Shannon laughed loudly, and Mari smiled tolerantly as at a child’s embarrassing little joke.
‘You must have put a lot of time and effort into learning your husband’s language. Did you never consider him learning your language instead?’
‘That’s a good question, Mari; but English is the language of Barbados. And of course, I want to know what you’re all saying behind my back.’ Shannon laughed again.
I don’t always understand what women are saying when they talk, but even I could see that this was a catfight, and my only job was to stay well out of the way.
‘Anyway I prefer Norwegian before English. English has the worst written language in the world.’
‘Prefer Norwegian to English, you mean?’
‘The idea behind the Arabic alphabet is that the symbols reflect the sounds. So when for example you write an a in Norwegian, German, Spanish, Italian and so on, then it’s pronounced a. But in English a written a can be anything at all. Car, care, cat, call. ABC. And the anarchy just goes on. As early as the eighteenth century Ephraim Chambers was of the opinion that English orthography is more chaotic than that of any other known language. While I found out that without knowing even a single word of Norwegian I was able to read aloud from Sigrid Undset – Carl understood every word!’ Shannon laughed and looked at me. ‘Norwegian ought to be the world language, not English!’
‘Hmm, maybe,’ said Mari. ‘But if you’re serious about sexual equality then you shouldn’t be reading Sigrid Undset. She was a reactionary anti-feminist.’
‘Well, I’m inclined to think of Undset more as a sort of early second-wave feminist, like Erica Jong. Thanks for the advice about what not to read, but I also try to read writers with some of whose viewing points I don’t agree.’
‘Viewpoints,’ corrected Mari. ‘I see you spend a lot of time thinking about language and literature, Shannon. You’d probably be better off talking to Rita Willumsen, or our doctor, Stanley Spind.’
‘Instead of …?’
Mari gave a thin smile. ‘Or perhaps you should think about doing something useful with your knowledge of Norwegian. Like looking for a job? Contributing to the community here in Os?’
‘Fortunately I don’t need to look for a job.’
‘No, I’m sure you don’t,’ said Mari, and I could see she was on the offensive again. That contemptuous, patronising look, the one Mari thought she kept so successfully hidden from the other villagers, was there in her eyes as she said: ‘After all, you do have a … husband.’
I looked at Shannon. People had taken glasses from the tray as we stood there and she moved the ones that were left to restore the balance. ‘I don’t need to look for a job because I already have one. A job I can do from home.’
Mari looked surprised, and then almost disappointed. ‘And that is?’
‘I draw.’
Mari brightened up again. ‘You draw,’ she repeated in an exaggeratedly positive way, as though someone with a job like that would naturally need encouragement. ‘You’re an artist,’ she announced with a pitying derision.
‘I’m not too sure about that. On a good day maybe. What do you do, Mari?’
Mari suffered a moment’s disorientation before she composed herself enough to say: ‘I’m a political scientist.’
‘Brilliant! And are they much in demand around here in Os?’
Mari gave the kind of quick smile people do when they feel a pain somewhere. ‘Right now I’m a mother. To twins.’
‘No! Really?’ cried Shannon in enthusiastic disbelief.
‘Yes. I wouldn’t lie ab—’
‘Pictures! Do you have any pictures?’
Mari gave a sideways look down at Shannon. Hesitated. Maybe those vulpine eyes thought for a moment about resisting. A scrawny little one-eyed fledgling of a woman; how dangerous could that be? Mari pulled out a phone. Tapped away. Held the picture up to Shannon who gave vent to one of those long-drawn-out aahhhs that are supposed to express how adorable something is, before handing me the tray with glasses so that she could take hold of Mari’s phone, the better to feast her eyes on the twins.
‘What d’you have to do to get two like that, Mari?’
I don’t know if Shannon was just flattering her, but if she was, it was a brilliant bit of play-acting. Good enough anyway for Mari Aas to drop the hostile look on her face.
‘Any more?’ asked Shannon. ‘Can I look?’
‘Er, sure.’
‘Can you serve the guests, Roy?’ Shannon said, without taking her eyes off the screen.
I made a circuit with the tray, pushing my way between guests, but the glasses disappeared without my having to get involved in small talk. When the tray was empty I returned to the kitchen where it was just as crowded.
‘Hi, Roy. I saw you had your little silver tin of tobacco out – can you spare me a wedge?’
It was Erik Nerell. He stood leaning against the fridge with a beer in his hand. Erik pumped iron and his head was so small on his thick, muscular neck you could hardly see the join; it looked like a tree trunk that just grew out the top of his T-shirt. On top of it all was a yellow crew cut, tight as a bundle of uncooked spaghetti, with shoulders sloping down the sides towards two biceps that always looked as if they’d just been inflated. And who knows, maybe they had been. He’d been a paratrooper, and now he ran what was actually the village’s only real bar, Fritt Fall. It had been a cafeteria and he’d taken the place over and turned it into a bar with a disco, karaoke, bingo every Monday and quiz every Wednesday.
I fished the tin of Berry’s snuff out of my pocket and handed it to him. He stuffed a wedge under his upper lip.
‘Just want to see what it tastes like,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen anyone else using American snuff. Where d’you get hold of it?’
I shrugged. ‘Here and there. Get people who are going out there to bring some back.’
‘That’s a neat tin,’ he said as he handed it back. ‘Ever been in the States yourself?’
‘Never.’
‘Something else I’ve always wondered about,’ he said. ‘How come you put the snuff inside your lower lip?’
‘The American way,’ I said in English. ‘That’s the way Dad did it. He always used to say only Swedes put it under the upper lip, and everyone knows how the Swedes chickened out during the war.’
Erik Nerell laughed, his upper lip bulging. ‘Nice bit of stuff your brother’s picked up.’
I didn’t answer.
‘It’s almost freaky how good her Norwegian is.’
‘You’ve spoken to her?’
‘Just asking if she danced.’
‘You asked if she danced? Why?’
Erik shrugged. ‘Because she looks like a ballerina. Tiny dancer, right? And then she’s from Barbados. Calypsos and that … what d’you call it again? Soca!’
There must have been something in the look on my face that made him laugh.
‘Take it easy, Roy, she was cool with it, said she’d teach it to us later on tonight. You ever seen soca? Fucking sexy stuff.’
‘OK,’ I said, and thought that was probably pretty good advice. Take it easy.