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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
When the tenant of a house that university professor Nina owns with her doctor husband goes missing after an uncomfortable visit, Nina starts her own investigation … with deeply disturbing results. The long-awaited new psychological thriller from the bestselling author of The Bird Tribunal. **The Times Book of the Month** **NUMBER ONE BESTSELLER IN NORWAY** **WINNER of the Norwegian Booksellers' Award** **Longlisted for the CWA International Dagger** 'A clever, quirky mystery, full of twists and reminiscent of Agatha Christie at her best' The Times 'Ravatn, one of Norway's premier crime writers, manages to conjure up an extra level of chilling atmosphere that will make you want to put the heating on … The Seven Doors packs a brutal punch' The Sun 'Elegantly plotted and economically executed … Ravatn smoothly mixes Jungian and Freudian psychology with folklore and an affair's lethal consequences. Inexorable fate drives this searing modern take on ancient Greek tragedy' Publishers Weekly STARRED REVIEW _________________ University professor Nina is at a turning point. Her work seems increasingly irrelevant, her doctor husband is never home, relations with her difficult daughter are strained, and their beautiful house is scheduled for demolition. When her daughter decides to move into another house they own, things take a very dark turn. The young woman living there disappears, leaving her son behind, the day after Nina and her daughter pay her a visit. With few clues, the police enquiry soon grinds to a halt, but Nina has an inexplicable sense of guilt. Unable to rest, she begins her own investigation, but as she pulls on the threads of the case, it seems her discoveries may have very grave consequences for her and her family. Exquisitely dark and immensely powerful, The Seven Doors is a sophisticated and deeply disturbing psychological thriller from one of Norway's most distinguished voices. _________________ 'Wrenching and tense, a psychological chiller with multiple layers unpeeling graciously to reveal further strata of emotional bleakness and enigmas' Maxim Jakubowski, CrimeTime Praise for Agnes Ravatn 'Unfolds in an austere style that perfectly captures the bleakly beautiful landscape of Norway's far north' Irish Times 'Reminiscent of Patricia Highsmith – and I can't offer higher praise than that – Agnes Ravatn is an author to watch' Philip Ardagh 'A tense and riveting read' Financial Times 'A masterclass in suspense and delayed terror' Rod Reynolds, author of Blood Red City 'A beautifully written story set in a captivating landscape … it keeps you turning the pages' Sarah Ward, author of The Quickening 'Crackling, fraught and hugely compulsive slice of Nordic Noir … tremendously impressive' Doug Johnstone, Big Issue 'Chilling, atmospheric and hauntingly beautiful … I was transfixed' Amanda Jennings, author of The Storm 'Beautifully done … dark, psychologically tense and packed full of emotion both overt or deliberately disguised' Raven Crime Reads 'Intriguing … enrapturing' Sarah Hilary, author of Fragile 'So chilling and bleak that it feels like the dead of winter. I read the book in one sitting with ever-growing dread' Stephanie Wrobel, author of The Recovery of Rose Gold
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Seitenzahl: 303
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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i
University professor Nina is at a turning point. Her work seems increasingly irrelevant, her doctor husband is never home, relations with her difficult daughter are strained, and their beautiful house is scheduled for demolition.
When her daughter decides to move into another house they own, things take a very dark turn. The young woman living there disappears, leaving her son behind, the day after Nina and her daughter pay her a visit.
With few clues, the police enquiry soon grinds to a halt, but Nina has an inexplicable sense of guilt. Unable to rest, she begins her own investigation, but as she pulls on the threads of the case, it seems her discoveries may have very grave consequences for her and her family.
Exquisitely dark and immensely powerful, The Seven Doors is a sophisticated and deeply disturbing psychological thriller from one of Norway’s most distinguished voices.
iii
The Seven Doors
Agnes Ravatn
Translated from the Norwegian by Rosie Hedger
Contents
Sunday 18th November
Berg slinks along the walls, just as the two surveyors did the week before. Nina pours coffee into the pot and finds a bowl for the dark chocolate.
Yes, Berg says eventually, her voice silky-smooth, then click-clacks her way over to join Nina. It’ll set them back a pretty penny, this place.
She is wearing a tight-fitting black suit and a cream blouse. Even in high heels, Nina towers over her.
I’d have preferred to keep the house, all the same, Nina replies, sounding more sombre than she expected to.
I can understand that, Berg replies. How long have you lived here?
It’s my childhood home, Nina says, placing another log on the fire. We moved back in when my daughter was born. That was thirty-five years ago now.
So many memories… Berg says, head cocked to one side reassuringly, and Nina’s genuine sorrow at losing the house, the acute mournfulness with which it fills her, gives way to irritation at Berg’s apparent inability to complete a sentence.
She glances at the clock.
He’ll be here soon, she says, but Berg waves a dismissive hand, as if suggesting Nina should relax. Nina plucks a few withered leaves from the pot plants along the windowsill as she gazes outside.
This is certainly an unusual case, the lawyer says, and Nina turns around.
A member of the city council being called upon to demolish his own house, I mean.2
Mads was obviously prohibited from having any say in the case, Nina replies, but yes.
They hear the front door open, and moments later he comes galloping up the stairs with Milja riding on his back. He comes to an abrupt halt when he catches sight of the lawyer.
Oh, hello, he says, clearing his throat. He slides Milja down onto the floor and offers the lawyer an outstretched hand.
Mads Glaser, he says. It’s very good of you to come out here on a Sunday.
I’ve been to Gingerbread Land, Milja declares proudly. Her plump cheeks are bright red. Berg offers her an ingratiating smile.
Yes, our granddaughter is spending the day with us, Nina says. But I’m sure a bit of television will keep her busy for a little while. She nods at Mads, who ushers Milja into the next room.
Nina and Berg each pull out a chair at the dining table. Mads pulls off his woolly jumper and smooths his shirt before joining them. His grey-black hair curls by his ears.
Berg extracts a thick wad of documents from her bag and perches a pair of spectacles at the end of her nose, spectacles that Nina suspects are just for show.
Berg’s well-manicured mother-of-pearl nails leaf through various sheets of paper before she pauses to look up at them.
A brief introduction to the legal aspects of compulsory acquisition, perhaps?
Yes, please—Nina begins, but Mads interrupts her.
No, he says, that won’t be necessary. As I explained on the phone, we’re prepared to accept a reasonable settlement.
OK? Berg says, looking at Nina, who nods reluctantly.
Berg begins outlining matters, moving rather rapidly as she walks Nina and Mads through their rights now that a final decision has been made about the proposed light-rail route, which is set to split their living room in two.
Nina listens, her brow furrowed, trying to look like she is following what’s being said in spite of the onslaught of legal jargon 3that involves. She exchanges discreet glances with Mads, who rolls his eyes before getting up.
Coffee? he says, cutting Berg off mid-flow. He picks up the coffee pot and pours her a cup, standing to her left, as if he were a waiter.
We can also ask that the council covers any costs incurred by the move, Berg continues. We can even demand that they pay for things like new curtains, for instance, if the old ones won’t fit in the new house. It all depends just how far they’re willing to go.
Not all that far, I should think, wouldn’t you say? Mads says, scratching his temple.
Will we receive any help to find somewhere else? Nina asks, or will we simply receive a sum of money and have to find something by ourselves?
Berg laughs initially, as if the question has been asked in jest, but quickly realises that Nina is being sincere.
You’ll have to find something by yourselves, yes, she replies with a quiet cough. And I’d start looking now, if I were you.
Good God, we’ll spend every weekend for the foreseeable future traipsing around viewings and worrying about who’s bidding what, Nina says to Mads, clearly less than delighted by the news.
It’s a toss-up between Haukeland and Nygårdshøyden, then, Mads says. Rock, paper, scissors, come on, he says, raising a fist in Nina’s direction. Which of us will be rewarded with the shortest commute?
You won’t be standing for re-election, then? Berg asks.
He shrugs.
I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but I’ve started to miss all those blocked sinuses. When it comes to actually making a difference in people’s lives, working in the ear, nose and throat department beats the local council, hands down.
Oh dear, the lament of the long-suffering health-board representative, Nina says. But which of us has the most years left to 4work? I’ll only be attending viewings within a hundred-metre radius of the faculty of humanities.
Well, it’s just a case of starting to look, even if the demolition itself is some way off. As you know, Berg adds, looking at Mads, I think we can secure a fair settlement if we make it clear that we’re willing to act quickly.
Nina is hit with a wave of nausea when she hears the word ‘demolition’; she brings her napkin to her mouth and coughs quietly.
And looking at this house, I might even go so far as to say that the challenge will be finding something of a sufficiently high standard, Berg says. If you’re hoping for something equal in terms of condition and style, that is.
Hear, hear, Mads replies.
That’s if you don’t take the most straightforward route and simply move into the house on Birkeveien, the lawyer says.
Mads looks at Nina inquiringly, who in turn looks at Berg.
You could avoid house-hunting entirely, then simply invest the money you receive, she says.
Out of the question, Nina says firmly. A renovation project from, gosh, when were they built?
The 1950s, at the latest, Mads says. No, that’s not an option we’re prepared to consider.
Berg removes her spectacles. She brings the palms of her hands together with her fingertips touching as if she were some kind of criminal mastermind, resting her elbows on the table as she leans towards her clients.
Very well. In that case, shall we devise a plan that ensures the best possible result? she asks, and Nina nods bravely.
They stand at the living-room window and watch the black Audi, which Berg manoeuvres back and forth at a snail’s pace for at least a minute before finally managing to turn it around.
It’s so surreal, the whole thing, Nina sighs as the car slips down the hill in the dusky light of early afternoon. She catches sight of her own reflection, her eyes two dark spheres, the rain trickling down.
You’re not wrong there, he says, his hand stroking her dark, shoulder-length hair.
Is it just me, or have you been wearing black more often than usual these days? he asks, carefully plucking a hair from her dress.
This is my first major life crisis, she replies. I need to mark that somehow.
He steps back and takes a seat at the piano stool. He places his fingers gently on the keys and begins to play Couperin’s ‘Les Barricades Mystérieuses’ at a slow tempo.
Stop it! a voice shouts from the television room.
Thirty-five years, Nina says. Don’t you feel even a little sentimental about it all?
He smiles despondently.
I’ve done all that I can do, he says, his eyes on the sheet music. It wasn’t to be.
I know, she sighs.
Now we just have to make the best of things. And secure a respectable settlement, at the very least.
She stands in silence, gazing out at the allotment over the road. She’ll miss it in the springtime. She pulls out a chair and takes a seat.
Birkeveien, she says suddenly, turning to face him. Who’s renting it at the moment?6
A young single mother, he replies without lifting his fingers from the keys. She’s been there for a few years now.
Do you think we ought to sell that place too?
What makes you say that? he asks.
I don’t know, she says with a shrug. For simplicity’s sake.
It might be a nice option for Ingeborg and the family in due course, he says.
So my childhood home doesn’t matter but your aunt’s old place…
He lifts his hands from the piano and rubs his palms against his trouser legs. Looks at her.
I know, she says. I know. You did everything you could.
Jo reckons renting the place out is a good idea.
Oh, Jo, the housing-market expert, she replies sardonically.
She walks over and sits down at the dining-room table, taking a few crackers and some cheese and fruit and placing them on a plate.
Strange, she says. I don’t remember Aunt Lena’s funeral.
Not that strange, really, given that you weren’t there.
I wasn’t?
She died when you went on that field trip to Copenhagen.
Milja bounds into the room and clambers up onto her grandad’s lap. It’s Pippi Longstocking, Mads sings, and pretends to play an accordion as Milja slams the piano keys at random.
What time did we say we’d drop off this little tyke? he asks.
As Ingeborg makes her way downstairs, Milja is holding Mads’ hand and gazing, bewitched, at one of the prehistoric-looking crocodiles. The reptile stands behind the thick glass, stock still in the water, and returns Milja’s stare with a stiff, vacant expression.
Mummy! Milja cries with delight, letting go of her grandad’s hand. Ingeborg crouches down and accepts her bounding embrace.
Mummy, I saw a shark, Milja says with a grave expression, and Ingeborg raises her eyebrows appreciatively.
Grandad will take you to see the monkeys, she says, standing up and sending her father a meaningful look. Grandma and I are just going to have a little chat in the café.
Mads looks at Nina quizzically as she is ushered upstairs by their daughter, she shrugs in response with a puzzled look on her face.
They take a seat at the table in the furthest corner of the half-empty café.
Ingeborg drapes her grey wool coat over the back of her chair but keeps her scarf on. She’s wrapped it around her neck in some sort of intricate fashion.
Nina pulls out her purse and stands up.
What do you fancy?
Golden milk, Ingeborg replies.
Pardon me?
Ingeborg looks at her mother with resignation.
Soya milk with turmeric? she says.
Ingeborg, it’s a hot-dog stand. You’ll be lucky to get a cup of tea.
Ice water, then.
Funny old things, daughters, Nina thinks to herself as she queues to pay. She glances discreetly over at Ingeborg, who is 8entirely absorbed by her mobile phone as penguins waddle around in the background.
She ponders the Electra complex, the female version of the Oedipus complex proposed by Carl Jung, young daughters fantasising about killing their mothers in order to fully possess their fathers. Freud never acknowledged the Electra complex as a genuine phenomenon, but she’s thought about it on numerous occasions and wondered if Jung might have been on to something.
So, what was it you wanted to talk to me about? Nina asks gently once she’s returned to the table.
Ingeborg opens her mouth to reply, but her face falls and she breaks down before she manages to utter a word.
Nina furrows her brow as her daughter struggles to compose herself and assume a normal expression once again.
It’s only now that she notices the dark circles under her daughter’s eyes. Her hair has been scraped into a chaotic bun at the nape of her neck, and her shoulders are high and pointed, razor-sharp.
We’ve got silverfish, she says eventually, her voice thick with emotion.
Silverfish? Nina repeats, doing her best not to laugh. My God, I thought you were ill!
Ingeborg stares at her mother in disbelief.
We’ve been up all night, she says. Eirik is hysterical.
But they’re not doing you any harm, are they?
There are people at the house as I speak, Ingeborg says, resigned. We managed to find a company willing to come out at the weekend.
Everyone gets bugs of some sort every once in a while.
Silverfish! her daughter repeats shrilly.
So that was why we had Milja today, Nina replies cheerfully. You were on the hunt for creepy-crawlies.
We’ll have to sell up, Ingeborg whispers, furtively glancing around the room. 9
Surely it’s the sort of thing you’d be obliged to inform any buyer about? Nina begins, but she is quickly hushed.
We need something bigger anyway, Ingeborg says. She rests her head in her hands and massages her temples.
The whole lot of us will be homeless before too long, Nina says.
We’re a room short, Ingeborg says, glancing up at her mother.
Is that right?
Hint, hint, Ingeborg says.
Hint, hint?
Ingeborg sighs loudly.
You might be a professor of literature, but you’re incapable of reading between the lines, it seems.
Nina gazes at her daughter in disbelief before finally putting two and two together.
Six weeks, Ingeborg says. I’m exhausted.
But Ingeborg! Nina says, hugging her daughter across the table. That’s fantastic!
Thanks, her daughter says feebly, looking up at her mother with tired eyes.
We have to tell your father, Nina says, craning her neck to see if she can see him outside.
I thought we might wait a bit, Ingeborg says. I wanted to see if you might be able to … talk him round a bit.
About what, exactly?
An advance on our inheritance, Ingeborg mouths, almost without uttering a sound.
Listen, Nina says, patting her hand gently. Do you remember Aunt Lena?
Monday 19th November
Towards the end of the day she receives a message from Ingeborg. She’s clocking off at 3pm, she writes. Could they take a look at the house on Birkeveien before picking Milja up from nursery?
She glances outside. It’s dry for once, the sun low in the sky. A stroll would do her good.
She hasn’t been there for years, she can’t remember the house number. She calls Mads, but there’s no answer. She searches the street name in her email inbox and finds an email between Mads and their financial advisor she was copied into four years ago. Birkeveien 61.
She pulls up a map on her phone and vaguely remembers visiting Aunt Lena many years ago now, an attractive Bergen lady with a walking frame who lived in a house filled with steep staircases.
Ingeborg is waiting for her outside the hospital building, tall and slim. She waves cheerfully when she catches sight of her mum and walks over to meet her just as an air ambulance lands on the helipad behind her.
How are you doing? Nina asks, but her daughter bats the question away, excited at the prospect of a terraced house in Landås.
Nina had been surprised when Ingeborg chose to pursue medicine like her father; she hadn’t ever felt that her daughter belonged in a job that called for warmth and empathy. All the same, she was pleased that her daughter had chosen such a practical career. What is the point in all of this? she had often wondered as she had watched her own students graduate, only to drift around in ambiguous professions within the culture and education sectors for unforeseeable periods of time.
With the help of the map on her phone, Nina leads the way 11along Idrettsveien and Gimleveien, past Brann Stadium, until they eventually reach Birkeveien. They pass two nursery schools and one supermarket en route. There’s something uncomfortably earnest about Ingeborg’s manner, she’s prowling like a cat, rosy-cheeked, airing every thought that enters her head for all to hear.
Cynical children, Nina thinks to herself, it must be my punishment; I must have been doing something wrong during all my years of parenting. But what?
Here we are, Nina says eventually, stopping in her tracks. She looks from the phone to the house number. Ingeborg lets out a gasp.
And what a house it is too, she whispers.
They’re standing outside a small, ochre-yellow, semi-detached house over three floors, with red roof tiles and a front garden concealed behind a beech hedge, dense with crisp brown leaves.
Fourteen minutes and twenty-seven seconds, Ingeborg says excitedly, looking up from her watch. And with two nurseries along the way. Mum…
She looks at her mother pleadingly.
It’s ideal, certainly, Nina says.
And I do love the colour, Ingeborg says, her gaze fixed lovingly on the yellow façade.
First, we need to speak to your father, Nina says, lifting a hand to curtail Ingeborg’s excitement.
Ingeborg is already halfway through the gate, and Nina realises that it’s pointless to try to stop her.
A woman’s bicycle with a child’s seat on the back has been left leaning against the wall beside the front door. There’s no sign of a nameplate. The gravel crunches underfoot as if they were wearing horseshoes; Ingeborg scuttles over to the corner of the property to get an idea of what the back garden looks like.
It’s certainly very nice, she says loudly, seeking her mother’s endorsement.
It’s family-friendly, in any case, Nina says, bringing a finger to her lips to hush her daughter’s loud excitement. 12
There’s a light on upstairs, Ingeborg says, and before Nina can stop her, she’s pressed the doorbell.
But Ingeborg… she says.
What? Ingeborg says, looking somewhat aggressive.
Someone lives here.
Well yes. In our house.
She must be at work, Nina says. It’s only quarter past three.
But I heard something.
I didn’t hear anything, Nina says.
They stand there for a few moments. Nina can tell from the frosty mist surrounding Ingeborg that she is breathing quickly.
We can hardly go barging in unannounced, she says.
Ingeborg leans forwards and presses the doorbell again, holding it for an extra-long time. Nina turns to walk back out onto the street, distancing herself from Ingeborg’s persistence.
We’ll call or write, she says. Then we’ll come back in a few days’ time. There’s no great rush, after all.
Her daughter gazes at her beseechingly.
Eirik booked an agent this morning. We’re putting our place on the market as soon as we can, do you know how quickly a colony of silverfish multiplies?
In that same instant, someone tentatively opens the front door.
Ingeborg spins around on the gravel.
A young woman gazes back through the gap in the door. Behind her is a serious-looking little boy, dark-eyed and dark-haired, just like his mother.
I’ve seen you before, Nina thinks to herself as she locks eyes with the woman, but she can’t quite place her.
The woman looks at her unanticipated guests expectantly.
Peekaboo! Ingeborg says, an excited expression on her face as she peers at the boy, who clings to his mother’s burgundy wool jumper.
The woman looks from Ingeborg to Nina and back to Ingeborg again. 13
Yes? she says.
Ingeborg Wisløff Glaser, she says. We’re the owners of the property.
Ingeborg, Nina whispers.
The woman at the door furrows her brow.
This is my mother, Ingeborg says, nodding in Nina’s direction as her mother takes a step back.
Hi there, she says in as friendly a tone as she can muster. It wasn’t our intention to disturb you, she begins, but she is interrupted by Ingeborg.
Could we have a little look around the house? she asks.
The woman looks at Ingeborg with a puzzled expression.
Oh, Ingeborg says, turning to her mother. She doesn’t speak Norwegian. Excuse us, Ingeborg enunciates emphatically, starting again, we are the landlords.
Yes, the woman says, I understand what you’re saying.
Ingeborg, this is starting to sound like a raid, Nina says under her breath.
Ingeborg gives her mother a confused look before turning back around to face the woman at the door.
I’m a specialist at Haukeland University Hospital, she says smugly, so this area couldn’t be any more perfect for us. We’ve got a little girl, she’s three, she’s going to be a big sister soon actually, so we’re going to need all the play space we can get.
Nina shakes her head inwardly as she observes her daughter with growing discomfort. She might as well be wearing a pith helmet, whip in hand.
The woman stands in the doorway, stiff and silent. The boy whimpers, his mother picks him up and balances him on one hip, he clings to her, burrowing his face in her neck.
You’ll have a few months’ notice, obviously, Ingeborg says impatiently. But before we terminate the contract, I’d love to have a look inside.
If it’s not convenient then we can come back another time, 14Nina interjects, with what she hopes is a warm, apologetic smile.
It’s not really a good time, the woman in the doorway says.
Just a quick peek? Ingeborg says.
I’m sorry, she says, shaking her head.
How many bedrooms are there, can I ask? Ingeborg says.
The woman thinks about whether she should answer the question or not.
Three, she says eventually, and Ingeborg looks starry-eyed.
Ingeborg, Nina says, then turns to the woman. I’m sorry that we’ve disturbed you like this, she says. We’ll get in touch and arrange another time.
Does it have a fireplace? Ingeborg asks as Nina tugs at her coat sleeve to lead her away.
Please, the woman says, comforting her son.
I can assure you, Ingeborg continues imperviously, we really don’t mind if the place is a little untidy.
It is as if the woman surrenders. She hesitates for a moment, then reluctantly steps to one side. Ingeborg makes her way in, unabashed, and follows the woman inside and upstairs without removing her boots.
Nina sighs silently and walks in after them, up the narrow staircase; she recognises the psychedelic, red cyclamen wallpaper. She vaguely remembers having visited once, many years ago, probably when Ingeborg was a baby. Aunt Lena had visited them numerous times, but very rarely returned the invitation.
As they enter the living room she thinks hard about where she might have seen the woman before. The boy is sitting on the floor beside a pirate ship.
It’s like being in a museum, Ingeborg says. How long have you lived here?
Just over three years, the woman replies.
And you’ve never felt the need to change anything? Ingeborg asks, gesturing towards the room. Impressive. 15
I’m not all that interested in interior design, the woman replies curtly.
Is it alright if I have a little look around? Ingeborg asks, and the woman nods.
Nina stands in the middle of the room, uncertain, while the woman looks down.
I didn’t properly introduce myself downstairs. Nina Wisløff, she says, offering the woman an outstretched hand.
Mari.
Things are silent for a moment as Ingeborg rushes back and forth, flitting from one room to the next with her coat flapping behind her.
Have we met? Nina asks after a short while.
I don’t think so.
She might be a little younger than Ingeborg, but older than most of her students.
No?
The furniture in the living room is just as she remembers it. Old-fashioned, Norwegian armchairs, a teak table, a narrow, threadbare old sofa. The bookshelves belonged to Aunt Lena, but the old encyclopaedias and book-club novels from the 1970s are gone. Nina lets her eyes wander over the spines of the books that now fill the shelves, she sees works of poetry, philosophy, a surprising number of German titles, plus contemporary fiction. Parenting books. A large collection of LPs. A record player has been positioned on a table of its own over by the window.
The young woman’s gaze follows Ingeborg as humming drifts across the room from the corner where the toys are kept.
How old is he? Nina asks.
He just turned three.
A lovely age, Nina says. I have a three-and-a-half-year-old granddaughter myself.
The woman says nothing. Nina stands there smiling, glancing in the direction of the kitchen. It’s an original, untouched since 16the 1950s. Beside the kitchen table is a Tripp Trapp highchair and an ordinary kitchen chair. On the table is a pile of books, a stack of paper, a laptop, and three small, black notebooks. She’s studying something, Nina thinks.
Ingeborg climbs down from the small attic space.
Do you remember what it says in your contract? she asks. How many months’ notice you’re entitled to?
No, I—
How quickly could you move out, do you think?
The woman looks at her quizzically.
We’ve got a bit of a situation on our hands, you see. Maybe we could make a small financial contribution if you managed to pack up in, say—
Ingeborg, Nina interrupts sharply.
But, the woman says, we don’t have anywhere … my little boy, Ask, he goes to nursery just along the road, we…
This is a decision for your father and I, not for you, Nina tells her daughter in a tentatively authoritative tone.
But Mum, Ingeborg groans, before turning back to the woman.
Five thousand kroner?
I’m sorry we’ve disturbed you, Nina says. There’s no need for you to see us out.
Ten thousand? Ingeborg says, as her mother nudges her downstairs.
The door slams behind them, and Nina tugs at Ingeborg until they are back out on the pavement.
Goodness, she was odd, Ingeborg says, prising herself free from her mother’s grasp.
She was odd? Nina says. You were like a member of the Gestapo in there, ready to deport her and move in!
It’s just the hormones, Ingeborg says. Nesting. You’ve forgotten what it’s like.
Nina says nothing, seething with shame at her daughter’s behaviour and frantically trying to put her finger on where she has 17seen the woman before. If she happens to work at the university, it’ll be a catastrophe.
I’ll come back with you to talk to Dad, Ingeborg says. He understands the need for haste.
I’ll be the one to talk to your father, Nina says sharply.
But he doesn’t listen to you, her daughter replies.
Mads is sitting at the piano looking serene as they walk upstairs.
And when exactly did you transform into a pair of torpedoes, hmm? he asks the two of them. Milja is about to give her grandad a hug but stops in her tracks when she hears his tone and hovers in the middle of the room, uncertain.
Nina makes her way into the kitchen with the food shopping without glancing over her shoulder at him, while Ingeborg, who is less sensitive to the nuances in his mood, heads in his direction and asks him the exact square footage of the house on Birkeveien.
Sit down, he says, nodding at the table.
Ingeborg pulls an iPad out of her handbag, which she passes to Milja before obediently taking a seat.
Nina emerges from the kitchen and sits down without a word.
Mads gets up from the piano stool and sits opposite them.
Firstly, he says dangerously quietly, if I don’t pick up the phone on the first attempt, try again. Hm? Rather than charging ahead at full speed.
Ingeborg opens her mouth to object, but Nina kicks her under the table.
Secondly, he says, looking directly at his wife: What on earth were you thinking, taking this mercenary of a daughter of ours to Aunt Lena’s house?
If you’d just let me explain… Nina says, but he lifts a palm and she seals her lips.
She said you were persistent and aggressive, Mads says to Ingeborg.
Who? Ingeborg asks.
Who? Mads repeats, chuckling under his breath. The poor woman you’ve been harassing! The one who’s been living in Aunt Lena’s house for three years without a single late rent payment.19
Ingeborg, Nina says quietly, nodding at her. Tell him…
Mads looks at Ingeborg inquisitorially.
We’ve got silverfish, Ingeborg says gravely.
Nina shakes her head, resigned.
My God, Mads says, gawping and leaning back in his chair, rolling his eyes, who hasn’t!
Not that, Nina says, the other thing.
He looks impatiently at his daughter and back again at his wife.
What, that I’m pregnant? Ingeborg asks.
Mads opens his mouth, stops, his eyes flicking back and forth between his wife and his daughter.
Is it true?
Yes, Nina says, staring insistently at Ingeborg, waiting for her to validate the fact.
Mads leans over the table.
Is that true? he says, smiling, bashful, looking down. He leaps up, walks around the table, wraps his arms around her and shakes her, she starts laughing. Milja looks up from the iPad screen, curious.
How many weeks? How is it all going? he asks, letting go of her. He takes hold of her shoulders and looks her in the eye, then strokes her hair.
I should have known, he says. Who glows like this in November, of all months?
Nina exhales with relief as Ingeborg regales her father with tales of her fatigue.
Birkeveien would be perfect for you all, Mads says. There are three bedrooms, you know, and plenty of space.
It’s just a shame there’s someone already living there, Nina says, interrupting.
He turns to face her.
Not anymore.
She looks at him quizzically.
Thanks to you, he says strictly, and Ingeborg looks at them hesitantly. 20
She asked to be released from her contract, he says. Clearly she’d rather be on the streets than risk running into you two again.
What? Ingeborg whispers, wide-eyed. She looks at her mother triumphantly, as if everything that had happened on Birkeveien had gone to plan.
When I decided to keep the house rather than selling it, it was with you in mind, Mads says. You and your family.
He breaks out in a smile.
Is it all sorted, really? Ingeborg asks, looking to her father and then to her mother. Her eyes are no longer gleaming with shame at being scolded by her parents, but twinkling with longing.
We’ll let you know when it’s ready for moving into, he says. In the meantime, you can put your place on Skuteviken up for sale. Make sure the silverfish smile for the camera.
He gets up.
Dad, please tell me you’re not joking, Ingeborg squeals after her father, who makes his way out of the kitchen.
He returns with a chilled bottle of champagne and two glasses.
Nobody’s driving today, are they? he asks.
But I can’t drink, Ingeborg objects.
All the more for us, he says, cracking open the bottle with a pop.
Tuesday 20th November
She studies every face in the auditorium, anxious that the woman from Birkeveien might turn out to be one of her own students, examining every inch of the room for dark, wavy hair.
With relief, she realises that she’s not there.
Greek tragedy, she begins, portrays high-ranking characters who experience a transition from good fortune to poor fortune, ultimately leading to their own demise.
Her students sit before her, their gazes fixed on their laptop screens. God knows what they’re actually up to, lounging about with their coffee cups and chunky scarves and round-brimmed spectacles.
This transition – peripeteia – represents the climax of the action, she asserts.
The odd pair of eyes is locked on to her, but the vast majority of the auditorium’s stares are vacant, their eyeballs shining in the reflection of the bright-blue screens in front of them.
Tension is created by the tightening of the dramatic knot – desis – moving towards the sudden turning point. Following peripeteia, there is a fall, the knot begins to unravel – lusis – and things move in the direction of the final conclusive event. The catastrophe.
She clearly recalls her former students, lined up before her and shining like beacons during her lectures on Greek tragedy. There was a certain respect back then, an interest in the subject, she starts to think, then catches herself. Romanticising former students, the first sure sign that retirement is on the horizon.
Aristotle believes that King Oedipus is a prime example of its 22kind, she says, because peripeteia and anagnorisis occur simultaneously.
She pauses for effect.
And what is anagnorisis? she asks when nobody present bothers to do so. That is the critical point at which the hero, most often, acknowledges his true identity and exposes the true nature of the situation. It is a change that bestows the hero with knowledge and that can reveal either close kinship or hatred between characters, for instance.
A prime example of this occurs during the scene in which Oedipus acknowledges that he killed his own father, she says, allowing her gaze to wander over her students, seeing no reaction other than the odd raised eyebrow. Murder, catastrophe, is nobody going to bite?
Which results in Oedipus gouging out his own eyes, she says, clearly enunciating each syllable.
And what exactly incites all of this, the hero’s tragic demise, the catastrophe in its entirety? she asks. Hamartia. ‘To err’, in Greek. A misstep. A miscalculation of the situation due to the hero’s limited powers of judgement; people are imperfect, after all.
She looks out at the auditorium once again.
We mustn’t confuse hamartia with hubris, arrogance. Disaster doesn’t strike as a result of any moral failings or guilt on the part of the hero, nor due to any particular character flaw, but is simply the result of a fateful error.
Some of the students take notes, or at least she assumes that to be the case, but she imagines that the majority are ordering clothing online.
To err is human, she says, attempting to address her young students directly with a degree of reconciliation in her tone.
