The Storm Sister (The Seven Sisters #2) (29 page)

Anna read the poem, titled ‘Ode on a Silver Birch’. As she had no idea what an ‘ode’ was, she skimmed through it briefly, not recognising many of the
big words, then put it by the side of her plate to continue her breakfast. She wished her life was as exciting as Lars imagined it to be. So far, she had only been twice to the Christiania Theatre:
once to perform for Herr Josephson just before Christmas, when it had been agreed that she should indeed sing the role of Solveig, and then again last week, when the actors had attempted their
first run-through onstage so Anna could watch from the wings in order to understand the play.

Having laboured under the misconception that such a grand place as a theatre would be heated, Anna had spent the day sitting on a stool in the draughty wings, freezing half to death.
They’d only managed to get through the first three acts before there had been a crisis. Henrik Klausen, the actor playing Peer, had tripped over the length of blue fabric under which ten
little boys knelt and moved their bodies to give the impression of Peer crossing a stormy sea. He’d sprained his ankle severely and as there was no play without the lead character, rehearsals
had been suspended.

Subsequently, Anna had caught a dreadful chill and had been in bed for the past four days, with Herr Bayer clucking like an old mother hen over her croaky voice.

‘And with only a week to go!’ he’d groaned to her. ‘The timing really could not be any worse. You must take as much honey as you can bear, young lady. Let us hope it can
help repair your vocal cords in time.’

Earlier this morning, she had tentatively sung a few scales after the obligatory dose of honey – she felt she might sprout wings and that yellow and brown stripes would appear on her body
after the amount she had swallowed – and Herr Bayer had looked relieved.

‘Thank the Lord, your voice is returning. Madame Thora Hansson, the actress playing Solveig, will be arriving shortly so that the two of you can work together on the timing for her to mime
to your singing. It is a great honour that she has agreed to come here to the apartment, as you are currently indisposed. As you know, she is one of the most famous actresses in Norway, and reputed
to be Herr Ibsen’s favourite,’ Herr Bayer had added.

At half past ten, Thora Hansson swept into the apartment in her beautiful fur-lined velvet cloak. She entered the drawing room in a haze of strong French perfume, where Anna was waiting
nervously for her.

‘
Kjære
, excuse me if I do not approach you, for even though Herr Bayer tells me you are no longer infectious, I cannot afford to catch your ailment.’

‘Of course, Madame Hansson,’ Anna said demurely as she dipped a curtsey to her.

At least I will not be using my voice this morning,’ she smiled. ‘For it is you who will be providing the heavenly sound. I will merely open and close my mouth and put my efforts
into the visual portrayal of Herr Grieg’s beautiful songs.’

‘Yes, Madame.’

As Herr Bayer entered and began fussing around Madame Hansson, Anna studied the actress. At the theatre, she’d only glimpsed her from a distance and had presumed she was quite old. Yet
close up, she could see that Madame Hansson was actually young, perhaps only a few years older than herself. She was very beautiful, with fine features and a head of thick dark brown hair. Anna
struggled to believe that even in traditional costume, this sophisticated young woman could convince an audience she was a simple peasant girl from the hills.

A peasant girl like herself . . .

‘Right, shall we begin? Anna,
poco a poco
,’ Herr Bayer advised. ‘We do not want to strain your voice during its recovery. So, if you are ready, Madame Hansson, we will
start with “Solveig’s Song” then move on to “The Cradle Song”.’

For the rest of the morning, the two women practised what was in essence a duet, albeit with one of the singers mute. At various points, Anna could sense the actress’s frustration if she
opened her mouth at the wrong time and Anna’s voice came in a beat later. Madame Hansson suggested that Anna leave the room so that Herr Bayer could get a feeling for whether the audience
could truly believe it was her singing. Standing in the draughty corridor, with her head thumping and her throat now sore again from singing, Anna had begun to loathe the songs. She had to adhere
exactly to the same length of notes and pauses so that Madame Hansson knew exactly when to open and close her own mouth. Part of what she normally enjoyed about singing was interpreting a song
differently to her listeners each time, be they people, or just cows. Which in retrospect, seemed far preferable to singing, as she was at present, to a door.

Eventually, Herr Bayer clapped his hands. ‘Perfect! I think we have it. Well done, Madame Hansson. Please, Anna, come back in.’

Anna did so, and Madame Hansson turned to her and smiled.

‘I think it will work admirably. Just promise me that you will sing identically each night, won’t you, my dear?’

‘Of course, Madame Hansson.’

‘Anna, you look quite pale. I think the morning’s exertions have worn you out. I will tell Frøken Olsdatter that you will take a short rest and she will bring you luncheon in
your room and some more honey to soothe your voice.’

‘Yes, Herr Bayer,’ she said obediently.

‘Thank you, Anna, and no doubt we will see each other at the theatre in the next few days.’ Madame Hansson smiled sweetly at her and Anna bobbed another curtsey before retiring to
her bedroom.

As she left the apartment to go to the theatre, Anna placed the letter on the silver salver in the hall.

The dress rehearsal had been running for almost four hours and Jens was tired, cold and irritable, as were the rest of the orchestra. The tension in the pit had risen to a
crescendo over the past few days. More than once, Herr Hennum had shouted at him to pay attention, which Jens felt was unfair, given that Simen, the elderly first violinist who sat next to him,
seemed to be permanently dozing. He imagined that he must be the only member of the orchestra below the age of fifty. However, the musicians were a friendly bunch, and he enjoyed their droll
camaraderie.

So far, he’d managed to turn up on time every day, albeit with the occasional bad hangover. But as that seemed to be the case for the rest of the orchestra as well, Jens felt he fitted in
perfectly. And of course, there were the lovely ladies of the chorus to admire on the stage during one of the interminable pauses while Herr Josephson arranged the actors to his liking.

After he had been offered his position in the orchestra, his mother’s unbridled delight had almost brought him to tears.

‘But what will we say to Far?’ he’d asked her. ‘You know that I must miss my lectures at the university in order to attend rehearsals.’

‘I think it best that, for now, he is unaware of your sudden . . . change of direction. We will let him believe you are still attending the university. He will be none the wiser in the
short term, I’m sure.’

In other words, Jens had surmised, his mother was too scared to tell him.

It hardly mattered now, he thought, as he tuned his violin, because if his resolve not to join the brewery was strong before, now it was unbreakable. Despite the long hours, the cold, and
Hennum’s often scathing comments, Jens knew for certain that the joy he’d once had in his music had returned to him. Herr Grieg’s score contained a wealth of evocative passages,
from the lively ‘In the Hall of the Mountain King’ to ‘Anitra’s Dance’, during which Jens only had to close his eyes to mentally conjure up the exoticism of Morocco as
he played the notes on his violin.

Yet still, his favourite passage was ‘Morning Mood’ at the beginning of Act IV. It formed the musical backdrop to the part of the play when Peer wakes at dawn in Africa, suffering
from a hangover and knowing he’s lost everything. Then Peer’s thoughts turn to Norway, his homeland, and the sun rising over the Norwegian fjords. Jens never tired of playing it.

At present, both he and the other flautist, who was perhaps three times his age, were taking turns to play the haunting notes of the first four bars. As Hennum appeared in the pit and tapped his
baton to gain their attention, Jens realised
he
wanted to be the one who played them on the opening night more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life.

‘So, we commence Act IV,’ the conductor announced, the break between acts having taken over an hour so far. ‘Bjarte Frafjord, you will play first flute this morning. Five
minutes, please,’ Hennum added, as he went off to consult with Herr Josephson, the director, before they began.

A wave of disappointment swept over Jens. If Bjarte was playing the first flute part at the dress rehearsal, then the chances were that Hennum would want him to play it tomorrow on opening night
too.

A few minutes later, Henrik Klausen, who was playing the title role of Peer Gynt, arrived to take his place hanging over the edge of the orchestra pit, from where he would pretend to vomit on
the musicians, as his character recovered from the hangover he was supposed to be suffering.

‘How are you all tonight, boys?’ Henrik called down affably to the musicians below him.

There was a general murmuring as Hennum reappeared and took up his baton. ‘Herr Josephson has promised me that we can run through Act IV with minimal interruption, so that we can finally
get to Act V. Everybody ready?’

Hennum raised his baton and the sound of Bjarte’s flute drifted up from the pit.
He really isn’t as good as me
, Jens thought sulkily as he tucked his violin under his chin
and prepared to play.

An hour later, apart from one minor hitch that seemed to have been quickly sorted out, they were nearing the end of Act IV. Jens glanced up at Madame Hansson, who was playing the part of
Solveig. Even in her peasant costume, Jens could see she was extremely attractive and hoped he’d get a chance to make her acquaintance at the after-show party tomorrow evening.

He hastily refocused himself as Herr Hennum lifted his baton once more and the violinists launched into the first poignant bars of ‘Solveig’s Song’. Jens listened as Madame
Hansson began to sing. It was a voice so pure, so perfect and evocative, that Jens found himself mentally disappearing off to the hillside hut in which Solveig and her sorrow resided. He’d
had no idea that Madame Hansson could sing like this. It was one of the most glorious female voices he’d ever heard. It seemed to symbolise fresh air, youth, yet also the pain of lost hopes
and dreams . . .

So enraptured was he that he earned a hard stare from Hennum when he came in a beat too late. When they finally reached the end of the play and the achingly sad notes of ‘The Cradle
Song’ – sung by Solveig as the returned and chastened Peer rests his weary head in her lap – reverberated around the auditorium, Jens felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise
at the sheer perfection of Madame Hansson’s rendition. As the curtain fell a few minutes later, there was spontaneous applause from the assortment of theatre staff who had gathered to watch
and listen.