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  Soon after she was sitting on the bus seat beside him, with her hands folded around her brown handbag. “We’ll go to the Suit Store,” she said with authority. “They have XXL. You really must stop putting sugar on your bread,” she added. “You’ll get diabetes.”

  He didn’t answer. He sat on the seat beside her and breathed in the scent of soap. He liked sitting on the bus, swaying along with the low, drowsy humming of the engine and the smell of the new red plush seats. The smell of strangers he didn’t need to interact with.

  The Suit Store was on the second floor of the shopping center, so they took the escalator up. There were racks of sale items outside the store, all old stock that had been reduced.

  “I want a pair of pants and a sweatshirt,” he said, loud and clear, to the young sales assistant who came over. “The pants have to be black. With lots of pockets, front, back, and on the legs. Not denim—it has to be some other material. I hate stiff clothes. Extra large, because I’m a big boy.”

  The sales assistant smiled and showed her white teeth. Her skin was as dark as chocolate and her hair was black.

  “You’re not Norwegian,” Eddie said, more a statement than anything else.

  “I am too,” she retorted. “My dad’s Ethiopian, but I was born and brought up in Norway. Look, these pants have lots of pockets. Six in front and two at the back—how’s that?”

  “They’re not black,” Eddie said, dissatisfied.

  “No, but it’s the closest I’ve got in your size. If the pockets are so important. We do have other pants that are black, but they’re jeans. And you just said you didn’t want jeans.”

  “Ah well,” Eddie said. “I guess I’ll be going home with dark blue pants today, then. To think you can’t even satisfy such a simple request. And the sweatshirt,” he continued. “Black as well. Have you ever been to Ethiopia to look for your roots?” he asked out of curiosity.

  “Don’t be so nosy,” his mother interrupted. “Why don’t you just go to the fitting room and try on the pants? I’ll look for a sweatshirt. You shouldn’t ask people where they come from—it’s none of your business. How would you like it if people asked and went on about your origins?”

  “I wouldn’t mind; I’d like it,” he said. He pulled open the curtain and went into the narrow changing room. He took off his old pants and tried on the new ones. His mother came back with a sweatshirt she had found with New York on it. He didn’t even want to try it on because he could see it would fit. Mass paid 720 kroner for the clothes and Eddie carried the bag out of the store.

  They stood in front of the counter in Christiania Café on the first floor.

  “You can have a sandwich and some pie,” Mass said. “I’m going to have waffles and jam. Listen, Eddie, you really mustn’t ask people where they’re from.”

  “But Ethiopia’s a nice place,” he said. “It’s not anything to be ashamed of.”

  They sat down at a table by the window. Eddie pressed his custard slice down on the plate, trying to break the top layer into small pieces.

  “Do you remember when we came back from Las Palmas? Do you remember the Negro who fell on the escalator at Gardermoen?” he asked. “He broke both his legs. In several places. It was terrible.”

  “You shouldn’t say Negro,” Mass corrected him. “What made you think about him anyway?”

  “Well, we have to go down the escalator too. We’d better be careful. Hold on to the handrail. I’ll carry the bags.” He licked his lips.

  “I’m going to watch Tracker Tore tonight. I wonder who he’s going to help this time, and if they’ll find who they’re looking for,” he said. “It always starts me thinking about Gran and Granddad. And all the others on Dad’s side. Where they came from. And everyone before them. And how they lived. And what they did.”

  Mass took a sip of coffee. “But they’re dead,” she objected. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s you and me now, and I think we manage very well.”

  She ate some of her waffle. “Perhaps you should get a girlfriend,” she said. “After all, I’m not going to be here forever.”

  Eddie looked up with a horrified expression on his face. “Why do I need a girlfriend when I’ve got you?” he exclaimed. “Were you upset when Dad left?”

  “No,” she replied. “Not really. I think I was expecting it. He was a womanizer, Eddie, just so you know. He found someone else—someone much younger than me, of course. That’s just the way men are. But then he got ill and died, so she didn’t get much joy from him either. I don’t know if they had any children; maybe they did. But we’ve talked about all this before, Eddie. There’s nothing more to tell.”

  “It sounds like you think it’s all OK,” Eddie said, offended. “Didn’t you think about me?”

  “Of course I did. I just didn’t want you to grow up with a father who didn’t want us.”

  Later that afternoon, Eddie sat on the sofa with the newspaper. He liked to read the deaths and obituaries, savoring them like candy. Lots of old ladies who tasted like camphor. Some, like all the little children, were as sweet as toffee. And some were stronger than Turkish pepper. It might be a murder or a suicide, or the many who lost the fight against cancer. His thoughts started to wander. Then he returned to the crossword. Corona, five letters, and the last one was “s.” He knew that Corona was a beer; he knew that it was a town. And it also had something to do with the sun. He looked it up on the Internet and discovered to his great surprise that it was also a virus. The things I know! he thought to himself happily. I’ve got my eye on the ball.

  3

  HER SON WAS ASLEEP beside her, a damp lock of hair on his forehead. Four and a half years old, with big blond curls and small white hands with nails like mother-of-pearl.

  “Simon,” she whispered, “are you awake? The day has begun and we have to get up.”

  The boy wriggled and turned over; he wanted to carry on sleeping.

  “I’ll get up without you, then, and make the porridge,” she said with some resignation, putting one foot down on the floor. “With butter and raisins and sugar and cinnamon.”

  What sounded like a sigh came from the child, as though the thought of buttery porridge had penetrated his sleep. She kissed him on the cheek; it was warm and covered in the finest down. Then she pulled on a thick sweater and crossed the cold floor into the kitchen. She poured some milk into a pan and added oats and a teaspoon of salt. And finally a handful of raisins. Then she went back into the bedroom and lifted the boy up from the bed. He opened his eyes drowsily and put his arms around her neck. He weighed next to nothing. She carried him into the bathroom and helped him get dressed while he leaned against the sink. Eventually he sat down at the kitchen table. And like every other morning, he threw a tantrum. “I don’t want to go to daycare,” he screamed, banging his spoon on the table and making the porridge bowl jump. Bonnie felt like crying.

  “But you’ll have a great time,” she said as enthusiastically as she could. “You can play with Märta. And you might get hot chocolate with marshmallows.” She stroked his cheek. He kept on banging the table with his spoon. All he wanted was to be with his mother, and more than anything, he wanted to be back in bed under the warm comforter. Bonnie poured milk onto his porridge and sprinkled some sugar on top.

  “I’ll be home this afternoon, so we can have fun together then,” she said. “We can make a tent with the blanket and two chairs, and we can pretend you live in the tent. I can give you supper in there. That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

  At daycare, the children each had their own picture by their coat pegs. Simon’s was of a snail, carrying its little house around on its back, its tentacles standing up like two antennae. Simon sat down heavily on the pine bench as his mother took off his jacket and then his hat and scarf, mittens, and toasty boots. He collapsed in a little heap. He didn’t have the energy to protest anymore; he knew that his mother had to go. She took him by the hand and led him to the other children, who were milling around.


  This can’t be right, Bonnie thought, leaving him with others. Being away all day. It should be him and me all day long. Her child next to her body, her child within arm’s reach, so she could comfort him if anything should happen. They only had a meager three hours together in the evening. Her guilty conscience gnawed away at her, but she had to work. She was a home health aide who washed, scrubbed, and polished for old people; she vacuumed carpets, shook out rugs, and served food. Today she was going to Erna first, and Erna was always a challenge.

  “Good morning, Simon,” said Kaja, who was the head of the daycare. “And what would you like to do today?”

  He didn’t have an answer. The little boy wasn’t used to having his wishes fulfilled. He slowly wandered across the room, sat down on the big corner sofa, and picked up a picture book. He started to turn the pages with his thin fingers. He could read a few words—his mother had taught him—the word ice cream and the word ape, and his own name. As his mother’s back disappeared through the door, he got up and ran over to the window. He watched the taillights disappear through the gate and down the road. Now he had to wait for nine hours. He walked slowly back to the sofa and started to look through the book. Kaja sat down beside him.

  “You’re on kitchen duty today,” she said with a smile. “You’ll enjoy that, won’t you? We’re going to make bread rolls. And you can knead the dough.”

  Simon didn’t answer this either. The sight of the unhappy little thing who was only four and a half years old nearly broke Kaja’s heart. No one should have to leave a crying child. It was wrong and she really felt for Bonnie Hayden. She tried to think about all the positive things: he didn’t go hungry or get cold; he was a much-loved child. And that couldn’t be said for all the children in her care.

  Once in the car, Bonnie took a moment to pull herself together. It was the same pain every morning, the same terrible feeling of guilt that she had to push back down. She drove through the gate, on her way to Erna, who was incredibly demanding. She cursed her mean little life, the fight she had every morning with her crying son. Everyone else seemed so much happier than she was—had more energy and plans and dreams for themselves and their children. She often wondered if Simon would manage to get by in life and worried that he would also fall short and be left on the outside. Life was an endless succession of obligations and demands. He had to manage on his own at daycare. He had to make friends and get on with the staff and other children. Then he’d have to do well at school, get good marks, and learn to socialize. He would eventually grow up and have to get a job—preferably a well-paid one. Something secure. And she hoped he would get a girlfriend and that they would have children. And if they didn’t have children, they would have to explain why. No, we don’t want children or we can’t have children. And if they did have children, they would have to manage the endless expectations of society. My little Simon, she thought with smarting eyes. How will things turn out for him?

  The car spluttered when she shifted to fourth gear because there was a hole in the exhaust. It was about to fall to pieces, and if it did, she couldn’t afford to buy a new one. And if she didn’t have a car, she couldn’t keep her job as a home health aide. Her heart got stuck in her throat at the thought. She gritted her teeth and put her foot on the accelerator. She knew that Erna would be sitting by the window, watching out for her like a hawk.

  Erna’s profile looked like it had been carved in stone as she sat waiting by the window. Bonnie could see the sharp ridge of her nose through the glass. The old woman took her time opening the door as usual, and only with great reluctance let her in. She always liked to make a point. As soon as Bonnie walked through the door, she breathed in the familiar smell of old people who are no longer able to look after themselves.

  “It’s cold today,” Erna complained. “You’ll have to put the heat on. My legs are like ice. What about you?”

  “Thank you for asking,” Bonnie said. “Simon was completely blue with cold when we left for daycare.”

  “You mothers today, you just abandon your children,” Erna said sharply. “We didn’t do that in my day; we were at home with them all day. And why is it you don’t have a husband? Was he not getting what he wanted? You know what men are like.”

  “He left, I’ve told you before,” Bonnie replied, upset. “He met someone younger, and there was nothing I could do. You should have seen him; he was completely obsessed. And I don’t want another man. One was enough.”

  Once she’d hung up her coat, she went into Erna’s bedroom. In the corner of the room, there was a basket full of socks. Bonnie felt exhausted just at the sight of them. She stood for a while by the bed, her head hanging. If only she could lie down on the soft mattress. Her head ached with tiredness, and though she couldn’t bear the thought of starting to clean, she picked up the basket of socks and went back into the living room. On the way out, she looked up briefly to study a photograph that was hung on the wall. It was of Erna at her confirmation, wearing a long dress. Every time Bonnie saw the picture, she was astonished. Could that really be Erna? It was hard to believe because the young girl in the picture was beautiful and beaming.

  Erna was sitting in a wing chair with a blanket over her knees, watching her every move. Bonnie could feel her gimlet eyes on her back. She took a sock from the basket and bent down, lifted the heavy oak coffee table, and put the thick sock on one of the legs. Then she put a sock on the second, third, and fourth. She did the same on the armchairs, which were also as heavy as lead. Erna had an enormous dining table and six chairs at the other end of the room. Soon all of Erna’s furniture was wearing white tennis socks with a red-and-blue stripe. Then it was time to get the heavy vacuum cleaner from the cupboard. The furniture was now protected from the vacuum head, which might otherwise bang against the legs and dent the wood. Erna was worried about wear and tear and the socks were a fixed ritual. Her eyes followed Bonnie as she worked. Her hands lay like claws in her lap and she moved her face from side to side like a bird of prey.

  “We have to wash the windows today,” she commanded. “There are marks all over them. Will you never learn to use the squeegee without leaving streaks?”

  Bonnie answered loudly over the noise of the vacuum cleaner. “It’s too cold, Erna,” she said in a tired voice. But Erna had an answer for that.

  “Put a little denatured alcohol in the water,” she said. “It’s in the cupboard under the sink.”

  Bonnie didn’t have the energy to reply. She coaxed the vacuum head in between the table legs, terrified of hitting the precious woodwork. Because then Erna would flare up, call the office, and complain. She’d say that Bonnie was sloppy and didn’t care. Not that Ragnhild in the office ever listened to her, but it was still unpleasant. Erna’s radio was on; she was listening to the news. A caseworker in one of the employment offices in Oslo had been threatened with a knife.

  “It was probably a foreigner,” Erna said. “An African, no doubt. Those people don’t know how to behave decently; they just come here to sponge off us.”

  Bonnie straightened up to release her back. She had waited in a line at the employment office herself when she was unemployed and on the dole, and had noticed that there were a lot of foreigners there. She was not proud of her bitter thoughts at the time. She bent down to carry on vacuuming. Simon, where are you now? Are you sitting inside the little house in the play corner, or are you on the sofa with a book? Or maybe you’re outside sledding with the others. Don’t cry; I’ll be there soon. I just have to clean. Every day I have to clean. And maybe if I work really hard and save as much as I can, we can buy a plane ticket. To the Mediterranean. And then you can swim in warm water and play on the soft white sand.

  “I hope the African is sent home,” Erna announced from the wing chair.

  “If it was an African,” Bonnie said. “Norwegians can threaten people too, if they think it’s necessary.”

  She moved the floor lamp and a basket of newspapers, and glanced over at the windows as she did s
o. They were polished like a mirror. Denatured alcohol in the water? She wasn’t going to get away with not doing it. She would have to stand on a stepladder in the snow to do the outside because the big living-room windows couldn’t be opened. She put the vacuum cleaner back in the cupboard, closed the door, and sat down in a chair; she just wanted to rest a little. Organ music poured out of the radio. Erna had closed her eyes.

  Now Bonnie had to wash the floor. She filled a bucket with warm water—but not too warm because that might damage the sheen on the oak parquet. Erna was persnickety about that. Then she did the kitchen and the bedroom, and finally the bathroom. The grout between the tiles was gray and Erna had suggested that she use a toothbrush to clean it properly.

  Bonnie shook out the rugs. She did the laundry and changed the bed. Then she sat down at the kitchen table and polished a five-armed silver candelabra that Erna had once bought in Egypt. According to her job description, she wasn’t supposed to do that kind of thing, but it was a job she liked. It was a welcome relief. She could sit still and rest her back. The candelabra sparkled when she was finished. But then she had to balance in the snow outside the living-room windows, while Erna stood inside and made sure she did a thorough job. She mustn’t leave any streaks from the squeegee or she was done for. Her hands were freezing inside the rubber gloves, and her ears were cold. When she was finished, she carried the stepladder inside and put it away. She watered the plants and dusted, carried old newspapers out to the recycling bin, changed a light bulb that had blown in the kitchen, and put five white candles in the newly polished candelabra. Next she went through the food in the fridge. Quite a lot was past its sell-by date, including the milk, cheese, and ham. Eventually she collapsed onto a chair. Half a day’s work done. Now she had to go to Marie’s, which was a lot easier, as Marie lived in a small apartment in a complex for the elderly. Erna got up from the wing chair and shuffled across the floor to her bedroom. Bonnie thought about Marie as she sat and waited. After a while, Erna came out again with a shoebox, which she handed to Bonnie.