The Indian Bride Read Online Free Page A
Author: Karin Fossum
that's fine, but just don't eat the ice cream in India."
"Am I allowed alcohol?" he said snappily.
"I suppose you are. But for God's sake don't get too drunk. Then you'd be in real trouble."
"I never get drunk," Gunder said. "I haven't been drunk for fifteen years."
"I know. And you will call home, won't you? I need to know that you've arrived safely. I can collect your mail. And water your flowers. I suppose the lawn will need mowing once or twice during those two weeks. You can drive the safe over to our place, can't you? Then it won't be here to tempt people. Are you parking at the airport? I expect it costs an arm and a leg."
"Not sure," he said.
"You're not sure? You have to book long-term parking in advance," she told him. "You'll have to phone tomorrow. You can't drive to Gardermoen and park just anywhere."
"No, I don't suppose I can," he said. It was a good thing that she had come over. He was quite dizzy under all this withering criticism and went resolutely to fetch a bottle of cognac. Yes, by God, he deserved a drink.
Marie was wiping her mouth and smiling. "This is so exciting, Gunder. Imagine everything you will have to tell us when you come back. Have you got film for your camera? Have you got cancellation insurance? Have you made a list of everything you need to remember?"
"No," he said, sipping his cognac. "Would you do it for me, please, Marie?"
Then she relented and hurried off in search of pen and paper. While Gunder savored the cognac in his mouth, Marie wrote a "To Do" list. He watched her secretly. She sucked on the pen, tapped it lightly against her teeth to focus her thoughts. Her shoulders were so round and neat. He was lucky to have Marie. There was nothing unresolved between them.
Whatever happened, he would always have Marie.
CHAPTER 2
This is how Gunder looked as he sat in the plane: His back straight like a schoolboy. He wore a short-sleeved shirt from Dressmann, a dark blue blazer, and khaki pants. He had not flown many times in his life and was very impressed by everything around him. In the overhead compartment he had a black bag and in the inside pocket, zipped up, was the filigree brooch in its small box. In his wallet he had Indian rupees, German marks, and British sterling. He closed his eyes now. Did not like the violent feeling of suction as the plane took off.
"My name is Gunder," he said to himself in English. "How do you do?"
The man next to him looked at him.
"Your soul remains at Gardermoen. That's good to know, don't you think?"
Gunder didn't understand.
"When you travel as fast as we do today the soul stays behind. Somewhere in the airport. It's probably in a pub somewhere, at the bottom of a glass. I had a whiskey before we left."
Gunder tried to imagine whiskey in the morning. He couldn't. He had bought himself a cup of coffee and had stood by the long counter watching people rush by. Then he had wandered slowly around, browsing, noiseless in his new sandals. His soul was in its place under his blazer, he was quite sure of that.
"You should swap that whiskey for a coffee," he said simply.
The man looked at Gunder and laughed. Then he said, "What are you selling?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"Yes."
"I sell agricultural machinery."
"And now you're going to a trade fair in Frankfurt?"
"No, no. This time I'm a tourist."
"Who goes on holiday in Frankfurt?" the man wondered. "I'm going farther than that," said Gunder happily. "All the way to Mumbai."
"And where is that?"
"India. Formerly Bombay, if that means anything to you." Gunder smiled importantly. "The city has been renamed Mumbai since 1995."
The man signaled to a passing flight attendant and ordered whiskey on the rocks. Gunder asked for orange juice and reclined his seat and closed his eyes. He did not want to talk. He had so many thoughts to think. What should he say about Norway? About Elvestad? What the Norwegians were like? What
were
they like? And the food, what was there to say about that?
"Am I allowed alcohol?" he said snappily.
"I suppose you are. But for God's sake don't get too drunk. Then you'd be in real trouble."
"I never get drunk," Gunder said. "I haven't been drunk for fifteen years."
"I know. And you will call home, won't you? I need to know that you've arrived safely. I can collect your mail. And water your flowers. I suppose the lawn will need mowing once or twice during those two weeks. You can drive the safe over to our place, can't you? Then it won't be here to tempt people. Are you parking at the airport? I expect it costs an arm and a leg."
"Not sure," he said.
"You're not sure? You have to book long-term parking in advance," she told him. "You'll have to phone tomorrow. You can't drive to Gardermoen and park just anywhere."
"No, I don't suppose I can," he said. It was a good thing that she had come over. He was quite dizzy under all this withering criticism and went resolutely to fetch a bottle of cognac. Yes, by God, he deserved a drink.
Marie was wiping her mouth and smiling. "This is so exciting, Gunder. Imagine everything you will have to tell us when you come back. Have you got film for your camera? Have you got cancellation insurance? Have you made a list of everything you need to remember?"
"No," he said, sipping his cognac. "Would you do it for me, please, Marie?"
Then she relented and hurried off in search of pen and paper. While Gunder savored the cognac in his mouth, Marie wrote a "To Do" list. He watched her secretly. She sucked on the pen, tapped it lightly against her teeth to focus her thoughts. Her shoulders were so round and neat. He was lucky to have Marie. There was nothing unresolved between them.
Whatever happened, he would always have Marie.
CHAPTER 2
This is how Gunder looked as he sat in the plane: His back straight like a schoolboy. He wore a short-sleeved shirt from Dressmann, a dark blue blazer, and khaki pants. He had not flown many times in his life and was very impressed by everything around him. In the overhead compartment he had a black bag and in the inside pocket, zipped up, was the filigree brooch in its small box. In his wallet he had Indian rupees, German marks, and British sterling. He closed his eyes now. Did not like the violent feeling of suction as the plane took off.
"My name is Gunder," he said to himself in English. "How do you do?"
The man next to him looked at him.
"Your soul remains at Gardermoen. That's good to know, don't you think?"
Gunder didn't understand.
"When you travel as fast as we do today the soul stays behind. Somewhere in the airport. It's probably in a pub somewhere, at the bottom of a glass. I had a whiskey before we left."
Gunder tried to imagine whiskey in the morning. He couldn't. He had bought himself a cup of coffee and had stood by the long counter watching people rush by. Then he had wandered slowly around, browsing, noiseless in his new sandals. His soul was in its place under his blazer, he was quite sure of that.
"You should swap that whiskey for a coffee," he said simply.
The man looked at Gunder and laughed. Then he said, "What are you selling?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"Yes."
"I sell agricultural machinery."
"And now you're going to a trade fair in Frankfurt?"
"No, no. This time I'm a tourist."
"Who goes on holiday in Frankfurt?" the man wondered. "I'm going farther than that," said Gunder happily. "All the way to Mumbai."
"And where is that?"
"India. Formerly Bombay, if that means anything to you." Gunder smiled importantly. "The city has been renamed Mumbai since 1995."
The man signaled to a passing flight attendant and ordered whiskey on the rocks. Gunder asked for orange juice and reclined his seat and closed his eyes. He did not want to talk. He had so many thoughts to think. What should he say about Norway? About Elvestad? What the Norwegians were like? What
were
they like? And the food, what was there to say about that?
Readers choose
Donna Jo Napoli
Jennifer Greene
Regan Black
Robert Lipsyte
Martha Brockenbrough
Marie Harte
Lee Thompson
Peter Ames Carlin
Julie Fortune