The Three Fates of Henrik Nordmark: A Novel Read Online Free

average bristle count. At the end of the fifth month, Mason returned from his work assignment. Roland hurried in to work to compare beards, only to discover Mason sitting in his chair, bright-eyed, tanned . . . and clean-shaven. When Mason saw Roland’s beard, he broke out laughing. Mason had never grown a beard. It had all been part of an elaborate — and quite successful — ruse to make Roland look like the office lunatic.
    Mason wondered out loud why Roland wasn’t laughing.
    “Come on,” he said. “Everyone appreciates a good burn.”
    Roland did not appreciate the burn.
    In mock friendship, Mason offered to still pay for their pizza party. Devastated, Roland couldn’t bring himself to accept the invitation.
    Roland looked at Mason in his suit and tie, sitting beside him in the waiting room of the interviewer’s office.
    “How are you doing?” Roland said.
    “I’m sore. I played Ultimate last night.”
    “Ultimate?”
    “Yeah, it’s a new sport. My legs are really sore from playing.”
    Roland had never heard of Ultimate before. What was this new sport that Mason had been playing? If they called it “Ultimate,” it must be something pretty awesome. Roland’s mind swirled with all of the possibilities. Perhaps it was some variation on kickboxing. Or jousting. Or a brand of dodgeball played above a flaming pit in which the competitors are enclosed in a cage and the spectators are permitted, within reason of course, to poke the opposing team with sticks, or better yet, knives. It must be a really tough sport for Mason to deem it the ultimate sport of them all.
    “What’s involved in this Ultimate?”
    “You catch a Frisbee, you throw it to someone else, and then you run and catch it again.”
    “That’s it?”
    “Yeah, it’s like the toughest game you could ever play.”
    “Really?” Roland said.
    “Yes, really.”
    “Do you play it against giant men who threaten to tackle you?”
    “No. It’s co-ed. And there’s no tackling.”
    “Then why do they call it Ultimate?”
    Mason rolled his eyes. “They used to call it Ultimate Frisbee. But the Frisbee brand name is trademarked by some big corporation who threatened to sue. So the league organizers shortened it to Ultimate.”
    “That name’s a little misleading, don’t you think?”
    “How so?”
    “Well, when you said ‘Ultimate,’ I immediately started thinking about all of these insane, American Gladiator–type games you might be competing in. But you’re just running around throwing a Frisbee.”
    “You don’t understand,” Mason said. “It’s a really hard game.”
    “Oh, I believe you. But is it the ultimate game? Wouldn’t hockey or football or Greco-Roman wrestling be a better candidate to be called the ultimate sport?”
    Mason shook his head. “You’ll never understand until you play it yourself.”
    “Maybe I should. Can I join your team?”
    “No. We’re only looking for girls right now.”
    Roland turned away and stared at the corner of the room. Mason shook his head again and busied himself by reading a three-year-old copy of the New Yorker on the coffee table until Roland spoke.
    “You got your hair cut,” he said.
    “Yep,” Mason ran his hand through his hair. It was short on the sides with an angular poof on top.
    “How much did that run you?”
    “Eight bucks at Magic Cuts. They gave me a hot dog and a pop too. No extra charge.”
    “Wow. It looks good.” Roland’s tone dripped with sarcasm but Mason didn’t seem to pick up on it. He had put down the copy of the New Yorker and was busy flipping through an issue of Golf Digest .
    “Do you see this guy?” Mason pointed to a middle-aged golfer in a striped shirt on the cover. “He was a golf instructor for years until about eight months ago when he made the big time. He played in his first major golf tournament and won the whole thing. The prize money was something like eight million bucks. Then he traded up big time.”
    Roland faced Mason for