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  To Ida

  PART I

  A scared dog never gets fat.

  —Norwegian proverb

  THE PIG

  THE HILLS, THE RESTAURANT, DATES from a Time when pigs were pigs and swine were swine, the Maître d’ likes to say—in other words from the mid-1800s. I stand here, straight-backed, in my waiter’s uniform, and could just as easily have stood like this a hundred years ago or more. Extreme actions are carried out by grown people every day, but not by me.

  I wait. I please. I move around the room taking orders, pouring, and clearing away. At The Hills, people can gorge themselves in surroundings which are rich in tradition. They should feel welcome, but not so comfortable that they forget where they are. With a few notable exceptions—some of the diners use the place like their own parlor. The Pig, one of our regulars, apropos of pigs, sits at table ten, by the window, at half past one every weekday. He tends to be punctual, but it’s now 1:41 and he hasn’t made an appearance. I do a loop of the entrance: no Pig. The cloakroom attendant, Pedersen, looks up from his paper. Pedersen is distinguished; as they say, he’s seemingly seen it all. The guests trade their possessions—jackets, coats, bags, umbrellas—for a tag which they later, accompanied by a coin or two, swap for the same possessions when they leave. He has carried out these transactions with measured feeling and pride all these years; he does his job well. We’re all diligent here at The Hills. It’s a diligent place. Diligence and concern go hand in hand, I’m convinced of that.

  Lunch is under way, and the main room has filled up with the upper middle class: silky skinned, softly spoken. Elegant clothes. There is a row of smaller café tables with classic marble tops by the entrance. In that area, the acoustics are sharper. Deeper into the room, tablecloths have been draped over the tables. There is clinking, but the noise is muted. Cutlery is moved around porcelain and up to mouths. Teeth chew, throats rise and fall, they swallow. It’s all about eating in here, and I’m a facilitator. I never take part in the eating myself. I observe the intake. There’s a considerable distance between the experience of ingesting a strong picodon de chèvre—the gastronomic explosion in your mouth—and watching the lips of someone else doing it. I set the tables as densely as possible, continental-style. There’s not quite room, but I find space and squeeze in extra glasses, side plates, another bottle. It feels rich.

  The chandelier isn’t especially big, no bigger than a horse’s nose bag, but it is heavy and hangs like a crystal sack from the low vaulted ceiling above the round table in the middle of the room. There are concentric circles of well-trampled mosaic tiles on the floor. All the woodwork is solid, dark, and worn. The two large mirrors are impressive. The reflective coating on the back of the glass has cracked here and there; it adds a nice patina. The art nouveau–esque oak frames around the mirrors were mounted in 1901. That’s what the Bar Manager told me, elaborating with details about how the wood was dragged down from Ekeberg by Frits Thaulow’s very own horse. The Bar Manager is the restaurant’s memory; her face is like an academic’s, but she’s a bit too cheerful to be an academic. She sees everything.

  The Hills might resemble a Viennese coffeehouse, but this isn’t Vienna. It may look like a Grand European, but it’s too worn, too grimy to match the grandeur you would find on the Continent. The establishment, the premises, has been called The Hills for almost 150 years now. The name comes from the Hill family, who ran an outfitter’s shop there from 1846. The Bar Manager knows all about that. Benjamin Hill, the head of the family, a legendary but tragic dandy, originally from Windsor in England, gambled away two-thirds of the family fortune and stumbled into a painful bankruptcy which ended in attempted suicide and subsequent disability. The entrepreneur who took over the space opened a restaurant called La Grenade, but the original stained glass sign covering parts of the facade was so lavish and elaborate, not to mention well mounted, that he left it there, and the place became, as one can imagine, known popularly as The Hills. Benjamin Hill’s energetic son eventually bought back the premises, took over the business, and resurrected the family name. The Hills remains under family control to this day.

  From a curved brass pipe installed above the entrance, there are two thick curtains, which stop the heat from leaking out, each with calfskin sewed onto the edge to prevent wear and tear. In through this covering—The Hills’s portal, or stage curtain, if you like—enters the Pig at last, smiling and nodding. It’s almost ten to two—on the verge of the tolerable, that is. I neither nod nor smile back. I’m fundamentally neither a smiler nor a nodder. I don’t have to make much of an effort to fulfill that particular waiter’s instruction: a blank but obliging face to the guests. A poker face is all part of the craft.

  “Apologies for the lateness,” the Pig says, laughing apologetically, not with a grunt but with some kind of neigh. What do you call the neigh an ass makes? A bray? The Pig chuckles with a sharp bray, the way he often does. I’ve sometimes thought that the Pig is an ass, in the figurative sense; like an ass from European mythology and literature—not the ancient Greek “stubborn and stupid” ass, but the biblical “reliable and loyal” kind. Not that he’s all that reliable right now.

  “How many today?”

  “Four, myself included,” says the Pig.

  “And the others are on their way?”

  “I expect so.”

  There are many ways to dress. The Pig has chosen the only acceptable one: impeccably. He constantly has new suits, and, judging by the cut, the seams, and the quality of the material, they must be from the tailors on Savile Row or thereabouts. With an age of just over three score years, and dressed in such a wardrobe on a daily basis, he is in every sense an elegant man and model guest. The Pig fits The Hills like a glove. That’s why we give him wiggle room with the number of guests, late arrivals, nonsense about the table, and so on. Not that it happens often. The Pig is wealthy—that much is clear—but he is also some kind of introvert. Steadily, quietly, he brings new contacts and acquaintances to The Hills, primarily for lunch, occasionally for dinner, always polite, and always with this impeccability in attire and manners.

  “We’ve held the usual window table,” I say, holding out my hand as I grab four menus and lead him through the room. With perfect timing, I pull out his chair and repeat the set phrase: “Some mineral water while you wait?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He turns around and allows me to gently push the chair into the hollows of his knees. The Pig has a thick, grayish-white mane which he keeps short with a weekly trim. He turned gray during his twenties, while he was making a career in Paris, and was given the nickname Le Gris, which immediately became Grisen—the Pig—on his return to Norway. His eyebrows are still dark, giving him an intelligent look, like a Castelli, or doglike, like a Scorsese.

  BLAISE

  OLD JOHANSEN, THE HOUSE PIANIST, is Sitting at the grand piano on the mezzanine, looking at the vaulted ceiling and, to the left, into thin air. His stubby, Popelike fingers dance over the keys with light steps and considerable experience, producing seamless, barely audible music. Is this Tafelmusik? He chooses the great composers, Johansen, but it’s still Tafel. Occasionally his eyes close as the notes trill in all directions, down into the restaurant. Old, stuffed Johansen. His head drops towards
his shoulders, and it looks like he’s nodded off for a moment, but then it rolls back into position and his eyes snap open. He carries on like that for hours. For a generation and a half now, he’s been there, for endless stretches at a time, his head bobbing away, every day, on the mezzanine, that mid-ceiling, playing pleasant tones in succession for the guests. Since we arrive at different times, we rarely speak, but people say he has a sharp sense of humor.

  The napkins are stacked with neat folds on a low shelf between two pillars in the middle of the room. A glass screen with pale art nouveau lines stands on top of the shelf, acting as a buffer between tables twelve and eight. If I find myself empty-handed, I often go over to the napkin shelf, where I hide behind the screen and straighten the napkins with an extra crease. The newbie, Vanessa, is a bit careless here. I make sure that The Hills’s logo is in the top right-hand corner.

  “Do you have the white burgundy today?” says the Pig.

  “Of course.”

  I wait two tasteful beats before I ask the next question, to which I already know the answer.

  “By the glass, or are we having a bottle?”

  The Pig considers it.

  “Listen, let’s take a bottle.”

  Suddenly he gets up; I barely manage to pull out the chair for him. He extends his hands to a handsome couple approaching between the tables.

  “Blaise [pronounced Blés]!” the Pig says enthusiastically. And then, with affection: “Katharina.”

  Blaise Engelbert is Katharina’s husband; Katharina is Blaise’s wife. They socialize with the Pig quite often, particularly Blaise. Blaise and his wife have married the mature versions of one another, the Bar Manager likes to say; the “old” version might be unfair to say, she says. After their respective detours around Oslo society—whatever that might be—they found one another and each is now, the Bar Manager further informs me, the oldest person the other has ever been with.

  Katharina is first, and puts one foot before the other so that her maintained figure of forty-three to forty-five years is driven with determination in the direction of the Pig. Blaise is right behind, with another seven years on top of hers, wearing a gray suit with attractive stitching on par with the Pig’s, possibly a notch above. Blaise has an excellent tie around his neck and a spring in his step. “Finesse”—the word always hangs in the air around this man. I tiptoe behind them, pull out their chairs, and have it confirmed that they would both like water and wine poured into their glasses.

  The menu looks French and is delicately typeset in a softly spaced Bodoni. These are some of the words which appear on its two densely printed pages: “crackling,” “plaice,” “kid,” “blue cheese,” “cumin,” “profiterole,” “Jerusalem artichoke,” “tart,” “bouillabaisse,” “squid,” “roe,” “date,” “brisket,” “rillettes,” and “minke.” To all this and more, the customers can point and have it prepared, with knowledge and flair, by the chef and his helpers before I or Vanessa, for example, bring out the dishes and the guests raise it to their mouths bit by bit. Truffles are also available. The truffle is key.

  Vanessa, the freshman waitress with a tender appearance and a short, boyish hairstyle, with a talent hampered by ambition, straightens the tablecloths while I do a lap of the room, topping up a glass here and pleasing there. The poor actor who was recently convicted of forgery gets a refill; he’s already starting to go slack-eyed. After the Pig’s company has looked at the menu for a minute or two, I’m there pouring them water. Blaise brusquely rejects the white burgundy before I even have time to ask. He takes several large gulps of water, and I immediately refill his glass. Then he gives the sign that I can pour the wine. I turn the bottle clockwise after each pour, to catch the last drop. Tactfully, I lean over the Pig’s shoulder and gently ask whether we are waiting for a fourth and final person. The Pig looks at his watch.

  “Has anyone heard from her? It’s 2:03. We’re half an hour over.” Blaise and his wife shake their heads.

  “She did confirm?” Blaise says.

  “Of course,” says the Pig. “Absolutely.”

  The back of Blaise’s head is oblong and youthful. He cranes his neck and peers towards the entrance. His hairline is classic and clean and favorably mirrors his jawline. The angle of his nose and brow and the curve of his cheekbones are also repeated with pleasing rhythm by his hairline as it runs from his temple down to his ear. His neck is boyish despite his age, his eyes alert. The collar of his shirt sits a comfortable six to seven millimeters away from the skin of his neck, in a beautiful fold. Blaise is fit but not overdone; he’s sharp but not severe. Katharina and the Pig lean forward when he speaks, almost at a whisper. Blaise’s voice is unusual. Where you might expect an ambitious pressure—as so often with handsome, almost pompous men—he produces a firm, authoritative but friendly, even verging on sensual voice.

  “Would you like to wait awhile longer?” I say without seeming pushy.

  The Pig checks the time again as Blaise raises his left arm to shake out his watch. It turns out to be an impressive A. Lange & Söhne; it couldn’t be a Grand Lange I, could it? There’s a hint of the braggadocio in Blaise.

  “You can take the orders now, and the latecomer can . . .,” the Pig says, signaling, first with one hand and then with the other, that she can order when she arrives. I turn my attention to Blaise’s wife to indicate that she can begin. Katharina chooses a mixed salad with Monte Enebro goat cheese, nuts, seeds, and passion fruit vinaigrette.

  “Could I have extra nuts and seeds?” she asks.

  “Extra nuts and seeds,” I say.

  Blaise changes his mind twice before he plumps for the creamy orzo with shallots. It’s obvious that his indecision grates slightly on the Pig—obvious to me, not to the Engelberts. I turn to the Pig. It’s his turn. He takes his time.

  “The brown Valdres trout,” he says.

  “Yes?”

  “What kind of crispbread comes on the side?”

  “We have a crispbread from Hemsedal.”

  “Right.”

  “We have a wonderful sour cream dip to go with it,” I say with a hooked index finger pointing downwards to illustrate “dip.” What am I doing?

  “Thanks, but no. No dip for me. I’ll try the trout.”

  “Wonderful.”

  THE WALLS

  ALONG THE WAINSCOTING WHICH RUNS Beneath all the portraits, drawings, and paintings here at The Hills, a number of stickers have been stuck over the years. We allow it. That’s the way it’s always been. The sticking has died down somewhat now, but the odd new sticker still appears from time to time. It’s not clear how the sticking began, but there are rumors that some avant-gardists who frequented the place during the 1920s did it to play pranks on a rich man who had his regular table at the other end of the room. What these jokes consisted of is difficult to see through today’s optics, but down by the skirting board there are old, yellowed fragments of newspaper cuttings about this financier, Mr. Grosch. The avant-gardists cut out thin columns from the papers and glued them to the wall, often horizontally, at the very bottom; these were gestures to Mr. Grosch, gestures of spite. The crude clippings later crept upwards from the skirting boards and were followed during the ’30s and ’40s by flyers and small pamphlets, manifestos, primarily political material, before being covered over by commercial stickers during the ’60s and ’70s, old STP and Gulf images to begin with, then Castrol and RFI, followed by football teams and rowing clubs and so on, resulting in the conglomerate which now covers the wainscoting. If you took a cross-section of the paneling, you could carry out an archaeology of it, from early bohemian life to sport and trade; from the oldest, crustiest layers, which are golden brown and look almost like parchment, to the outer, fresher stickers. The wainscoting itself, small glimpses of which can be seen between the layers of stickers, is dark and matte, nearly as black as the ceiling above the hob in the kitchen. It’s almost like a void between the marks. It’s difficult to see where the stickers end and the wains
coting begins, where The Hills begins or ends, depending on whether you consider a wall to be the beginning or the end of a room, a locale, an establishment. Europe has certainly seen better days. One could claim that Europe’s best idea was the Grand European.

  Above the wainscoting, paintings, drawings, and the odd collage are crammed tightly together on the—and I apologize for this—diarrhea-brown walls with their coat upon coat of shiny beige paint—or is it lacquer? The art has “accumulated” over the years, meaning that it’s impossible to describe The Hills’s collection as anything other than considerable in a national context. There’s a Revold hanging on one wall, a Per Krohg, and even a small Oda Krohg sketch by table five. Back in the ’90s there was a lot of talk about conservation and the climate inside The Hills, but the family has always taken a hard line, insisting that the pictures donated to the restaurant should remain there. It’s easier now, after the smoking ban, but some of the older material is fairly snuff colored.

  A small, pre-cubist Braque oil landscape hangs above table six, believe it or not. There’s also a first-rate Léger in chalk by the screen. The simple Schwitters collage framed in hideous teak to the right, above the bar, was donated by Schwitters himself when he was en route from Hjertøya to the capital in ’34 or ’35. Gunnar S. has two handsome graphic prints at one end of the room, plus one beneath the mezzanine. Large and small works are hung side by side, all mixed up. There has never been any talk of “re-hanging” the works here at The Hills; more is just hung. They’re still hanging more. Contemporary art is squeezed into the gaps between older works. It’s old and new, clean and grimy, side by side. The quality varies considerably. A fifteen-by-twenty coal sketch from the hand of Anders Svor hangs frame-to-frame with an early Polaroid by Ed Ruscha and an atypical Cosima von Bonin frottage. A Finn Graff caricature of Vladimir Putin as a lemur touches, physically, a middling Kippenberger postcard. It’s like that up and down the walls, from top to bottom, down to the wainscoting where the stickers begin. Yes, I said Kippenberger. There’s a Kippenberger there. There’s a Valie Export photograph. We have a garish but good little Shearer of a metalhead standing on a ridge, gazing over the mountains.