Norwegian by Night Read Online Free PDF Page B

dreams. It was probably a door slamming. And then he hears approaching footsteps that are quick and even. The woman, perhaps. A heavy woman, or one wearing boots, or carrying something heavy. She is coming down the stairs. First the one flight, then a brief pause on the landing, then the other.
    It takes her the same time to manoeuvre down the staircase as it does Sheldon to get to the front door and spy her through the peephole.
    And there she is. The source, or focus, or even the cause of it all. Through the fisheye lens, Sheldon sees a young woman around thirty years old standing directly in front of his door. She is close enough that he can only see her from the waist up, but it is enough to place her. She wears a dark T-shirt under a cheap brown-leather jacket. She has gaudy costume jewellery, and her hair is styled with some thick mousse or gel that prevents it from responding to the normal forces of gravity.
    Everything about her says Balkans . Sheldon can only guess her life, and yet everything about it seems scripted, aside from her incongruous presence in Oslo. But that is easily explained by asylum practices. Maybe she was Serb or Kosovar or Albanian. Or maybe Romanian. Who knows?
    His first feeling is one of pity. Not for the person she is, but for the circumstances she faces.
    The feeling lasts until a memory transforms it.
    They did this with us, too , he thinks, looking through the peephole. And then the pity vanishes and is replaced by the indignation that lives just beneath the surface of his daily routines and quick retorts.
    The Europeans. Almost all of them, at one time or another. They looked out their peepholes — their little fishy eyes peeping out through bulging lenses, watching someone else’s flight — as their neighbours clutched their children to their chests while armed thugs chased them through buildings as though humanity itself was being exterminated. Behind the glass some felt afraid, others pitiful, others murderous and delighted.
    All were safe because of what they were not. They were not, for example, Jews.
    The woman spins around. Looking for something.
    What? What is she looking for?
    The fight has taken place only one floor above him. The monster upstairs could be down in seconds. Why is she delaying? Why is she hesitant? What is taking so long?
    There is rummaging upstairs. The monster is pushing and heaving and searching for something. He is moving walls and mountains. He is peeling the very darkness from the light to find it. At any moment he will stop and turn on her and demand it.
    Sheldon mutters under his breath. ‘Run, you fool. Get out, go to the police, and don’t look back. He’s going to kill you.’
    And then the bang echoes from upstairs. Same as before. It is the door hitting the wall behind it.
    Aloud, Sheldon says, ‘Run, you dummy. Why are you just standing there?’
    On a hunch, Sheldon turns his head and looks out the front window. And there is the answer. A white Mercedes is parked outside. Inside, men in cheap leather jackets are smoking cigarettes, barring her escape.
    And that seals it.
    Quietly, slowly, but without hesitation, Sheldon opens the door.
    What he sees is not what he expected.
    The woman is clutching an ugly pink box just big enough to hold an adult pair of shoes. And she is not alone. Pressed against her belly is a small boy, maybe seven or eight years old. He is clearly terrified. He is dressed in little blue wellington boots with yellow Paddington Bears painted on the sides by hand. Tucked inside carefully are beige corduroy trousers. On top, he is wrapped in a green jacket of waxed cotton.
    The footsteps from up above pound the floors. A voice hollers a name. Vera, maybe? Laura? Clara? Two syllables, anyway. Barked out. Coughed up.
    Sheldon ushers them in with his finger pressed against his lips.
    Vera looks up the stairs, then out the door. She does not look at Sheldon. She does not wonder about his intentions or