The Ring - Chapter 20

 

 

BETHANY STEINER

“WHEN I HAD my parents to dinner to meet Tobias at my place, Mutti and Papa were really relaxed much to Tobias’s relief. I expected nothing less. We talked about it after they left.”

Bethany was walking with Regina, a lab assistant and friend. The two women were on the way to eat at the university Mensa.

“Papa never took anyone I dated aside and said, ‘If you don’t treat my daughter right, you’ll answer to me’ as some fathers did. Maybe because Papa insisted I take karate. He also thought I would be too smart to be psychologically manipulated. He said he worried more about the poor guy being the manipulated one.”

“And then over Schwarzwaldkuchen, which Hans-Peter bought at the Bäckerei around the corner with coffee I made, Hans-Peter told Tobias about the curses on the ring. Mutti said they’d talked about it when they were in Sweden.”

Rachel stopped on the path to let three students pass them. “You don’t believe in curses, do you?”

“No, but I was surprised when my father said he wrote a paper on them about six years ago. He went to dig it out of his filing cabinet, only to discover he had put it in storage. It was that long ago.”

While he was gone, I cleared the table. Because it was mostly cartons and chopsticks there wasn’t that much. Mutti was not that much help other than organizing the stuff on the table for me to throw away glasses – napkins, paper ones. “’Kill a tree, not waste water,’ she said’.” Maybe I’ll put it on a T-shirt for her.”

They were at the Mensa. Rachel held the door for Bethany. Since it was the end of lunch hour the smells of roasted chicken still hung in the air. Most of the fifty tables were empty. Six held students with textbooks or laptops.

“So your parents are getting along. Think they’ll get back together?”

“I asked Mutti that. If they might.”

“What did she say,” Regina asked

‘“Why shouldn’t we get along?’ Mutti asked me.”

“Because you’ve been divorced since I was 11. I’m now 27, I told her.”

The two girls were the only students in line in front of the serving station. The two servers were out back and didn’t realize there were students still waiting to be fed until Rachel called.

Trays filled, Bethany continued her story. “Nothing more happened. Hans-Peter came back with the paper and started talking about Scandinavian skalds and bards writing poetry.”

“Tobias admitted meeting my parents scared him. He said they seemed so accomplished.”

“They aren’t Nobel Prize winners,” Regina said, “Just good in their fields.”

“Anyway, next week they’re going back to the States. Together. Had she been in the States, she’d have said, “Stay tuned, film at eleven,” but that wouldn’t mean anything to Rachel.

Background for TV interviews

 

When people are being interviewed on television or on a podcast, I sometimes get more caught up in the backgrounds than what are they saying. I look at:

Bookcases

The larger the number of books, the more confidence I have in what they are saying. And if they've written a book, it's usually displayed. The titles, when readable, are also telling.

Rooms

I check out the furniture, windows facing a variety of outdoors scenes, city street or garden..., drapes.

Journalist Polly Toynbee has the most beautiful blue cabinet that I would love to have. I saw it several times when her interviews were from her home during COVID. See the interview and cabinet here.It's at 22.08.

Kitchens

I especially like to check out what's on their counters: appliances, fruit bowl, coffee maker, tea kettle. I imagine if someone uses their kitchen as a backdrop they have washed any dishes before the interview.

Wall hangings

Original art? Prints? Certificates? Diplomas? Original things like hats, swords? etc.

Animals and children interruptions 

There was the famous interview where the mom had to grab the toddler that wondered in. Dean Withers was interrupted by his cute kitty are two examples. Watch toddler here. Watch Dean and cat here.

When I've been interviewed about my writing, I'm afraid my bookcases are a mess. Thus I've chosen My Nest, a studio in the attic of a 400 year old building. The background is a stone wall with a stylize drawing of a Remington typewriter. My father once held a franchise.  Or, I could straighten the bookcase.

Nah! 

 

 

Cedric and Sherlock-A Balance

 

Cedric and Sherlock - A Balance

"Champagne?" my husband asked. A celebration was in order.

We always have a bottle in the frigo (fridge) just in case there's an emergency celebration or surprise guests come by, but we only wanted a glass each and throwing away champagne because it's gone flat hurts our little frugal hearts.

"Cedric's?" 

"Why not?"

 

Cedric's was the bar down the street. He doesn't have champagne from Champagne and I can never pronounce his alternative, but it tastes good and bubbles. 

 

There are many good alternatives, I've learned since I moved to Europe 36years ago starting starting with Mauler & Cie from the tiny village of Môtiers Switzerland where I lived in the company apartment. They operated out of an old monastery.

It was late afternoon, but the wind had died down. Parents were walking by with their kids having picked them up at the end of the school day. The pupils in the elementary school weren't among the student strikes all over France.

We found a table opposite the 14th century church. The sky was a blue as in the photo above.

 

Our dog Sherlock, loves Cedric, probably because he always has treats for him. Cedric spied the treat bag on the table and pretended to put his mouth in it.

Sherlock's eyes followed every movement transfixed, but Cedric "shared" quickly.  Then Cederic went inside and returned with bits of cheese which he fed to Sherlock slowly. He even held pieces in his mouth for Sherlock to remove drectly. 

"Don't let Sherlock bite Cederic," I thought, but Sherlock removed each mouthful gently until they were all gone.

It's easy to understand why Sherlock loves Cedric.

Village life is such a contrast to the world outside with riots and wars, crooked governments and insane presidents. - a balance with kind people and pretty flowers.

 

Cedric and Sherlock - a Balance

"Champagne?" my husband asked. A celebration was in order.

We always have a bottle in the frigo (fridge) just in case there's an emergency celebration or surprise guests come by, but we only wanted a glass each and throwing away champagne because it's gone flat hurts our little frugal hearts.

"Cedric's?" 

"Why not?"

 

Cedric's was the bar down the street. He doesn't have champagne from Champagne and I can never pronounce his alternative, but it tastes good and bubbles. 

 

There are many good alternatives, I've learned since I moved to Europe 36 years ago starting with Mauler & Cie from the tiny village of Môtiers Switzerland where I lived in the company apartment. They operated out of an old monastery. It was my job to make sure the company frigo was stocked with bottles so we could celebrate each sale made by the staff.

It was late afternoon, but the wind had died down. Parents were walking by with their kids having picked them up at the end of the school day. The pupils in the elementary school weren't among the student strikes all over France.

We found a table opposite the 14th century church. The sky was a blue as in the photo above.

 

Our dog Sherlock, loves Cedric, probably because he always has treats for him. Cedric spied the treat bag on the table and pretended to put his mouth in it.

Sherlock's eyes followed every movement transfixed, but Cedric "shared" quickly.  Then Cederic went inside and returned with bits of cheese which he fed to Sherlock slowly. He even held pieces in his mouth for Sherlock to remove directly. 

"Don't let Sherlock bite Cederic," I thought, but Sherlock removed each mouthful gently until they were all gone.

It's easy to understand why Sherlock loves Cedric.

Village life -- a contrast to the world outside with riots and wars, crooked governments, cruelty and insane presidents - a balance with kind people and pretty flowers.

 

The Ring Chapter 19

 

HANS-PETER STEINER

HANS-PETER LOOKED around the table. In his best imagination he couldn’t have imagined this night. He couldn’t have imagined that Margo would have agreed to come with him to Sweden.

He couldn’t have imagined how pleasant and fun the ride from Stuttgart to Malmö would be.

And he couldn’t have imagined how well she would get along with his old friends Kai and Bridget Lundgren.

Kai was a professor at Lund University where he was the lead archeologist at the dig. They had met at the winter meeting of the Viking Society of Northern Research ten years before.

Together they had proposed the documentary to BBC. Together they were working on a book. And now together they were having a roast chicken meal prepared by Bridget, Kai’s wife, a professional translator and writer with her own reputation.

“I hope the rain stops for you.” Bridget offered a chicken leg to Hans-Peter. They had eaten together enough to know that Hans-Peter was a dark meat person where she and Kai were light.

Before Hans-Peter could take the plate, Bridget grabbed it to add potatoes and peas.

“We can move up some of the interviews if not,” Hans-Peter said.

“You might have been better to wait until the sun stays until it doesn’t set so early,” Bridget served Kai then herself.

“Finn was free now,” Hans-Peter said. Finn Macdonald was a stereotype of either an Irishman or Scot with his red hair and beard. His mother was Irish, his father Scottish. Both professors had worked with him before and respected his work as a director.

“I asked him to join us tonight, but he said he need to set up the indoor shots,” Kai said. “Be prepared for a great desert, Chocolate Sticky Cake, which I bought at the bageri. Karl, the baker, and I went to school together. He was my neighbor and a real artist working in flour, sugar.”

The four left the table and went to the living room. Although the furniture was simple and clean cut, the walls were all filled with bookshelves.

Bridget was right about the cake. First, they talked as a foursome then the men switched to talk of the next few days shooting. Bridget and Margo fell into a conversation about their work.

Bridget brought out four beers in four glass mugs on a tray. “This is Sweden’s best beer.”

Hans-Peter glanced over at his ex-wife’s face and felt relief that she seemed to be enjoying herself. Normally when she was relaxed, she would pull her legs under herself, an impossibility with a cast.

His worries that Margo would be bored were put to rest. In an attempt to include her, he said, “I should tell you about Margo’s cursed ring.”

“I don’t really believe in curses,” Margo said.

“It’s a family ring handed down through her late mother to the youngest daughter. Every time she wears it something bad happens. Not big things, little things like a flat tire or an appliance breaking down.” Or the last time she wore it. . . ” Hans-Peter let the pause speak for itself and he pointed to Margo’s crutches and cast “. . . she tripped. It was during her exhibition.”

“But I fell so gracefully. Maybe it helped with sales. Anyway, it has to be coincidences,” Margo said. “I never knew my great-grandmother and why would she put a curse on future granddaughters?”

Kai took a drink of his beer. “Even if I don’t believe either, almost all societies have some form of curse which can be a simple swear of damn you or include some deity that people think is real and who will do bad things to those they want to curse.”

Hans-Peter remembered when they were first married Margo would whisper when they were going home after an evening with his colleagues, “I can’t stand all this Viking, Viking, Viking stuff.” Now sitting with this kind, generous, intelligent couple, she looked as if she were having a good time. A shiver of contentment ran through his body. It surprised him. No, it amazed him.

Kai stood up to light the fire in the ceramic stove which was already filled with logs and rolled paper. With minutes the slight chill disappeared.

He sat and leaned forward with his hands on his knees. “I don’t believe in curses either, but they do appear in our literature, our sagas. They make a great story on a cool night after a good meal. Let me tell you a story of an ancient curse.”

“Once upon a time,” Kai began. Sagas don’t really start like that, but it makes the story better. It’s a leftover from our childhood when we expect the once upon a time opening. That once upon a time could have been in the 10^th century although some scholars say 13^th.”

Bridget rolled her eyes. “Is that the one I translated five years ago?”

“One and the same.”

It’s about an Icelandic named Thorleifr. Boy was he wealthy.

Margo couldn’t resist. “Okay, how did they measure wealth in the 10^th century?”

Kai didn’t seem to mind the interruption. “I suppose by the size and number of homes, many of which were underground. Or number of goats? Not in cryptocurrency like the current U.S. President. Maybe a subject for a future doctoral dissertation. I’ll suggest it to the next student I mentor. Maybe you could suggest it to one of yours H-P.”

Hans-Peter just shrugged.

Kai took a deep breath and continued.

Some sources say that his mother gave birth to him and his twin brother while she was tending to sheep.

“Maybe his wealth was in sheep.” Kai took another sip of beer.

When Thorleifr was still young he went to Norway. Big mistake. Maybe he wasn’t diplomatic enough because he pissed off Jarl Hákon.

Hans-Peter could see how much Kai was enjoying telling the story.

It may have been trading rights. No different than countries fighting over treaties today. “Margo, Jarl means of the nobility or king. Jarl Hákon was also called Hákon The Bad.”

Whatever Thorleifr did to annoy Hákon, be it trading rights or something else the jarl burned Thorleifr’s ships and killed his men. Luckily Thorfeifr escaped to Denmark where he became a skald.

Before Kai could mansplain to Margo she said, “I know that skald means poet.”

After several years and looking very different he returned to Norway. He was welcomed as a skald into Hákon’s court.

Kai leaned forward. “This is where it becomes interesting.”

Thorfleifr offers to recite poetry for Hákon, who accepts. Instead, he throws insult after insult at the Jarl.

Kai lowers his voice to a whisper.

The lights go out, but when they come on again, the Jarl is scratching all over his body as if fleas have attacked him. Worse, he had lost his hair.”

“I guess, Margo, the curse on your ring wasn’t as powerful as Thorfleilf’s poetry.”

“Thank goodness,” Margo laughed.