Death In Oslo

IX

‘The palace is just up there,’ Ambassador George A. Wells said, and nodded towards the park on the other side of Drammensveien. ‘And it’s not just a monument, they actually live there. The royal family. Nice people. Very nice people.’The men looked quite similar, standing as they were with their backs to the room, looking out over the street behind the fortifications that surrounded the triangular building. They might easily be mistaken for brothers. The ambassador had to put up with his wife nagging him daily about losing some of the extra pounds round his stomach. But the two men standing in front of the window of the American Embassy in Oslo, watching the Norwegian people celebrate in all their finery on the other side of the aggressive metal barriers, both took their food and golf very seriously. And they both looked good on it. George Wells was nearly seventy, but was still blessed with thick silver hair. His guest was younger and had the same thick hair, though not as well groomed. They both had their hands in their pockets. Their jackets had been abandoned long ago.

‘The royal family appears to be less well protected than we are,’ the guest said, and pointed towards the park around the palace. ‘Anyone can walk right up to the palace.’

‘Not only can, but do. The endless parade they have every year to mark the seventeenth of May passes right under the balcony where the royals stand waving to the crowd. There’s never been a problem. But then they…’ he gave a wan smile and ran his fingers through his hair, ‘are a bit more popular than us.’

Neither of the men said anything for a while. They looked down at the street, where it was difficult to tell whether people were coming or going. Suddenly, and at the same time, they both caught sight of a little boy with an American flag. He was probably about five or six years old and was wearing dark blue trousers and a bright red V-neck sweater with a white T-shirt underneath. He stopped and looked up. There was no way that he could see them; he was too far away, and the smoked windows made it impossible to see in. He smiled all the same and timidly waved his flag. His mother turned round and grabbed him by the arm, irritated. The boy carried on waving until he was out of sight.

‘He can get away with that because he’s little,’ the ambassador said. ‘He’s a sweet little Afro-American boy, so he’s allowed to wave the Star-Spangled Banner on the Norwegian national day. Won’t be like that in a few years’ time.’

Silence again. The guest seemed to be fascinated by what was going on down on the street and remained standing at the window. The ambassador showed no sign of wanting to sit down either. A large group of young people came storming down from the Nobel Institute. They were singing so loudly and out of tune that it penetrated even through the reinforced glass. One of the girls was around eighteen and was so drunk that she had to be supported by two friends. One had his left hand cupped around her breast, which didn’t seem to bother her in the slightest. Coming towards them was a primary-school class, walking hand-in-hand in a crocodile. The front pair, two girls with blonde plaits, burst out crying when one of the youths roared in their faces. The furious parents came rushing over. A young man in blue overalls poured beer all over the angriest father.

A police car was trying to force its way through the crowd. It had to give up halfway and stop. Two of the youths sat down on the bonnet. One girl insisted on kissing the policeman who got out of the car to sort things out. Several others ran over. A whole flock of girls in red overalls badgered the uniformed policeman for a kiss.

‘What is this?’ the guest mumbled. ‘What kind of a country is this?’

‘Strictly speaking, you should have known that,’ the ambassador responded, ‘before sending Madam President here. On a day like this.’

The guest gave an audible sigh, almost demonstrative. He went over to a table where mineral water and glasses were set out on a silver tray. He lifted one of the bottles and looked sidelong at the ambassador.

‘Go ahead. Please, help yourself.’

The ambassador also appeared to have had enough of the Norwegian people. He picked up a remote control and pushed a button. The curtains closed.

‘I apologise for making that comment, Warren.’

The ambassador sat down. His movements were heavier now, as if the day so far had already been too long and his age was becoming a burden.

‘That’s fine,’ Warren Scifford assured him. ‘And in any case, you’re right. I should have known. The point is that I do know. I know everything there is to read or hear about this place. You know the procedures, George. You know how we work.’

He held a bottle of Farris mineral water at arm’s length and looked at the label with suspicion. Then he shrugged and poured himself a glass.

‘We’ve been working on it for two months,’ he said. ‘And in fact we thought it was a great idea when Madam President first suggested Norway as the destination of her first overseas visit. An…’ he lifted his glass in a silent cheers, ‘an excellent idea. And you, of course, know why.’

The ambassador said nothing.

‘We have a scale,’ Warren Scifford continued. ‘Completely unofficial, naturally, but still fairly serious. With the exception of a handful of Pacific states where there are only a few thousand friendly inhabitants and the only threat to the President would be an unexpected tsunami…’ he took a sip of water, swallowed and wiped his mouth with his shirt sleeve, ‘Norway is the safest country to visit in the world. Last time…’ He shook his head slightly. ‘President Clinton behaved like he was on some scout trip in Little Rock when he was here. That was before your time, and before…’ He suddenly rubbed his temples.

‘Everything OK?’ asked the ambassador.

Warren Scifford frowned and rolled his neck. ‘Tiring flight,’ he mumbled. ‘In fact, I haven’t slept for twenty-four hours. It all happened a bit fast, you might say. When’s this guy coming? And when can I-?’

The telephone on the vast desk started to ring.

‘Yes?’ The ambassador held the receiver a few centimetres from his ear. ‘Yes,’ he said again and put the receiver down.

Warren Scifford put the glass back on the tray.

‘He’s not coming,’ the ambassador said and got up.

‘What?’

‘We’re going to them.’ He grabbed his jacket and pulled it on.

‘But we had an agreement…’

‘Well, actually, it was more of an order.’ The ambassador pointed at Scifford’s jacket. ‘An order from us to them. Put your jacket on. They won’t tolerate that. They want us to go there.’

Before Warren Scifford could complain again, the ambassador put a fatherly hand on the younger man’s arm. ‘You would do exactly the same, Warren. We’re guests in this country. They want to play at home. And even though there aren’t many of them, be prepared for…’

He stopped and laughed, a surprisingly high whinny. Then he went over to the door before finishing the conversation. ‘There may not be many people in this country, but they are incredibly stubborn. Every single one of them. You might as well get used to it, son. Get used to it!’