fabulous choice. Imagine having to tramp around in the jungle after a man who enjoys shooting helpless animals!”
What about your coat, Orient thought.
When they reached their compartment, Sybelle tucked her fur coat under her round chin and promptly fell asleep.
Orient, now fully awake, was left to stare out at the approaching darkness as the train rolled out of Stockholm and headed North. A small seed of anticipation took root and flowered as he looked ahead to a busy week in the company of professional colleagues. As the hours passed, however, the sleepless grind dried up his optimism and anticipation eroded into impatience to reach Bestman’s home and find a bed.
Sybelle slept the entire six hours and when the train arrived at the small station marked Hudiksvall, Orient had to try three times before he succeeded in rousing her. He looked in vain for a porter and finally had to pass the six suitcases through the window to a still-bleary Sybelle on the platform, and then hurry off the train just as it started moving.
“Okay, we’re here. Where’s Bestman?”
Sybelle blinked and looked around. “See a big black Mercedes anywhere?” she mumbled.
Orient pulled his collar up and jammed his hands into his pockets. The wind blew in gusts down from the dark hills behind the station and swept across the wide canal on the other side. The station house was a dimly lit, two-story building. It looked closed. Orient shivered as he waited for Sybelle to get her bearings.
“Carl always sends his car,” Sybelle insisted. “Try the entrance.”
Orient walked around the unlit side of the building, moving slowly in the unfamiliar shadows. The blackness above him was crammed with thousands of stars, their hard sparkles competing with the velvet glow of a distant moon.
He stepped out of the darkness to the front. The station faced a single, deserted street. He took a few steps toward the streetlamp.
There was no car in sight along the narrow road that ran from the station entrance into the wind-swept darkness. A dog barked somewhere.
He heard the sound of an approaching motor, and he stood waiting in the light of the streetlamp, hopping from foot to foot, to keep his blood circulating in the numbing wind.
A pair of headlights beamed through the shadows, bobbing across the tangled branches of the trees lining the road.
The car wasn’t a Mercedes, but, to Orient’s relief, was an unoccupied Volvo taxi. He waved it to a stop and in a halting mixture of Swedish and English asked the driver to pull around to the side of the station.
After the bags had been fitted in the trunk and overhead rack, Orient crawled into the back seat. “We’re loaded. Now just tell our friend where to deliver us.”
Sybelle stared at the driver. “I don’t recall. Oh, dear. Does he know Bestman Herrgard?”
The driver scowled at Orient and shook his head. “Nay. Nay Bestmon Herrgard.” He raced the motor impatiently.
“I just can’t remember the address, but I’ve heard it many times before.” She bit her lip. “Sounds something like Weekhawken. I’m so bad with linguistics. North Weecoogan. I think that’s it.” She smiled brightly at the driver.
“Nord-vee-coo-gan?” she pronounced slowly.
The driver shut the motor off and turned around to squint glumly at Sybelle. “Hey?” he said finally.
“North wee-cow-gen?” she ventured hopefully.
The driver shrugged. “Norbo-scoogarna, maybe,” was all he could suggest. He started the car and pulled away from the station.
The slow, steady throb of the motor was monotonous but reassuring as the taxi moved through the enclosing stillness.
The car’s headlights only managed to pierce the blackness for a short distance before their glow was swallowed by the shadows at the edge of the road. They drove slowly through an immense stretch of forest on a road that seemed to be getting narrower with every mile.
“Recognize any of this?”
“Could be...” Sybelle said without
What about your coat, Orient thought.
When they reached their compartment, Sybelle tucked her fur coat under her round chin and promptly fell asleep.
Orient, now fully awake, was left to stare out at the approaching darkness as the train rolled out of Stockholm and headed North. A small seed of anticipation took root and flowered as he looked ahead to a busy week in the company of professional colleagues. As the hours passed, however, the sleepless grind dried up his optimism and anticipation eroded into impatience to reach Bestman’s home and find a bed.
Sybelle slept the entire six hours and when the train arrived at the small station marked Hudiksvall, Orient had to try three times before he succeeded in rousing her. He looked in vain for a porter and finally had to pass the six suitcases through the window to a still-bleary Sybelle on the platform, and then hurry off the train just as it started moving.
“Okay, we’re here. Where’s Bestman?”
Sybelle blinked and looked around. “See a big black Mercedes anywhere?” she mumbled.
Orient pulled his collar up and jammed his hands into his pockets. The wind blew in gusts down from the dark hills behind the station and swept across the wide canal on the other side. The station house was a dimly lit, two-story building. It looked closed. Orient shivered as he waited for Sybelle to get her bearings.
“Carl always sends his car,” Sybelle insisted. “Try the entrance.”
Orient walked around the unlit side of the building, moving slowly in the unfamiliar shadows. The blackness above him was crammed with thousands of stars, their hard sparkles competing with the velvet glow of a distant moon.
He stepped out of the darkness to the front. The station faced a single, deserted street. He took a few steps toward the streetlamp.
There was no car in sight along the narrow road that ran from the station entrance into the wind-swept darkness. A dog barked somewhere.
He heard the sound of an approaching motor, and he stood waiting in the light of the streetlamp, hopping from foot to foot, to keep his blood circulating in the numbing wind.
A pair of headlights beamed through the shadows, bobbing across the tangled branches of the trees lining the road.
The car wasn’t a Mercedes, but, to Orient’s relief, was an unoccupied Volvo taxi. He waved it to a stop and in a halting mixture of Swedish and English asked the driver to pull around to the side of the station.
After the bags had been fitted in the trunk and overhead rack, Orient crawled into the back seat. “We’re loaded. Now just tell our friend where to deliver us.”
Sybelle stared at the driver. “I don’t recall. Oh, dear. Does he know Bestman Herrgard?”
The driver scowled at Orient and shook his head. “Nay. Nay Bestmon Herrgard.” He raced the motor impatiently.
“I just can’t remember the address, but I’ve heard it many times before.” She bit her lip. “Sounds something like Weekhawken. I’m so bad with linguistics. North Weecoogan. I think that’s it.” She smiled brightly at the driver.
“Nord-vee-coo-gan?” she pronounced slowly.
The driver shut the motor off and turned around to squint glumly at Sybelle. “Hey?” he said finally.
“North wee-cow-gen?” she ventured hopefully.
The driver shrugged. “Norbo-scoogarna, maybe,” was all he could suggest. He started the car and pulled away from the station.
The slow, steady throb of the motor was monotonous but reassuring as the taxi moved through the enclosing stillness.
The car’s headlights only managed to pierce the blackness for a short distance before their glow was swallowed by the shadows at the edge of the road. They drove slowly through an immense stretch of forest on a road that seemed to be getting narrower with every mile.
“Recognize any of this?”
“Could be...” Sybelle said without
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