sharia with the death penalty in Muslim countries. And this ignorance is deliberately exploited.
The social anthropologist, whose name he can’t remember, showed him a website in Norwegian which listed sharia law in bullet points and the punishments for breaking them. “This is very simplistic,” she said, pointing to the screen. “Few people will understand what sharia is really about from this. It’s people who aren’t scholars who might post a page like this. They use a fluid concept to gain power and influence. Most people don’t realize that hudud punishments are quite low key in the Koran. A few scholars even think they should be ignored completely.”
The interview made an impression on Henning because it challenged his own prejudices against Muslims in general and sharia in particular. And now, when he thinks about hudud punishments and links them to the murder of Henriette Hagerup, a number of things fail to add up. She wasn’t a Muslim. Nor was she married to one, and as far as he knows, she hadn’t stolen anything, either, and yet her hand had been chopped off.
He shakes his head. A few years ago he might have been able to come up with a credible explanation, but now he is increasingly convinced that it makes no sense. And that’s the problem. It always makes sense. It has to. He just needs to find the common denominator.
21
Henning’s flat reminds him of a garage sale. He doesn’t like garages. He doesn’t know why, but they make him think of cars, idle engines, closed doors, and screaming families.
Back in Kløfta, the Juuls’ garage contained tires that should have been thrown out long ago, ancient and unusable bicycles, rusty gardening tools, leaking hoses, bags of shingle, skis no one ever used, tins of paint, paintbrushes, logs stacked against the wall. Even though Henning’s father never tinkered with any of the cars he owned, the place always smelled like a garage. It smelled of oil.
The smell of oil will always remind him of his father. He doesn’t remember all that much about him, but he remember his smell. Henning was fifteen years old when his father died suddenly. One morning he simply failed to wake up. Henning had got up early, he had an English test later that day. His plan was to do some last-minute revision before the rest of his family stirred, but Trine was already awake. She was sitting on the bathroom floor, her legs pulled up to her chest. She said:
He’s dead.
She pointed to the wall, the wall to their parents’ bedroom. She wasn’t crying, she merely kept saying:
He’s dead.
He remembers knocking on the door, even though it was ajar. The door to his parents’ bedroom was always closed. Now it swung open. His father lay there with his hands on the duvet. His eyes were shut. He looked at peace. His mother was still asleep. Henning went over to his father’s side of the bed and looked at him. He looked like he was sleeping. When Henning shook him, he didn’t move. Henning shook him again, harder this time.
His mother woke up. At first, she was startled, wondering what on earth Henning was up to. Then she looked at her husband—and screamed.
Henning doesn’t remember much of what happened next. He only recalls the smell of oil. Even in death, Jakob Juul smelled of oil.
After a breakfast consisting of two cups of coffee with three sugars, Henning decides to go to work. It is only 5:30 AM , but he thinks there is no point in hanging around the flat.
He visualizes the sea as he turns into Urtegata. He should be feeling tired, but the coffee has woken him up. Sølvi isn’t there yet, but he visualizes her, too, as he swipes his card.
There is only one other person in the office when he arrives. The night duty editor is hunched over his keyboard, sipping a cup of coffee. Henning nods briefly to him as they make eye contact, but the duty editor soon returns to his screen.
Henning lets himself sink into his squeaking chair. He catches himself wondering when
The social anthropologist, whose name he can’t remember, showed him a website in Norwegian which listed sharia law in bullet points and the punishments for breaking them. “This is very simplistic,” she said, pointing to the screen. “Few people will understand what sharia is really about from this. It’s people who aren’t scholars who might post a page like this. They use a fluid concept to gain power and influence. Most people don’t realize that hudud punishments are quite low key in the Koran. A few scholars even think they should be ignored completely.”
The interview made an impression on Henning because it challenged his own prejudices against Muslims in general and sharia in particular. And now, when he thinks about hudud punishments and links them to the murder of Henriette Hagerup, a number of things fail to add up. She wasn’t a Muslim. Nor was she married to one, and as far as he knows, she hadn’t stolen anything, either, and yet her hand had been chopped off.
He shakes his head. A few years ago he might have been able to come up with a credible explanation, but now he is increasingly convinced that it makes no sense. And that’s the problem. It always makes sense. It has to. He just needs to find the common denominator.
21
Henning’s flat reminds him of a garage sale. He doesn’t like garages. He doesn’t know why, but they make him think of cars, idle engines, closed doors, and screaming families.
Back in Kløfta, the Juuls’ garage contained tires that should have been thrown out long ago, ancient and unusable bicycles, rusty gardening tools, leaking hoses, bags of shingle, skis no one ever used, tins of paint, paintbrushes, logs stacked against the wall. Even though Henning’s father never tinkered with any of the cars he owned, the place always smelled like a garage. It smelled of oil.
The smell of oil will always remind him of his father. He doesn’t remember all that much about him, but he remember his smell. Henning was fifteen years old when his father died suddenly. One morning he simply failed to wake up. Henning had got up early, he had an English test later that day. His plan was to do some last-minute revision before the rest of his family stirred, but Trine was already awake. She was sitting on the bathroom floor, her legs pulled up to her chest. She said:
He’s dead.
She pointed to the wall, the wall to their parents’ bedroom. She wasn’t crying, she merely kept saying:
He’s dead.
He remembers knocking on the door, even though it was ajar. The door to his parents’ bedroom was always closed. Now it swung open. His father lay there with his hands on the duvet. His eyes were shut. He looked at peace. His mother was still asleep. Henning went over to his father’s side of the bed and looked at him. He looked like he was sleeping. When Henning shook him, he didn’t move. Henning shook him again, harder this time.
His mother woke up. At first, she was startled, wondering what on earth Henning was up to. Then she looked at her husband—and screamed.
Henning doesn’t remember much of what happened next. He only recalls the smell of oil. Even in death, Jakob Juul smelled of oil.
After a breakfast consisting of two cups of coffee with three sugars, Henning decides to go to work. It is only 5:30 AM , but he thinks there is no point in hanging around the flat.
He visualizes the sea as he turns into Urtegata. He should be feeling tired, but the coffee has woken him up. Sølvi isn’t there yet, but he visualizes her, too, as he swipes his card.
There is only one other person in the office when he arrives. The night duty editor is hunched over his keyboard, sipping a cup of coffee. Henning nods briefly to him as they make eye contact, but the duty editor soon returns to his screen.
Henning lets himself sink into his squeaking chair. He catches himself wondering when
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