Professor Andersen's Night (6 page)

They sat around the dinner table. The starter had been consumed. The main course was being carried in. Grouse. Nina pointed out that the peas which accompanied the dish were Russian, and that it had been terribly difficult to get hold of them in this country. You see, there was actually only one single shop in the whole of Oslo where it was possible to get hold of Russian peas, and then you really ought to have ordered them in advance. Professor Andersen was then able to remark that he knew the shop Nina was referring to extremely well, he himself often purchased fish there, and then he had not infrequently heard other customers asking for Russian peas. He urged the others to guess which shop it might be. He did that to change the topic of conversation which had lasted throughout the starter, indeed right from the moment they were standing with an aperitif in their hands before the meal.
What
had happened was this; some days ago, just before Christmas, the very first programme by Judith Berg’s daughter, Ingrid Guida, a new entertainment show called
Guida
, had been on TV, and on the NRK, the Norwegian Broadcasting Corporation, no less, so it was not surprising that it was subject to comment at this party, especially as one of the guests was the presenter’s mother, and since the programme had received sensationally good reviews, it was natural to congratulate Judith Berg warmly, while they stood with their aperitifs in their hands. But this entertainment programme had also been discussed all through the starter, something that would have been fine in a way, if it weren’t for the fact that only Per Ekeberg, Trine Napstad and Judith Berg had seen the programme; Professor Andersen hadn’t seen it, Nina and Bernt hadn’t seen it, and Jan Brynhildsen had also been prevented from seeing it, since he had been standing on the main stage of the National Theatre that evening; as a result they had ended up discussing an entertainment programme on TV which only a minority had seen and consequently could have an opinion on. But that did not trouble Per
Ekeberg
or Trine Napstad or Judith Berg. They had conducted an elated conversation about it, which the others more or less just had to follow, without contributing anything much. That was why Professor Andersen now attempted to steer the conversation towards something else by asking if the others could guess which shop it was in Oslo that was the only one that stocked Russian peas. Fjellberg, was the immediate reply from Jan Brynhildsen, and as a result the conversation about
Guida
resumed. For Trine Napstad had more to say about the entertainment programme on TV, as did Per Ekeberg too, of course, and Judith Berg wanted nothing more than to hear admiring comments about, and especially intelligent praise of, her daughter’s success as a TV presenter. Now it wouldn’t have been any trouble for Bernt Halvorsen, as the host, to lead the discussion on to another topic in a discreet manner, but he didn’t. With a question for those of them who had seen it, from one who unfortunately hadn’t seen it, he gave a hint to the rest of them
who
hadn’t seen it that the conversation about this programme should continue, and that it was up to them to take part, using whatever means they had at their disposal. More than likely Bernt chose to do this as a token of consideration towards Judith. It was, after all, her big night, and it wasn’t going to be spoiled by him, the host, disregarding her by signalling that they ought to talk about something else. Professor Andersen thought that Bernt probably had assumed it would be tactless. Perhaps his decision had also been reached following Judith’s answer, when Trine Napstad had asked, responding to the fact that Jan Brynhildsen hadn’t seen the programme because he was on stage when it was shown: ‘But haven’t you seen it on video afterwards?’ Then Judith had said that she hadn’t recorded it on video, ‘because I think there are limits to how much interest I should show in my daughter’s affairs’. Professor Andersen had liked that answer, and Bernt Halvorsen probably had, too; it showed great modesty and a sense of decency, despite being in a sphere where one wouldn’t be observed by other people, apart from Jan Brynhildsen, her husband, that is. Obviously she was proud, her face glowed tonight, but nevertheless she had managed to fight back her urge to dwell on her daughter’s success. From the admiring comments, congratulations and genuinely interested questions which Per Ekeberg and Trine Napstad put to Judith Berg about how the programme would be continued next Friday, Professor Andersen, and the other three who hadn’t seen it, formed an impression of the kind of programme which had been so successful for Ingrid Guida, so that both he and the three others who hadn’t seen it could take part in the conversation about it now and then, both with questions, comments and also astonished exclamations.
Guida
was a programme that centred around the 23-year-old presenter’s personality, and celebrities from the fields of Norwegian politics, finance, culture and entertainment were her guests, bowing and scraping to her, allowing themselves to be depicted as walk-on characters in staged and bizarre episodes. She persuaded priests in sequins to dance behind her up the aisle
in
Oslo Cathedral, for instance, or doctors along the hospital corridors. She was the seducer who got the pillars of society to break out of their roles and profane them. She coaxed ministers of State to dress up in costumes making fun of themselves, and to strike poses which everyone would have thought embarrassing for them, if it wasn’t for the fact that they let themselves be stage-directed into them, something that led Professor Andersen, who hadn’t seen the programme, to exclaim: ‘But then they must lose their sting, surely,’ while Bernt Halvorsen, in response to almost everything
he
heard, exclaimed: ‘No, that surely isn’t possible,’ which made Per Ekeberg, Trine Napstad or Judith Berg laugh and relish the situation, as they had seen the programme and could assure them that it really was possible, yes, everything was possible, even though Bernt Halvorsen with his ‘No, that surely isn’t possible’ had only meant to be polite and obliging, and was certainly not expressing his intensely curious incredulity towards a programme he hadn’t seen, and probably didn’t intend to see next Friday either,
while
in response to Professor Andersen’s outburst Per Ekeberg retorted sharply: ‘This has nothing to do with sting, it is displaying a lifestyle.’

By that time they had almost finished their grouse, served with a delicious savoury sauce, and the aforementioned Russian peas. And at this point in the meal Nina, their hostess, disclosed to the dinner party that she now had begun to wonder if it hadn’t been a mistake to serve Rioja with the grouse, after all. Though, for that matter, it couldn’t have been totally wrong, but maybe it would have been better with a burgundy. But no, on the other hand, a good burgundy costs so much that it would almost seem a bit ostentatious to serve it, wouldn’t it, and as for the cheap wines, are they really so good that they … well, anyway, here we are drinking Rioja at any rate, and it’s too late to regret it. Skol, she laughed, and everybody skolled with her and assured her that the Rioja was quite excellent, and definitely better than serving a mediocre burgundy with the grouse. Jan Brynhildsen told them an amusing tale
about
why the State Wine Monopoly had to change its old logo, which was pretty similar to King Olav V’s insignia (V in Vinmonopol and V in King Olav V), and that prompted Per Ekeberg to tell an equally amusing tale about why it had altered the label on the popular cheap, house red wine, which in previous years had had a drawing of the bridges over the Seine in Paris, right until Sonja became Queen of Norway. Bernt talked eagerly, partly assisted, partly contradicted by Nina, about how Christmas Eve had passed in their home this year, with pork ribs, lutefisk, electricity cuts and twelve people in all, counting children and adults, with hard-of-hearing grandparents from Bernt’s side of the family and half-blind ones from Nina’s side, recounted in a typically doctorly fashion, by both Bernt and his partly reluctant Nina. The atmosphere was loosening up, and Professor Andersen sneaked a discreet glance at his watch. Cloudberry cream for dessert. The cloudberries, too, were from Valdres, where Nina and Bernt had a cottage in the mountains. Trine Napstad was in a lively mood, and her piercing voice contrasted well, and rather mercilessly, with Professor Andersen’s eternal deep rumblings, or so he thought. He really would have liked to rise to the occasion, to the same level of bonhomie and cheerfulness, but despite assiduous efforts it was beyond him. After the dessert they continued to sit at the round dinner table, drinking wine. Professor Andersen wished they would move over to the sofa, as then it would have been easier to leave without one having to think there would be a great, gaping hole at the table. But the coffee, too, was served at the round table. A small glass of cognac. Bernt uncorked another few bottles of wine, and put them on the table, where he had also placed the bottle of cognac in case anyone wanted to drink cognac rather than wine from now on. Professor Andersen looked at his watch. Gone eleven. He was amazed it was so late already, because he desperately longed to go home. He had to go home now, before night fell. He went to the toilet to gather his thoughts. When he returned to the others, he said, addressing Nina and Bernt, that he thought he had to leave now. The other guests looked at him in surprise, but not Nina and Bernt.
He
said that he had been feeling slightly unwell all day, he wondered if he was about to get a bout of the flu, and he asked Bernt to phone for a taxi. Bernt got up and went to the phone. He nodded goodbye to Jan Brynhildsen and Judith Berg, to Per Ekeberg and Trine Napstad, and went into the hall, followed by Nina. He put on his overcoat and apologised to her for having to leave so early, before Bernt came out and said the taxi was on its way, and he apologised once again. ‘Perhaps it isn’t even influenza,’ he said, ‘perhaps I’m just worn out by my own thoughts. I’ve been thinking so much recently, about literature and how time breaks it down, perhaps they are new thoughts, but at any rate they are heavy,’ he said. They said that they understood, it was nothing to worry about, of course one should leave early if one was weighed down by heavy thoughts. Oh, he felt so indescribably sad at heart, face to face with Nina and Bernt, because he didn’t have the peace of mind to stay there any longer now that it was just past eleven. Indeed, he felt dispirited by his own behaviour. Through the glass in the
outside
door he could see the taxi arriving and stopping in front of the driveway. Professor Andersen opened the door and went out to the waiting car, and sat down in the back seat, while he waved to his hosts, who were standing in the doorway waving back.

He gave the address to the driver, who drove him through the snowy streets of Oslo all lit up with Christmas lights. It had stopped snowing, but the road conditions were terrible. The taxi drove slowly through the streets, which were impassable except by means of two deep tyre tracks down the middle, and on meeting another car, one of them had to reverse. But he could observe snowploughs everywhere and other snow-clearing vehicles, which were working flat out with loops of yellow lights in all directions. They gave off a roar. The driver was from Pakistan and drove safely and carefully through the almost snowbound but lamplit streets. There were few people to be seen, even in the main streets which they crossed, such as Bogstadveien. Professor Andersen was sitting in the back seat, feeling tense. He
couldn’t
get home soon enough. Eventually, the taxi drew up at the building where he lived at Skillebekk, and he paid and got out. He quickly unlocked the main door, went up the stairs and let himself into his own apartment, where he put on the light in the hall and hung up his overcoat. Then he went into the living room, without putting on the light, where he moved over to the window and stared across at the building on the other side of the street. The curtains were drawn back. The light was on. Finally! Now he would be able to see. Professor Andersen stood in the pitch dark in his own living room, half-hidden behind the curtain, and stared out. He noticed a figure walking through the room. Professor Andersen stared as hard as he could, but the whole thing happened so fast that he couldn’t quite grasp what he had seen, even though the figure hadn’t walked particularly quickly through the room. He thought it was a man, but he wasn’t absolutely certain. Professor Andersen waited. The silhouette had disappeared, probably sitting somewhere out of sight, but Professor Andersen waited. Eventually the silhouette turned up again. The figure
walked
through the lit-up room and went over now towards the window. A face stared out and Professor Andersen saw the murderer’s face. Not all that clearly, not to the extent that he would have been able to recognise the person on the street later on, but he saw that it was a youngish man.

Was he disappointed? Had he hoped that the figure which passed through the room had been a woman after all, and that the young woman with fair hair would be standing at the window now? Professor Andersen didn’t know. If he had been hoping this, and it had been keeping him glued to this window, and to this view, both in reality and in his thoughts, then his hope had been unrealistic and actually a prayer for a miracle. Or rather a prayer that he, Professor Andersen, might not be able to trust his own senses, his own eyes, in decisive situations, and that what he thought he saw might equally well be a fantasy or a hallucination, had he cherished such a hope? Even, when all is said and done, if it meant his reason was threatened? Or was what he saw now exactly what he had hoped to see: the
murderer’s
face? Professor Andersen didn’t know, and suddenly he started to cry, not with tears, but with words. ‘I’m crying,’ he said, and gave himself over to this simple sentence, which he repeated several times while he stood at the window, long after the youngish man in the other window had turned away, walked through the room and retreated out of sight, to somewhere from which he didn’t reappear.

The next day was the day after Boxing Day, a working day, shops and offices, banks and post offices were open. Professor Andersen decided to go away for a while. He packed a small suitcase and took a taxi out to Fornebu Airport, where he checked in on the first plane to Trondheim. He phoned the Britannia Hotel and booked a room. Then he called one of his colleagues and said that he was going to be in Trondheim over the New Year, and they arranged to meet the next day. On the plane trip up there it was so overcast that he couldn’t see a thing. From Værnes he took the airport bus to the Britannia Hotel and checked in. On the flight he
had
ploughed through the newspapers and, as he expected, found nothing about the murder he had witnessed. Now he ploughed through them again. Nothing. No woman reported missing, for instance, who could be connected to what he had witnessed. He went outside and strolled around the streets of Trondheim. The man’s name was Henrik Nordstrøm. He had found that out before deciding to go to Trondheim. He had gone across the street and stopped in front of the main door of the building, and had found out which nameplate and doorbell must belong to the apartment where he had seen the murderer’s face the evening before. As ever when he visited Trondheim, he went into the late-twelfth-century cathedral, the only thing from the Norwegian Middle Ages that bears witness to a sophisticated culture. He also popped into Erichsen’s coffee shop and had a cup of coffee and a piece of cake; that, too, was a habit of his. While he was walking around the streets, he suddenly bumped into his colleague’s ex-wife, with whom he had to pass the time of day, as it was too late to pretend he hadn’t noticed her. He didn’t mention that he was going to meet her ex-husband the next day.
When
he came back to the Britannia, a man who had been sitting in the foyer got to his feet and came towards him. It was his colleague. He would really like to meet him at once, today, he said, since he didn’t have anything special on. That pleased Professor Andersen and he invited his colleague up to his room.