. She waved at them and made gestures for them to come in. Jutta was a delight. Never one to really gossip, she could tell the most hair-raising stories with a look of utter innocence on her wide face. “Come in, come in out of the cold. What are you crazy people doing out at this time of night?”

“Cup of coffee?” Jutta was pouring their cups full. Henrik dozed in front of Dagsrevyen and hadn’t noticed them yet. They didn’t want coffee, but coffee and Maryland Cookies they got. They sipped dutifully.

“What is this I hear about Einar? Is it true you found him Gerd?” Jutta did not go round-about into anything. Full speed ahead and damn the torpedoes was her way. But it was never unkind.

“Yes. It’s really sad.”

“I don’t know. At his age, I would think a heart attack.”

“I doubt it.” Henrik had come alive in front of the old TV. “He just had a full exam a week ago. Told me his doc said his heart was as strong as a thirty-year-old’s.”

“I think he was murdered,” Jutta said ominously.

“What??”

Jutta considered her words. “So here it was Friday morning. I had just finished a load of laundry and was wondering whether it was warm enough to hang them on the line. So I’m in my back yard, right? In winter with no leaves on the trees, I can see right into Einar’s house. He was in his kitchen window agitated as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. Jumping up and down, talking on that old black rotary phone of his. Next thing I see him running toward his boat coat all askew. What am I going to think?”

They stared at her, dumbfounded.

“But …… but you didn’t tell anyone he was gone?” It was Jonas who got his words back first.

“I found him today, Monday,” was Gerd’s low and measured voice. It sounded a trifle icy.

“Didn’t need to, did I? Frank Åge called me around noon to say not to worry.”

“Who the hell is Frank Åge?” Three voices collided together.

Jutta turned to her disheveled husband. “You know Frank Åge Samuelson, Henkie. That old geezer on Vågen. Always telling stories about the war to anyone who will listen.”

“Hmmmmm,” was all her husband could say.

“Why would Frank Åge call you, Jutta?” Gerd’s voice was mild. Jutta blushed a little.

“Well, you see, I knew him back in my younger days. Knew him quite well, actually. Very well.”

Silence. Everyone knew Jutta’s wild past. Even if Frank Åge had been 40 years older than her ……. Jutta had been a kind-hearted whore. She found it very hard to turn down anyone.

They stared at each other. “So,” Gerd started again, “Frank Åge called you – here – to tell you not to worry about Einar. And then what?”

“Well, I assumed that the two of them just went on a bender, that’s all. I couldn’t know someone would do him in, could I?”

“I don’t think anyone did him in, Jutta,” Gerd said soothingly to the upset woman who was about to burst into tears. “But I do wonder,” she continued softly, “what he was doing out at Treungen. And with a dog.”

“A dog?”

“Yes.” She had to tell the story again. “I found a small dog, a puppy with no collar out at Treungen. Cold, wet, and hungry. I took him home.”

“What kind of dog?” This was Henrik.

“A Labrador, I think. Or something like it. He’s a puppy. Someone must have lost him.”

No way they could. You couldn’t accidentally lose a puppy on an uninhabited island miles from shore. But Gerd didn’t want to go into that. Something dark began to shine in her eyes.

They turned the conversation over to more pleasant subjects and, as soon as politely possible, made their farewells. Gerd wound her scarf (woven, not knitted) around her neck as they exited.

Neither wanted to continue their walk. Without a word, Gerd and Jonas started up the hill again. At the beach, they stopped, seeing a lone figure at the end of Patelsen’s dock. The Patelsen family were in Havnsheia; they never set foot on the island if the weather wasn’t perfect. Who was this?

Jonas motioned to Gerd to stay back and he walked a few steps out on the dock.

“Hey there, is everything all right?”

The figure turned and they saw Los Corneliussen. His face was red. Had he been crying out here on the dock?

“Hei, los,” said Gerd, “Shall we help you get home?”

The old man looked at her as if he had never seen her before. “Gerd Ljoset?”

“Yes, los. It’s me. And Jonas. You know Jonas. He’s a teacher in town.”

“Lille Gerd. I’m so sorry,” said the pilot. He started walking past them.

“Los Joacim, we’ll help you get home. It’s late now,” said Gerd.

“No thank you, young folks. I know where I live. I was just sitting here thinking about what these waters have seen. Back in ’43 there was a February just like this one. Mild and soft. But ’42 was the coldest winter in memory. Do you remember 1942?”

No, Gerd couldn’t actually remember, having been born in 1977.

She said, “I have heard about the winter of ’42, los. They say the sea ice went all the way out to Ørneredet.”

“It did,” said the pilot. Meters thick. We drove trucks all the way out there. Couldn’t fish, the ice was so thick. People starved that winter, girl.”

“It must have been terrible,” said Gerd mildly. “Come, los, let us see you home.”

The three of them walked and shuffled up the path and down again toward the pilot’s house. At his door he stopped to thank them, but another thought had formed.

“That was were the Sieg went down, you know. A mile outside Ørneredet. The ice out there was mushy, couldn’t get anything through. Neither trucks nor boats. And their radio had fried. They had no contact with anyone. Starved to death, every one of them.”

“I have heard that story, los,” said Jonas, always interested in history. “Did you see the ship?”

“Oh yes I saw it, young man. I saw it every day for a month. Only one man could make it out to that ship, and he only brought one person back.”

“Who made it out, Los Corneliussen?”

“Don’t you know, girl? Frank Åge Samuelson, it was. And he returned with her.”

With this, the old pilot shuffled into his house. Jonas and Gerd looked at each other, surprised. In the space of an hour, someone’s name had been mentioned twice. Someone they hardly knew and then only as a bitter old geezer slowly freezing to death out at the tip of Vågen. What was the connection? No connection at all? What had really happened here in the winter of 1942, the coldest winter in memory?