Harry walked down to Aker Brygge. Sat down on a bench. Watched the ferry from the Nesoddtangen peninsula glide to the quay in the sunshine. Closed his eyes. He and Rakel had taken a day off in the middle of the week on occasion, brought their bikes aboard the boat and, after twenty-five minutes among the small islets and sailing boats, docked at Nesoddtangen. From there they had cycled straight into a rural landscape with country roads, trails and secluded, deserted bathing spots where they dived in and afterwards warmed themselves up on the smooth rock slabs, and the only sounds to be heard were the buzz of insects and Rakel’s intense but low moaning as she dug her nails into his back. Harry forced himself to let go of the image and opened his eyes. Looked at his watch. Looked at the staccato progression of the second hand. In a few hours he was to meet Katrine. And Gert. He walked on, with long strides, towards the Thief.
‘Your uncle seems on form today,’ said the nurse, taking leave of Prim at the open door of the small room.
Prim nodded. Looked at the elderly man in the dressing gown sitting up in the bed staring at the turned-off TV screen. He had been a handsome man at one time. A highly respected man accustomed to being listened to, in both his private life and his professional one. Prim thought it was still visible in his features, in his uncle’s high, smooth forehead, his deep-set, clear blue eyes on either side of his aquiline nose. In the determined set to his tightly closed mouth with the surprisingly full lips.
Prim called him Uncle Fredric. Because that’s what he was. Among other things.
His uncle looked up as Prim stepped into the room, and Prim, as usual, wondered which Uncle Fredric was at home today. If any.
‘Who are you? Get out.’ His face was flushed with a mixture of contempt and amusement, and his voice lay in that deep register he used that made it impossible to be sure whether Uncle Fredric was joking or furious. He suffered from dementia with Lewy bodies, a brain disorder which not only brought about hallucinations and nightmares, but — as in his uncle’s case — occasionally aggressive behaviour. Mostly verbal, but also physical, rendering the limitations the muscle rigidity caused almost an advantage.
‘I’m Prim, Molle’s son.’ And before any possible response from his uncle, added: ‘Your sister.’
Prim looked at the only decoration on the wall, a framed diploma hanging over the bed. He had once brought and hung up a framed photo of his uncle, his mother and himself as a boy smiling by a swimming pool in Spain, a holiday his uncle had treated his sister and nephew to after his stepfather had left them.
But his uncle had taken the picture down after a few months, saying he couldn’t stand looking at so many rabbit teeth. He was obviously referring to the two large front teeth with a gap that Prim had inherited from his mother. But the diploma conferring the doctorate still hung there, with the name Fredric Steiner on it. He had changed the surname he shared with Prim’s mother because — as he had plainly told Prim — a Jewish surname held more weight and authority in scientific circles. Especially in his own field, microbiology, where there were few who could be bothered to pretend that it was not the case that Jews — particularly Ashkenazi Jews — had genes which granted them superior intellectual capabilities. While it might be sensible in terms of decorum and for political reasons to deny — or at least ignore — such a fact was all well and good, but a fact was a fact. So if Fredric had a mind that was as brilliant and highly functioning as a Jewish one, why humbly join the back of the queue with a staid, Norwegian peasant name?
‘I have a sister?’ his uncle asked.
‘You had a sister, don’t you remember?’
‘Goddamnit, boy, I have dementia, can’t you get that into your little pea brain? That nurse you came with... pretty nice, eh?’
‘So her you remember?’
‘My short-term memory is excellent. You want to bet some money on my fucking her before the weekend? Actually hang on, you probably don’t have any money either, you loser. When you were a little boy I had hopes for you. But now. You’re not even a disappointment, you’re just nothing.’
His uncle paused. Looked as though he were thinking carefully. ‘Or did you make anything of yourself? What is it you do?’
‘I’m not planning on telling you.’
‘Why not? I remember you were interested in music. Our family wasn’t musical in the slightest, but didn’t you fancy yourself becoming a musician?’
‘No.’
‘So what...?’
‘Firstly you’ll have forgotten it by the next time, and secondly you wouldn’t believe it.’
‘What about a family? Don’t look at me like that!’
‘I’m single. For the time being. But I have met one woman.’
‘One? Did you say one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Christ. Do you know how many women I’ve fucked?’
‘Yes.’
