Ball of Wax - Excerpt
PART I – Winter 1999 Chapter 1 Kirsten Olsen dozed off in coach, as the SAS jet flew over the North Atlantic.
Trond Skogheim. Couldn't Mike have picked a less disagreeable and difficult ex-skier to sponsor, she sighed and rubbed her eyes, thinking back to the conversation with her boss back in Madison, Wisconsin. Mike Dahl, a ski wax entrepreneur, was determined to get his small company noticed. He couldn't afford the stars of cross-country skiing. Skogheim was a notch below the top and Kirsten's job was to get him on board as the elite skier for the Glide-Pro Wax racing team. Yeah, right, like I'm gonna change the mind of a guy who dumped his trainer, his waxer and sent his sponsors to hell. She smiled wryly. Funny how a degree in Chemistry, a minor in Norwegian, and racing for the UW cross-country ski team got me this sales job and a free trip to Norway. None of these skills will do me any good in dealing with some obstinate and reclusive Norwegian, though. At least, Skogheim is about twenty miles away from great-grandpa Nils' farm in Voss. So if I can't sign him on with Glide-Pro, I'll have time to visit the archives and try to fit together the missing pieces of Nils' life before he came to America. Her eyes closed again as she recalled the details that her Dad, Paul, told her about his grandfather, Nils Bjørnsen. A farmer in Norway, he immigrated to St. Paul, Minnesota at the end of the 19th century and worked in a series of backbreaking factory jobs. He brought with him an exquisitely decorated violin with eight strings instead of the usual four, a fierce dragon's head on top of the peg box - a hardanger fiddle. He played for dances and weddings to supplement his meager factory work income, and was a sought after musician in the Twin Cities area. Kirsten remembered her Dad setting up the old reel-to-reel tapes of Nils playing the fiddle and being transfixed by its shimmering sound. "I want to do that," she begged her father when she was six. In four years, she grew tall enough to fit the fiddle and was hooked.
Kirsten glanced at the violin case at her feet. The fiddle will get to see its former home for the first time in a hundred years. Her chest constricted in anticipation. She would be the first in the family to visit the old country and the farm. Nils told stories of bubbling brooks and cascading waterfalls, the wind rushing in the tall pine trees, the mountain meadows covered with beautiful flowers, skiing through the shaggy spruces and accompanied his descriptions with fiddle tunes. Over the crackling hissing sound of the reels, Kirsten imagined the beautiful scenery that Nils described, the fiddle imitating the twittering bird or the flowing water. Now I'll see it come alive before my own eyes.
The plane dipped into a turbulent cloud and Kirsten was roughtly jolted from her daydream. Oh yeah, the real reason for this trip - Trond Skogheim. She unhooked the tray table from the seat ahead of her, pulled a manilla folder out of her backpack and leafed through her notes. Her search of newspapers and the Internet revealed that Trond Skogheim played hard and lived fast: participating in numerous World Cup and Olympic events, always milliseconds shy of a medal, a different beautiful woman in every clipping. Synne, Hanne, Trine, Ingrid, Marte, Vibeke, Lovise – Kirsten felt dizzy from this rapid procession of fur-trimmed, leggy, svelte ladies with sparkling dental work and perfect make-up and wondered what it felt like to be beaten by less than a ski length over and over again. And then, after the 1994 Lillehammer Olympics, the guy holed up in the middle of nowhere and disappeared from the skiing scene and public life, all together.
A 1997 Norwegian daily, Verdens Gang headline declared,“Skogheim pelts VG reporter with snowballs from the balcony of his Voss home.” The story described the reporter’s several attempts to interview Skogheim at his home, concluded with a brief overview of Skogheim and speculated on the causes of his self-imposed isolation. An accompanying photo showed a tall, well-muscled, blond man casually dressed in jeans and a t-shirt in front of a small wooden A-frame house surrounded by pine trees. Kirsten closed the folder and stuffed it into her backpack. He's hot, but so what of it. She shrugged her shoulders. He's seen every Trine and Synne on the block.
One thing she was sure about was that it would definitely take an extraordinary amount of finesse to approach this Trond Skogheim in order not to end up like the reporters of the Norwegian daily. If he decided to pelt her with snowballs, Kirsten resolved to throw them right back.
When the plane’s wheels hit the tarmac of Gardermoen Airport, Kirsten breathed a sigh of relief. She was finally on the ground in Oslo. Violin case in hand, she retrieved her luggage and passed through Customs, listing the purpose of her visit as a business trip. Yeah right, more like a last ditch groveling attempt. She boarded the airport bus to downtown Oslo, then the trykken street car to the youth hostel, looking at the old churches and stately buildings, surprised that some of them were sprayed with unintelligible graffiti just like in Chicago or Madison. After she checked into the hostel, she took another streetcar to the Norwegian National Library to see if she could hunt up more information on Trond Skogheim. She did not find many more details than those she already knew, and no library kept back issues of the tell-all tabloids.
The next day, Kirsten boarded an early train to Voss, passing beautiful snow-covered landscapes of coniferous forests, fjords and mountains. She got off the train, breathing in the fresh, crisp air, snow crunching under her boots, and headed to the rental car agency. According to the most recent newspaper articles, Skogheim lived in the small town of Granby, 25 kilometers west of the Voss city limits. Kirsten doubted that he would be listed in the local telephone directory and mulled over several avenues to ferret out the needed information, as she drove carefully through the windy mountain roads towards Granby. Thank God I learned how to drive in Minnesota and Wisconsin during the worst wintertime conditions. She gently pumped the brakes as the car sped down a twisting hill. At the bottom she unclenched her fingers from the steering wheel and drove into the valley, where snow-covered spruce trees reached almost to the edge of the road. Fuzzy green branches nearly obscured the sign for Granby, population 587. Well, Granby lives up to its name, Spruce city. She checked into a motel, glanced at the phone book and confirmed that Trond Skogheim was unlisted. Plan A was about to be put to the test.
Kirsten walked several blocks down the street until she found a Kaffe Stue, the Norwegian version of a coffee shop. It was lunch-time and the place was filled with locals. A few heads turned around, clearly noticing that she was not one of them. Not much different than the old timers at Schubert’s, Kirsten recalled the Mt. Horeb bakery and café.
She sat down and ordered a ham sandwich, salad and a baked potato with a steaming mug of coffee. The waitress did not engage in any small talk, and Kirsten debated how to start a conversation with the reticent Norwegians, a conversation that would get her a step closer to her goal of meeting Trond Skogheim.
“So how are the ski trails here?” Kirsten asked the waitress in Norwegian as she brought her food.
“Very good. We had some snow several days ago and they groomed the tracks. You will have excellent conditions.”
“Thanks. That’s what I came here for. We hardly get any good snow in Wisconsin any more.” Kirsten dug in her backpack and pulled out a tin of wax and put it on the table. “By the way, I combined my vacation with a business trip. I work for Glide Pro Waxes, a small company in Madison, Wisconsin. Would you like a free sample? It’s for -5 to -15°C.”
The waitress smiled and took the tin. “Thank you.”
“We're trying to market outside of the US, so Norway was the most appropriate place to begin.” Kirsten looked around the room for emphasis and lowered her voice. “I would be happy to give free samples to any of the folks in the café. I figure you know much better who skis and who doesn’t.”
“Everybody in Norway skis. I’ll tell the fellows at the counter, perhaps they would like a sample. Leave a couple of tins by the cash register too.” The woman brushed a strand of blonde hair from her forehead. “You should check out the Granby ski center. Perhaps they will let you set up a waxing demonstration.”
Kirsten nodded. “That was my plan. I need to rent skis anyhow. Didn’t see any sense bringing them from the US. Thanks for the heads up.” Well, at least they understand my broken Norwegian and can put up with an English word here and there.
The waitress disappeared into the kitchen, and Kirsten took a sip of very strong and hot coffee. She dallied over her meal, hoping that someone would come up to the table and ask for the wax samples. Kirsten remembered a t-shirt seen at every Scandinavian store in the Midwest. You can tell a Norwegian but you can’t tell him much. Norwegians were shy and retiring people, and it would be considered forward for one to simply walk up to her table and demand a tin of wax. Kirsten went to the cash register and paid for her meal. Just then an older man sitting on the bar stool nodded in her direction.
“So Ida tells me that you have a bit of wax to try?”
Kirsten took a handful of samples out of her backpack. “Yes, new wax from Glide-Pro. See what you think.” She gave two tins to the man, who carefully read the fine print on the cover.
“Looks like a good wax, but I can’t take two.” He turned to the gray haired fellow next to him. “Say Vidar, want an extra wax tin?”
Vidar’s blue eyes twinkled. “Ja, sure, whatever will make this old sack of bones faster on the track.”
“Tusen takk,” both men thanked Kirsten. Vidar leaned closer to his friend. “You know, Lars, she ought to try Skogheim. He would be the best judge of whether the wax is good or not.” Kirsten’s ears perked up at the mention of the name.
Lars waved him off. “Vidar, don’t talk nonsense. That guy is a hermit crab so buried in his shell that nothing, not even a nice looking young lady like you,” Lars smiled at Kirsten. “will make him come out into the world.”
“So who is this Skogheim?” Kirsten asked with feigned interest. Now I'm getting somewhere.
“Trond Skogheim, World Champion Skier, Olympian, one of the best.”
“Pretty women, ski and wax sponsorships, money, fast cars -- what a life,” Vidar added.
“Then after Lillehammer,“ Lars continued. “He comes here to Granby, buys a house outside of town and we hardly see him. Maybe once or twice a month at the grocery store. He hunts for his own food. People have seen him up in the mountains. Got a moose a couple of times.”
Vidar twirled the wax tin between his fingers. “Well those ski and wax companies found out where he lived and they would bother him. Once he got so mad, he pelted the salesman with snowballs.”
Kirsten smiled, remembering the newspaper clipping. “Doesn’t look too good for me, does it?”
“Well that was two years ago, perhaps he mellowed some,” Lars said.
“Maybe,” Vidar added. “He works as the Voss Nature Inspection Service officer and teaches the children at the Granby ski center. So perhaps he's coming out of his shell.”
“What made him crawl into his shell to begin with?” she asked, once again feigning naiveté.
“No one knows,” Lars answered.
“But everyone speculates,” Vidar finished. “It could have been a woman, or the disappointment of always finishing behind Dæhlie, Alsgård, Ulvang, or maybe,” Vidar shrugged his shoulders, “he got tired of the fast life and wanted to get away from it all.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn't go to his house and try to sell him wax. I’ve never liked door to door salesmen. Perhaps I'll catch him at the Ski Center.” Kirsten extended her hand to the men. “Thank you for the information, and if any of your friends want to try some Glide Pro wax, I'll leave a bunch of tins at the ski center.”
Kirsten waved to the two men and headed back to her motel.
Plan A worked. Despite their initial reticence, the Norskies talked, but they know about as much as I do about what makes Skogheim tick. Get a moose suit. That will make him notice me and SHOOT me. Nah, try the Ski Center, go slow, set up the wax. Fish around for his schedule. Try to make casual conversation. Children are great ice-breakers. Hand out wax to the kids and see what comes out of that…Kirsten changed into ski clothes – a bright teal and white jacket and pants with Glide-Pro Wax logos, and drove over to the Granby Ski Center to implement Plan B.
Chapter 2
In a half an hour, Kirsten rented a pair of cross-country skis, set up a small display of Glide-Pro samples at the counter, and secured a waxing demonstration for the day after tomorrow. She looked through the handouts for the Center hours, trail maps, and class schedules, noting that Trond Skogheim would have a class from 4 to 5 PM, about two hours from now. Kirsten glanced at her watch, tied her shoulder length hair into a ponytail, strapped on her skis and entered the pristine white winter wonderland of the Granby cross-country trail system.
The skis slid effortlessly on the track, as Kirsten crouched her body, descending from the mountain plateau to the pine and spruce forest below. She slowed down her pace, being only aware of the kick and glide of her skis and the rhythmic movements of her arms and legs. A flock of chubby gray birds with a bright red bellies flew from the pine tree overhead, the branches scattering snow flakes in Kirsten’s face. She took a deep breath and stopped, feeling one with the forest, enjoying a moment of solitude among the trees. She looked at her watch and continued on the trail, hoping to be back at the Ski Center before Trond Skogheim finished his class.
Suddenly Kirsten saw a blur of red and blue out of the corner of her eye. The blur turned into a skier for the moment that he passed her, then became a blur again as he receded into the distance. Holy Moses, he was fast. Wow. From a brief glimpse of the skier on the skating track, she was sure he was a man. Red and blue were the colors of the Norwegian ski team suits. Kirsten’s mouth went dry. No, it couldn’t be, or could it? Having been to many races that attracted world class athletes, Kirsten could distinguish between a fast citizen skier and one of Olympic caliber. The skier who passed her was certainly one of the latter. And the only skier of Olympic caliber in Granby would be… Trond Skogheim. Kirsten’s mouth curved into a mischievous grin. Mike Dahl, I got a sighting of the elusive beast. Plan C is about to begin.
Kirsten timed her return to the Ski Center to be thirty minutes before Skogheim finished his class. She freshened up in the bathroom and took a seat by the fireplace, one eye on a magazine and another on the door. At 5 o’clock a group of noisy children tumbled into the center, followed by a tall, blond, muscular man in the red and blue ski suit. Aha, I was right. Looks like the guy from the newspaper clippings, doesn’t even crack a smile in front of the kids. Kirsten’s stomach muscles tightened into a knot and she licked her chapped lips, then turned a page in her magazine. The children ran around the center, shedding their bulky parkas and snow pants, warming their frozen hands by the fireplace, and dashing off to the counter to buy a cup of hot cocoa.
“Hey, Anders, look, are these candy tins?” A small boy pointed to the Glide-Pro tins arranged in a pyramid on the counter.
“No stupid, learn to read, it’s ski wax,” his brother said condescendingly.
“I KNOW how to read, fart face, but wax is smør not W-A-X.”
“It’s wax in English, dumb ass.” The older boy shoved his little brother toward the samples, picked up the top tin and translated the front cover. “Glide-Pro Wax – keeps you on the fast track, for -5 to -15°C. Madison, Wisconsin, USA.”
Kirsten buried herself in the magazine mouthing gratitude into the pages. Good job, kid. Free advertising. Way to go. Now only if Skogheim would notice. Trond Skogheim stood at the entrance, his ice blue eyes focused on the log wall opposite the door, completely unaware of the hub-bub of the children at the center..
“Anders, where is Wisconsin?” the little boy asked.
“I don’t know, somewhere in America.” The older boy shrugged his shoulders and put the wax tin on the top on the pyramid. He must have bumped the samples, because the entire pyramid came crashing down from the counter and onto the floor.
Kirsten turned around, magazine still in hand, unsure if she should rearrange the samples herself, and thus introduce herself into the situation, or let the kids fix the problem themselves.
The clerk at the counter came to her rescue. “Anders and Leif, you put these tins back the way they were and apologize to the lady in the teal suit sitting by the fireplace. She was nice enough to give the Ski Center samples of wax from her company and you made a mess of them,” the lady scolded the two boys.
Kirsten smiled and waved off the clerk. “It’s all right. I take most of the blame, since I'm the one who arranged the samples in that ridiculous pyramid.” She turned to the boys. “Why don’t you take a tin or two home and figure out a way to put the rest of the samples in a way that they do not fall over.”
The children busied themselves with the wax tins and Kirsten went back to the magazine. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that Trond Skogheim did not move a muscle during the entire incident, but continued staring into space, his blue eyes boring past her.
The older boy walked up to Skogheim and showed him the wax tin. “Is this a good wax to use, Mr. Skogheim?”
Trond briefly glanced at the tin. “I don’t know, never heard of it. If you want to practice your waxing skills, give it a try. If you don’t like it, you can always scrape it off.”
This was a golden opportunity to make the sales pitch and the acquaintance of Trond Skogheim, but Kirsten’s throat constricted as if gripped by a tight vise. She was afraid that if she tried to speak, only a tiny mouse squeak would come out. Damn it, this is my chance, this is what Mike sent me here for, what the hell is wrong with me, I blew it. Kirsten clenched her fists until the nails gouged her skin.
Once again, the lady at the counter rescued her. “Anders, why don’t you ask Ms. Olsen,” and she pointed to Kirsten, “she can tell you all about Glide-Pro wax.”
“And I can also tell you where Madison, Wisconsin is in America,” Kirsten added, surprised that her voice came off normal.
The clerk turned to Skogheim. “Trond, Ms. Olsen is the Glide-Pro representative and she was generous to give the Ski Center these wax samples. Perhaps your class can try them? She will be doing a waxing demonstration at seven o’clock, Wednesday.”
Skogheim muttered something unintelligible and noncommittal and his eyes continued to stare off into the distance. I gotta ask the lady why she is batting for me, he obviously doesn’t care.
Anders came over by Kirsten and she drew him a map of the United States, put Madison, Wisconsin in the middle, and told him about the American Birkebeiner and the Mora Vasaloppet, the US counterparts of the Norwegian and Swedish races. She then opened the wax tin and quickly explained how to apply ski wax. “Come on Wednesday and I'll let you try it yourself.”
The boy’s blue-gray eyes widened. “You would let me use the iron?”
“If your parents think it’s okay. How old are you?”
“Ten.”
“Well, I think you're old enough.” Kirsten reassured Anders.
“Wow, thanks. See you at the waxing class. Come on, Leif, Mom is here.” The boys saw their mother at the front door and ran toward her. Other parents picked up their kids, and soon the Center was nearly empty.
Skogheim made minimal contact with the clerk and turned toward the door, “I’ll be here Wednesday at 4 PM.” The door slammed behind him and Kirsten felt it signified a closing of the only opportunity she had to get to know him.
She got up from her chair and went up to the counter.
“Thanks for putting in the plug for my wax. A good word always helps.” She extended her hand to the fifty-ish woman with salt and pepper hair and glasses.
The sales clerk smiled. “I tried. If Trond Skogheim likes your wax, my other patrons will take note and buy it.” She paused and shrugged her shoulders. “You can never tell what Skogheim is going to do. He said nothing today, but may take five of the tins tomorrow.”
“He didn't seem to be very talkative,” Kirsten agreed. She decided to draw the clerk into her plans. “Glide-Pro is looking to sponsor a master skier and the Olympians are all taken. As I told you before, I came to Norway for part vacation and part business trip. Someone like Skogheim would be great for our company, but he doesn't seem very interested.” She pointed to her chair by the fireplace. “Today, I tried to stay in the background, let the wax, the children, and you,” Kirsten touched the woman’s hand in a show of appreciation, “do the work for me. I don’t want to give him the hard sell from the start. I think it turns people off. But at this point, I'm not sure of the best was to approach him.”
The clerk nodded. “None of us know how to approach this man. He's patient with the children, but once classes are over, he's gone.” The woman twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “Let me think this over and perhaps I'll come up with something by Wednesday.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sørensen.”
“You can call me Helene.”
“That will be easy to remember,” Kirsten replied, “Just like my grandmother and you can call me Kirsten.”
“Good night, Kirsten,” Helene waved to Kirsten as she left the Granby Ski Center.
“See you Wednesday.” Kirsten got in her car and drove to the motel. Plan C failed miserably, so I have to come up with Plan D or E or F or G…….
* * *
She drove up to the Granby Ski Center and looked at the trail map. All this talk of moose is freaking me out. I think I'll stay on the mountain plateau this time. She did not want to go into the woods and meet a charging bull moose or, worse yet, be shot by Skogheim’s hunting rifle, if he happened to be nearby.
Kirsten waxed for skate skiing and moved in graceful Vs on the wide skating trail. The setting afternoon sun made the sky a hazy gray orange and Kirsten squinted at the fuzzy trail ahead.
Once again she saw the red and blue blur out of the corner of her eye and quickly moved over to the right side of the trail. The skier grazed her poles and passed her, cutting up the classical tracks.
Before she could stop herself, Kirsten shouted in English. “Come on dude, slow down and don’t mess up the tracks. Geez.”
Skogheim turned around for a fleeting moment, measured her with a cold gaze, then disappeared down the hill, working his arms and legs furiously.
Great, just great. I've just screwed up an already messy up situation beyond repair. Crap. She bit her tongue with her teeth until she tasted blood. Why did I say that? Damn habits.
She skied for another thirty minutes and went back to the Ski Center to wait for the class to end and snag another chance to approach Skogheim.
Helene was at the counter and motioned Kirsten to come to the cash register.
“I did mention your wax to Trond before his class and said it would be a great opportunity for him to ask you if Glide-Pro could sponsor him for the American races.” Helene gave Kirsten a conspiratorial grin. “I told him that his students would be so proud of him, watching the coverage on TV, seeing their teacher compete. It would be a great event for Granby and especially the children.” Helene wrung her hands. “He mumbled something and called the kids to start their class.” She lowered her head. “I tried and I failed. I'm sorry.”
Kirsten placed her palm on the older woman’s veined hand. “You didn't fail. You did your best. Thank you for trying.” She paused. “I'll talk to him after class is over, although I don’t think it will go any better.”
As yesterday, Kirsten sat by the fire place, one eye on the door and one eye on the magazine. The children came in. Trond Skogheim stood to the side, staring into space, waiting for the parents to retrieve their charges. Leif and Anders’ mother asked Kirsten about the waxing class, and then the center emptied of the noise and scurrying little feet.
Trond made a motion to leave and Kirsten quickly rose and walked over to him. He paused at the door and avoided eye contact.
This is it Olsen. Just do it. Kirsten took a deep breath.
“Excuse me, Mr. Skogheim. I'm Kirsten Olsen from the Glide-Pro Wax Company. You've probably seen me handing out wax samples at the center. Part of the reason I came here is to acquaint people with our brand, but another reason is,” Kirsten tried to engage the cold blue eyes of the tall man in front of her, “is that Glide-Pro is looking to sponsor a World Class Master Skier, such as yourself, in the American World Cup Races this year. These would be the Noquemanon, a new race in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, the Mora Vasaloppet in Minnesota, and the American Birkebeiner, in Wisconsin.” She took another deep breath. “Of course, we'll pay for your travel and lodging, and we think it would be a great honor to have you represent Glide-Pro Waxes. Would this be of interest to you?” Kirsten let the question hang, but Trond Skogheim did not move a muscle. His gaze shifted to Kirsten briefly.
“Did you say something to me?”
Bastard, you heard me the first time, you’re humiliating me. Kirsten repeated her spiel again, her voice betraying far less enthusiasm. She closed with “I'll give you several days to think it over. Perhaps we can discuss the details over lunch or dinner. Here's my card.”
She extended her right hand with a business card to Skogheim. Without looking at her, he took it, crumpled it, shoved it in his pocket and turned to her, his brow furrowed in anger. “The answer is NO,” he ground out and slammed the door as he left the center.
Kirsten opened the door and shouted. “No to what – the wax, the sponsorship, the dinner, what?”
Trond Skogheim. Couldn't Mike have picked a less disagreeable and difficult ex-skier to sponsor, she sighed and rubbed her eyes, thinking back to the conversation with her boss back in Madison, Wisconsin. Mike Dahl, a ski wax entrepreneur, was determined to get his small company noticed. He couldn't afford the stars of cross-country skiing. Skogheim was a notch below the top and Kirsten's job was to get him on board as the elite skier for the Glide-Pro Wax racing team. Yeah, right, like I'm gonna change the mind of a guy who dumped his trainer, his waxer and sent his sponsors to hell. She smiled wryly. Funny how a degree in Chemistry, a minor in Norwegian, and racing for the UW cross-country ski team got me this sales job and a free trip to Norway. None of these skills will do me any good in dealing with some obstinate and reclusive Norwegian, though. At least, Skogheim is about twenty miles away from great-grandpa Nils' farm in Voss. So if I can't sign him on with Glide-Pro, I'll have time to visit the archives and try to fit together the missing pieces of Nils' life before he came to America. Her eyes closed again as she recalled the details that her Dad, Paul, told her about his grandfather, Nils Bjørnsen. A farmer in Norway, he immigrated to St. Paul, Minnesota at the end of the 19th century and worked in a series of backbreaking factory jobs. He brought with him an exquisitely decorated violin with eight strings instead of the usual four, a fierce dragon's head on top of the peg box - a hardanger fiddle. He played for dances and weddings to supplement his meager factory work income, and was a sought after musician in the Twin Cities area. Kirsten remembered her Dad setting up the old reel-to-reel tapes of Nils playing the fiddle and being transfixed by its shimmering sound. "I want to do that," she begged her father when she was six. In four years, she grew tall enough to fit the fiddle and was hooked.
Kirsten glanced at the violin case at her feet. The fiddle will get to see its former home for the first time in a hundred years. Her chest constricted in anticipation. She would be the first in the family to visit the old country and the farm. Nils told stories of bubbling brooks and cascading waterfalls, the wind rushing in the tall pine trees, the mountain meadows covered with beautiful flowers, skiing through the shaggy spruces and accompanied his descriptions with fiddle tunes. Over the crackling hissing sound of the reels, Kirsten imagined the beautiful scenery that Nils described, the fiddle imitating the twittering bird or the flowing water. Now I'll see it come alive before my own eyes.
The plane dipped into a turbulent cloud and Kirsten was roughtly jolted from her daydream. Oh yeah, the real reason for this trip - Trond Skogheim. She unhooked the tray table from the seat ahead of her, pulled a manilla folder out of her backpack and leafed through her notes. Her search of newspapers and the Internet revealed that Trond Skogheim played hard and lived fast: participating in numerous World Cup and Olympic events, always milliseconds shy of a medal, a different beautiful woman in every clipping. Synne, Hanne, Trine, Ingrid, Marte, Vibeke, Lovise – Kirsten felt dizzy from this rapid procession of fur-trimmed, leggy, svelte ladies with sparkling dental work and perfect make-up and wondered what it felt like to be beaten by less than a ski length over and over again. And then, after the 1994 Lillehammer Olympics, the guy holed up in the middle of nowhere and disappeared from the skiing scene and public life, all together.
A 1997 Norwegian daily, Verdens Gang headline declared,“Skogheim pelts VG reporter with snowballs from the balcony of his Voss home.” The story described the reporter’s several attempts to interview Skogheim at his home, concluded with a brief overview of Skogheim and speculated on the causes of his self-imposed isolation. An accompanying photo showed a tall, well-muscled, blond man casually dressed in jeans and a t-shirt in front of a small wooden A-frame house surrounded by pine trees. Kirsten closed the folder and stuffed it into her backpack. He's hot, but so what of it. She shrugged her shoulders. He's seen every Trine and Synne on the block.
One thing she was sure about was that it would definitely take an extraordinary amount of finesse to approach this Trond Skogheim in order not to end up like the reporters of the Norwegian daily. If he decided to pelt her with snowballs, Kirsten resolved to throw them right back.
When the plane’s wheels hit the tarmac of Gardermoen Airport, Kirsten breathed a sigh of relief. She was finally on the ground in Oslo. Violin case in hand, she retrieved her luggage and passed through Customs, listing the purpose of her visit as a business trip. Yeah right, more like a last ditch groveling attempt. She boarded the airport bus to downtown Oslo, then the trykken street car to the youth hostel, looking at the old churches and stately buildings, surprised that some of them were sprayed with unintelligible graffiti just like in Chicago or Madison. After she checked into the hostel, she took another streetcar to the Norwegian National Library to see if she could hunt up more information on Trond Skogheim. She did not find many more details than those she already knew, and no library kept back issues of the tell-all tabloids.
The next day, Kirsten boarded an early train to Voss, passing beautiful snow-covered landscapes of coniferous forests, fjords and mountains. She got off the train, breathing in the fresh, crisp air, snow crunching under her boots, and headed to the rental car agency. According to the most recent newspaper articles, Skogheim lived in the small town of Granby, 25 kilometers west of the Voss city limits. Kirsten doubted that he would be listed in the local telephone directory and mulled over several avenues to ferret out the needed information, as she drove carefully through the windy mountain roads towards Granby. Thank God I learned how to drive in Minnesota and Wisconsin during the worst wintertime conditions. She gently pumped the brakes as the car sped down a twisting hill. At the bottom she unclenched her fingers from the steering wheel and drove into the valley, where snow-covered spruce trees reached almost to the edge of the road. Fuzzy green branches nearly obscured the sign for Granby, population 587. Well, Granby lives up to its name, Spruce city. She checked into a motel, glanced at the phone book and confirmed that Trond Skogheim was unlisted. Plan A was about to be put to the test.
Kirsten walked several blocks down the street until she found a Kaffe Stue, the Norwegian version of a coffee shop. It was lunch-time and the place was filled with locals. A few heads turned around, clearly noticing that she was not one of them. Not much different than the old timers at Schubert’s, Kirsten recalled the Mt. Horeb bakery and café.
She sat down and ordered a ham sandwich, salad and a baked potato with a steaming mug of coffee. The waitress did not engage in any small talk, and Kirsten debated how to start a conversation with the reticent Norwegians, a conversation that would get her a step closer to her goal of meeting Trond Skogheim.
“So how are the ski trails here?” Kirsten asked the waitress in Norwegian as she brought her food.
“Very good. We had some snow several days ago and they groomed the tracks. You will have excellent conditions.”
“Thanks. That’s what I came here for. We hardly get any good snow in Wisconsin any more.” Kirsten dug in her backpack and pulled out a tin of wax and put it on the table. “By the way, I combined my vacation with a business trip. I work for Glide Pro Waxes, a small company in Madison, Wisconsin. Would you like a free sample? It’s for -5 to -15°C.”
The waitress smiled and took the tin. “Thank you.”
“We're trying to market outside of the US, so Norway was the most appropriate place to begin.” Kirsten looked around the room for emphasis and lowered her voice. “I would be happy to give free samples to any of the folks in the café. I figure you know much better who skis and who doesn’t.”
“Everybody in Norway skis. I’ll tell the fellows at the counter, perhaps they would like a sample. Leave a couple of tins by the cash register too.” The woman brushed a strand of blonde hair from her forehead. “You should check out the Granby ski center. Perhaps they will let you set up a waxing demonstration.”
Kirsten nodded. “That was my plan. I need to rent skis anyhow. Didn’t see any sense bringing them from the US. Thanks for the heads up.” Well, at least they understand my broken Norwegian and can put up with an English word here and there.
The waitress disappeared into the kitchen, and Kirsten took a sip of very strong and hot coffee. She dallied over her meal, hoping that someone would come up to the table and ask for the wax samples. Kirsten remembered a t-shirt seen at every Scandinavian store in the Midwest. You can tell a Norwegian but you can’t tell him much. Norwegians were shy and retiring people, and it would be considered forward for one to simply walk up to her table and demand a tin of wax. Kirsten went to the cash register and paid for her meal. Just then an older man sitting on the bar stool nodded in her direction.
“So Ida tells me that you have a bit of wax to try?”
Kirsten took a handful of samples out of her backpack. “Yes, new wax from Glide-Pro. See what you think.” She gave two tins to the man, who carefully read the fine print on the cover.
“Looks like a good wax, but I can’t take two.” He turned to the gray haired fellow next to him. “Say Vidar, want an extra wax tin?”
Vidar’s blue eyes twinkled. “Ja, sure, whatever will make this old sack of bones faster on the track.”
“Tusen takk,” both men thanked Kirsten. Vidar leaned closer to his friend. “You know, Lars, she ought to try Skogheim. He would be the best judge of whether the wax is good or not.” Kirsten’s ears perked up at the mention of the name.
Lars waved him off. “Vidar, don’t talk nonsense. That guy is a hermit crab so buried in his shell that nothing, not even a nice looking young lady like you,” Lars smiled at Kirsten. “will make him come out into the world.”
“So who is this Skogheim?” Kirsten asked with feigned interest. Now I'm getting somewhere.
“Trond Skogheim, World Champion Skier, Olympian, one of the best.”
“Pretty women, ski and wax sponsorships, money, fast cars -- what a life,” Vidar added.
“Then after Lillehammer,“ Lars continued. “He comes here to Granby, buys a house outside of town and we hardly see him. Maybe once or twice a month at the grocery store. He hunts for his own food. People have seen him up in the mountains. Got a moose a couple of times.”
Vidar twirled the wax tin between his fingers. “Well those ski and wax companies found out where he lived and they would bother him. Once he got so mad, he pelted the salesman with snowballs.”
Kirsten smiled, remembering the newspaper clipping. “Doesn’t look too good for me, does it?”
“Well that was two years ago, perhaps he mellowed some,” Lars said.
“Maybe,” Vidar added. “He works as the Voss Nature Inspection Service officer and teaches the children at the Granby ski center. So perhaps he's coming out of his shell.”
“What made him crawl into his shell to begin with?” she asked, once again feigning naiveté.
“No one knows,” Lars answered.
“But everyone speculates,” Vidar finished. “It could have been a woman, or the disappointment of always finishing behind Dæhlie, Alsgård, Ulvang, or maybe,” Vidar shrugged his shoulders, “he got tired of the fast life and wanted to get away from it all.”
“Well, I certainly wouldn't go to his house and try to sell him wax. I’ve never liked door to door salesmen. Perhaps I'll catch him at the Ski Center.” Kirsten extended her hand to the men. “Thank you for the information, and if any of your friends want to try some Glide Pro wax, I'll leave a bunch of tins at the ski center.”
Kirsten waved to the two men and headed back to her motel.
Plan A worked. Despite their initial reticence, the Norskies talked, but they know about as much as I do about what makes Skogheim tick. Get a moose suit. That will make him notice me and SHOOT me. Nah, try the Ski Center, go slow, set up the wax. Fish around for his schedule. Try to make casual conversation. Children are great ice-breakers. Hand out wax to the kids and see what comes out of that…Kirsten changed into ski clothes – a bright teal and white jacket and pants with Glide-Pro Wax logos, and drove over to the Granby Ski Center to implement Plan B.
Chapter 2
In a half an hour, Kirsten rented a pair of cross-country skis, set up a small display of Glide-Pro samples at the counter, and secured a waxing demonstration for the day after tomorrow. She looked through the handouts for the Center hours, trail maps, and class schedules, noting that Trond Skogheim would have a class from 4 to 5 PM, about two hours from now. Kirsten glanced at her watch, tied her shoulder length hair into a ponytail, strapped on her skis and entered the pristine white winter wonderland of the Granby cross-country trail system.
The skis slid effortlessly on the track, as Kirsten crouched her body, descending from the mountain plateau to the pine and spruce forest below. She slowed down her pace, being only aware of the kick and glide of her skis and the rhythmic movements of her arms and legs. A flock of chubby gray birds with a bright red bellies flew from the pine tree overhead, the branches scattering snow flakes in Kirsten’s face. She took a deep breath and stopped, feeling one with the forest, enjoying a moment of solitude among the trees. She looked at her watch and continued on the trail, hoping to be back at the Ski Center before Trond Skogheim finished his class.
Suddenly Kirsten saw a blur of red and blue out of the corner of her eye. The blur turned into a skier for the moment that he passed her, then became a blur again as he receded into the distance. Holy Moses, he was fast. Wow. From a brief glimpse of the skier on the skating track, she was sure he was a man. Red and blue were the colors of the Norwegian ski team suits. Kirsten’s mouth went dry. No, it couldn’t be, or could it? Having been to many races that attracted world class athletes, Kirsten could distinguish between a fast citizen skier and one of Olympic caliber. The skier who passed her was certainly one of the latter. And the only skier of Olympic caliber in Granby would be… Trond Skogheim. Kirsten’s mouth curved into a mischievous grin. Mike Dahl, I got a sighting of the elusive beast. Plan C is about to begin.
Kirsten timed her return to the Ski Center to be thirty minutes before Skogheim finished his class. She freshened up in the bathroom and took a seat by the fireplace, one eye on a magazine and another on the door. At 5 o’clock a group of noisy children tumbled into the center, followed by a tall, blond, muscular man in the red and blue ski suit. Aha, I was right. Looks like the guy from the newspaper clippings, doesn’t even crack a smile in front of the kids. Kirsten’s stomach muscles tightened into a knot and she licked her chapped lips, then turned a page in her magazine. The children ran around the center, shedding their bulky parkas and snow pants, warming their frozen hands by the fireplace, and dashing off to the counter to buy a cup of hot cocoa.
“Hey, Anders, look, are these candy tins?” A small boy pointed to the Glide-Pro tins arranged in a pyramid on the counter.
“No stupid, learn to read, it’s ski wax,” his brother said condescendingly.
“I KNOW how to read, fart face, but wax is smør not W-A-X.”
“It’s wax in English, dumb ass.” The older boy shoved his little brother toward the samples, picked up the top tin and translated the front cover. “Glide-Pro Wax – keeps you on the fast track, for -5 to -15°C. Madison, Wisconsin, USA.”
Kirsten buried herself in the magazine mouthing gratitude into the pages. Good job, kid. Free advertising. Way to go. Now only if Skogheim would notice. Trond Skogheim stood at the entrance, his ice blue eyes focused on the log wall opposite the door, completely unaware of the hub-bub of the children at the center..
“Anders, where is Wisconsin?” the little boy asked.
“I don’t know, somewhere in America.” The older boy shrugged his shoulders and put the wax tin on the top on the pyramid. He must have bumped the samples, because the entire pyramid came crashing down from the counter and onto the floor.
Kirsten turned around, magazine still in hand, unsure if she should rearrange the samples herself, and thus introduce herself into the situation, or let the kids fix the problem themselves.
The clerk at the counter came to her rescue. “Anders and Leif, you put these tins back the way they were and apologize to the lady in the teal suit sitting by the fireplace. She was nice enough to give the Ski Center samples of wax from her company and you made a mess of them,” the lady scolded the two boys.
Kirsten smiled and waved off the clerk. “It’s all right. I take most of the blame, since I'm the one who arranged the samples in that ridiculous pyramid.” She turned to the boys. “Why don’t you take a tin or two home and figure out a way to put the rest of the samples in a way that they do not fall over.”
The children busied themselves with the wax tins and Kirsten went back to the magazine. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that Trond Skogheim did not move a muscle during the entire incident, but continued staring into space, his blue eyes boring past her.
The older boy walked up to Skogheim and showed him the wax tin. “Is this a good wax to use, Mr. Skogheim?”
Trond briefly glanced at the tin. “I don’t know, never heard of it. If you want to practice your waxing skills, give it a try. If you don’t like it, you can always scrape it off.”
This was a golden opportunity to make the sales pitch and the acquaintance of Trond Skogheim, but Kirsten’s throat constricted as if gripped by a tight vise. She was afraid that if she tried to speak, only a tiny mouse squeak would come out. Damn it, this is my chance, this is what Mike sent me here for, what the hell is wrong with me, I blew it. Kirsten clenched her fists until the nails gouged her skin.
Once again, the lady at the counter rescued her. “Anders, why don’t you ask Ms. Olsen,” and she pointed to Kirsten, “she can tell you all about Glide-Pro wax.”
“And I can also tell you where Madison, Wisconsin is in America,” Kirsten added, surprised that her voice came off normal.
The clerk turned to Skogheim. “Trond, Ms. Olsen is the Glide-Pro representative and she was generous to give the Ski Center these wax samples. Perhaps your class can try them? She will be doing a waxing demonstration at seven o’clock, Wednesday.”
Skogheim muttered something unintelligible and noncommittal and his eyes continued to stare off into the distance. I gotta ask the lady why she is batting for me, he obviously doesn’t care.
Anders came over by Kirsten and she drew him a map of the United States, put Madison, Wisconsin in the middle, and told him about the American Birkebeiner and the Mora Vasaloppet, the US counterparts of the Norwegian and Swedish races. She then opened the wax tin and quickly explained how to apply ski wax. “Come on Wednesday and I'll let you try it yourself.”
The boy’s blue-gray eyes widened. “You would let me use the iron?”
“If your parents think it’s okay. How old are you?”
“Ten.”
“Well, I think you're old enough.” Kirsten reassured Anders.
“Wow, thanks. See you at the waxing class. Come on, Leif, Mom is here.” The boys saw their mother at the front door and ran toward her. Other parents picked up their kids, and soon the Center was nearly empty.
Skogheim made minimal contact with the clerk and turned toward the door, “I’ll be here Wednesday at 4 PM.” The door slammed behind him and Kirsten felt it signified a closing of the only opportunity she had to get to know him.
She got up from her chair and went up to the counter.
“Thanks for putting in the plug for my wax. A good word always helps.” She extended her hand to the fifty-ish woman with salt and pepper hair and glasses.
The sales clerk smiled. “I tried. If Trond Skogheim likes your wax, my other patrons will take note and buy it.” She paused and shrugged her shoulders. “You can never tell what Skogheim is going to do. He said nothing today, but may take five of the tins tomorrow.”
“He didn't seem to be very talkative,” Kirsten agreed. She decided to draw the clerk into her plans. “Glide-Pro is looking to sponsor a master skier and the Olympians are all taken. As I told you before, I came to Norway for part vacation and part business trip. Someone like Skogheim would be great for our company, but he doesn't seem very interested.” She pointed to her chair by the fireplace. “Today, I tried to stay in the background, let the wax, the children, and you,” Kirsten touched the woman’s hand in a show of appreciation, “do the work for me. I don’t want to give him the hard sell from the start. I think it turns people off. But at this point, I'm not sure of the best was to approach him.”
The clerk nodded. “None of us know how to approach this man. He's patient with the children, but once classes are over, he's gone.” The woman twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “Let me think this over and perhaps I'll come up with something by Wednesday.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sørensen.”
“You can call me Helene.”
“That will be easy to remember,” Kirsten replied, “Just like my grandmother and you can call me Kirsten.”
“Good night, Kirsten,” Helene waved to Kirsten as she left the Granby Ski Center.
“See you Wednesday.” Kirsten got in her car and drove to the motel. Plan C failed miserably, so I have to come up with Plan D or E or F or G…….
* * *
She drove up to the Granby Ski Center and looked at the trail map. All this talk of moose is freaking me out. I think I'll stay on the mountain plateau this time. She did not want to go into the woods and meet a charging bull moose or, worse yet, be shot by Skogheim’s hunting rifle, if he happened to be nearby.
Kirsten waxed for skate skiing and moved in graceful Vs on the wide skating trail. The setting afternoon sun made the sky a hazy gray orange and Kirsten squinted at the fuzzy trail ahead.
Once again she saw the red and blue blur out of the corner of her eye and quickly moved over to the right side of the trail. The skier grazed her poles and passed her, cutting up the classical tracks.
Before she could stop herself, Kirsten shouted in English. “Come on dude, slow down and don’t mess up the tracks. Geez.”
Skogheim turned around for a fleeting moment, measured her with a cold gaze, then disappeared down the hill, working his arms and legs furiously.
Great, just great. I've just screwed up an already messy up situation beyond repair. Crap. She bit her tongue with her teeth until she tasted blood. Why did I say that? Damn habits.
She skied for another thirty minutes and went back to the Ski Center to wait for the class to end and snag another chance to approach Skogheim.
Helene was at the counter and motioned Kirsten to come to the cash register.
“I did mention your wax to Trond before his class and said it would be a great opportunity for him to ask you if Glide-Pro could sponsor him for the American races.” Helene gave Kirsten a conspiratorial grin. “I told him that his students would be so proud of him, watching the coverage on TV, seeing their teacher compete. It would be a great event for Granby and especially the children.” Helene wrung her hands. “He mumbled something and called the kids to start their class.” She lowered her head. “I tried and I failed. I'm sorry.”
Kirsten placed her palm on the older woman’s veined hand. “You didn't fail. You did your best. Thank you for trying.” She paused. “I'll talk to him after class is over, although I don’t think it will go any better.”
As yesterday, Kirsten sat by the fire place, one eye on the door and one eye on the magazine. The children came in. Trond Skogheim stood to the side, staring into space, waiting for the parents to retrieve their charges. Leif and Anders’ mother asked Kirsten about the waxing class, and then the center emptied of the noise and scurrying little feet.
Trond made a motion to leave and Kirsten quickly rose and walked over to him. He paused at the door and avoided eye contact.
This is it Olsen. Just do it. Kirsten took a deep breath.
“Excuse me, Mr. Skogheim. I'm Kirsten Olsen from the Glide-Pro Wax Company. You've probably seen me handing out wax samples at the center. Part of the reason I came here is to acquaint people with our brand, but another reason is,” Kirsten tried to engage the cold blue eyes of the tall man in front of her, “is that Glide-Pro is looking to sponsor a World Class Master Skier, such as yourself, in the American World Cup Races this year. These would be the Noquemanon, a new race in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, the Mora Vasaloppet in Minnesota, and the American Birkebeiner, in Wisconsin.” She took another deep breath. “Of course, we'll pay for your travel and lodging, and we think it would be a great honor to have you represent Glide-Pro Waxes. Would this be of interest to you?” Kirsten let the question hang, but Trond Skogheim did not move a muscle. His gaze shifted to Kirsten briefly.
“Did you say something to me?”
Bastard, you heard me the first time, you’re humiliating me. Kirsten repeated her spiel again, her voice betraying far less enthusiasm. She closed with “I'll give you several days to think it over. Perhaps we can discuss the details over lunch or dinner. Here's my card.”
She extended her right hand with a business card to Skogheim. Without looking at her, he took it, crumpled it, shoved it in his pocket and turned to her, his brow furrowed in anger. “The answer is NO,” he ground out and slammed the door as he left the center.
Kirsten opened the door and shouted. “No to what – the wax, the sponsorship, the dinner, what?”