“The board told me to treat you to a meal fit for a king. This restaurant has a Michelin star.” Michael leaned across the table to whisper this information.
“Why?”
“Because their food is superb.”
“No, I mean why have you been told to treat me to a meal fit for a king?”
“You deserve it,” Michael laughed and raised his glass in a toast. There was a tiny, insincere glint in the corner of his eye. Clive was suddenly reminded of the evening when he had called Michael, and Michael, according to his daughter, had been at a meeting at the university, though he had told Clive he was babysitting. He confronted Michael with this. Michael smiled.
“I don’t really remember. When did you say it was?”
Clive continued to stare at him.
“It was the day I returned from my sick leave. The day you gave me the result of the cartilage condensation experiment.”
“Ah.” Michael’s face lit up. “That’s right. We had a departmental meeting, and—”
“You held a departmental meeting without me?” Clive interrupted him and lowered his menu.
“Yes, because you didn’t show up. We decided you probably weren’t feeling well enough yet. We actually didn’t start until seven thirty—in case you were late.”
Clive said nothing. He had no recollection of there being a departmental meeting that night. He always attended such meetings. Irritated, he raised his menu.
“I don’t know about you,” he said. “But I’m having the lobster.”
Chapter 9
Anna’s cell rang while she was shopping in the Netto supermarket on Jagtvejen. She didn’t recognize the number.
“Yes,” she said, absentmindedly.
“Anna Bella,” a hesitant voice began.
“Yes, that’s me. Who is it?”
“Birgit Helland.”
Anna froze.
“Is this a good time?” Mrs. Helland asked.
“Oh, yes,” Anna lied, trying desperately to think of something appropriate to say when you unexpectedly find yourself talking to the widow of a man you couldn’t stand.
“My condolences,” she said, sounding like an idiot, and quickly added: “It must be very hard for you.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Helland said quietly. “I have something for you,” she continued. “From Lars. I thought perhaps you might like to visit to collect it. I would like to meet you. Lars often spoke about you.” Birgit Helland’s voice was subdued but determined, as though she had rehearsed her lines. Anna had no idea how to respond.
“For me? Er, yes, of course. Do you want me to come over now or later?”
“Now would be good. If you can. The funeral is on Saturday, and on Sunday Nanna and I will go away for a while. So, if you could manage today, that would be good. Otherwise it won’t be for some weeks, and . . . well, I would like to meet you. I’m really sorry he can’t be there for you. Really very sorry. He was so looking forward to your dissertation defense.”
I bet he was looking forward to grilling me and failing me, Anna thought, but Mrs. Helland said: “He was so proud of you.”
Anna thought she must have misheard.
“Pardon?” she said.
“When can you get here?” Mrs. Helland asked.
“I just need to take my groceries home and then I’ll make my way to your house.”
“I appreciate it,” Mrs. Helland said. “See you very soon.”
The Hellands’s villa was in a suburb called Herlev, set back from the road and hidden behind a maze of scrub and bushes crippled by the frost. The gate was freshly painted. Anna heard birdsong in the front garden and spotted several feeding tables laden with seed balls and sheaves of wheat. She rang the doorbell. Birgit Helland was a tiny woman, just under five feet tall. Her eyes were red and her smile was pale.
“Hello, Anna,” she said, holding out a hand that felt more like a small piece of animal hide than something human. The house was clean and tidy, airy, and light. In the living room were books from floor to ceiling on the windowless wall facing a colossal garden. Mrs. Helland invited Anna to sit down on one of two white, wool-upholstered sofas and disappeared into the kitchen. Shortly afterward she appeared with cups and a teapot, which she placed on the coffee table.
“I’m really very sorry,” Anna said.
“I’m so glad you could come,” Mrs. Helland said. “We’re in a state, I’m afraid.” Tears started rolling down her cheeks, and she did nothing to stop them.
“I’m so sorry,” Anna said again.
“For the first two days the telephone wouldn’t stop ringing. The Dean, the Head of the Institute. Former postgraduate students, colleagues from all over the world. They all wanted to offer their condolences. Most out of genuine compassion, but quite a few just called out of politeness. I can’t imagine why anyone would offer their condolences if they didn’t care about the person who died, can you?”