Chapter 5

Nurket woke with a start when they opened the kitchen door. He threw himself with abandon at his two humans – he had generously included Jonas in his circle of best friends. Gerd let the puppy out a few minutes to do his business. She didn’t think cat food was the right thing for him so she defrosted some cooked chicken and mixed it with gravy from a few days ago. He thought it was heavenly. Bamse was normally somewhat picky, but with the little whippersnapper getting all the attention, he decided that he would also allow a morsel of chicken to cross his bowl. When Nurket slid up to appropriate that piece as well, Bamse just turned and glared at him. Nurket retreated. He knew who was boss.

Gerd looked at Jonas. Their evenings were mostly spent over wine and conversation, but the undercurrents of this day made conversation less attractive. “I think I’ll brush my teeth and go to bed,” said Gerd. Jonas nodded. Sometime in the 60s, the then owner of Gerd’s house had incorporated the outhouse / wash house into the main building about the same time the pipes were laid for city water. The cost to bury the water pipes deep enough so they remained unfrozen throughout the winter must have been astronomical. They had put in a branch line – over a mile long – to the main island sewer as well, and as a result Gerd had both running water and an indoor WC year round. Her second major expense with the house – the boat had been the first – was to refurbish the bathroom. Not to put in IKEA closets and doodads, but to winterize it fully down to a double-layer floor and insulation in the walls and ceiling. She had installed a radiator on one wall, which gurgled warm water happily and kept it snug in all winds but northeast.

Like an old couple, Gerd and Jonas did their ablutions together. With Jonas here, Gerd didn’t hesitate to head up the stairs to the main bedroom with her huge four-poster bed, made of endangered mahogany wood and probably acquired by a ship’s captain coming home from the Far East more than 150 years ago. She pulled out a couple of blankets to make a bed for Nurket on the floor and pulled off her layers of clothing, throwing them all on a chair. Jonas did the same and they crawled in under the warm down quilt with its Egyptian cotton cover, one of Gerd’s few “necessary luxuries.”

He stretched out his arm to her and she snuggled contentedly on his shoulder. Death and fury were suddenly far away. She had thought she had no desire whatsoever, but Jonas had his internal furnace going and she thawed slowly. She kissed his shoulder and he pulled her on top of him. She gave a little grin: the difference in their sizes was so obvious. She‘d have a choice of her toes tickling his knees if she wanted to reach his mouth or of kissing his chest if she wanted the feet to match. Gathering the quilt well around her own shoulders, she made the only reasonable decision and straddled him. Afterwards, she fell into a sleep so deep not even a storm could have woken her.

Jonas was a morning person; Gerd was not. His internal clock always woke him at 5:30. Smiling at the compact little figure she made with only her nose and some dark hair peeking out from the covers, he got out of bed and headed down the stairs. Nurket followed him with his eyes, not quite sure whether to trail the man – who might have food! – or to stay with his first love, the woman. Food won.

Jonas made an espresso for himself and an Americano for her. Toasted some bread and found butter and jam. He let Nurket out and the dog bounced around from bush to tree, marking a little at each one. Jonas chopped up some of yesterday’s leftover cod with the last of the mashed potatoes Gerd had made, heated it all briefly in the microwave, and presented this to the dog. Ambrosia! Now here was an undiscriminating eater. He made up a tray and carried it upstairs.

By 7:30 they were on their way to town. Gerd had various things to do and Jonas had an 8am class. Jonas’ skjægårdsjeep easily outpaced Gerd’s sjekte. Within a minute, he was a speck on the horizon, the wake flying like wings.

Gerd pulled into Vika just as the Vågen ferry was leaving. She waved to Captain Finsrud, who waved back. She threw out her smaller anchor and tied up. Practically no one in town by boat on this dreary February day.

In summer there could be up to 20 cafes in town, most of which would have at least a few tables and chairs outside on the sidewalk. This time of year only two were open: Jordal Bokkafé and Kaffekoppen in the REMA shopping center. Jordal was a basement hangout for pierced and tattooed teenagers, artists, and graying hippies. She went there.

Three people greeted her as she entered and most of the others nodded. She sat down next to Bente (what was her last name?), an ICU nurse at the local hospital. Lighting a cigarette, Bente turned to Gerd:

“Didn’t you bring in old Einar Iversen yesterday?”

“I did. It is so sad.”

“You’d think he would know better.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t tell anyone that I told you but he didn’t have a stroke or heart attack. He had a flask in his coat pocket. Pure methanol.”

“He was poisoned?”

“Well, no, what makes you say that? He surely drank it himself.”

“Einar hadn’t had anything stronger than beer since his wife died. You know how she disapproved of strong drink. He was practically on the wagon, despite his thirst.”

“Not this weekend he wasn’t. It’s a shame.” Bente turned to greet a younger woman in a red parka who just walked in.

“Not a chance,” thought Gerd. Einar swilling wood alcohol? In his youth, maybe, but she knew for a fact that despite his continuing great thirst, he stuck to low-alcohol beer in memory of his beloved Anne Lise. She finished her coffee and started up the street to the library.

She crossed the market plaza (rather grand name for such a little cobblestone square) and kitty-corner to the library. The temperature had dropped; it was probably some 3 or 4 degrees below zero Celcius. The air had the metallic smell of impending snow and the low clouds confirmed it. About time.

At the library, her old friend Elspeth was at the information counter. Gerd had requested more mystery novels by a few of her favorite authors. Yes of course she could just as well download them to her Kindle, but at the library she would get both the grainy feel of a paper book in her hands AND good conversation. Two for one. Elspeth waved her over.

“Hei, Gerd. I’m so sorry about Mr. Iversen.”

Who needed email or texting? Was there a soul left in town who hadn’t either seen the ambulance, heard it, or spied Gerd coming in towing Einar’s boat? While she loved her fellow locals, at least on the island she might spend an evening doing whatever she wanted without setting the tongues wagging. But then, tongue-wagging was what she was here for. Oh, and the books, of course.

“Yes, it’s a shame. But you know, he was nearly 90.”

“87, I heard.”

“Probably. I don’t know who his closest relatives were. I never saw anyone visit him on the island. I think he had a sister up on Berget.”

“I think so, but he kept pretty much to himself. Mom told me that during the war and for a long time afterwards, he was very social, if you call get drunk with your poker buddies in the woods being social.” Elspeth was only a little disapproving. Alcoholism was rampant.

“Poker buddies, huh? Wonder who?”

“I don’t know but mom might. Do you want me to ask her? Are you investigating?”

No, she was definitely not. Just because she had had the bad luck of being able to assist the police in identifying some graffiti “artists” a year ago, the rumor had spread that she was an amateur detective. No such thing!

“No, not at all. There’s nothing to investigate, is there? He died of old age, I’m sure. Bless his soul,” said Gerd, who had no relationship to speak of with the Almighty.

“You know,” whispered Elspeth conspiratorially, “mom did tell me there was a mystery about that poker club. She thought they played for real money, big money. Where they got it, no one knows.”

“Well, give my regards to your mother,” said Gerd, knowing full well that whatever Fru Torkjeldsen knew, her daughter would be privy to by tomorrow morning. “Do you think my books have come in?”

Gerd had two more stops after the library before she could escape back to Lyholmen. The first was the yarn store 2 Nøster, conveniently located right behind Vinmonopolet. Vinmonopolet, literally the “Wine Monopoly,” was Norway’s state wine and liquor store. It had outrageous prices because Norway loved to levy sin taxes on whatever was sinful at the moment. (Funny how sugar and yeast was so cheap.) Of course she needed to make a visit there as well to do her share to keep the pretend-socialist economy humming along. But first 2 Nøster.

There was a new girl behind the counter. Dark, pixyish, and with the requisite three visible piercings (nose, eyebrow, and lower lip). She looked up with bright, sparrow-like eyes when Gerd entered. Must be dreadfully boring to sit around in a store in the winter when there would probably only be a handful of customers a day. She left Gerd to wander around a while before she couldn’t wait any longer: “Hei, can I help you?” Gerd smiled and said she knew where to look. They kept the weaving yarn in the back, huge rolls of tightly twined wools. She had had an idea for a line of shawls when she and Jonas came across the beach last night on their way home from Jutta’s: teals, silver blues, peaches, some hot pink. A winter ocean by moonlight.

“Excuse me, but are you Gerd Ljoset?” the girl said a bit hesitantly. Gerd was surprised: she was hardly ever recognized.

“I am,” she answered. “How did you know?”

“There is a wall-hanging of yours in the library, isn’t there? The big one, with the seagulls?”

“You’re right, that is one of mine. I’m surprised you recognized seagulls; they’re rather stylized. But I don’t think there is a picture of me, is there?”

The girl looked down a bit shyly. “No,” she said, “but I was there a month or so ago when you came to check out some books and one of the librarians told me.”

“Do you like art?” asked Gerd gently.

“Oh, yes.” The words began to rush like a river let loose from a dam. “I do. I’m not much good, really, and my teachers say I’m just lazy, but I love to draw and paint and …..” she ran out of breath.

“Keep on with it,” advised Gerd. “Art is really just for yourself. Art is when doing anything else is unthinkable. You know, there is going to be an interesting exhibit up at Bakkene in two weeks, many new painters. You will probably meet someone interesting here. There is a bus,” she added helpfully, “in case no one can drive you, that is.”

Gerd brought her selections of skeins to the counter. “Do you think you can make a note of these dye lots? And enquire for me whether the factory has more? If they do, I’d like 20 more of the two teals, 15 of the light blue, and 10 each of the peach and the pink. If they don’t, not to worry. I can select something else. Here is my email address; do you think you could let me know what you find out?”

The girl nearly blushed from pride at being asked such an important task. “Of course I will, Ms. Ljoset,” she said trying to sound adult. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, I’m fine, but where is Fru Mattias? I hope there is no problem.”

“Not a problem exactly, but, well, did you know her nephew is one of the main guys in that MC club? The leather guys? Really Harry. Well, the police took him in for questioning – something about a gas can with sand in it or whatever - and Fru Mattias went down to the station to talk some sense into the lieutenant. Or that’s what she said.”

“Ah, well, I’m sure she’ll clear it up in a jiffy. Thanks and goodbye,” Gerd said as she accepted the 3 burlap bags with her purchases.

“I hope to see you again!” The girl was hopeful.

“Oh you definitely will. I come at least a couple of times a week. I’d like to see some of your work some time.”

“Ah,” said the girl and blushed even more furiously. “OK.”

Outside the first few flakes of new, wet snow had started their dance on the light wind. Better hurry, this could close in quick. Vinmonopolet was taken care of in less than 15 minutes and then it was groceries. She wanted to go to Østerås Daglivare for a few more viewpoints on the Einar Iversen story, but since the snow was falling thicker and she had to get back to the island before it became a white-out, she reluctantly went to REMA instead for dairy products and few indulgences like black salami and some surprisingly good olives they sold by the pound. She also needed paper goods and dish liquid. And some fresh vegetables; never mind that they came from Chile and the eco-footprint was bound to be enormous. “Woman does not live by salmon alone,” Gerd said to herself as she added two nice – and expensive – steaks to her cart. Oh, yeast and sugar. She knew she had raisins and every kind of canned good. Wasa frukost knekkebrød, her favorite in the morning with goat cheese. Oh, of course: cat and dog food. Now her cart was getting heavy. She had a freezer full of stuff: did she really need those steaks? Jonas wouldn’t be back until tomorrow and if this became a real snowstorm, it could be a week before she saw him. She didn’t want to be eating steak alone, so she put them back and picked up some kefir and dog treats instead. OK, enough! When she paid, it all came to six bags’ worth. With her skeins of wool, 4 library books, and two wine boxes, it would be no fun to schlep it all through town to her boat.

“Could I possibly be of assistance?” a voice from behind seemed to be addressing her. Gerd turned around, frowning.

“Forgive me for being so forward, but I remember you. You brought in the body of Einar Iversen. Yesterday.” He looked at her hopefully; would she recognize him?

It was the big guy who had come with the ambulance to collect Einar’s body. Gerd smiled.

“Yes, I remember. I forgot to thank you.”

“No trouble at all. I brought his boat over to the West Marina after we had gone by the hospital. They called me this morning to tell me they think they knew why his boat wouldn’t start. Sand in the gasoline, they said.”

“That’s weird.”

“I see you’re all loaded down with bags – going back to your boat?”

“Yes, I have it in Vika. In fact, I really need to get back.”

“Let me help carry some of those; it’s the least I can do.”

“I won’t say no. Thanks.”

They walked out together, the unnamed man (Jeltsen? Franssen?) carrying the heaviest bags. “Dag,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s my name, Dag.”

“Oh, pleased to meet you.” Gerd had her head down against the thickening snow. She really did have to get going and not spend time on social niceties. They crossed Church Street and along Harbor Street, which was almost totally deserted on a fading February Tuesday. She could barely make out her sjekte under the snow – of course she hadn’t put the tarp up since it was completely clear a few hours ago.

“No problem starting?” he said.

“No, I’ll be fine,” she said as she went on board and he handed her the last bags. “She’ll start right up. Thanks ……. Dag.”

“My pleasure,” he said as he pulled the hood of his parka down his forehead. “I’ll just stay here to make sure, OK?”

There wasn’t any way she could stop him. Gerd nodded and stowed her bags in the bow. First turn of the key (bless the person who put in a key-starter) and the motor caught. Dag whatshisname shouted something inaudible. She waved and pulled up the anchor rope. He loosened her painter and threw it on board. Waved.

She navigated slowly out of Vika and into the channel. Snow was falling in huge, thick flakes. Vågen looked like a sleeping polar bear in its blanket of white. If she hadn’t known this channel like the back of her hand (or Jonas’), she would have gotten totally lost in the wall of snow. It was like navigating in fog: even locals who had grown up here had been known to spend hours circling the same island in thick fog, all the time protesting loudly that they knew where they were going.

Once she passed the light at Knatten, which barely made a dent in the snow-wall, she sent up a grateful thought to Henrik who had taught her how to use the onboard clock and gamboled compass to navigate home. Engine at ½ power, so many minutes / seconds on one bearing, then another, then another. By Henkie’s teaching, she should be hitting the dock right about now. She reduced power to barely moving. With a shock, the dock appeared, no more than 5 meters ahead. Gerd glided in, picked up the stern line, hooked it, and idled the engine. She sprang up on the forward deck and made fast the painter. Then she hauled up all her bags onto the dock and pulled the tarpaulin over the entire boat. Since she hadn’t planned to buy so much in town, she hadn’t brought down her wheelbarrow for all the groceries. OK, she’d make two trips. And, given the amount of snow that had already accumulated, perhaps she’d bring the sled instead of a wheelbarrow. On the island, there was no way to get lost.

She made her first trip up to the house with three of the bags. Opening the kitchen door, she was nearly run down by Nurket (he did need a new name), who launched himself joyfully at his new mom. She dropped the bags on the landing and bent down to stroke him and tell him what a good boy he was. “Let’s go get the rest of the stuff, boy!” she told him, and he enthusiastically agreed.

Nurket bounced and played in the new snow, rolling around and pouncing on the falling flakes. Bounding down the path, he was soon belly-deep in snow. The path from the house to the dock widened out after passing the screen of lilac trees, their bare branches forming ghostly fingers pointing up to the infinite white. “Nurket!” Gerd called, trying to get the little dog to stay close. He didn’t know the island yet and could get lost. He answered her with little yips of pleasure. She rounded the hill of small boulders that they called the Viking Graves pulling the sled behind her. “Nurket! Come here, boy!”

The golden puppy appeared on her right, bouncing up and down like a demented hare. He was having the time of his young life. Out of the snow-curtain a figure was approaching; Nurket stopped and peered ahead, on guard. The figure looked a bit like a mast with flying sails, but coming closer, it dissolved into the familiar shape of Anita.

Anita Vadoma had grown up on Lyholmen ever since her mother had stepped off the family’s Colin Archer in 1939. Her young, pregnant mother had not been able to tell her strict father that the child she carried was not that of her fiancé, Emilian. She had disappeared one dark night and hidden away with another rebellious runaway until the search had abated. The two women found work in the bustling tavern that the island then hosted, and Lala Vadoma was able to rent a small house. In that very house Anita was born five months later, brought into this world by her surprised mother who didn’t expect a visit from the stork for several weeks yet. Anita had not cried then (not a good omen), and she hadn’t cried since. She had never married. Rumors flew about Anita, most of them good. Now called Tante Anita by all who had benefited from her vast knowledge of human behavior and motivation, Anita dressed in flowing layers of coats and dresses, shawls, and scarves, many of which had been contributed by Gerd.

“Tanta Anita, what are you doing out in this weather?” Gerd asked, a little concerned.

“Why, miere, I’m dancing with the stars,” laughed the older woman. “Who is your little companion?”

Nurket peeked out from behind Gerd’s legs. He wagged his tail tentatively.

“I found him out on Treungene when I discovered Einar,” said Gerd. “Someone must have lost him.”

“Not likely, draga mea. I think he found you. So Einar finally got what was coming to him?”

Gerd was a bit taken aback. Anita was never vindictive. “Why do you say that, tante?”

“Those boys,” said Anita, “always running around in the woods and up to no good. That Alexis was the worst of them.” She spat into a snowbank.

“Alexis who, tante?”

“Oh, that scoundrel with the French name. Dubois? DuLac? No, it was Dupreux, I remember him well. Him and that Gunari, and the poor boy they taunted. They called what they did a poker club, but I don’t think they could tell the Jack of Hearts from the Ace.”

“I never knew any of this, tante. Maybe I can come over to your house later and hear about it?”

“Ah, fetita, I shouldn’t be telling old stories. Better to let the past be, right? But come on over any time and I’ll brew some nice tea for us. Shall I help you up with the bags?”

“No thanks, tante. I only have five to go and I have the sled here. And Nurket to help me,” Gerd answered. The puppy, understanding he was being praised, wagged his tail furiously and tried to look bigger.

“Well then. Go in peace,” Anita responded and continued her dancing way over the snow. Gerd picked up her bags and loaded them on the sled. Shortly they were back inside the house, where Gerd put a match to the fire she had laid that morning. Cozy warmth filled the room.

Her mind was filled with thoughts of the patterns she wanted to weave with the blues, greens, and pinks she had bought in town. She opened a can of dog food and scooped half of it into a bowl for the puppy. He didn’t seem to think it was as good as the chicken, but he ate it gratefully anyway.

Turning on the lights and going up the stairs, Gerd’s thoughts briefly flashed back to the many mentions of Einar’s name that day. That a man who had lived almost anonymously on little Lyholmen nearly sixty years could be so known was a bit disconcerting. The war had ended 65 years ago and few were still alive who remembered it. What had really happened?