Read Norwegian by Night for Free Online Page A

around, looking for them as though they might be hiding in a shadow or under a ray of light. Outside, a car door slams. Then another slams. There is fast talking in Serbian, or Albanian, or whatever it is. The conversation is easy to imagine.
    â€˜Where did they go?’
    â€˜I thought they were with you?’
    â€˜They must have come out the front door.’
    â€˜I didn’t see anything.’
    And then, because they are amateurs, because they are fools, they turn on each other and away from the task at hand.
    â€˜That’s because you were smoking and talking about that slut again.’
    â€˜It was your job to bring them out. I’m just waiting.’
    And so on.
    One sound is all it would take to give them away. One squeal of glee from the hiding child who thinks it is all a game, or a whine because of his immobility. Or simply a cry of fear — something so human as a cry of fear.
    Sheldon looks at him. The boy’s back is against the door like his own, and his knees are up. He has wrapped his arms around them and is looking down at the floor in a gesture of defeat and isolation. Sheldon understands at once that he is assuming a familiar position. He will be silent. It has been a learned skill in his world of terror.
    And then the talking, the bickering, ends. The doors to the Mercedes open and close again, and the powerful engine starts. In a few moments, the car pulls off.
    Sheldon sighs. He rubs his hands all over his face to stimulate some blood flow, and then forcefully massages his scalp. He has always imagined his brain like the liquid iron core of the earth — grey and heavy, constantly in motion, producing its own gravity, and carefully balanced on his neck’s vertebrae like the earth is balanced on the backs of turtles in the cosmos.
    Events like this tend to cause the iron flow to slow or even reverse, which can result in ice ages. A little massage usually takes care of the grey matter, though.
    This time he is cold all over.
    He looks up at his companions, who are still foetal on his floor. The woman looks more pasty, more podgy, than she was when viewed through the fisheye lens. The thin leather jacket is thinner. The trampy shirt is trampier. It all speaks to lower-class Balkan immigrant. He never saw the man outside the door. He could only imagine him being fat and sweating, wearing a Chinese-made Adidas tracksuit with white stripes down the arms and legs. His equally foul-breathed colleagues are probably in dark open shirts under poorly fitting, fake designer jackets, the texture of vinyl.
    It is all so hopelessly predictable. Everything except the painted Paddington Bears on the boy’s bright-blue wellingtons. These have been painted by someone with love and imagination. Sheldon is, at this moment, inexplicably prepared to credit them to the pasty hooker on his floor.
    The car has moved off, so Sheldon says to the boy, ‘Those are nice boots.’
    The boy looks up from the crook of his arm. He does not understand. Sheldon can’t be sure if it’s the comment itself that he doesn’t understand, the timing of the comment, or else the language. There is no good reason, after all, to think he speaks English, except that everyone these days speaks English.
    I mean, really. Why speak anything else? Stubbornness. That’s why.
    It also occurs to him that perhaps it is the soothing and encouraging male voice that is so rare and so unfamiliar. He lives in a world of violent men, like so many boys do. With this thought, he can’t help but try again.
    â€˜Nice bears,’ says Sheldon, pointing at the bears and giving the thumbs up.
    The boy looks down at the boots and turns one leg inward to get a look at the boots for himself. He does not know what Sheldon is saying, but he does know what he’s talking about. He looks back at Sheldon without a smile, and then places his face back into the crook of his arm.
    The woman stands up during