The Drifters by James A. Michener Page A

his daughter, and without either of them speaking, they acknowledged that she was leaving Tromsø for good … was fleeing Norway with a stern resolve never to return. ‘I wonder if she knows the reasons?’ Bjørndahl asked himself. He longed to speak openly with his daughter, for she pleased him. Even though she had a striking beauty, she was sensible. If she was fleeing Norway, he was sure she had good reasons.
    With her mother Britta was punctilious, helping with themeals, washing the dishes afterward and answering questions with unusual courtesy. When Mrs. Bjørndahl asked what had happened with Gunnar, Britta said, ‘I’m afraid it’s ended.’ She gave no details, and Mrs. Bjørndahl closed the conversation by saying, ‘He’d have made a good son-in-law. Your father liked him.’
    On the second of February, Britta rose with an anxiety that she could not mask, for this day would tell whether there was to be an empty seat on the plane. At ten in the morning Mr. Sverdrup would receive a telegram from Copenhagen summarizing details, so at ten-thirty Britta told Mr. Mogstad that she wished to be absent for a few minutes, and while he carefully parted his mustache, pondering whether to allow her to leave or not, she walked out. At the travel office she found that Mr. Sverdrup had also stepped out, and she asked his assistant if any news had come from Copenhagen, but nothing was known, so she waited in growing apprehension.
    Finally Mr. Sverdrup returned, his wax flower bobbing briskly in the pale light. ‘Good news!’ he cried as soon as he saw Britta. ‘As of last night … seats. You will fly to Copenhagen in the morning. And if you can’t get on the plane to Torremolinos, we’ll fit you into one of the others. Morocco, Greece—who knows where you’ll be tomorrow night?’
    ‘I’ll be in Spain,’ Britta said.
    Because there was little difference between night and day, the airplane to Copenhagen always left Tromsø at three in the morning, so Britta did not go to bed; she talked with her father for the last time, and he said, ‘I’m not going with you to the airport.’ She felt very close to her mother and talked with her too, but as she did she heard the ghostly strains of the cavatina, and its desperate longing so tore at her heart that she returned to where her father sat alone, leafing through his books. ‘I wish I were going with you,’ he said, but what he meant was: ‘I wish I’d had the courage to cut loose years ago.’
    At the airport she kissed Gunnar perfunctorily, mainly because he had brought along some of his friends and would be embarrassed if she did not make believe they were still lovers. When the time came for her to say goodbye to her mother she experienced a flood of emotion, and in the passing of a second, acknowledged to herself the real reasons why she had fought so desperately to get to Spain.‘I’m leaving Tromsø for good. I can’t abide the dull orderliness … the years that never change … the heavy system of the same old things. I don’t want to wait ten years before I begin my life. I want no more of the tunnel.’
    Then, to her own surprise, she blurted out the truth to her mother: ‘I’ll not be coming back … not ever. Tell Father.’
    Mrs. Bjørndahl grabbed her arm, intending to force an explanation of this extraordinary announcement, but Britta pushed her away and ran to the plane, dashing up the stairs before her mother could reach her.
    At Copenhagen there was a two-hour wait as the three planes chartered by the travel agency were loaded. The first, headed for Spain, had large numbers of tourists, and the agency man whom Britta questioned said he thought all the stand-bys would have to fly on the second, which was headed for Morocco. ‘It’s a great place. You’ll like it.’ The third plane, also well patronized, was heading for Greece, but on this one, there were definitely no vacancies. So it was either Morocco or Torremolinos, and Britta