face. Clear brown eyes and a well-shaped chin.
But the first thing you noticed was her hair. It shone. It was brown but more than just brown. It had a glint of red and it wasn’t the colour you buy for twenty kroner a pint and pour on your hair when you wash it. It was the kind of red that you find in the secret quiet corners and the trees in the forest inside you. But at the same time, it wasn’t an obvious red. You’d never say she was a redhead. Her hair was brown. That red glint was simply there, like the soul somewhere in her body, like the woodwind in her symphony orchestra.
She was dressed according to the agency’s colour scheme: a dark red blouse and a green corduroy skirt. She smiled at me as she walked by. The laugh lines told me she wasn’t so young. Around thirty. But it was an unusually warm and beautiful smile. It came from the same place as that red glint in her hair and that had to be a good place. I’d have liked to spend my holidays and the rest of my life there.
That did it. One smile as she passed and I was so dizzy I didn’t know where to look.
I said to myself: you haven’t been in love in a long time, Varg. All too long. And I thought of Wenche Andresen and tried to hear her voice. But for some reason I couldn’t. Or imagine her face.
That little thing delivered the big green folder to Reception, said something and walked back through the hall. Her hair floated. Freshly washed. Loose. And it floated with her down that too-short hallway. Then she went in through the same door she’d come out of. And she was gone.
That’s how people come into your life. And that’s how they go out of it. Here and gone in a couple of minutes.
A man came towards me out of another door. His walk wasn’t totally dynamic. Maybe it was too late in the day or maybe he’d worked there too long.
He was well dressed. A grey-green suit nipped in at the waist. A waistcoat. Turn-ups on the trousers. He had dark blond hair and new glasses. An attractive little Wild West moustache. The kind that droops sadly at the corners of the mouth, but I recognised him from his pictures. Jonas Andresen.
So he wasn’t telling me anything new when he said, ‘I’m Andresen. Do you want to talk to me?’
We shook hands. ‘I do. My name’s Veum.’ I lowered my voice. ‘I’m here on your wife’s behalf. I’m a kind of lawyer.’
He lowered his voice. ‘Step into my office.’
He turned and I followed him down the hall.
It was a small office with a view of the Maria Church’s twin towers and Mount Fløien. I could look straight up and see the roof of the house I lived in. It was enough to bring tears to your eyes.
Jonas Andresen’s big black desk was covered with neat stacks of papers, publications and sketches for ads. The ‘In’ basket was considerably fuller than the ‘Out’. Alongside the baskets sat a hollowed-out plastic skull, sawn off above the ears, and it held pens and pencils in the firm’s colours: red and green. A single dark red rose, long since brown at the edges, stood in a plastic vase. The green ashtray was full. If it had been emptied that morning, he was a heavy smoker.
There were posters on the walls and four enlarged pictures of a younger Roar, and there was a bulletin board covered with newspaper ads, pages torn from weeklies, photographs, callingcards, memos for future assignments and other assorted junk.
Jonas Andresen sat behind his desk and waved me to a comfortable chair opposite him. He offered me a cigarette and when I refused lit his own. It was a long white cigarette. His hand shook.
He looked questioning. ‘Well?’
‘Your wife asked me … It’s about some money you’ve promised her – from a life-insurance policy. She has problems. Economic ones.’
His eyes were clear and blue through the colourless lenses. Large aviator glasses with light brown rims. He exhaled through tightly pressed lips.
‘Let’s get a couple of things straight first. You said you were a
But the first thing you noticed was her hair. It shone. It was brown but more than just brown. It had a glint of red and it wasn’t the colour you buy for twenty kroner a pint and pour on your hair when you wash it. It was the kind of red that you find in the secret quiet corners and the trees in the forest inside you. But at the same time, it wasn’t an obvious red. You’d never say she was a redhead. Her hair was brown. That red glint was simply there, like the soul somewhere in her body, like the woodwind in her symphony orchestra.
She was dressed according to the agency’s colour scheme: a dark red blouse and a green corduroy skirt. She smiled at me as she walked by. The laugh lines told me she wasn’t so young. Around thirty. But it was an unusually warm and beautiful smile. It came from the same place as that red glint in her hair and that had to be a good place. I’d have liked to spend my holidays and the rest of my life there.
That did it. One smile as she passed and I was so dizzy I didn’t know where to look.
I said to myself: you haven’t been in love in a long time, Varg. All too long. And I thought of Wenche Andresen and tried to hear her voice. But for some reason I couldn’t. Or imagine her face.
That little thing delivered the big green folder to Reception, said something and walked back through the hall. Her hair floated. Freshly washed. Loose. And it floated with her down that too-short hallway. Then she went in through the same door she’d come out of. And she was gone.
That’s how people come into your life. And that’s how they go out of it. Here and gone in a couple of minutes.
A man came towards me out of another door. His walk wasn’t totally dynamic. Maybe it was too late in the day or maybe he’d worked there too long.
He was well dressed. A grey-green suit nipped in at the waist. A waistcoat. Turn-ups on the trousers. He had dark blond hair and new glasses. An attractive little Wild West moustache. The kind that droops sadly at the corners of the mouth, but I recognised him from his pictures. Jonas Andresen.
So he wasn’t telling me anything new when he said, ‘I’m Andresen. Do you want to talk to me?’
We shook hands. ‘I do. My name’s Veum.’ I lowered my voice. ‘I’m here on your wife’s behalf. I’m a kind of lawyer.’
He lowered his voice. ‘Step into my office.’
He turned and I followed him down the hall.
It was a small office with a view of the Maria Church’s twin towers and Mount Fløien. I could look straight up and see the roof of the house I lived in. It was enough to bring tears to your eyes.
Jonas Andresen’s big black desk was covered with neat stacks of papers, publications and sketches for ads. The ‘In’ basket was considerably fuller than the ‘Out’. Alongside the baskets sat a hollowed-out plastic skull, sawn off above the ears, and it held pens and pencils in the firm’s colours: red and green. A single dark red rose, long since brown at the edges, stood in a plastic vase. The green ashtray was full. If it had been emptied that morning, he was a heavy smoker.
There were posters on the walls and four enlarged pictures of a younger Roar, and there was a bulletin board covered with newspaper ads, pages torn from weeklies, photographs, callingcards, memos for future assignments and other assorted junk.
Jonas Andresen sat behind his desk and waved me to a comfortable chair opposite him. He offered me a cigarette and when I refused lit his own. It was a long white cigarette. His hand shook.
He looked questioning. ‘Well?’
‘Your wife asked me … It’s about some money you’ve promised her – from a life-insurance policy. She has problems. Economic ones.’
His eyes were clear and blue through the colourless lenses. Large aviator glasses with light brown rims. He exhaled through tightly pressed lips.
‘Let’s get a couple of things straight first. You said you were a
Similar Books
