Shegrinned at herself.
Asshe was standing on the step of the bus, he realized they hadn't agreed a timeor place. He shouted after her: 'Where?'
Thedoor shut with a thud. It made them burst into laughter as they exchanged looksthrough the glass door.
Shemouthed an answer, pointing to herself and pretending to hold a telephone againsther ear.
'Me?'Frølich shouted. 'Shall I phone you?' But the bus had already gone. He wasshouting questions into thin air.
Chapter 33
Gunnarstrandacollected Tove Granaas at half past seven. He had decided in advance that he wouldnot get out of the car. He had been quite precise about that on the telephone.He had said: 'Come down when you see the car in the drive.' Tove rented thefirst floor of a house in Sæter, a white detached Swiss-style chalet in themiddle of a garden full of old apple trees which, as a result of incorrect andinsufficent pruning, looked like piles of twigs on poles. Tove complained thatthe apples were always small and riddled with maggots. On trees like those,apples would be small and riddled with maggots. Gunnarstranda knew that. But ofcourse he didn't say so. If he did, he would end up doing the pruning, forwhich he had neither the energy nor the enthusiasm. The house owners were acouple in their fifties: the kind who go caravanning along the Swedish coastand take an evening constitutional in matching barbecueing outfits. 'The womanruns and hides whenever I come home from work so that she doesn't have to greetme,' Tove had said. 'We've got nothing in common.'
'Canyou have a conversation?'
'Wetalk when they increase the rent, but that's the husband's job. He hates it,but dare not fail her. The wife hides under the stairs before he rings, and assoon as I open the door, she starts prompting him. With all the whispering andhissing going on you would think someone had left a leaky bottle of pop outsomewhere.'
Howevereccentric the house owners were, Gunnarstranda had no desire to meet them. Hewas too old to wait outside a woman's door, ringing her bell like a schoolboy.But when he turned into the drive and raised his head he could see Tovestanding in the window waving. Three minutes later she was in the car.
Beneaththem the town twinkled like the reflection of a starry sky as they drove aroundthe bends in Kongsveien. Gunnarstranda switched on the radio. They were luckywith the programme producer – it was someone who liked quiet music. As theyapproached Ibsen multi-storey car park, Billie Holiday was singing 'I love you,Porgy', but once inside there was just noise coming from the loudspeakers.
Toveglanced at him. 'You're the only person I know who does not have either acassette or a CD player in their car,' she said.
Gunnarstrandaturned down the old car radio with its shiny knobs. 'I bought it in '72,' hesaid. 'Just because you change your car doesn't mean you have to change yourradio.'
Asthey strolled past a row of parked cars towards the lift Gunnarstranda said,'The problem is there is no decent radio any more. Years ago you could readwhat was on in the newspaper and choose a programme. You could look forward tosomething special, a discussion presented by a writer you respected, or maybe awonderful voice, like Aase Bye reading Hans E. Kinck's short story "WhiteAnemones on the Mountainside".' He held the door open for her as they wentin to the waiting area by the lifts. 'The thing is you used to be able to timeyour afternoon coffee so that you didn't miss grand radio moments,' he went on.'But now it's all one big impenetrable barrage of sound. The radio announcersbabble away about themselves, broadcast their ignorance diluted with pop songs,then they call it morning radio, afternoon on z or traffic round-up. Butif there were a pearl in all of that, something worthy of a couple of moments'concentration, respect or reflection, it would pass you by – unless you werelucky enough to be sitting in your car at the exact moment it and the voicetraversed the ether. But presumably it is just me who has been left behind.'
'Presumably,'she smiled and went quiet when they were joined in front of the lifts byanother couple. The lift door opened. All four went in. They exchanged a glancein the mirror.
Shestaunchly hooked her arm through his as they strolled down Kristian IVs gateand went through the glass doors into Det Norske Teatret. They stood lookingaround the theatre foyer. 'We're early,' Gunnarstranda said.
'Areyou nervous?' she asked in a low voice – without letting go of his arm.
'What?'
'Areyou nervous?' she repeated.
Gunnarstrandacoughed and studied himself in the mirror he was standing beside. 'Why do youask?'
'Youseem stiff and a bit stand-offish.'
'I'mnot nervous.'
'Isbeing with me unpleasant?'
'No.'He cleared his throat and added: 'It's nice.'
Shelet go of his arm and instead stood in front of him and angled her head. 'Shallwe do something else? Cinema or a beer in a darkened pub?'
'No,the theatre is fine. But perhaps we could talk about something else.'
Shehooked her arm under his and led him towards a group of unoccupied chairs inthe foyer. She waved to another woman across the room. 'I haven't seen her forseveral years,' Tove whispered. 'This is where your old friends are – in thetheatre. And I never knew.'
'Allgrey hair in here,' he answered.
'Yourmind's elsewhere, isn't it!' she stated. 'What were you thinking about justthen?'
'Numbersand letters.'
'Mannaseeds?'
'Andthat means?'
'I'dlike an aperitif,' she exclaimed. 'Could you get me a sherry?'
Heshuddered. 'I'll have red wine – can't stand sherry. What did you say aboutseeds?' He passed her his gloves and slid a hand in his inside pocket for hiswallet.
'Mannaseeds,' she repeated and explained: 'I assume if they are sown, you get thebread that rained down on the Israelites in the wilderness.'
'Butwhat made you say that?'
'Itwas what I was thinking when you said numbers and letters. My grandmother wasvery religious, you see. On top of the kitchen cupboard she always kept a bowlfull of small bits of paper, thousands of them. There were numbers and lettersprinted on them: Ez 5,4 or Luk 8,iz. Quotations from the Bible, the Book ofEzekiel…'
Gunnarstrandafroze. 'Of course,' he whispered.
'Yes,right – manna in the wilderness. The Bible quotation of the day. I think shewas a Pentecostalist.'
'Fromthe Bible,' sighed Detective Inspector Gunnarstranda, slumping down onto thebench.
'What'sup with you?'
'Jfor John. Nineteen, five.'
'St.John's Gospel, chapter 19, verse 5,' Tove said with a mischievous smile. 'Whathappened to the sherry?'
'BristolCream,' Gunnarstranda said, preoccupied. 'Do you like it?'
Shenodded. 'Whatever. I don't know any brandnames of sherry.'
'Thenlet's go to the Library bar – in the Bristol Hotel – it's just across thestreet,' Gunnarstranda said gently. 'Then you can have the whole bottle if youwant…'
'Oneglass is enough,' she said. 'Why should we leave here?'
'BecauseI want to get my paws on a Bible.'
When,five minutes later in the Library bar at the Bristol Hotel, they discoveredthere wasn't a single seat free, Gunnarstranda began to stroke his lipsnervously. 'Bloody hell,' he mumbled.
'Relax,'she said with a smile.
'Ishould…'
'You'vegot a Bible at home, haven't you?' She turned to the window from where theycould see the entrance to the theatre. 'I'm sure the play is as dull asditchwater.'
'What?John Gabriel Borkman? I thought Ibsen was right up your street?' hemumbled.
'Notin our other Norwegian language,' she said. 'Translating Ibsen into nynorsk isthe height of all that I consider idiotic in Norwegian culture.'
Sheslipped her arm into his. 'Let's go to your place,' she said, meeting his eyes.'If you dare.'
WhileGunnarstranda was searching for one of his three Norwegian Bibles on theshelving system he had made in the shoe cupboard in the hall, Tove was standingin the living-room doorway studying the TV with the screen facing the wall, theold botanical prints over the armchair, the old carved standard lamp and thewall itself, covered in books of various heights, hardbacks mixed withpaperbacks, lots of magazines and pamphlets and books pushed in everywhere,making the shelf look like an overpopulated block of flats in a flamboyantghetto. She read the spines, observed the portrait of Edel without a word andallowed her eyes to wander over to the goldfish bowl. 'So this is your pet?'she burst out.