The Redbreast

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