The Wolves of Eternity, page 22
What had Dad’s handwriting looked like, anyway?
I rummaged through some of the other boxes until I came across some papers I could see were accounts of some sort, which I was almost certain were in his own hand.
The characters were small and pointed, not small and round, and with relatively big spaces between the words. It looked a bit odd, small words and big spaces, it made me think of people spread out in a landscape.
The Russian definitely wasn’t the same handwriting. Not his at all. The letter had to be from someone else.
I stared for a long time at the indecipherable symbols, as if suddenly they might become meaningful.
Who did I know who knew Russian?
No one.
Maybe Dag would know someone?
He had all sorts of contacts now. And if he didn’t know anyone personally, he’d know someone who did.
I went back to the house and dialled the newspaper offices.
‘Is that Marianne?’ I said when a female voice answered.
‘Yes, who’s speaking?’
‘Hi, it’s Syvert here! Could you put me through to Dag?’
‘Just a moment.’
A few seconds later, Dag’s voice came through at the other end.
‘Løyning here,’ he said.
‘That’s funny,’ I said. ‘Løyning here, as well. How’s things?’
‘Good. Thanks for the date!’
‘Same to you. But listen, I was thinking.’
‘You’re going to ask me a favour now, aren’t you?’
‘I am, yes. Do you know anyone who knows Russian?’
‘Russian? No.’
‘Can you find me someone who does?’
‘What for?’
‘That letter I was telling you about. The one I found in Dad’s things. I want to get it translated. It’s probably nothing, it’s just so incredibly frustrating not knowing what it says.’
‘There might be someone at the college who speaks Russian,’ he said. ‘I can ask, anyway.’
‘That’d be brilliant, Dag, if you would.’
‘You don’t have to actually use my name, even if you are grateful, Syvert.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind, Dag. Speak to you soon!’
* * *
*
Mum slept all through the morning. It was nearly twelve o’clock when I went up the stairs to wake her up. She was sitting on the edge of the bed in her nightie when I opened the door.
‘Morning!’ I said. ‘Are you feeling any better? Ready for your physio?’
She nodded.
‘I’ll need a shower first, though. Have we got time?’
‘Yes, if you’re quick about it,’ I said. ‘It’s only a couple of minutes in the car. Do you need any help?’
‘No, I’m fine. It’s much better now. I don’t know what it is. It’s the strangest thing. I was in such pain yesterday. Now I’m as right as rain again.’
‘Maybe you’re just a bit fatigued. The physio will do you good. Then perhaps you can take things easy the rest of the week.’
‘We’ll see,’ she said, and stood up, wriggled her feet into her slippers and shuffled past me on her way to the bathroom.
While she was in the shower, I went and got the newspaper and the post. There was a parcel for me. I wasn’t sure I’d ever received one before, and I opened it standing next to the mailbox.
A book and a letter.
From the pastor.
Was he trying to win me over now? I wondered, slipping the letter back into the envelope to read in the house and turning my attention to the book. It was a dog-eared paperback entitled Crime and Punishment. Written by Fyodor Dostoevsky.
It was quite timely, I thought as I walked back up. A Russian writer, the same day I’d phoned Dag to see if he could find someone to translate Dad’s letter.
Maybe the pastor knew Russian?
But why would he?
The clock on the kitchen wall said ten past twelve and I went and sat down in the living room while I waited for Mum to get ready. I took the letter out of the envelope again.
Dear Syvert,
Thanks for coming to see me the other day! It was a most pleasant surprise, even if the reason for your visit might have been a happier one for an old clergyman such as myself. But I believe in the freedom of the individual to think for himself. Which is exactly what you’re doing – and that does please me. The form you requested is attached herewith. I’ve also taken the liberty of sending you this book, which I hope you will read, preferably before signing the form! I think you’ll understand why once you’ve read it – if indeed you choose to read it at all!
Very best wishes from your old confirmation pastor,
Gerhard Krøgenes
He had a bit of a cheek, didn’t he? Trying to get me to change my mind after I’d clearly said I wanted to opt out.
But he meant well.
And it felt rather good.
I slipped the letter inside the book, which I left on the coffee table, and threw the envelope in the bin in the kitchen.
‘How are you doing up there?’ I called up the stairs.
‘Ready in a sec,’ she answered.
A few moments later, she came down. She looked different, younger in a way, even if she did take the stairs slowly and with some caution. She’d put on a blue sweatshirt I’d never seen her in before, and a pair of jeans she hardly ever wore either, that must have been it.
I didn’t care for it, the look was too young for her somehow.
‘Good to see you up and about again,’ I said. ‘Do you want to drive, or shall I?’
‘You drive.’
* * *
*
I pulled up outside the shop. Mum opened her door and swung her legs out, gripped the handle and tried to heave herself up. I hurried round from the driver’s side and helped her before she had a chance to ask, I knew how embarrassed she’d feel if she had to ask.
‘There we are,’ she said once she’d drawn herself upright. ‘I can manage on my own now. If you’ll just hand me my bag?’
I did so and closed the door.
‘Do you know where it is?’
‘Oh yes. I’ve been doing the shopping here for twenty years, it hasn’t escaped me.’
‘I’ll go in with you so they can tell me when you’ll be finished.’
The clinic was through a door at the rear of the shop, it was open when we got there and the physiotherapist herself was seated at a desk reading something with her glasses on the tip of her nose. She got up as we came in. She couldn’t have very many clients, I thought to myself, it was probably more like a hobby she had.
‘How long will it take?’ I asked.
‘Forty-five minutes,’ she said.
‘I’ll pick you up again at quarter past one,’ I said to Mum, who stood clutching her bag, looking quite lost all of a sudden.
A lorry thundered past on the road when I came back out, a corner of its tarp flapping wildly. Sand from the winter’s gritting whirled up in its wake.
Another week of weather like this and the leaves would come out, I thought as I got in the car. It was hardly worth going home again, but it made even less sense hanging around outside the shop, so I turned the ignition and pulled out to get back on the road. A red Lada was coming towards me and I tried to see what the driver looked like, thinking it could only be the woman I’d seen in the forest. There weren’t that many red Ladas about. But the sharp sunlight on the windscreen was a glare that erased every detail. A blurred figure wearing sunglasses was all I could see as she passed.
Then, with a stab of joy, I thought about Lisa Dønnestad.
Only then did it occur to me I must have been feeling down.
Why?
Mum had looked so lost in there. So helpless in her youthful clothes, with her drained-looking face.
I had to do better for her. And for Joar, too.
I could, easily!
I could get the breakfast ready in the mornings. Good breakfasts, with juice, perhaps even pancakes.
I could bake in the evenings, so there’d be nice fresh bread for us.
I could make the dinners.
And get Joar out of his room. Do some shooting practice with him. Take him out in the canoe.
Talk to Mum a lot more.
Forget that business with Dad.
He was dead. She was alive.
Yes, that’s what I’d do.
I turned off the road onto the gravel track of our drive and carried on slowly up to the house, parking in front of the step so the hosepipe could reach and I wouldn’t have to carry the bucket very far when I started washing the car. But when I got out and saw how dirty it was, I realised that with only half an hour until I had to go and pick Mum up again I wouldn’t have time, so it was all pretty pointless.
Oh well.
Maybe she’d got her own flat or a bedsit, with a phone of her own?
I hadn’t even thought of that.
Her features were still rather vague when I tried to think about her, but the feeling she gave me was strong and clear.
She may not have been a supermodel, but she was bloody gorgeous all the same.
A bit trashy perhaps, but who cared?
There was no one by the name of Lisa Dønnestad in the book, so I’d have to try all five, unless of course I got lucky and found her first go.
But not now, not at one o’clock in the afternoon.
I wondered what she did.
It was hard to tell how old she was. Anything between sixteen and twenty, I reckoned.
But not sixteen. And not twenty either.
I poured myself some coffee and rang the paper.
‘I have got a job to do as well, you know,’ said Dag as soon as he realised it was me again. ‘But since you’re asking, I phoned the college.’
‘And?’ I said, looking out of the living-room window. The spruce on the hillside across the river seemed to glitter in the sunlight.
‘No one there who knows Russian.’
‘But?’
‘What makes you think there’s a but?’
‘I could tell by the way you said it.’
‘But,’ he said. ‘The woman I spoke to told us to get in touch with Terje Krag.’
‘Who’s he?’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I wouldn’t have asked if I did.’
‘He’s in the paper every other day!’
I didn’t say anything, but stepped backwards so I could see the clock in the kitchen. Five to one.
‘He’s a local cultural figure,’ Dag said. ‘Writes all sorts of books that people round here give each other for Christmas. Our Town of Sailing Ships, for example. You’ll have seen that one, surely?’
‘Probably,’ I said. ‘And he knows Russian?’
‘Apparently.’
‘And lives in town?’
‘Lives and breathes the place. Puts himself about as well. Local history society, that sort of thing. Anything for a preservation order.’
‘Is he in the phone book?’
‘He is, so I suggest you give him a ring. But listen, I’ve got to get back to work. Let me know how you get on. You’ve got me interested in that letter now.’
‘You haven’t mentioned what I told you in the car, have you?’
‘Course not.’
‘Good. Thanks for all your help. Speak to you soon.’
‘Yes, catch you later.’
* * *
*
Mum was standing in the sunshine outside the shop with her bag on her arm when I turned into the car park. I pulled up next to her, leaned across and opened the door.
‘How did it go?’ I said. ‘Can you feel any difference?’
She nodded and got in, gave me a faint smile.
‘Thanks for booking the appointment.’
‘No problem. Was she rough on you?’
She shook her head. I swung round to get back on the road, giving way to three cars that came past in close succession.
‘A little bit. But she’s good is Johanne.’
‘Do you know her?’ I said, pulling out and moving quickly through the gears.
‘Oh yes,’ she said.
‘When do you think you’ll be able to go back to work, then?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘That’s good!’
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ she said.
I looked at her before turning up the drive, taking care so as not to give her too bumpy a ride.
After I pulled up and she opened the door to get out, I went round to help her as I’d done earlier on, and although her movements were slow and her facial expression pained, I thought it would be best for her to manage on her own as much as she could. It could so easily become a frame of mind.
‘What are you going to do the rest of the day, then?’ I said. ‘Savour your freedom?’
She put her bag down on the table in the hall and hung her short jacket on the peg.
‘I’ll go for another lie-down, I think,’ she said. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’
‘No, of course not. Sounds like a good plan! Do you want me to bring you some coffee?’
‘Later, perhaps.’
‘OK. Shout down if you need anything.’
She went slowly up the stairs into her bedroom. It didn’t look like the physio had helped much. But then again, it was bound to be a bit gruelling to begin with, before the benefits kicked in. I should have asked if she’d made another appointment.
If she hadn’t, I could do it for her.
I sat down on the sofa with the phone book in my lap. I looked up Terje Krag first, which was easy enough, he was the only person in town with that name. After that, I wrote down the numbers of all the Dønnestads that looked like they could be a lead on Lisa. My heart beat faster in my chest as I wrote.
‘Steady now,’ I said to myself with a smile. ‘She’s just an ordinary girl, that’s all.’
I went and got Dad’s letter and put it on the telephone table in front of me before dialling Krag’s number.
As I did, I heard a car pull up outside. I hung up just as it started ringing and went over to the window. It was Terje. He’d parked, and when I went out he stood slouched over the open car door, the way he’d done the last time he was here.
‘All right,’ he said.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘How’s things?’
‘Good. Just on my lunch break. Thought I might as well pop over rather than phone. I had a word with the foreman. No jobs just at the minute, I’m afraid,’ he said.
‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think there would be. But thanks for asking, all the same.’
‘Nothing steady, anyway. There’s always some casual work to be had, though. The odd few hours here and there. Mostly at weekends, I think, and when they’ve got big orders going out. I can get you in, if you’re interested? They’d ring you up when they needed you.’
‘What sort of work would it be?’
He shrugged.
‘Sweeping up, that sort of thing. Tidying up in the stores. Shifting stuff.’
‘Haven’t they got youngsters doing that after school?’
He nodded.
‘You’d be top of the list, though. I mean, they’d ring you first.’
‘Thanks, but I think I’ll pass,’ I said. ‘I need something more stable.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘Do you want a coffee?’
He shook his head.
‘Got to get back. Are you coming to practice tonight?’
‘Of course.’
‘OK, see you later!’
He slipped back into the driver’s seat and sat like a kind of mollusc in its shell as he reversed and pulled away down the drive.
I went back in and dialled Krag’s number again.
‘Hello?’ a gravelly voice said after a couple of rings.
‘Hello, is that Terje Krag speaking?’
‘It is, yes.’
‘Hello, my name’s Syvert Løyning. I’m calling because I’ve been told you know Russian. Is that right?’
‘That’s right, yes.’
‘I’ve got something I’d like to have translated, you see. I’d pay you for your trouble, of course!’
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Is it much?’
‘No, no. It’s a letter of some sort. Four short pages of handwriting, that’s all. I’d like to know what it says, only it’s all Greek to me.’
He laughed.
‘So someone sent you a letter in Russian?’
‘Not exactly. It was sent to my father. He’s been dead for some years now. I found the letter among his things.’
‘Did he know Russian?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was his name, if I might ask?’
‘The same as my own, actually. Syvert Løyning.’
‘And he was from here?’
‘Yes. At least not far away. The countryside, you’d probably call it.’
‘Hm. I thought I knew everyone in the area who knew Russian. Still, I’d be happy to help. Just bring it round. I’m usually in. Apart from the evenings, that is.’
‘Excellent!’ I said. ‘Thanks very much indeed. Would it be convenient if I came later today?’
‘Yes, why not?’
* * *
*
I made a couple of sandwiches and poured some milk into a glass for Mum before I got going. She was fast asleep, so it seemed, so I put the tray on the bedside table and crept out again. I scribbled a note for them both telling them I’d gone into town, and left it on the worktop in the kitchen. I could wash the car when I got home, I thought when I saw it there with its filthy windows in the sunshine. Or maybe tomorrow, if I didn’t have time before football practice. I had the dinner to make as well.
