The Redbreast

70

Brandhaug's House, Nordberg.

8 May 2000.

Bernt Brandhaug tapped the edge of the crystal glass with his knife, pushed his chair back and dabbed his mouth with his napkin while gently clearing his throat. A tiny smile flitted across his lips, as if he were already amused by the points he was going to make in this speech to his guests: Chief Constable Storksen with husband and Kurt Meirik with wife. 'Dear friends and colleagues.'

Out of the corner of his eye he could see his wife smiling stiffly to the others as if to say: Sorry we have to go through this, but it is beyond my control.

This evening Brandhaug talked about friendship and collegiality. About the importance of loyalty and summoning positive energy as a defence against the scope democracy will always allow for mediocrity, the abrogation of responsibility and incompetence at leadership level. Of course you couldn't expect politically elected housewives and farmers to understand the complexity of the areas of responsibility they were designated to manage.

'Democracy is its own reward,' Brandhaug said, a formulation he had plagiarised and made his own. 'But that doesn't mean that democracy doesn't come at a price. When we make a sheet-metal worker a minister of finance…'

At regular intervals he checked that the Chief Constable was listening and interjected a witticism about the democratization process in various ex-colonies in Africa where he had once been an ambassador himself. But the speech, which he had given several times before in other forums, did not inspire him this evening. His mind was somewhere else, where it had been for the last few weeks: with Rakel Fauke.

She had become an obsession with him and he had on occasion considered forgetting her. He had been trying too hard to have her.

He thought about his recent manipulations. If it hadn't been for the fact that Kurt Meirik was the head of POT, it would never have worked. The first thing he'd had to do was get this Harry Hole off the scene, out of the way, out of the city, to some place where he couldn't be contacted by Rakel or anyone else.

Brandhaug had rung Kurt and said that his contact at Dagbladet had told him that there were rumours doing the rounds in press circles about 'something' having happened during the presidential visit in the autumn. They had to act before it was too late, hide Harry somewhere the press couldn't get hold of him. Didn't Kurt think so too?

Kurt had humm-ed and haa-ed. At least until it all blew over, Brandhaug had insisted. To tell the truth, Brandhaug doubted that Meirik had believed what he said for one moment. Not that he was unduly worried. A few days later Kurt called him to say that Harry Hole had been sent to the front, to some God-forsaken place in Sweden. Brandhaug had literally rubbed his hands with glee. Nothing could upset the plans he had made for Rakel and him now.

'Our democracy is like a beautiful, smiling, but slightly naive daughter. The fact that the powers for good in a society stick together has nothing to do with elitism or power games; it is simply the only guarantee we have that our daughter, Democracy, will not be violated and that the government will not be taken over by undesirable forces.

Hence loyalty, this almost forgotten virtue, between people like us is not only desirable but also absolutely vital. Yes, it is a duty which…'

They had moved to the deep armchairs in the sitting room and Brandhaug had passed round his box of Cuban cigars, a gift from the Norwegian consulate in Havana.

'Rolled on the inside of Cuban women's thighs,' he had whispered to Anne Storksen's husband and winked, but he didn't appear to have understood the point. He made a dry, stiff impression, this husband of hers, what was his name again? A double name-my God, had he forgotten? Tor Erik! That was it, Tor Erik.

'More cognac, Tor Erik?'

Tor Erik smiled a thin, compressed smile and shook his head. Probably the ascetic type who jogs fifty kilometres a week, Brandhaug thought. Everything about the man was thin-the body, the face, the hair. He had seen the look he had exchanged with his wife during the speech, as if reminding her of a private joke. It didn't necessarily have anything to do with the speech.

'Sensible,' Brandhaug said sourly. 'Better safe than sorry?'

Elsa appeared in the door to the sitting room.

'There's a telephone call for you, Bernt.'

'We have guests, Elsa.'

'It's someone from Dagbladet!

'I'll take it up in my office.'

It was from the newsdesk, some woman whose name he didn't know. She sounded young and he tried to picture her. It was about the demonstration that evening outside the Austrian embassy in Thomas Heftyes gate, against Jorg Haider and the extreme right Freedom Party, who had been elected to help form the government. She only wanted a few brief comments for the morning paper.

'Do you think this would be an appropriate time to review Norway's diplomatic links with Austria, herr Brandhaug?'

He closed his eyes. They were fishing, as they were wont to do from time to time, but both he and they knew that they wouldn't get a bite; he was too experienced. He could feel that he had been drinking; his head was light and his eyes danced on the back of his eyelids, but it was no problem.

'That is a political judgment and it is not up to civil servants in the Foreign Office to decide,' he said.

There was a pause. He liked her voice. She was blonde, he could sense it.

'I wonder whether with your broad experience of foreign affairs you might predict what the Norwegian government will do?'

He knew what he ought to answer. It was very simple.

I don't make predictions about that sort of thing.

No more, no less. You didn't need to be in a job like his for very long before you had the feeling you had already answered all the questions in existence. Young journalists generally thought they were the first to ask him precisely the question they asked because they had spent half the night working it out. And they were all impressed when he seemed to pause for thought before answering a question he had probably answered a dozen times before.

I don't make predictions about that sort of thing.

He was surprised he hadn't said these words to her already, but there was something about her voice, something which made him feel like being a trifle more obliging. Your broad experience, she had said. He felt like asking her if it had been her idea to call him, Bernt Brandhaug, in particular.

'As the most senior civil servant in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs I ensure that our usual diplomatic relations with Austria are maintained,' he said. 'That is clear-we are of course aware that other countries in the world are reacting to what is going on in Austria now. However, having diplomatic relations with a country does not mean that we like what is happening there.'

'No, we do have diplomatic links with several military regimes,' the voice answered at the other end. 'So why do you think there are such violent reactions to precisely this government?'

'I suppose it must be based on Austria's recent history.' He should have stopped there. He should have stopped. 'The links with Nazism are there. After all, most historians agree that during the Second World War Austria was in reality an ally of Hitler's Germany.'

'Wasn't Austria occupied, like Norway?'

It struck him that he had no idea what they learned at school about the Second World War nowadays. Very little apparently.

'What did you say your name was?' he asked. Perhaps he had drunk a bit too much. She told him her name.

'Well, Natasja, let me help you a little before you start ringing anyone else. Have you heard of the Anschluss? It means that Austria wasn't occupied in the normal understanding of the word. The Germans marched on Austria in March 1938. There was almost no resistance and that was how it stayed for the remainder of the war.'

'Like Norway then?'

Brandhaug was shocked. She had said it in such an assured way, without a tinge of shame about her ignorance.

'No,' he said slowly, as if talking to a dull-witted child. 'Not like in Norway. In Norway we defended ourselves and we had the Norwegian King and Norwegian government in London ready and waiting, making radio programmes and… giving encouragement to those back home.'

He could hear that his phraseology was slightly unfortunate and added, 'In Norway the whole population stood shoulder to shoulder against the occupying forces. The few Norwegian traitors who donned Waffen SS uniforms and fought for the Germans were the scum of society that you have to accept exists in every country. But in Norway the power for good held up, the strong individuals who led the Resistance movement were the nucleus which paved the way for the democracy. These people were loyal to each other and in the final analysis that is what saved Norway. Democracy is its own reward. Scrub what I said about the King, Natasja.'

'So you think that everyone who fought alongside the Nazis was scum?'

What was she really after? Brandhaug decided to bring the conversation to a close.

'I simply mean to say that those who were traitors during the war should be happy they were let off lightly with imprisonment. I've been an ambassador in countries where each and every one of them would have been shot and I'm not so damned sure that wouldn't have been right in Norway too. But back to the comment you wanted, Natasja. The Ministry for Foreign Affairs has no comment to make on the demonstration or on Austria's new members of Parliament. I have guests here, so if you wouldn't mind excusing me, Natasja…'

Natasja excused him and he put down the phone.

Back in the sitting room people were making moves to go.

'Already?' he said with a broad smile, but limited his objections to that. He was tired.

He accompanied his guests to the door. He applied particular pressure to the Chief Constable's hand and said she should not hesitate to ask should there be anything he could do to help. It was all very well going through work channels but…

The last thing he thought about before falling asleep was Rakel. And her policeman he had removed from the scene. He fell asleep with a smile, but awoke with a splitting headache.