Free Blessed Are Those Who Thirst by Anne Holt

had made a mistake.
    “First floor, I mean. My daughter. She lives upstairs.”
    Perhaps she believed him. Maybe she realized on reflection it was unlikely anyone would come to molest her at half past nine in the morning. Anyway, she withdrew the chain and cautiously opened the door. He looked at her inquiringly, and she motioned for him to come inside.
    The apartment was incredibly spartan. It was identical to his daughter’s but looked smaller all the same. It must have been because of the lack of furnishings. A settee was placed along one living room wall but was not supplemented by either a coffee table or armchairs, so the room could not really be called a lounge. It clearly also served as a bed, as when he glanced into the bedroom, it was entirely empty, apart from two suitcases sitting in one corner. In the living room, there was also a small dining table with a straight-backed chair. On the wall opposite the settee, an old television, evidently a black-and-white set, sat on a side table. The floors were bare, as were the walls. Apart from a large unframed color photograph of an aristocratic man with an aquiline nose and a highly decorated uniform—he immediately recognized the former Shah of Persia.
    “Are you from Iran?” he asked, happy to have hit upon something to open the conversation.
    “Iran! Yes!”
    The tiny woman smiled submissively.
    “I from Iran. Yes.”
    “Do you speak Norwegian, or would you prefer to speakEnglish?” he continued, wondering if he could sit down. He decided to remain standing. If he was to sit, then she would either have to remain standing, or else sit beside him on the sofa. Which she would probably find unpleasant.
    “I understand Norwegian fine,” she replied. “Not speak so well, maybe.”
    “I think you manage very well,” he encouraged her. It was becoming uncomfortable to stand, so he changed his mind. He seized hold of the dining chair, dragged it over to the settee, and asked if it was in order to use it.
    “Just sit, sit down,” she said, obviously now more relaxed. She sat at the farthest edge of the sofa.
    “As I said,” he began, clearing his throat. “I’m Kristine’s father. Kristine Håverstad. The young woman on the floor above. Perhaps you’ve heard what happened to her last Saturday.”
    It was difficult to talk about it. Especially to a little foreign woman from Iran he had never met before and probably would never see again. He cleared his throat again.
    “I’m just making a few inquiries on my own. For my own sake, so to speak. You’ve probably already spoken to the police.”
    The woman nodded.
    “Were you here when it happened?”
    Her hesitation was obvious, and he didn’t entirely understand why she decided to trust him. Perhaps she didn’t understand it herself either.
    “No, I not here that night. I in Denmark that weekend. Last weekend. With friends. But I not say that to lady from police. I say I sleeping.”
    “Okay. You’ve got friends in Denmark.”
    “No. Not friend in Denmark. Not friend in Norway. But some friend in Germany. They I meet in Copinghagen. Not seen them in long, long, long time. I back here Sunday late.”
    The woman wasn’t beautiful, but she had a strong, genial face.Her skin was much lighter than other Iranians he had seen. In a sense she was dark, but her hair was not jet-black, though neither was it dark brown. It was more what his wife in the old days had called “local color,” but nevertheless it was thick and lustrous. And she even had blue eyes!
    With a little assistance from gestures and English, she related her sad story. She was an asylum seeker and had been waiting for thirteen slow, bureaucratic months to have her application for sanctuary in the Kingdom of Norway processed. Her family, what little was left of it, was scattered to the winds. Her mother had died of natural causes three years previously, many years after her husband had escaped to Norway. He had been a lawyer in the Shah’s