The art of moving hands and feet. Siri Holm had long since stopped using her mind when she fought. The impulses behind every movement emanated from her fingertips and the soles of her feet. That didn’t mean she was no longer thinking, that there was no consideration given to each blow. But these thoughts were different, automatic and carefully reasoned and yet endlessly creative. This might well have been what she liked best about kyorugi, which in tae kwon do was both sparring and fighting—the fact that her hands and feet understood things that her brain couldn’t put into words. But her focus had started shifting inward, into her body. Her abdomen became a focal point around which all her movements circled. As if she were constantly engaged in a defensive battle for what lay inside her.
Today, the battle felt more real than ever. Usually she didn’t feel anything when she struck a blow or connected with a kick. She was merely aware of how many she’d landed and how many she’d received. The same could be said about sex, in some instances. Or at least it could be said about the sex she’d had with her opponent, Rolf Birger Gregersen, her only real competition in the Trondheim Tae Kwon Do Club. She’d slept with him almost without noticing it, just once, right after she moved to town and joined the club. Afterward she explained to him that she’d done it simply in order to get to know him better. And that she liked the way he fought better than the way he made love. He’d understood. Besides, he was married. They’d become regular sparring partners and now sweat together, but without any erotic contact.
They were an even match. She kicked and then retreated. Paused for a moment. Right now they were tied. They were approaching the part of the fight when she usually took the advantage. Slowly, they started up again. That graceful, deliberate dance. Eye contact. He looked at her and yet did not. This gaze of his was his best weapon, both in battle and in love. Both of them lunged but didn’t strike. Then she felt a pinching in her belly. For an instant she lost focus, and that was all he needed. Quick as lightning he struck. For a moment she lost her balance, but she managed to stay on her feet. Then the time was up.
“It’s been forever since I beat you,” he said.
The truth was that he’d never beaten her since that first week she was in town. And then she’d let him win so she could come down in his doboken.
“I can’t understand why you don’t compete,” he said, breathing hard as they headed for the bench against the wall.
He wasn’t the only member of the club to say this. Siri knew she was the best one there, and that she could have gone far, possibly even to the Olympic Games, if she’d wanted to. But for her, tae kwon do was primarily a way of thinking. A totally different form of rationalizing than she couldn’t find anywhere else. If she started competing, it would become just like everything else in her life. While she was fighting, it would distract her to know that a medal was waiting for her when she won. Just as the baby inside her was distracting her now.
“I’ve been thinking of taking a break,” she said.
“What do you mean? Why?”
“Relax! It’s no big deal. It’ll just be a break of about nine months, minus the four that have already passed.”
“You mean that you’re . . .” His face turned pale.
“Take it easy. It’s not yours,” she said with a laugh. “Although I could have you locked up for a previous pregnancy attempt.” They both laughed.
“Shit, Siri. Congrats!” He seemed relieved.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Is this your last training session, then?”
“Yes. But don’t say anything to the others until I’ve showered and left the premises.”
“Why not?”
“I know things about you, Rolf Birger Gregersen,” she replied.
“Fine. My lips are sealed. Fuck, I’m going to miss you.”
“You’re just going to miss aiming for my boobs,” she said, smiling. Then she headed for the locker room.
After showering she went back into the hall to get a towel she’d left behind. That was when she saw two familiar people at the door, and she went over to them.
“Felicia and Odd? What are you doing here?”
Singsaker told her about the music box and the melody it played.
When he finished, Siri said, “I’ve requested the police log from the 1700s that we talked about, and I’m expecting it to be delivered to the library today. I could go over there, even though it’s my day off.”
“Good,” said Singsaker. “That’s what we were hoping. If the kidnapper was inspired by this lullaby, we might need to find out exactly who this Jon Blund was.”
At that moment, Gregersen walked past, carrying a bag on a shoulder strap.
“I’m going to miss you, lady,” he said jokingly as he went out the door.
“I’ll miss you too,” Siri called after him.
Singsaker and Felicia looked at her.
“I’m going to take a break for a while,” Siri answered Singsaker’s questioning look.
“A break? Why?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. She didn’t feel ready to tell them yet. She wasn’t sure how they’d react. “I’m not feeling very motivated. That’s all.”
Neither Singsaker nor Felicia said anything more about it.
Singsaker was having trouble concentrating on his driving. At the first stoplight Felicia pointed out that he was in the wrong lane, headed toward the harbor instead of the center of town. So there was no longer any doubt about Siri. And he could think of only one reason why she didn’t want to tell them.
“Felicia,” he said as he steered the car into the right lane when the light turned green and the traffic started moving. “She’s really pregnant, isn’t she?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” she said, smiling.
“There’s something . . .” he said.
“What’s that?”
“The thing is,” he said, mustering up his courage, even though he knew he ought to leave it alone. He plunged ahead anyway. “The thing is, I might be the father of her baby.”
She didn’t say a word.
“Don’t misunderstand me. It happened before you came to Norway. I didn’t know you yet. And I was feeling confused after going back to work, especially after that insane case was foisted on me.”
“Confused?” she said, her voice ice-cold. “Were you confused when you met me too? It couldn’t have been more than a few days later.”
“No, I wasn’t confused when I met you. Or maybe I was, but our meeting each other has nothing to do with that feeling of confusion. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life than when we . . . when we . . .”
“Stop the car!”
“What?”
“Stop the car!”
“But why? Didn’t you hear what I just said? It didn’t mean anything.”
“The two of you are friends, Odd. She’s my best friend. And neither of you ever said a word about this to me.”
“Why would we want to tell you about something that was going to hurt you, when it’s of no importance whatsoever?”
“Stop the car,” she repeated.
This time he did as she said. He pulled into a bus stop near a café and stopped. She opened the door and got out.
“Go to work and don’t come home for a while,” she said. Her voice was about to break.
“Wouldn’t it be better if we went home together and talked this through?”
“I don’t want to talk,” she told him. “Christ, I hate talking!”
She’d switched to English. Then she slammed the car door.
He sat in the driver’s seat, watching her in the rearview mirror as she headed for the crosswalk near the park.
“Fuck!” he said out loud. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
A headache began deep inside his brain, the kind of headache that sounded like traffic blasting by at high speed, and it quickly spread.