The Redeemer

All four of them accompanied her to the lift. No one said anything while they waited.

As the lift doors slid open she half leaned towards Jon and said in a low voice: 'Any time at all. Use my mobile number.'

She had tried to catch his eye to feel it again, but had failed. On the way down in the lift, alone, Ragnhild Gilstrup had felt her blood pumping in sudden, painful bursts and she had started to tremble uncontrollably.

Three days passed before he rang to say no. They had assessed the offer and concluded they didn't want to sell. Ragnhild had made an impassioned defence of the price and pointed out that the Salvation Army's position in the property market was vulnerable, the properties were not being run in a professional manner, that they were losing money with the low rents and that the Army should diversify their investments. Jon Karlsen listened without interrupting.

'Thank you,' he said when she was finished, 'for examining the case with such thoroughness, fru Gilstrup. And, as an economist, I don't disagree with what you say. But-'

'But what? The calculations are unambiguous…' She had heard the breathy excitement in her voice.

'But there is a human dimension.'

'Human?'

'The tenants. Human beings. Old people who have lived there all their lives, retired Army soldiers, refugees, human beings who need security. They are my human dimension. You'll throw them out to do up the flats and rent or sell at a profit. The calculations are – as you yourself said – unambiguous. That's your all-consuming economic dimension and I accept it. Do you accept mine?'

She caught her breath.

'I…' she started.

'I would be very happy to take you to meet some of these people,' he said. 'Then you might understand better.'

She sat shaking her head. 'I would like to clear up a few misunderstandings as far as our intentions are concerned,' she said. 'Are you busy Thursday evening?'

'No, but-'

'Let's meet at Feinschmecker at eight.'

'What is Feinschmecker?'

She had to smile. 'A restaurant in Frogner. Let me put it this way: the taxi driver will know where it is.'

'If it's in Frogner, I'll cycle.'

'Fine. See you.'

She called a meeting with Mads and her father-in-law and reported back on the outcome.

'Sounds like the key is this adviser of theirs,' said the father-in-law, Albert Gilstrup. 'If we can get him on our side, the properties are ours.'

'But I'm telling you he's not interested in any price we would pay.'

'Oh yes, he is,' said the father-in-law.

'No, he isn't!'

'Not to the Salvation Army, he isn't. He can wave his moral flag there as much as he likes. We have to appeal to his personal greed.'

Ragnhild shook her head. 'Not to this person's. He… he's not the kind to do that.'

'Everyone has their price,' Albert Gilstrup said with a sad smile, wagging his forefinger from side to side, like a metronome, in front of her face. 'The Salvation Army grew out of pietism, and pietism was the practical person's approach to religion. That's why pietism was such a hit in the unproductive north: bread first, then a prayer. I propose two million.'

'Two million?' Mads Gilstrup gasped. 'For… recommending them to sell?'

'Providing that there's a sale, of course. No cure, no pay.'

'That's still an insane sum of money,' the son protested.

The father-in-law answered without a glance: 'The only thing that's insane is that we have managed to decimate a family fortune at a time when everything else has gone up.'

Mads Gilstrup opened his mouth like an aquarium fish, but nothing came out.

'This adviser of theirs won't have the stomach to negotiate the price if he thinks the first offer is too low,' the father-in-law said. 'We have to knock him out with the first punch. Two million. What do you say, Ragnhild?'

Ragnhild nodded slowly, concentrating on something outside the window because she couldn't bring herself to look at her husband, who sat with bowed head in the shadow beyond the reading lamp.

Jon Karlsen was already at the table waiting when she arrived. He seemed smaller than she remembered, but perhaps that was because he had swapped his uniform for a sack of a suit she assumed had been bought in Fretex. Or he looked as though he felt lost in the fashionable restaurant. He knocked over the flower vase as he stood up to greet her. They rescued the flowers in a joint operation and laughed. Afterwards they talked about a variety of things. When he asked her if she had any children, she just shook her head.

Did he have any children? No. Right, but maybe he had…? No, not that either.

The conversation moved over to the properties owned by the Salvation Army, but she noticed he was arguing without the usual spark. He wore a polite smile and sipped his wine. She increased the offer by 10 per cent. He shook his head, still smiling, and complimented her on the necklace she knew contrasted well with her skin.

'A present from my mother,' she lied without effort. Thinking it was her eyes he was admiring. The light blue irises with the clear sclera.

Between main course and dessert she threw in the offer of a personal emolument of two million. She was spared looking into his eyes because he was studying his wine glass, silent, suddenly white-faced.

At length, he asked, in a whisper: 'Was this your idea?'

'Mine and my father-in-law's.' She noticed she was short of breath.

'Albert Gilstrup?'

'Yes. Apart from us two and my husband no one will ever know about this. We would have as much to lose if this came out as… er, as you.'

'Is it something I've said or done?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'What made you and your father-in-law think I would agree to a handful of silver?'

He looked up at her and Ragnhild could feel the blush spreading across her face. She couldn't remember blushing since her adolescence.

'Shall we drop the dessert?' He took the serviette from his lap and put it on the table beside the dinner plate.

'Take your time and think before you answer, Jon,' she stammered. 'For your own good. This can give you the chance to realise some dreams.'

The words grated and jarred even in her ears. Jon signalled to the waiter for the bill. 'And what dreams are they? The dream of being a corrupt servant, a miserable deserter? Driving around in a fine car while everything you're trying to achieve as a person lies in ruins around you?' The fury in his voice was making it quiver. 'Is that the kind of dream you have, Ragnhild Gilstrup?'

She was unable to answer.

'I must be blind,' he said. 'Because do you know what? When I met you I thought I saw… an altogether different person.'

'You saw me,' she whispered, sensing the onset of trembling, the same as she had experienced in the lift.

'What?'

She cleared her voice. 'You saw me. And now I've offended you. I am so sorry.'

In the ensuing silence she felt herself sinking through hot and cold layers of water.

'Let's put all this behind us,' she said as the waiter approached and took the card she had held up in one hand. 'It's not important. Not for either of us. Would you like to walk with me in Frogner Park?'

'I…'

'Please?'

He looked at her in astonishment.

Or did he?

How could those eyes – that saw everything – be astonished?

Ragnhild Gilstrup looked down from her window in Holmenkollen at a dark square below. Frogner Park. That was where the insanity had all started.

It was past midnight, the soup bus was parked in the garage and Martine felt pleasantly exhausted, but also blessed. She was standing on the pavement in front of the Hostel in the dark, narrow street of Heimdalsgata, waiting for Rikard, who had gone to fetch the car, when she heard the snow crunch behind her.

'Hi.'

She turned and felt her heart stop as she saw the silhouette of a tall figure towering up under the solitary street light.