Prost Gotvins geometri - Part 18

This is Prost Gotvins geometri by Gert Nygårdshaug. The translation was done by Roy Johansen. Nygårdshaug is a Norwegian author and the text has not yet been published in English. Roy is a friend of mine who recently moved back to his native Norway. He has translated a good part of the novel and I'm trying to convince him to finish it.

Here’s Part 17.

Father Gotvin's First Journey (continued)

Thinking back, I remember the train ride from Paris to Copenhagen as a pleasant alternation between sleeping and dozing. I got off early in the morning, feeling refreshed and rested. The train to Trelleborg would depart in about an hour which gave me enough time for two sandwiches with wonderful Danish salami and a cup of tea. Afterwards I fumbled a while in a phone booth trying to call the Danish directory assistance. Preben Hansson; there were two Preben Hanssons on Zealand. One of them was a hairdresser here in Copenhagen while the other one actually lived not far from Trelleborg, in the small town of Korsør. Was this the Preben Hansson I wanted? He's the one I'd put my money on, but I didn't have the nerve to call him now. What would I say to him? First I had to go to Trelleborg. But the question remained whether I would have to visit the other places as well. If so, I would have to travel all over Denmark. I made up my mind there and then – I must solve this riddle, no matter what. Today was Saturday and I had to be back at my desk in Vanndal the day after tomorrow. If time proved too short, my substitute, a young student, Laura Lønnevig would just have to stay on another couple of days. That's how it had to be. I hurried toward the platform where my train was ready to depart.

I spent the entire trip to Trelleborg in the restaurant car with my half-bottle of red wine and water. The flat Danish scenery whooshed by. Again I was Gotvin the Investigator. What would become of this little detour? I had hastily grabbed a few tourist brochures from the information counter at the railway station in Copenhagen – brochures about the Trelleborg fortress, one of Denmark's historical treasures, they said. The Danes had three such landmarks; the other two were none other than Fyrkat and Aggersborg, all classified as fortifications from the Viking era. This caught my interest and I studied the ground plan of Trelleborg.



This was precisely the way she had drawn it. Later I would copy this plan and put it in the secret drawer of my escritoire with the other documents. But now I was sitting there examining the peculiar geometry. What might have been the Vikings' intentions with it? Everything was so perfectly symmetrical – circles, crosses, and these figures, the stones resembling obtuse rowboats. Thirteen in an outer circle and four in each quadrant of the innermost circle. Vikings? This place was a good haul from the coast and didn't the Vikings build their fortresses along the coast? I knew next to nothing about these things, but I wanted to learn. I got off the train at the right station and asked around for cheap accommodations. I found a small inn, "Mosegaard", where I immediately took a shower, shaved, and changed clothes. Then I walked to the nearest payphone.

"Bodil Hansson," was the answer.
"Excuse me, is Preben Hansson available?"
"Are you a Norwegian?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry, Preben is at his store," informed the lady.
"Where can I find it?"
"Here in Korsør, of course. Do you want the number?"
"Yes, please."

She gave me the number. Store? What kind of store did Preben Hansson run? Was this the Preben Hansson I wanted? I hesitated a moment, then I dialed the new number.

"Hansson's Glass; how may I help you?"
"Thank you – uhm – my name is Gotvin Soleng, from Norway. I'd just like to ask – would you in any way happen to be connected to those Viking fortresses? Do the names Trelleborg, Eskeholm, Fyrkat, and Aggersborg mean anything to you?"

Silence.
Then laughter.

"Do they ever! Haven't you read my bool?"
"Book? No," I replied, taken aback.
"What, then, is it you want to know?"
"Well." I cleared my throat. "I'm on my way back from a trip to Spain. There I met a woman who told me you would be able to tell me what truly is concealed in Heaven…"

Again silence. And laughter.

"A Spanish woman, eh? Not bad! Where are you now?"
"At the Mosegaard Inn. Would it be – uhm – possible to have a word with you in private? You see, this is very important."
"You sound very cryptic, young man. Very well, I suppose so."

Again silence. I waited in trepidation.

"Are you afraid of flying?"
"Flying? No…"
"Then meet me at five sharp tomorrow afternoon at the airstrip outside Korsør."
"I'll be there, Mr. Hansson, and thank you very much."
"You're welcome and I'll see you there."