Tastes like old piss to me. I’m more of a Coors kind of guy. Tap the Rockies, man. To my right I can see into the bar. A few hanging lamps dimly illuminate the table where Glen sits, listening to the instructions of Mr. Isaac. I can feel the hard surface of the bar against my back. An ancient jukebox plays a lonesome tune. I can’t place it. I sigh, returning my gaze to the table where Glen and Mr. Isaac sit. I watch Glen’s lips move, and he stands, indicating that their conversation is over. Stepping towards me he buttons his jacket and gestures at the door. “The game is afoot, Watson” he quips. I smile. Indeed, the game is afoot. Leaving the bar behind us we head for the bottoms in Glen’s blue Nova. He drives and I watch out the window as buildings speed by. The clock on the dash indicates that it is twenty past four in the morning. Doesn’t feel like it. But then, I haven’t really slept in the past three and a half days. I’m reminded of a movie that was out a few years ago. It’s. Who, among those passing by, knows that the woman is visiting Oslo from the United States? Who notices the gold wedding band on her left hand? Who knows that she has a four-year-old son? And who knows that she has a master’s degree from Cornell in psychology? I know. It is my task to watch the scene and to alert the woman who holds the video camera if some security agents approach to stop this filming. I am jet-lagged but also jittery from all the coffee I drank at the airport. I would probably feel hungry if it were not for the nausea. The naked woman in the hood is my wife. I gave her the pearl earrings only three weeks before. They now stand out pale against her ears and face because she is now flushed. Her small breasts, also reddened, now jiggle as the man uses her. Her nipples are distended, her mouth is open, her eyes now closed. Who is the man with my wife? The camerawoman, Beate, says she thinks his name is Pavel, but she is not sure. He is hard to understand, she.
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