Wolf Hour

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‘And what is the purpose of your visit, Mr Holger Rudi?’

The CBP officer looks at me without interest as he scratches his upper arm just below the emblem of the US Customs and Border Protection service. His eyes are tired.

‘Research,’ I answer.

‘And what do you intend to research?’

I’ve just flown from Oslo to Minneapolis via Reykjavik, a seven-hour time difference, and my body is telling me I should have been in bed long ago, so instead of following my instinct to reply ‘murder’ and end up in an interrogation room I tell him that I’m writing a novel about a policeman with Norwegian heritage.

‘So you’re a writer?’

I feel like telling him I’m a taxidermist. I stuff things. That I’m here looking to clothe a character, someone in a story I already have clear in my mind. It’s an image that has haunted me these past few months, a title I like to give myself. But as I say, I’m tired.

‘Yes,’ I reply.

‘Interesting. As it happens I was baptised in the Norwegian Lutheran Memorial Church.’

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