'These gentlemen want you to open the ATM, Helge,' Stine said. 'What?' The voice came from inside the open door of the onlyĪ man with a bow tie and reading glasses appeared. 'Quick, we haven't got all day!' 'Helge!' Stine shouted over her shoulder. There was a hum of electronics, and the little man pressed the counter door against the wall with his knee. And the second hand on the clock, which now showed that ten seconds had passed.
The only indication that time hadn't stood still was the traffic outside the window. * It was like pressing the pause button: all movement in the bank froze. 'Money!' he said in a high-pitched squeak. The little one pushed his reflector sunglasses in place, walked forward and deposited an identical case beside it. 'Hello,' the tall man said to Stine, banging down a black case on the counter. The boy in the blue hat turned slowly and began to walk towards the exit, so preoccupied with counting money that he didn't see the two men. The tall man moved as if he were stepping over puddles, while the little one had the rolling gait of someone who has acquired more muscle than he can accommodate. The men ran over to the corner where Stine was sitting. Harry checked his watch and began to count. She also informed him that she worked in the bank, and he didn't, so on that note perhaps they should bring the discussion to a close.Īt that moment the door opened and two men, one tall, the other short, wearing the same overalls, strode into the bank. The woman was waiting to be served by fru Braenne, who was loudly explaining to a man on the telephone that he couldn't charge someone else's account unless the account holder had signed an agreement to that effect. Harry couldn't see, but he knew that in front of position number 3 there was a woman with a pram, which she was rocking, probably to distract herself, as the child was asleep. The diamond on the ring finger of her left hand glistened as she placed each note on the counter. Stine Grette sat at position number 1, counting out 730 Norwegian kroner for a boy in a blue woollen hat who had just given her a money order. It was 15.17 now, and finally it was August Schulz's turn. Harry couldn't see the face of the cashier, but he knew he was staring at the old man with a mixture of sympathy and irritation. A brown walking stick hung over his right forearm and his left hand gripped a bank giro he was holding out for the short-haired young man at position number 2. The impression of a mechanical doll was reinforced by the fact that his arms were bent perpendicularly at the elbow and thrust forward. And the stiff knees were the result of a fall from a Ringveien footbridge which he used on his daily visits to his daughter. Harry knew that August Schulz was eighty-one years old and an ex-clothes retailer who had lived all his life in Majorstuen, apart from a period he spent in Auschwitz during the War. One of those pensioners of whom Majorstuen seems to be full. Beneath it: tweed jacket, tie and worn grey trousers with a needle-sharp crease.
Hat plus elegant grey overcoat in dire need of a clean. The low October sun is reflected in the wing mirror of a car driving away in the rush hour. Outside the window, in Bogstadveien, the Friday crowds hurry past. Harry looked at the clock on the white wall above the exit. As if he were frightened to lose contact with the ground and float away into space. The comical short steps, the stiff movements, the dead, black eyes and the shoes shuffling along the parquet floor.
T he old man reminded Harry of an astronaut. Everyone asks what the meaning of life is, but no one asks about the meaning of death. We could have turned this life into something good, you and I. If you can see light at the end of the tunnel, it may be a spit of flame. I'm staring down the muzzle of a gun and I know that's where it will come from. I may have been heading this way all the time without realising. That wasn't the plan, not my plan, anyway. 48 Heinrich Schirmer 441 49 Stone Roses 446