'A Private Greatness' Chapter 10

-Chapter 10-

Cured for the moment, I thought ironically, as I waited for the policeman in the little one-room station here in Flatraker to figure out how to turn on his new Dictaphone. All the while he was using Margaret, or was it Meredith, to translate my obediently honest recollection of what he saw last night in Kleppevik. The officer was a young, clean cut man- 30 perhaps and intent on a promotion, Margaret had informed me, so I did my best to be helpful to his new case. The little recorder clicked on and cued by the now solid red light, I put aside the memories of those 2 months out west and recounted my recent happenstance encounter with the young conman Max Lundgren. The officer almost shook with excitement at his new 'small town scoop' that might land him on the cover of the Oslo papers the next day. ‘I was looking out on the village from my boat, shortly after ten in the evening, last Thursday, when I first saw him’ I began hesitantly. At Margaret and the officer’s gentle encouragement though, I soon opened up and found my voice, and the officer took notes furiously while I unleashed a flood of information on what I thought had transpired. When he was done, I asked that my name not be used in reports or press releases- such an obvious request almost an afterthought it seemed. The officer chuckled slightly at my ignorance of witness handling and told me of course my identity would not be compromised. Breathing easier, I left the station with Margaret and headed back down to the beach, giving her an unexpected quick kiss on the lips as they hugged goodbye. It wasn’t that I was attracted to her, but I wanted to express the deep gratitude I had towards a stranger who was so wholesome and trustworthy to someone like myself. She smiled and squeezed me tight against the cold November chill, and they parted ways at the dock.

Rowing back out the Stranger, I felt a strange satisfaction, not only from providing help to others, but from the manic routine my life seemed to have settled into the past few months, the unpredictable and dogmatic future tamed into something I’d felt in control of for once, despite all indications otherwise. I set sail south through the tangled green maze of islands and passageways leading towards the open North Sea. Where I would be in a week, a month, a year remained intangible, tied to both landscape and luck. The winds had been kind though, and I hadn’t been in a major storm since before Bergen, so this was at least a fortuitous bit of coincidence. The sky was building out to the west though, swirling with strange pudding cake layers and amorphous blobs, signaling the end of the recent Indian summer and arrival of the Nordic storm season. Winter’s edge trailed off the horizon unpredictably one day and brought blowing snow, ice, and impassible seas the next. I managed to make it to the western edge of the fjord, hoping for some small, almost transparently simple [or so it had seemed] village like Kleppevik or Flatraker. Instead I was forced to spend the night in Haugesund, a bustling port city of perhaps 50,000. It was perched on a steep, inhospitable piece of land the dove headlong into the frigid North Sea, unapologetic of its geography.

I had some initial difficulty finding an open mooring but eventually managed to secure one of the last spots at the public landing, feeling claustrophobic between ill-kempt party boats and rusted, surly-looking fishing trawlers. The odd mélange of vessels was perhaps just a reflection of a broader demographic in a town with more entertainment than watching some illicit exchange in the middle of ‘downtown’ at 10 in the evening, I figured. The incident with Max Lundgren and my subsequent police report still bothered me- there was something unsettling about the whole incident. I almost felt some past connection to this Lundgren character, as ridiculous and unlikely as it sounded, I couldn’t shake a dream I’d had that same night, where Lundgren was a long-lost brother, yet also some sort of past lover. In my dream, we had met at a ski lodge in Are, the northern outpost of Swedish winter recreation. We’d both been quite drunk, at some sort of party of the type where you show up with a few people you know, quickly lose them, and spend the rest of the night wandering and making pseudo-acquaintances in an attempt to reconnect with your initial companions. We’d brushed up against each other in a crowded corridor. Pending some sort of faux long-lost-recognition, we’d embraced tentatively at first- connecting amongst an otherwise foreign crowd. Then again with forceful will, as if to say, “This is good, not just ok”.

I’d woken that morning with the distinct apprehension of knowing a good dream was over, that the details had already faded and would continue to disintegrate until only a vague emotional context floated like an aura over the whole experience. I had shaken it off at the time as an overreaction to a strange situation as well as a product of my recent isolation- my decision that after Annika I needed a break from vulnerability and uncertain love. So, with this distraction guiding me, I rowed in to the town docks, where seagulls were feasting on what could have been either old cod remnants or whale entrails- both were viable commodities in Norway at the time, I thought. The scene was gross and slightly bizarre; it reminded me of a Dali piece he had admired in the Met as a child, where shiny, wet innards of some sea creature formed a third dimension for suspended birds and people. I stepped over the mass of flesh and birds and around some stacked fish crates; or where they crab traps? Either way, it was clear this was a working dock and not some maintained seaside tourist trap like the cobblestone quay in Bergen, where I’d walked so nonchalantly with Annika, ready for some British or German tourist to ask me for directions.

I followed my intuition, which only knew that the part of town where young people and drifters congregated must be away from the fish docks and towards the distant hill. Gray and red buildings were assembled there in an obvious homage to academia- maybe not a university, but some sort of old school at least. Haugesund was surprisingly neat and bourgeoisie once one got passed the industrial docks I’d somehow ended up next to. I marveled at the urban density of even relatively remote outposts like this; all clean cobblestone grids and steep, imposing row houses and apartment blocks. Nearly all of these seemed to house little shops of various practical natures on their ground floors. I wanted to have dinner ashore tonight, and I’d withdrawn some money under a false name in Bergen. This had amazed me, considering my obvious American origins and questionable ownership of the Stranger. The old teller at the NordeaBank looked as if she’d had a long day, or perhaps long career, and almost mechanically filled out the requisite forms for me in neat, cursive Norwegian. She then withdrew 1,000 kronor in crisp blue bills, the queen smiling up at me benevolently.

I liked to find the main street in any new city and orient myself this way. I’d survey the commercial drag, or wherever the most activity seemed to be, and then devote time to adjacent neighborhoods and cultural intersections. I wandered the maze of narrow, pedestrian-filled streets until I found myself squarely at the intersection of Nygata and Kirkegata, which seemed a logical and urbane city center. I proceeded down Nygata to the west [or so I thought], eyes distracted by people of all ages and social ranks going about their business on this early Friday evening. It seemed abnormally busy perhaps, but then again, who was I to judge the habits of people I barely knew?

Just as he was about to turn into a friendly looking café for a salmon steak and potatoes or some soup, a piece of bright gold fabric caught my attention out of the corner of his eye. It wasn’t gaudy really, but definitely gold. Now that I turned to check out the full profile of its wearer, it was actually the slightly ragged end of an otherwise remarkably fine scarf; what looked like vintage cashmere inlaid with royal blue and green stripes. These were dotted with some sort of family crest, 2 swords crossed and overlain with a sea serpent perhaps. Lost in deciphering the details of this rather marvelous and unexpected ersatz fashion, it took me a minute to process the features the man. Max Lundgren! No, it couldn’t be. His hair was different. It was been a resilient, eagerly Nordic shade of sunflower, even in the cold moonlight, I remembered that. But that face! There was no mistaking his eyes, and is nose- tinged with Germanic angularity, bold and uncompromising, coupled with his furious little green eyes, it made him look like he was forever analyzing something, squinting slightly with concentration, I thought.

The Lundgren look-alike caught the edge of my stare, or maybe my shadow in the receding streetlamp sunlight, and turned to look at me full on. His face briefly turned a dull scarlet, which I always took as a compliment, though I knew it wasn’t intended to be. There was something knowing about the young man’s reaction though, he looked like he’d seen a ghost. Obviously if this was Lundgren, he was used to public accusation or stares from strangers, so his recovery was quick and seamless. He returned my unashamed curiosity with an icy glare that seemed to indicate that yes, his style and looks were largely remarkable, even amongst the thousands of young Scandinavian cool impersonators of the time, and second, no, he was not the now infamous conman Max Lundgren. I could have dropped it and sidestepped this awkward and vaguely embarrassing moment by opening the café door [they did have a rather cheap Lax och Pottatis special, I’d noticed]. I felt if I passed the chance to talk to this young man though, I’d either miss something extraordinary, or just bend fate my own stubborn way.

I stepped closer to the man, who now was looking seriously uneasy- considering fleeing, perhaps. “I like your scarf”, I said in poorly articulated Norwegian, and the young man scoffed slightly, more self-deprecating than anything, and replied in perfect English, “You Americans would probably find it strange and slightly feminine if I told you it is the signature of the men in my family, but it is. Name’s Lundgren, Max Lundgren, nice to meet you” he said evenly, extending a surprisingly large mitt towards me. I was floored. Why had this obviously wanted man so easily divulged his true identity to a stranger… did he know? As if aware of the lingering doubt in my mind, Max continued: “Yes, I know you are wondering if I saw you. I did, before I even bought the bars from Mrs. Visby, but I decided you were harmless and decided to carry on with the exchange. You know I paid her a fair price, don’t you? 15,000 kronor, which was pretty good, considering what she was calling platinum turned out to be some shitty platinum-silver amalgam.” I was still stumbling over how to proceed. Great, I thought, ‘Now I’m involved in some highly sought petty criminal’s scheme. Just what I need right now.’

‘I haven’t told anyone, and besides, I’m a wanted man myself in some ways, so it would not benefit me to divulge identity information to foreign police’, I countered, trying to keep my quivering voice steady over the hum between his ears. ‘Bullshit’, Max sneered with a slight smile, quickly following with ‘I meant the first part. I knew that boat wasn’t yours. Who you trying to fool, kid?, he said, but his voice betrayed him for the first time, breaking into a slightly nervous, accented sing-song, his eyes looking from side to side in slight panic. Sensing a slight upper hand, I offered a compromise. “Look, we are both kind of in shitty situations, eh? And we didn’t entirely intend to go this far, did we?” Max nodded meekly, his attention now fully attuned to me. Now aware I had to keep supplying some sort of sage knowledge beyond admittance of a bad situation, I folded and suggested we go into the café and get some food. The owner, several waitresses, and a stray customer or two were eyeing us somewhat suspiciously through the frosty glass windows, or so my imagination told me.

We walked into the small, cozy café side by side, and Max whispered to me urgently as the doors closed behind us. “Listen, act like you’ve known me for years, like we are brothers or something, ok? I used to live in Haugesund, and a lot of people here still know me. Got it?’ I nodded obediently, and the memory of the dream flooded back into my consciousness, no longer scary or bizarre but warm and visceral, as if this further descent into ridiculousness was in fact the height of banality. I wondered if we should just find a big party tonight [it was a Friday] and have the epic transcendent hug to get it out of the way. We got a table close to the window, in a corner framed by a large oil painting of the type that would have probably been at home in a 16^th-Century dentist or tax accountant’s office, but had somehow acquired taste and status over the years. On the other side of the room, the broad glass windows looked down the narrow corridor of Nygata and to the water. The lights lined the street like a movie theater aisle into the sea. We ate heaping plates of Salmon, potatoes, salad, and bread- all of the most mundane and delicious varieties, cooked in the no-nonsense sustenance ethics of Nordic cuisine. After 2 or 3 beers [and possibly a glass of wine], Max had warmed up to me, and was praising my audacity at not only stealing the boat, but also successfully piloting it solo across the Atlantic. I glowed in modest amazement. ‘You mean you had only been 20 miles off the coast before then!?’, he asked incredulously, knowing full well my slightly embarrassed answer, but he was a good friend already perhaps, this Max was. The type who talked of himself until you were ready to strangle him, and then managed to set up the most flattering, introspective question to you, the kind that left you glowing with bright singularity.

There was a minute of two of much needed silence, and Max spoke again. ‘Listen, if you have some time, I want to tell you part of the story. You don’t have to go back to the boat tonight if it’s late. I have a small flat in a friend’s name just up the street,’ ‘God, this kid talks like a 45 year old investment banker trying to seal a deal’, I thought with a mix of awe and annoyance. My curiosity got the better of me though, and I agreed to hear more. It was only a few minutes past seven, but in typical European tradition, the café was closing at what seemed like an obscenely early hour. The owner, busy helping clear nearby tables, shot Max a knowing glare, but he fished a hundred kronor note out of his pocket and waved it discreetly in the air. The owner gave him a look of tired acceptance, leaving our table alone for the time being. ‘So…’ Max began, with the tone of an old friend with some juicy piece of fresh gossip to share. ‘You are probably wondering how I speak such convincing English… I mean, besides the Norwegian education system being way better than the American one’, he chided me, and I smiled slightly. ‘I am a product of an American mother and Scandinavian father, much like you’, he continued, ‘except my youth until pretty recently was spent on the west coast, not the east.’ ‘Or we might have met’, he added with a mischievous spark in his eyes. Being the sucker that I was, I felt ready to go home and do anything he wanted to at this point. I allowed him to continue though; his build-up was so damn convincing.

‘It was late November, 1977, so a little less than 2 years ago’, Max began. ‘I’d been at UCLA, but after graduation, I moved up to my grandfather’s cabin in the Puget Sound to escape things for a while, before the return to Norway I felt was forthcoming and inevitable.’ ‘I’m actually 25’, he added before launching into his convoluted history, as if to remind me that while older than myself, he’d seen his fair share of fuck ups and also perfection- and youth excused only so much. Now feeling more agreeable, I sat back in the ragged armchair in the little café nook and listened.