1
Toll Barrier at Alnabru. 1 November
1999.
A GREY BIRD GLIDED IN AND OUT OF HARRY’S FIELD
OF vision. He drummed his fingers on the steering
wheel. Slow time. Somebody had been talking
about ‘slow time’ on TV yesterday. This was slow
time. Like on Christmas Eve before Father
Christmas came. Or sitting in the electric chair
before the current was turned on.
He drummed harder.
They were parked in the open area behind the
ticket booths at the toll gate. Ellen turned up the
radio a notch. The commentator spoke with
reverence and solemnity.
‘The plane landed fifty minutes ago, and at
exactly 6.38 a.m. the President set foot on
Norwegian soil. He was welcomed by the Mayor
of Ullensaker. It is a wonderful autumn day here in
Oslo: a splendid Norwegian backdrop to this
summit meeting. Let us hear again what the
President said at the press conference half an hour
ago.’
It was the third time. Again Harry saw the
screaming press corps thronging against the
barrier. The men in grey suits on the other side,
who made only a half-hearted attempt not to look
like Secret Service agents, hunched their shoulders
and then relaxed them as they scanned the crowd,
checked for the twelfth time that their earpieces
were correctly positioned, scanned the crowd,
dwelled for a few seconds on a photographer
whose telephoto lens was a little too long,
continued scanning, checked for the thirteenth time
that their earpieces were in position. Someone
welcomed the President in English, everything
went quiet. Then a scratching noise in a
microphone.
‘First, let me say I’m delighted to be here . . .’ the
President said for the fourth time in husky, broad
American-English.
‘I read that a well-known American psychologist
thinks the President has an MPD,’ Ellen said.
‘MPD?’
‘Multiple Personality Disorder. Dr Jekyll and Mr
Hyde. The psychologist thought his normal
personality was not aware that the other one, the
sex beast, was having relations with all these
women. And that was why a Court of Impeachment
couldn’t accuse him of having lied under oath
about it.’
‘Jesus,’ Harry said, looking up at the helicopter
hovering high above them.
On the radio, someone speaking with a
Norwegian accent asked, ‘Mr President, this is the
fourth visit to Norway by a sitting US President.
How does it feel?’
Pause.
‘It’s really nice to be back here. And I see it as
even more important that the leaders of the state of
Israel and of the Palestinian people can meet here.
The key to —’
‘Can you remember anything from your previous
visit to Norway, Mr President?’
‘Yes, of course. In today’s talks I hope that we
can —’
‘What significance have Oslo and Norway had
for world peace, Mr President?’
‘Norway has played an important role.’
A voice without a Norwegian accent: ‘What
concrete results does the President consider to be
realistic?’
The recording was cut and someone from the
studio took over.
‘We heard there the President saying that Norway
has had a crucial role in ...er, the Middle Eastern
peace process. Right now the President is on his
way to —’
Harry groaned and switched off the radio. ‘What
is it with this country, Ellen?’
She shrugged her shoulders.
‘Passed Post 27,’ the walkie-talkie on the
dashboard crackled.
He looked at her.
‘Everyone ready at their posts?’ he asked. She
nodded.
‘Here we go,’ he said. She rolled her eyes. It was
the fifth time he had said that since the procession
set off from Gardemoen Airport. From where they
were parked they could see the empty motorway
stretch out from the toll barrier up towards
Trosterud and Furuset. The blue light on the roof
rotated sluggishly. Harry rolled down the car
window to stick out his hand and remove a
withered yellow leaf caught under the windscreen
wiper.
‘A robin redbreast,’ Ellen said, pointing. ‘Rare to
see one so late in autumn.’
‘Where?’
‘There. On the roof of the toll booth.’
Harry lowered his head and peered through the
windscreen.
‘Oh yes. So that’s a robin redbreast?’
‘Yep. But you probably can’t tell the difference
between that and a redwing, I imagine?’
‘Right.’ Harry shaded his eyes. Was he becoming
short-sighted?
‘It’s a rare bird, the redbreast,’ Ellen said,
screwing the top back on the thermos.
‘Is that a fact?’ Harry said.
‘Ninety per cent of them migrate south. A few