The Redbreast

101

Oslo. 17 May 2000.

Oslo. 8 February 2000.

For more than fifty years Edvard and I have been meeting six times a year at Schroder's. The first Tuesday of every second month, in the morning. We still call it the staff meeting, as we used to do when Schroder's was in Youngstorget. I have often wondered what it was that bound Edvard and me together, being as different as we are. Perhaps it is simply a shared fate. We are marked by the same events. We were both at the Eastern Front, we have both lost our wives and our children are grown. I don't know. The most important thing for me is that I have Edvard's total loyalty. Naturally, he never forgets that I helped him after the war, but I have also given him a helping hand in later years. Such as at the end of the 1960s, when his drinking and betting on horses got out of control, and when he would have almost lost his entire truck business, had I not paid off his gambling debts.

No, there is not a lot left of the fine soldier I remember from Leningrad, but in recent years Edvard has at least come to terms with the fact that life is not quite as he had imagined, and he is trying to make the best of it. He concentrates on his horse, and he no longer drinks or smokes; he contents himself with passing on racing tips to me.

And, speaking of tips, it was him who tipped me off about Even Juul asking whether Daniel could still be alive. The same evening I rang Even and asked him if he had gone senile. But Even told me that a few days ago he had lifted the receiver of an extra telephone they kept in the bedroom and had overheard a man claiming to be Daniel scaring the wits out of his wife. The man on the telephone had said she would hear from him on one of the following Tuesdays. Even had recognised the sounds of a cafe, and now he had decided to trawl the cafes in Oslo every Tuesday until he found the telephone pest. He knew the police wouldn't be bothered with such a trivial matter, and he had not said anything to Signe in case she tried to stop him. I had to bite the back of my hand to stop myself from laughing out loud and wished him luck, the old idiot.

After moving into the flat in Majorstuen I haven't seen much of Rakel, but we have talked on the telephone. We both seem to have tired of waging war now. I have given up explaining to her what she did to me and her mother when she married that Russian from the old family of Bolsheviks.

'I know you think it was betrayal,' she says. 'But it's a long time ago now. Let's not talk about it any more.'

It is not a long time ago. Nothing is a long time ago any more.

Oleg has asked after me. He is a fine boy, Oleg. I only hope he doesn't become obstinate and wilful like his mother. She has that from Helena. They are so similar that tears have come into my eyes as I'm writing this.

I have borrowed Edvard's chalet for next week. I'll test out the rifle then. Daniel will be happy.

Harry hit the kerb with the front wheels and the impact recoiled through the car. The Escort leaped inelegantly through the air and suddenly it was on the grass. There were too many people on the path, so Harry drove over the lawn. He lurched between the lake and four young people who had decided to have their breakfast on a blanket in the park. In the mirror he saw the blue flashing light. The crowds were already packed around the guardhouse, so Harry stopped, jumped out of the car and ran towards the barriers around the Palace Square.

'Police!' Harry shouted as he ploughed his way through the crowds. Those at the front had got up at the crack of dawn to ensure they had a good view of the band and were reluctant to move. As he jumped over the barrier a guardsman tried to stop him, but Harry put his hand to his side, flashed his ID card and staggered on to the open square. The gravel under his feet crunched. He turned his back on the children's procession, Slemdal kindergarten and Valerenga youth band, which was at that moment riling under the Palace balcony, with the royal family waving above them, to a terribly out of tune rendition of 'I'm Just a Gigolo'. He stared at a wall of shiny, smiling faces and red, white and blue flags. His eyes scanned the lines of people: pensioners, photo-snapping uncles, fathers with toddlers on their shoulders, but no Sindre Fauke. No Gudbrand Johansen. No Daniel Gudeson.

'Fuck! Fuck!'

He shouted more in panic than anything else.

But there, in front of the barriers, he at least saw a face he knew. Working in civilian clothes, with a walkie-talkie and reflector sunglasses. So he had followed Harry's advice about giving the Scotsman a miss and supporting the fathers in the police force.

'Halvorsen!'