Read Norwegian by Night for Free Online Page B

Sheldon’s gesture to the boy and is now talking. She is speaking quickly. The tone is grateful and seemingly apologetic, which seems to follow, given the circumstances. The words themselves are gibberish but, luckily, Sheldon speaks English, which is universally understood.
    â€˜You’re welcome. Yes. Yes — yes. Look, I’m old, so take my advice. Leave your husband. He’s a Nazi.’
    Her babbling continues. Even looking at her is exasperating. She has the accent of a Russian prostitute. The same nasal confidence. The same fluid slur of words. Not a single moment taken to collect her thoughts or search for a phrase. Only the educated stop to look for words — having enough to occasionally misplace them.
    Sheldon labours to his feet and brushes off his trousers. He holds up his hands. ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand. I’m not even sure I care. Just go to the police and get your boy a milkshake.’
    She does not slow down.
    â€˜Milkshake,’ says Sheldon. ‘Police.’
    Sheldon decides her name is Vera. Sheldon watches Vera gesture towards the boy and nod. She points and nods. She nods and points. She puts her hands together in a praying gesture. She crosses herself, which makes Sheldon lift his eyebrows for the first time.
    â€˜In that case, why not just stay, have a cup of tea, and wait this out for an hour? Waiting is wise. He might come back. You don’t want to go back to the apartment. Believe me.’
    He thinks for a moment. There is a word they used in the Ukrainian part of Brooklyn. Yes. ‘ Chai. ’ It is Russian for tea. He makes sipping sounds and says it again. To be absolutely certain he is communicating, he sticks out his pinkie finger and makes yummy slurping sounds.
    â€˜Tea. Nazi. Milkshake. Police. Are we clear?’
    Vera does not respond to Sheldon’s pantomime. Exasperated, Sheldon throws up his hands. It is like persuading a plant to move.
    As Vera keeps talking and the boy sits, Sheldon hears a rumbling — the familiar if distant sound of a German diesel engine pinging and ponging its way slowly around a nearby bend.
    â€˜They’re coming back. We have to leave. Now. They might not be as stupid as they absolutely seem to be. Come on. Come-come-come-come-come.’ He gestures, and when the car stops and the door opens, he decides the time for niceties has ended.
    With extraordinary effort, Sheldon bends down and lifts the boy up, cradling him under the bottom like a toddler. He is not strong enough to use a free arm to grab Vera’s sleeve and pull her. He needs all his strength for the boy. He has nothing to move her but his power to convince. And he knows his power is limited.
    â€˜ Puzhaltzda,’ he says. Please.
    It is the only real Russian he knows.
    He moves with the boy to the three stairs that descend into his own apartment.
    There is a bang at the door.
    â€˜ Puzhaltzda,’ he says.
    She talks more. She is explaining something crucial. He cannot make any sense of it, and then makes the kind of decision a soldier makes with simple, irreproachable logic.
    â€˜I cannot understand you and I am not going to. A violent man is at the front door. I am therefore leaving through the back door. I am taking the boy. If you come with us, you will be better off. If not, I am removing you from the equation. So here we go.’
    Sheldon steps down into his bedroom, past the bathroom, and past the closet on his right. Beyond the bookshelf there is a hanging Persian rug that covers the bicycle entrance, which Sheldon has known about for three weeks — not just this morning — but didn’t want to admit finding on the day he moved into their apartment.
    Say what you want, but there is a value to knowing the entrances and exits to places and problems.
    With his elbow, he pushes the rug aside and sees the door behind.
    â€˜Right, that’s it. We’re going. Now.’
    The banging