The Leopard(106)

Harry threw the phone to the end of the sofa, lurched to his feet, stooped to find his centre of gravity and staggered forwards using his head as a navigation aid and battering ram. It led him into the kitchen without any collisions of consequence, and he placed his hands on both sides of the sink before the fountain of vomit gushed from his mouth.

Opening his eyes again, he saw that the plate rack was still in the sink. The thin, yellowish green vomit was running down a single upright plate. Harry turned on the tap. One of the advantages of being an alcoholic back off the wagon was that by day two your sick stops blocking the drain.

Harry drank a little water from the tap. Not much. Another advantage the experienced alcoholic possesses is a knowledge of what his stomach can tolerate.

He went back to the living room, legs akimbo, as if he had just filled his pants. Which, as a matter of fact, he had not yet checked. He lay down on the sofa and heard a low croak coming from the far end. A small voice from a miniature person was calling his name. He groped between his feet and put the red mobile to his ear again.

‘What’s up?’

He wondered what he should do with the gall that was burning his throat like lava, cough it up or swallow it. Or let it burn, as he deserved.

He listened as she explained she wanted to see him. Would he meet her at Ekeberg restaurant? Like now. Or in an hour’s time.

Harry looked at the two empty bottles of Jim Beam on the coffee table and then at his watch. Seven. The Vinmonopol was closed. Restaurant bar.

‘Now,’ he said.

He clicked off, and the phone rang again. He looked at the display and pressed answer. ‘Hi, Øystein.’

‘Now you’re answering! Shit, Harry, I was beginning to wonder if you’d done a Hendrix.’

‘Can you drive me to Ekeberg restaurant?’

‘What the hell d’you think I am? A sodding taxi driver?’

Eighteen minutes later Øystein’s car stood outside the steps to Olav Hole’s house and he called through the opened window with a grin. ‘Need any help locking the bloody door, you drunken sot?’

‘Dinner?’ Øystein exclaimed as they drove by Nordstrand. ‘To fuck her or because you have fucked?’

‘Calm down. We work together.’

‘Exactly. As my ex-wife used to say: “You want what you see every day.” She must have read it in a glossy mag. Only she didn’t mean me, but that bastard at the office.’

‘You haven’t been married, Øystein.’

‘Could have been. The guy wore a Norwegian sweater and a tie and spoke nynorsk. Not dialect, but fucking national-romantic Nynorsk, Ivar Aasen style, I kid you not. Can you imagine what it’s like to sleep alone thinking that right now your could-have-been-wife is busy shagging on a desk. You visualise a coloured sweater and a bare white arse going hammer and tongs, until it stops and seems to suck in its cheeks and the clod howls: EG KJEM! I’ve come! In Nynorsk.’

Øystein glanced at Harry, but there was no reaction.

‘Christ, Harry, this is great humour. Are you that pissed?’

Kaja sat by the window, deep in thought, taking stock of the town, when a low cough made her turn. It was the head waiter; he had that apologetic it’s-on-the-menu-but-the-kitchen-says-we-don’t-have-it look, and had stooped very low over her, but spoke in such muffled tones that she could still hardly hear him.

‘I regret to say that your company has arrived.’ Then he amended his statement with a blush. ‘I mean, I regret to say we could not admit him. He’s a tad … animated, I’m afraid. And our policy in such—’

‘Fine,’ Kaja said, getting up. ‘Where is he?’

‘He’s outside waiting. I’m afraid he bought a drink from the bar on the way in, and he’s got it with him. Perhaps you might be so kind as to bring the glass back in. We could lose our licence for that sort of thing, you know.’

‘Of course, just get me my coat, would you, please?’ said Kaja, hurrying through the restaurant with the waiter nervously tripping along after her.

On emerging, she saw Harry. He was standing, swaying, next to the low wall by the slope where they had stood last time.

She joined him. There was an empty glass on the wall.

‘Doesn’t look like we’re meant to eat at this restaurant,’ she said. ‘Any suggestions?’

He shrugged and took a sip from his hip flask. ‘Bar at the Savoy. If you’re not too hungry.’

She pulled her coat around her more tightly. ‘I’m not that hungry, actually. What about showing me around a bit? This is your stamping ground, and I’ve got a car. You could show me the bunkers where you used to spend your time.’