The Storm Sister (The Seven Sisters #2) (41 page)

Glancing around, I saw rustic wooden tables and chairs, which were just as I’d imagined from Jens’ description in the book. A distinctive smell – of stale alcohol, dust and the
very faint odour of damp – pervaded the air. I closed my eyes and pictured Jens and his orchestral cohorts in here well over a century ago, spending long hours drowning their sorrows in
aquavit. I ordered a coffee at the bar and drank the hot, bitter liquid, feeling frustrated that I couldn’t read any more of the story until the translator had sent me the rest of the
book.

I left Engebret and, pulling out my map, decided to wander slowly back to the hotel, imagining Anna and Jens walking these very streets. The city had obviously grown since their day, but while
parts of it were ultra-modern, many lovely old buildings remained. As I arrived back at the Grand Hotel, I decided that Oslo had an innate charm. There was something comforting about its
compactness, and I felt very at home here.

Back in my room, I checked my emails and found that the curator of the Grieg museum had already responded:

Having no idea where Bergen actually was, I googled a map of Norway and saw that it was up on the north-west coast, clearly a plane journey away. I hadn’t realised before
just how vast the country actually was. There was another huge chunk of it continuing past Bergen, leading up towards the Arctic. I decided to book a flight for the following morning and emailed Mr
Dahl back to say I’d be in Bergen by midday tomorrow.

It was just past six o’clock and still light outside. I imagined the long winters here when the sun disappeared after lunchtime and the snow fell heavily, blanketing everything it touched.
And I mused on how my sisters had often commented that I seemed impervious to the cold, constantly opening windows to let in fresh air. I’d always thought I was simply used to it due to my
sailing. But as I remembered Maia’s ability to take any level of heat and turn a sultry brown within the space of a few minutes, compared to my tendency to turn beetroot, perhaps winter was
part of my heritage, as sunny climes were part of Maia’s?

My thoughts turned unbidden to Theo, as they always did when the night drew in. I knew he would have loved to accompany me on this journey, probably analysing my reactions to the situation every
step of the way. As I climbed into the bed, which tonight felt far too big just for me, I wondered whether there would be anyone in my future who could possibly take his place. And I doubted there
ever would be. Before I became maudlin, I set my alarm for seven o’clock the next morning, closed my eyes and tried to sleep.

The bird’s-eye view of Norway from the plane was simply glorious. Below me were dark green forests lining the sides of deep blue fjords, and shining white snow-capped
mountains, forever frozen, even at the start of September. On arrival at Bergen airport, I jumped into a taxi and instructed the driver to take me straight to Troldhaugen, once Grieg’s home
and now a museum. The view of the countryside from the busy dual carriageway was a blur of endless trees, but eventually we turned off the main road and drove up a narrow country lane.

The taxi drew up outside an enchanting pale-yellow clapboard villa and I paid the driver and climbed out, hoisting my rucksack over my shoulder. I stood for a few moments gazing up at its
exterior, taking in the large picture windows with their green-painted frames, and the latticework balcony that jutted from the upper floor. A tower rose from one corner and the Norwegian flag
flapped in the breeze from a tall pole.

I saw the villa was perched on a hillside overlooking a lake and was surrounded by grassy slopes and tall, majestic spruce trees. Marvelling at the tranquil beauty of the location, I walked
inside a modern building that declared itself to be the entrance to the museum and introduced myself to the girl sitting behind the counter of the gift shop. As I asked her to tell the curator I
was here, I looked down into the glass display case under the counter and caught my breath.

‘
Mon Dieu!
’ I murmured, the shock of what was staring up at me spinning me back to my mother tongue. There in the case was a row of small brown frogs identical to the one in
Pa Salt’s envelope.

‘Erling, the curator, will be along in a moment,’ said the girl, replacing the receiver of the phone.

‘Thank you. Can I ask you why you’re selling these frogs in the gift shop?’

‘Grieg kept the original version with him at all times as a good luck talisman,’ the girl explained. ‘It sat in his pocket everywhere he went and he would kiss it goodnight
before he slept.’

‘Hello, Miss D’Aplièse. I’m Erling Dahl. How was your flight here?’ An attractive silver-haired man had appeared beside me.

‘Oh, it was fine, thank you,’ I said, trying to gather my senses after the frog revelation. ‘And please, call me Ally.’

‘Okay, Ally. May I ask if you’re hungry? Rather than sitting in my cramped office, we could go next door to the café, grab a sandwich and talk there. You can leave your
luggage with Else.’ He indicated the girl behind the counter.

‘That sounds perfect,’ I agreed, handing over my rucksack with a nod of thanks, then following him through a set of doors. The room we entered had walls made almost entirely of
glass, allowing a breathtaking view of the lake through the trees. I took in the glistening expanse of water, dotted with tiny pine-fringed islands, before it receded to the distant shore on the
misty horizon.

‘Lake Nordås is magnificent, is it not?’ said Erling. ‘Sometimes we forget how lucky we are to work in such a place.’

‘It’s amazing,’ I breathed. ‘You are indeed lucky.’

When we had ordered coffees and open sandwiches, Erling asked me how he could help. Once again, I pulled out the photocopies I’d taken of Pa Salt’s book and explained what I wanted
to know.

He took the sheets and studied them. ‘I’ve never read this book, although I know the bones of what it contains. I’ve recently helped Thom Halvorsen, Jens and Anna’s
great-great-grandson, with research for a new biography.’

‘Yes. I have it on order from the States. You actually know Thom Halvorsen?’

‘Of course. He lives only a few minutes’ walk from here and the musical world in Bergen is small. He plays violin in the Philharmonic Orchestra and has recently been promoted to
assistant conductor.’

‘Then would it be possible to meet him?’ I asked as our sandwiches arrived.

‘I’m sure it would, yes, but presently he’s on tour in the States with the orchestra. They return in the next few days. So how far have you got in your research?’

‘I haven’t finished reading the original biography yet as I’m still waiting for the rest of the translation. I’ve reached the point where Jens has been asked to leave his
family home and Anna Landvik has been offered the role of Solveig.’

‘I see.’ Erling smiled at me, then checked his watch. ‘Sadly, I don’t have the time to tell you anything further now as we have our lunchtime concert here in half an
hour. But perhaps it’s best if you read the rest of Jens’ original words anyway, and we can talk when you have.’

‘Where is the concert?’

‘In our purpose-built hall, which we call Troldsalen. We have guest pianists here performing Grieg’s music throughout the summer months. Today the performance is the Piano Concerto
in A Minor.’

‘Really? Then would you mind if I came along to listen?’

‘Not at all,’ he said, standing up. ‘Why don’t you finish your sandwich, then make your way across to the concert hall, while I go and make sure all is well with our
pianist?’

‘I’d love to, thank you, Erling.’

After forcing down the rest of the sandwich, I followed the signs through the thickly wooded hillside to the building that nestled cosily within the pine trees. Once inside, I made my way down
the steps of the steeply-raked auditorium and saw it was already two thirds full. The small stage, in the centre of which sat a magnificent Steinway grand piano, was framed by more huge glass
windows, forming a stunning backdrop of fir trees and the lake beyond.

Shortly after I’d settled myself in a seat, Erling appeared on the stage with a slim, dark-haired young man who, even at a distance, was singularly striking in appearance. Erling addressed
the audience, speaking in Norwegian first and then in English for the benefit of the many tourists present.

‘I am honoured to present to you the pianist Willem Caspari. This young man has already made his mark performing across the globe, most recently playing at the Proms at the Royal Albert
Hall in London. We are grateful that he has agreed to grace our small corner of the world with his presence.’

The audience gave a round of applause and Willem nodded impassively before sitting down at the piano, waiting for the auditorium to fall silent. As he began to play the opening bars, I closed my
eyes, the music transporting me back to my days at the Conservatoire in Geneva, when I would attend concerts weekly and often perform in them myself. Classical music had once been such a passion
for me, and yet I realised to my shame it must be at least ten years since I’d attended even the most modest of recitals. I felt my tension abate as I listened to Willem play, watching his
skilled hands dancing lightly across the keys. And I promised myself that from now on, I would remedy the situation.

After the concert had finished, Erling sought me out and took me down to the stage to introduce me to Willem Caspari. His face had a dramatic angular bone structure, his white skin drawn tightly
across high cheekbones, framing a pair of turquoise eyes and full, blood-red lips. Everything about him was immaculate, from his neat dark hair to his polished black shoes, and he rather reminded
me of a handsome vampire.

‘Thank you so much for that,’ I said to Willem. ‘It was absolutely beautiful.’

‘My pleasure, Miss D’Aplièse,’ he replied, discreetly wiping his hands with a snowy white handkerchief before shaking mine. He studied me intently as he did so.
‘You know, I’m pretty sure we’ve met before.’

‘Have we?’ I said, embarrassed that I couldn’t place him.

‘Yes. I was a pupil at the Conservatoire in Geneva. I believe you had just started there when I was in my final year. Apart from having an excellent memory for faces, I remember your
surname, because it struck me as unusual at the time. You’re a flautist, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I said in surprise, ‘or at least I was.’

‘Really, Ally? That’s something you didn’t mention to me earlier,’ said Erling.

‘Well, it was a long time ago now.’

‘You don’t play anymore?’ asked Willem, at the same time fastidiously straightening his lapels in what was obviously a subconscious ritual rather than an attempt to
impress.

‘Not really, no.’

‘If I remember rightly, I came to a recital of yours once. You played “Sonata for Flute and Piano?”’

‘Yes, I did. You really do have an incredible memory.’

‘For things I want to remember, yes. It has its good and bad points, I can assure you.’

‘How interesting, given that the musician Ally is currently researching was a flautist himself,’ interjected Erling.

‘And who is it that you’re researching, if you don’t mind me asking?’ Willem queried, his luminous eyes fixed on mine.

‘A Norwegian composer called Jens Halvorsen and his wife, Anna, who was a singer.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know of them.’

‘They were both very well known here in Norway, especially Anna,’ said Erling. ‘Now, depending on your plans, perhaps you’d like to take a look around Grieg’s house
and maybe visit the hut on the hillside where he composed his music?’

‘Yes, thank you, I will.’

‘Would you mind if I came with you?’ asked Willem, still studying me with his head cocked to one side. ‘I only arrived in Bergen last night and I haven’t yet had the
chance to look around myself.’

‘Not at all,’ I said, deciding it would be preferable to be walking alongside him rather than standing here being subjected to his seemingly dispassionate yet highly focussed
scrutiny.

‘Then I’ll leave you both to it,’ said Erling hastily. ‘Pop into the office and say goodbye when you leave. And thank you for a breathtaking performance today,
Willem.’

Willem and I followed Erling out of the hall and then together we wandered up the steps through the trees towards the house. We entered the villa itself and went into the wood-floored drawing
room, which contained an old Steinway grand piano set next to a wall. The rest of the room was filled with an eclectic mix of rustic country furniture and more elegant pieces in walnut and
mahogany. Portraits and landscape paintings jostled for attention on the mellow, pine-clad walls.

‘It still feels like a real home in here,’ I commented to Willem.

‘Yes, it does,’ he agreed.

Framed pictures of Grieg and his wife Nina were dotted all around the room, and one in particular, of the two of them standing beside the piano, drew my eye. Nina was smiling gently and
Grieg’s expression was impenetrable beneath his thick eyebrows and heavy moustache.

‘They’re both so tiny compared to the piano,’ I said, ‘like two little dolls!’

‘They were barely five feet tall, apparently. And did you know that Grieg had a collapsed lung? He used a small pillow inside his jacket to fill it out for photographs, which is why his
hand is always across his chest, holding it in place.’

‘How fascinating,’ I murmured, as we wandered round the room, examining the various exhibits.

‘So, how come you gave up music?’ Willem asked abruptly, repeating a conversational pattern I was beginning to recognise: it was as though he’d mentally ticked a box that said
‘Item Processed’, before moving on to the next topic on the list.