The Redbreast(47)

course. Bjarne Møller’s sober words of farewell

hadn’t really been in keeping with her blue

balloons and sponge cake decorated with candles,

but the little speech had been nice enough anyway.

Presumably the head of Crime Squad knew that

Harry would never have forgiven him had he been

verbose or sentimental. And Harry had to admit he

had felt a tinge of pride when Møller congratulated

him on being made an inspector and wished him

luck in POT. Not even Tom Waaler’s sardonic

smile and light shake of the head from the

spectators’ ranks by the door at the back had

destroyed the occasion.

The intention of the trip to the office had been to

sit there one last time, in the creaking, broken

office chair, in the room where he had spent almost

seven years. Harry shivered. All this

sentimentality, he wondered, wasn’t that another

sign he was getting on?

Harry walked up Holbergs gate and turned left

into Sofies gate. Most of the properties in this

narrow street were workers’ flats dating back to

the turn of the century and not in the best condition.

But after the prices of flats had risen and young

middle-class people who couldn’t afford to live in

Majorstuen had moved in, the area had received

something of a face-lift. Now there was only one

property which had not had its façade done up

recently: number 8, Harry’s. It didn’t bother Harry

in the least.

He let himself in and opened the postbox in the

hallway. An offer on pizzas and an envelope from

Oslo City Treasurer which he immediately

assumed contained a reminder to pay his parking

fine from last month. He swore as he went up the

stairs. He had bought a fifteen-year-old Ford

Escort at a bargain price from an uncle whom,

strictly speaking, he didn’t know. It was a bit rusty

and the clutch was worn, it was true, but there was

a neat sun roof. So far, however, there had been

more parking fines and garage bills than hairs on

your head. On top of that, the shit heap wouldn’t

start, so he had to remember to park at the top of a

hill to push-start it.

He unlocked his front door. It was a spartanly

equipped two-room flat. Clean and tidy, no carpets

on the polished wooden floor. The only

decorations on the walls were a photograph of his

mother and Sis, and a poster of The Godfather he

had pinched from Symra cinema when he was

sixteen. There were no plants, no candles or cute

knick-knacks. He had once hung up a notice-board

he had thought he might use for postcards,

photographs or any words of wisdom he might

come across. In other people’s homes he had seen

boards like these. When he realised he never

received postcards, and basically never took

photos either, he cut out a quotation from

Bjørneboe:

And this acceleration in the production of

horsepower is again just one expression of

acceleration in our understanding of the so-

called laws of nature. This understanding =

angst.

With a single glance Harry established that there

were no messages on the answerphone (another

unnecessary investment), unbuttoned his shirt, put it

in the dirty-washing basket and took a clean one

from the tidy pile in the cupboard.

Harry left the answering machine on (perhaps

someone would call from the Norwegian Gallup

organisation), locked the door and left again.

Without a trace of sentimentality he bought the

last papers of the millennium from Ali’s shop, then

set off up Dovregata. In Waldemar Thranes gate

people were hurrying home for the big night. Harry

was shivering in his coat until he stepped into

Schrøder’s and the moist warmth of humanity hit

him in the face. It was fairly full, but he saw that

his favourite table was about to become free and

he steered towards it. The old man who had got up

from the table put on his hat, gave Harry a quick

once-over from under white bushy eyebrows, a

taciturn nod, and left. The table was by the

window and during the day it was one of the few in

the dimly lit room to have enough light to read by.

No sooner had he sat down than Maja was by his

side.

‘Hi, Harry.’ She smacked the tablecloth with a

grey duster. ‘Today’s special?’

‘If the cook’s sober.’

‘He is. Drink?’

‘Now we’re talking.’ He looked up. ‘What are

you recommending today?’

‘Right.’ She placed one hand on her hip and

proclaimed in a loud, clear voice, ‘Contrary to

what people think, this city has in fact the purest

drinking water in the country. And the least toxic

pipes are to be found in the properties built around

the turn of the century, such as this one.’

‘And who told you that, Maja?’