Monday morning, Henning hangs up his jacket at the office and looks at Iver Gundersen’s face. As always it displays traces of the night before. The bags under his eyes are puffy. His cheeks and chin are unshaven even though some areas show evidence of a razor. His long hair falls like a fringed scarf over his shoulders. The fibres on the elbows of his cord jacket are frayed.
Henning nods quickly in Iver’s direction, thinking he can detect a hint of Nora’s moisturiser across the table. Sodding coconut.
‘Good weekend?’ Iver says, without looking at Henning.
‘It was all right.’
Henning registers a nod, but doesn’t feel the need to reciprocate. He sits down, turns on his computer, puts down his mobile, removes some papers from his desk and types in his username and password. Other journalists start to arrive. Henning hears sleepy grunts, chit-chat, someone laughs. He has no idea how he will be able to concentrate on work today.
He only managed a few hours’ shut-eye before going to the office. His sleep was fitful, and he woke up with a pounding headache that has yet to release its grip on him. However, he managed to do some research last night which he hopes will be useful during the day. The question, simply, is when.
‘Coffee?’
Iver gets up. Henning shakes his head even though he quite fancies a cup. Iver lingers for a moment before he hurries to join the queue, occasionally stealing a glance at the national news section where Henning is sitting. He looks away whenever Henning looks back at him.
Henning remembers how Iver, in the weeks that followed the Henriette Hagerup story, was very happy to accept pats on the back when he didn’t think Henning was watching. But his smug and self-satisfied facade disappeared whenever Henning entered his field of vision. Iver’s eyes took on an unfathomable expression. Gratitude, possibly, mixed with guilt and a kind of shame because Henning knew the real truth. And for that very reason there was also irritation and even resentment. Ever since Iver returned from his holidays, they have only exchanged small talk, but Henning senses that something unspoken hangs in the air between them.
‘The Eagle is in a bad mood today,’ Iver says when he comes back.
‘Who is?’
‘Heidi. She dropped by earlier.’
‘Right.’
The Eagle, Henning thinks. Good nickname. He clicks on the publishing tool and opens some websites.
‘Are you ready for the morning meeting?’ Iver asks as he sits down.
‘I’ve tried and tried, Mrs Blom.’
Iver quickly presses some buttons on his mobile before he puts it down. He stares vacantly into space‚ then he suddenly turns to Henning.
‘Who the hell is Mrs Blom?’
Henning meets Iver’s puzzled face.
‘I keep hearing people talk about her, but I’ve no idea who she is. I doubt that anyone does.’
‘Why — because you don’t?’
‘No,’ Iver says, a little shamefaced. ‘But nowadays people use all these expressions without knowing what they really mean or where they come from. “Once in a blue moon.” “Fit as a fiddle.” “Not on my nelly.” “I’ve tried and tried, Mrs Blom.” I find it really quite irritating.’
Henning looks briefly at Iver before he says, ‘It’s a term intended to express moderation or reservation.’
‘Yes, I get that, obviously. But who is Mrs Blom?’
Again there is silence between the desks.
‘It’s a line from Carousel,’ Henning says, reluctantly.
‘Eh?’
‘It’s a comedy by Alex Brinchmann. There is no mention of a Mrs Blom in the script, but the actor Per Aabel ad-libbed during rehearsals. And it stayed in.’
Iver sips his coffee.
‘That’s all there is to it, seriously?’ he says, sounding incredulous as he turns his mug in his hands.
‘That depends entirely on how you look at it. Do you want me to go through the other expressions?’
Iver stares at Henning for a long time, initially with amazement, until he realises that Henning isn’t joking. Iver looks at his watch.
‘We haven’t got time,’ he says, getting up. ‘The Eagle awaits.’