feel?”
“Ready.”
Lena drove him back to Zagreb. Marin and Sasha had waved goodbye, standing on the steps of the farmhouse like a family in a picture. Rygg had the briefcase on his lap, running his fingers across the handle. The knife lay under the textured leather, like a scorpion under a rock.
“You are nervous?” Lena asked as they wound up into the forest.
“Sure,” he said.
“That is good. It is good to be nervous. It keep you awake.”
“I guess so.” One moment he was walking to a bar in Hamburg, the next he was driving through a forest in Croatia with a knife hidden in his fucking briefcase handle. He turned to Lena. “How did I end up here?” he asked.
“This is the question I ask every morning. How? I could be in a nice dacha in Peredelkino, you know, with my book, with nice samovar, with my nice cat, my nice handsome man. Tall man with big muscles. But I am with short man, he smell like cigarette, I have to give him antibiotic injection in his buttock because he is shot, always we are running, always there is danger.” She laughed. “But if you give me one million dollar I can’t go to my dacha. I will stay with Marko Marin. Why? Because he is alive.” She pressed her fingers together at her heart, burst them open like a blossom in front of her face. “Alive.”
He thought about the screen, the spreadsheets. He’d be working on the damn exploration application right now, trying to get it done before five. He’d head back to Drammen, collapse into bed at nine, and the next morning it would all begin again, the commute past the gray girders, under the gray sky, then the numbers rolling up on his screen, the stacks of papers on his desk. Savor this , he thought. Savor this moment. This is the real thing, finally. After twenty years of hell. The real thing .
They had an hour in Zagreb before they had to be at the airport. Lena parked on a side street and led him to a central plaza. She held his elbow and leaned into him to guide him, her slender frame tapping against his. They walked down a wide path bordered with tulip beds. Colossal trees lined the path. On either side were buildings with frothy decorations and carven stone heads on the facades. They emerged onto a large square crisscrossed by tram tracks. In the center was a massive equestrian statue. Lena led him to a café opposite the statue. “That is the ban Jelacic sculpture,” she said. “It is a big … it has big meaning for Croatia. In communism, they hide it, some people who love their country. Then when the war is finished, they bring the sculpture. They are very proud people. You see how they have built their country? After the war, this city was nothing, but now … beautiful.”
“What’s Russia really like? I’ve only once briefly visited the Kola Peninsula and it wasn’t much to write home about, if you know what I mean.”
The tea and coffee arrived, with croissants. She waited to speak until the waiter left.
“Russia,” she said, more quietly. He loved the sound of the word from her mouth. “I grew up near to St. Petersburg. Also beautiful city. Big streets. Canals. In winter it is very beautiful.” She looked into the square. “But Russia is now the country of the fat men. They eat the beautiful. They want only money, money. For them, people, the people of Russia are like, are like sheeps, to use for money. And Russia for them is only a, how you say, something to take from. To destroy. My father was like this. But Russia is the country of Tolstoy, Chekhov, Tchaikovsky.” Her lips trembled slightly, but she sipped her tea, and when she turned to him, her blue eyes were dry. “Drink your coffee, Torgrim,” she said. “We must go to the airport, I think.”
April 9
Dmitri was leaning next to Ilya. Their hands were stained purple with beet juice, and the small galley was filled with the rich, earthy smell of beets. They worked as slowly as they could, extending this time away from the cramped room,
“Ready.”
Lena drove him back to Zagreb. Marin and Sasha had waved goodbye, standing on the steps of the farmhouse like a family in a picture. Rygg had the briefcase on his lap, running his fingers across the handle. The knife lay under the textured leather, like a scorpion under a rock.
“You are nervous?” Lena asked as they wound up into the forest.
“Sure,” he said.
“That is good. It is good to be nervous. It keep you awake.”
“I guess so.” One moment he was walking to a bar in Hamburg, the next he was driving through a forest in Croatia with a knife hidden in his fucking briefcase handle. He turned to Lena. “How did I end up here?” he asked.
“This is the question I ask every morning. How? I could be in a nice dacha in Peredelkino, you know, with my book, with nice samovar, with my nice cat, my nice handsome man. Tall man with big muscles. But I am with short man, he smell like cigarette, I have to give him antibiotic injection in his buttock because he is shot, always we are running, always there is danger.” She laughed. “But if you give me one million dollar I can’t go to my dacha. I will stay with Marko Marin. Why? Because he is alive.” She pressed her fingers together at her heart, burst them open like a blossom in front of her face. “Alive.”
He thought about the screen, the spreadsheets. He’d be working on the damn exploration application right now, trying to get it done before five. He’d head back to Drammen, collapse into bed at nine, and the next morning it would all begin again, the commute past the gray girders, under the gray sky, then the numbers rolling up on his screen, the stacks of papers on his desk. Savor this , he thought. Savor this moment. This is the real thing, finally. After twenty years of hell. The real thing .
They had an hour in Zagreb before they had to be at the airport. Lena parked on a side street and led him to a central plaza. She held his elbow and leaned into him to guide him, her slender frame tapping against his. They walked down a wide path bordered with tulip beds. Colossal trees lined the path. On either side were buildings with frothy decorations and carven stone heads on the facades. They emerged onto a large square crisscrossed by tram tracks. In the center was a massive equestrian statue. Lena led him to a café opposite the statue. “That is the ban Jelacic sculpture,” she said. “It is a big … it has big meaning for Croatia. In communism, they hide it, some people who love their country. Then when the war is finished, they bring the sculpture. They are very proud people. You see how they have built their country? After the war, this city was nothing, but now … beautiful.”
“What’s Russia really like? I’ve only once briefly visited the Kola Peninsula and it wasn’t much to write home about, if you know what I mean.”
The tea and coffee arrived, with croissants. She waited to speak until the waiter left.
“Russia,” she said, more quietly. He loved the sound of the word from her mouth. “I grew up near to St. Petersburg. Also beautiful city. Big streets. Canals. In winter it is very beautiful.” She looked into the square. “But Russia is now the country of the fat men. They eat the beautiful. They want only money, money. For them, people, the people of Russia are like, are like sheeps, to use for money. And Russia for them is only a, how you say, something to take from. To destroy. My father was like this. But Russia is the country of Tolstoy, Chekhov, Tchaikovsky.” Her lips trembled slightly, but she sipped her tea, and when she turned to him, her blue eyes were dry. “Drink your coffee, Torgrim,” she said. “We must go to the airport, I think.”
April 9
Dmitri was leaning next to Ilya. Their hands were stained purple with beet juice, and the small galley was filled with the rich, earthy smell of beets. They worked as slowly as they could, extending this time away from the cramped room,
Similar Books
