5 HMV: Går Gjennom Listen
"Eg går gjennom listen og alle kjente/Prøver bare å finne ut kem eg prøver å finne"
Translation: "I go through the list and everyone I know/Just trying to figure out who I'm trying to find"
-Kygo, song "Kem Kan Eg Ringe" (Feat. Store P & Lars Vaular)
6 am/3 pm GMT+2, Lufthansa LH 491, Airbus A340, Business Class
After a quick trip to the restroom to freshen themselves up, brush their teeth, (and in Macy's case, put on a bit of eyeliner and lipstick), Harry and Macy returned to their seats. In no time at all, the "fasten seatbelt" sign disappeared, and the terminal door opened. They had arrived at last.
"You know," remarked Harry casually as they walked out into the adjoining airport, "we really should do this more often."
4:30 pm, Erlik Kaffe, Akersgata 32, 0159 Oslo, Norway
"How'd you find about this place anyhow?" Macy asked Harry, as she stirred her almond milk café latte (or caffè latte, as it was called here). After dropping their luggage off at the front desk of the four-star Hotel Christiania Teater, a historic landmark built in 1918 known for its in-house theater and its authentic postmodern Renaissance architecture, they hurried off to Erlik Kaffe for some much-needed caffeine and Morgana search-and-rescue planning.
Kygo's "Kem Kan Eg Ringe" (Feat. Store P & Lars Vaular) played throughout the establishment, as Harry took a bite of his kanelbolle pastry, a broad, folded Norwegian version of a cinnamon roll, fresh from the oven. Delicious. I simply must get the recipe, he thought to himself as he offered a bite to Macy. "Oh, Jordan recommended it, it's a social enterprise whose staff are recovering addicts working hard for a second chance."
Macy's mouth poised mid-air before her teeth had even sunken into the pastry. "Addicts?"
"Recovered addicts, love," Harry hastened to emphasize, taking a sip of strong kaffe. "They've served their time, and much like America, I imagine it can be exceedingly difficult to pass a background check once you've obtained a criminal record."
Macy nodded upon hearing this and bit into the pastry, savoring the granules of melted sugar and spiced cinnamon notes blending together. "Dang, they sure make really good pastries," she murmured, half to herself. "Thank Jordan for me, will you?"
"Will do, once we're back," Harry answered. "Speaking of family, what do we know about Morgana?" he spoke in a lower tone, so that Macy had to bend forward to hear him over the crowded din of the coffee shop.
Macy pulled out her phone and perused her notes. "Morgana helped out at a succubus birth, then disappeared in Oslo two weeks ago. That's literally all we have to go by."
A thought occurred to Harry. "How lethal are succubus bites, if one has Morgana's magical powers?"
Macy took another sip of her latte and mulled this over. "Succubus bites, if one's unfortunate to be a mere mortal, can involve an enormous loss of blood, though are rarely fatal in and of themselves. From my research, the creature has enough superhuman strength to lift a full-grown man by a single hand. They're also skilled climbers and feed off human emotions."
Harry frowned as he tore off another piece of pastry. A birth of a succubus—birth in general, really—was an emotionally-charged event. "So, if the succubus bites aren't fatal in a mortal, what does that mean for someone of Morgana's magical prowess?"
"I'm searching…" Macy's eyes remained glued to her phone, as she read over the "Scientific Explanations" section of the topic online, which mentioned sleep paralysis and nightmares. Then her eyes widened, as she shoved her device in front of Harry's face.
"Age, Harry. It affects age."
The pair stared at each other.
"Y-you're saying that—" Harry stuttered aloud. Macy nodded.
"She's probably alive, but we don't know how old she is—she could be…" Macy thought aloud. "Sixty? Forty? Thirty years old?"
"Depending on the severity of the bite, you mean," interjected Harry, quickly catching on. "So, what now? I mean, love, we can't very well go up to every random Norwegian redhead and say "excuse me, are you Morgana, a century-and-some-odd-years-old witch?" That would in all probability earn us a well-deserved slap to the face—"
"Yeah, no," Macy cringed. "But knowing Morgana…" she trailed off, remembering the witch's fondness for first editions. "She does have a fondness for bookshops. The more eclectic, the better. How about we start there?"
"Excellent idea," exclaimed Harry.
5:10 pm, Erlik Kaffe, Akersgata 32, 0159 Oslo, Norway
After considerable amounts of internet sleuthing of the most unusual and exceptionally cozy bookshops within a ten mile radius of Oslo, Macy and Harry had narrowed their list to six in particular:
-Cappelens Forslag (signed first editions)
-Tronsmo (lauded by American poet)
-Eldorado bokhandel (largest indie)
-Litteraturhuset (free author office space)
-Bislet Bok (one-room)
-Sagene Bok og Papir (cozy with travel books)
Macy checked the time on her phone. Just past 5 pm. She did a few mental calculations in her head. The faculty dinner was at 7 pm nearby the hotel and would probably last an hour or two. It would take a full hour to get dressed and primped so they needed to be back at the hotel at 5:45. Which gave them, in all likelihood, fifteen minutes to make a pit stop at the first bookstore, Cappelens Forslag.
5:20 pm, Outside Cappelens Forslag, Oslo, Norway, Bernt Ankers gate 4B, 0183
Blast it, thought Harry. We've arrived too late. The signage indicated that the shop had closed a mere twenty minutes earlier. He made as though to depart, Macy trailing in his wake.
"Harry!" hissed Macy, beckoning him to the gated parking alley located to the right of the store, its gates open. "Over here—" and he followed her through the shadows of buildings overhead, turning a corner to face the back entrance of the antiquarian establishment.
"Love," he panted running after him, "does this constitute breaking and entering?"
Macy turned around and gave him a deadpan expression. Do you really think I'm that stupid? Macy's visage seemed to indicate. "There's an Open House event showcasing the newest author, and it ends in ten minutes."
"How did you know?" asked Harry, perplexed. "Did you engage in a new form of telepathy?"
She refrained from rolling her eyes, pointing instead to the prominent signage:
Åpent husarrangement i kveld: Forfatter: Melanija Paradis | 16:30 til 17:30
And below it, written in smaller font: "Open house event tonight: Author Melanija Paradis | 4:30-5:30 pm."
"Oh," fumbled Harry, at a loss for words. "Right, then. On we go—"
5:28 pm, Cappelens Forslag, Oslo, Norway, Bernt Ankers gate 4B, 0183
The interior of Cappelens Forslag reminded Macy of one of her college professor's living rooms back in the day, with its floor-to-ceiling build-in bookcases, painted a creamy alabaster. Every single bookshelf was filled neatly to the brim with tomes of every color, shape, and size. Where one expected to find a fireplace and mantlepiece, one instead found two cushioned tall leather chairs in its stead. Macy and Harry split up their search; Macy continued exploring a section further ahead, with its brown covers and intricate gold-printed design showcasing the insides of a person's brain. Instead of veins and frontal cortex etchings, however, she noticed that there was a single large machinery cog drawn at the back of the artistically depicted heads.
Macy reached out to touch one of the covers, and felt a peculiar sort of static shock, causing her to yank her hand away sharply. "Love, are you alright?" Harry came up behind her, his brow furrowed. "Was it the book—" he reached out to touch the book, but Macy slapped his hand away sharply.
"We don't know what this book does—we need to be careful!" she whispered in his ear. Macy flagged down a bookseller. "Umm…snakker du engelsk?" she inquired, hoping the seller knew the English language. To her relief, the young man nodded. "Awesome—ok, so, uh—what can you tell us about these? Are these for sale?" Macy asked, gesturing at the brown books. His eyes widened at where she was pointing and shook his head. Definitely a no, then. "We're looking for a friend, and this book might tell us something about her—is it about the brain? Nightmares? Sleep paralysis?" She felt as though she were playing a game of "spaghetti," in which one would toss a boiled noodle onto the adjoining wall. If it stuck, it was cooked; if it slid, it was still raw.
"The last," the young man whispered, angling his head this way and that, to ensure he wasn't being overheard.
Harry and Macy looked at each other. Sleep paralysis was associated with the succubus legend. Could Morgana be here? There hadn't been any other book that generated such a physiological response though, and they were pressed for time. Macy jotted down a note on her phone: "electric shock, brown book, sleep paralysis." And it was just the beginning.
6:40 pm, Hotel Room, Hotel Christiania Teater, Stortingsgata 16, 0161 Oslo, Norway
Macy and Harry had gotten lost on the way back to their hotel, and were forced to take a cab back, which Harry found rather expensive, ("really, Macy, we could have orbed instead!") but Macy pointed out that the risk of being seen in broad daylight in unfamiliar territory would have been a far worse situation, and so he capitulated, for the time being.
Using a single bathroom to do one's makeup, put on clothing, and various adornments was a bit much, so Harry hurriedly put on his dress shirt, slacks, and tie, and said he'd wait for her in the lobby. In the meantime, Macy surveyed the dresses she had brought with her with a critical eye. Should she go for the sky-blue short gown? The scalloped black cocktail dress? The floor-length ballgown? Decisions, decisions…
She pulled out her phone and searched online for the restaurant's details. Formal attire suggested, it read, with "$$$$" atop the description, with what appeared to be a Michelin recommendation. Oh, wow. That settled that, then, she thought to herself, pulling out the smoky chartreuse form-fitting ballgown from among the dresses hanging in the hotel room closet, its V-neck capped sleeve tulle and lace fabric glittering as though covered in millions of glittering constellations. She donned a layer of lipstick, a deep claret color that complimented her blush and eyeshadow. Throwing one last glance toward the mirror, she thought to herself, here goes nothing.
6:50 pm, Front of Hotel Christiania Teater, Stortingsgata 16, 0161 Oslo, Norway
Harry checked his timepiece once more. Where on earth was Macy? If she didn't appear within the next minute, he was going to duck into a corner and orb upstairs, whether she liked it or not. He felt a tap on his shoulder. "Harry, how do I look?" Macy, thank goodness. He turned around and gaped.
His beautiful wife of twenty-four years was dressed to the nines in a sparkling silver-colored dress that appeared to have hundreds upon thousands of glittering pieces on it, whether it was miniscule Swarovski crystals or tiny glitter-woven threads, he did not know. Her figure was curvy and elegant—which he found especially impressive due to her having borne three children from her very womb, all those many years ago. Were they really over fifty years old? Time certainly had flown by, but thanks to their magical genes, both naturally and unnaturally-occurring, neither looked a day older than thirty, save for the rare silvery tendrils of hair each found on the other, on occasion.
"Breathtaking, love, divinely so," he murmured, kissing his wife as they made their way to the faculty dinner.
7:30 pm, Restaurant À L'Aise, Essendrops gate 6, Oslo 0368 Oslo, Norway
After tucking into the fifth of the thirteen-total miniature course meal, Macy couldn't help but feel a certain degree of healthy envy for Norwegian academia. "You Norwegians certainly know how to treat us Americans," she couldn't help but remark to their two hosts, Drs. Jakob and Sofie Henrik, respectively, both of whom were tenured professors in the medical research faculty division. Macy's starter dish was scallops in a pickled horseradish cream, their inch-wide translucent orbs dotted with a smidgen of edible gold. Wow. Harry had admired his pulled pork croquette, a delectable morsel on a bed of black lentils. Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle champagne was ordered tableside as a tablespoon of smoked duck gizzard and savory egg custard followed, along with a fingerling piece of pillowy halibut fish in aged soy sauce over a teaspoon of the freshest-tasting white rice Macy had even had.
Sofie smiled shyly and laughed, her platinum blond wavy hair shaking ever-so-slightly with the movement. "We invest a great deal in education, we Nordics, I suppose. We get taxed twice as much as you Americans, but it feeds into our youth—they are our greatest legacy after all, no?"
"Right," said Macy, as she dove into her halibut. "Of course, that makes sense—"
"Attending public universities is free for all Norwegians and international students, and we constantly seek the best and the brightest," interjected Sofie's husband Jakob, who was just as platinum blond as she.
"And the teachers?" Harry asked, almost as if reading Macy's mind. "How does one become a teacher in Norway?"
"It's much more difficult than America," answered Sofie. "A public primary school teacher must have a framework plan, requiring the teacher to take what we call 'formal responsibilities' plus 'pedagogical and practical responsibilities.' And that's just for first grade alone."
Dang, thought Macy, thinking of the neighborhood public school she'd attended as a six-year-old, whose teachers definitely didn't seem to have had any plan at all, letting the kids run wild whenever there was a substitute, until she let that fact slip to her father Dexter, who subsequently raised hell and put her into a parent-led charter school until he decided what to do next (which of course, was way before he had the bright idea of boarding school).
"Admission to high schools isn't guaranteed, on the flip side," stated Jakob. "Students must test in and apply to high schools all across the region, which means perhaps moving away earlier than expected. That said, they do have dedicated teachers that are quite passionate and motivated."
"So, here, teaching is considered a noble profession?" asked Harry. "I mean—" he clarified, "it is in America, but the respect is rather concentrated in upper academia, which is unfortunate, as there are so many other teachers that are underappreciated…" he trailed off. Sofie and Henrik nodded.
"One of the noblest professions of all," Sofie proudly replied. "A 'single-subject teacher' Faglærer requires three years of educational training; a 'general subject teacher' Allmennlære requires four years. For teaching in upper secondary schools, a higher university degree with five to six years of study plus one year of training programs is required. All the more reason," she gestured to the dishes before them, "we enjoy celebrating our successes every now and then. Cheers," she ended, raising her glass of champagne, and the rest toasted, clinking their own glasses with hers.
9 pm, Hotel Room to Bathroom Hot Tub, Hotel Christiania Teater, Stortingsgata 16, 0161 Oslo, Norway
Macy and Harry unlocked their hotel room door and ambled inside, having enjoyed a delectable meal (and a long moonlit walk to walk off said meal), eagerly anticipating tomorrow's presentation to the medical anthropology students. Macy had completed much of her Hypnos subject matter review on the plane ride over and had half a mind to enjoy the hot tub she had noticed earlier in her speedy haste to dress for dinner.
The first thing she noticed, however, was that the sheets appeared different. The turn-down service, she realized, in which hotel staff would enter the room and fold over the outer bedspread sham, adding goose down feather pillows, a vase of white flowers, and a couple of tableside chocolates. In her years of researching and writing, she had never experienced such amenities until now. She noticed, indeed, the down pillows tied together with a pale silk ribbon, and a tiny transparent glass plate with what appeared to be wrapped candies of some sort. Macy carefully added the treats to her purse in case they ever grew hungry later.
She removed her silk nightie from her luggage bag and proceeded to the bathroom, noticing a myriad of rose petals around the hot tub, plus various liquid soap containers. "Um, sweetie?"
"Yup?" Harry, sitting at the small desk facing their hotel window, looked up.
"I'm gonna take a bath—" she began, motioning to the hot tub, which was filled to the brim with piping-hot water. "It seems the hotel staff has added rose petals and other…accoutrements to the hot tub," she pointed to the area and Harry walked over, intrigued.
"Oh my," he murmured, peering at the hot tub then over at Macy. "It certainly does look inviting…"
"Are you going to help me out of my dress, Mr. Valensi?" Macy coquettishly asked. "I'm having a bit of…technical difficulty," she said, indicating where a strand of curly hair had inadvertently wound itself around a zipper fold.
"Why certainly, Dr. Valensi," he murmured, freeing the strand, which sprang up with a telltale bounce.
9:05 pm, Bathroom Hot Tub, Hotel Christiania Teater, Stortingsgata 16, 0161 Oslo, Norway
Her dress slipped to the floor as she walked into the now-foggy bathroom, the steam having enveloped the space. Macy shed her undergarments and slid into the hot tub, her body enveloped in its warmth. "Oh, yesss…." she moaned aloud, her eyes slowly closing in bliss as she heard Harry unbuckle his belt, and open the closet door to place his pants, neatly folded, on a straight-edged coat hanger, along with his dress shirt on an adjoining one. Macy opened her eyes and reached her hand to the tiled exterior, where she grabbed a fistful of crimson rose petals, sprinkling them atop the surface of the water, curlicues of steam continuing to emanate forth.
She picked a random soap container and sniffed it. Coconut and pear, it seemed to be. She added a couple of drops to the hot tub and soon felt as though she had entered into the tropical paradise of Epicenter Pico No. 23 once more. But how did the hotel staff know…? Macy closed her eyes again and they remained closed as she heard the bathroom door shut and the familiar movement of steps arrive close to her stead. Harry.
"Is it my imagination, or do the soaps smell quite a lot like Epicenter Pico?" Macy asked, as she heard Harry step into the hot tub.
"I might've had a hand in it," he replied, and her eyes opened. "Don't look so shocked, love, I figured, when the hotel asked if we wanted anything to make us feel more at home, I might as well ask—"
"—Customizable soaps and all?" Macy said, now smiling. Harry nodded.
"And just like that," he said, approaching her form, as he stepped slowly through the water to sit next to her, his shoulders aligned with the water's upper edge.
"Oh, Harry," she murmured, her curls now buried in his neck, as she leaned in to kiss him. "That's so sweet of you," and she gasped as he suddenly pulled her atop him, leaning in so that their tongues were now inveigled within each other's mouth, her arms reaching out to encircle his neck, bringing his visage closer to her own, so that her curly hair met his own chestnut strands, and her forehead touched his. He reached out to cup one breast, then the other, alternately massaging and flicking her nubs as she began to involuntarily thrust against him, moaning all the while, as he felt himself harden. All these years, and that much hadn't changed, he was pleased to report.
"You know the amazing thing about being in one's late forties-to-early-fifties, while looking thirty?" Macy broke away from his embrace and stared straight into Harry's smoldering eyes.
"What's that, love? The financial means to travel?" Macy shook her head, an impish look about her visage. "A robust retirement plan? Stocks gathering interest?" She laughed aloud at his apparent myopia, her curls whirling this way and that.
She put her lips to his ear, and whispered, "the ability to raw-fuck you senseless, without any fear of pregnancy."
Harry felt himself blush from his cheeks down to his neck, possibly including his upper chest, if such a thing were even possible, as Macy resumed her sensual movements against his lower half. "Oh m-my, Dr. Valensi," he stammered, as he felt her lower lips poised just above his shaft. "How could I have forgotten? Such a wonderful—" Macy slammed herself down, taking him in entirety, "—benefit," his breathing hitched, as he grasped her hips firmly, thoroughly enjoying the lubricated sensation of being cloaked in the warmth of his love. Their movements hastened, as Macy bit his shoulder; he gasped as he felt her pinch and bite a particularly sensitive part of his arm, and sensed himself expanding, throbbing upward, pulsating, until he gave a final thrust, and shuddered, as he came into his beloved.