Oslo is located on the sea. The Vestbane station is near Oslo Harbor, and if someone stood there to catch a train on the Sørlandet Line, it was possible to smell the sea if that person sniffed at the air and paid attention, even though Oslo and Oslo Harbor are at the head of a primarily narrow fjord a hundred and fifty kilometers long. The Sørlandet Line goes to Kristiansand, which is also located on the sea, approximately three hundred kilometers from Oslo, as the crow flies, and facing the open Skagerrak Strait, with a view of Denmark on the European continent on the other side, like the promised land. But the tracks for the Sørlandet Line do not go along the coast; they follow the coast only as far as Drammen, forty kilometers south of Oslo, and then head inland along the Drammen River to Hokksund before turning abruptly toward the mountainous and forested stretch heading for Kongsberg, and then onward into the rugged Telemark, which many consider a mysterious place. The first station in rugged, or mysterious, Telemark is Hjuksebø, and that was where Singer was supposed to get off. From there the train continues toward Vest-Telemark, toward the communities of Gvarv and Bø. The tracks of the Sørlandet Line then nominally head south again; but in reality you end up going farther into the interior delights of Norway, deep into Telemark, the deepest and most Norwegian of all regions, fabled as the birthplace of folk tales, legends, folk ballads, fiddle music, and superstitions. From Bø the train heads south, toward Lunde, which, stripped of all charm, is still Telemark, the dreariest and most penurious part of Telemark, similar to the village of Neslandsvatn, and then continues along many cheerless kilometers inland. From Neslandsvatn the train tracks run more or less parallel with the coast, but still inland, with the constricted and isolated villages of Aust-Ager, such as Gjerstad, Vegårdshei, Nelaug, Helidalsmo, Herefoss, Oggevatn, and Vatnstraum. But from Neslandsvatn and Nelaug, narrow-gauge tracks have been laid to southern coastal towns such as Kragerø and Arendal, and at the Gjerstad station, the blue buses of the Norwegian Railways, or NSB, are lined up to await arriving trains, enticingly offering a swift departure from this inland climate to the small coastal gem of Risør.

  Yet by this time the train traffic on the narrow-gauge tracks is over, so the blue NSB buses are also waiting at the Neslandsvatn and Nelaug stations, promising a swift departure southward to the coast, while the train, after a brief stop, continues along its astonishingly monotonous inland route, often passing through spruce forests so dense that the branches on both sides strike the windows of the train cars, and it’s as dark as if passing through a tunnel, and there are also many tunnels on this particular stretch of track. Emerging from a tunnel, a real tunnel, you look straight down into a chasm, or rushing rapids, or bare blue-gray rocks dripping with moisture even when the sun is shining. But at some indiscernible point the tracks have been laid so that they once again run toward the sea, without the passengers having the slightest clue as they despondently read the station names of Omdal, Grovane, and Vennesla before the train suddenly, after five and a half hours, and with the locomotive as frisky as a calf, rolls into the station of the stylish city of Kristiansand with its straight streets, cathedral, hotels, manufacturing companies, central square, and harbor facing the Skagerrak Strait. For someone who had taken this entire train trip, it must have seemed like a mysterious and largely purposeless journey through the most remote, unassuming, and gloomy part of Norway. Even though Singer was supposed to get off in Hjuksebø, after only an hour and twenty minutes, he had great expectations for this journey, especially because his destination was to be his new home.

  He arrived well ahead of the departure time and found his reserved window seat in one of the train’s many smoking compartments. He would be traveling on the Sørlandet Express. A long, elegant train painted an irresistible yellow. Inside he found himself in a large space with a wide center aisle and rows of two seats across on either side. The seats were very comfortable, and a knob on the side of the armrest allowed him to adjust the position to whatever felt best, either reclining or upright. Attached to the back of the seat in front of him was a net for holding newspapers, magazines, fruit, drinks, and any food he might have brought along. A foldable tray attached to the armrest could be opened and positioned in front of him when the train hostesses appeared with their carts selling coffee, drinks, chocolate bars, and sandwiches. But Singer didn’t plan to buy anything from them because he’d noticed that the train also had a dining car. Even though he’d been living from hand to mouth for years — actually his whole adult life — and he didn’t like to squander the hard-earned cash he’d acquired from the jobs he’d so conscientiously performed and been forced to take on — earning money that had to last him a very long time, so that he’d grown accustomed to scrimping and scraping until it might almost be said that penny-pinching was in his blood — he decided that since this was the Sørlandet Express, and the Sørlandet Express had a dining car, as soon as they passed Drammen he would walk through the train to have a sandwich and a cup of coffee in the dining car.

  So from Oslo to Drammen he sat in a comfortably reclining position and read his newspaper, as well as the latest issue of the magazine Samtiden. After passing Drammen, he left his seat and took a look at the luggage area in the front of the car, checking, somewhat warily, to see that his luggage was still there, and then he headed back through the train to the dining car. He reached the car and stepped inside. There were white cloths on the tables. On each table stood a vase of flowers, artificial to be sure, but Singer still thought they were a stylish touch, and very inviting. On each table there was also a freshly cleaned ashtray. In charge of the dining car were two waiters, both wearing white waiter jackets, black pants, and highly polished shoes; they each stood ramrod straight with a big white cloth draped over one arm, ready to respond to the customers’ slightest wish when summoned with a mere wave from the tables. Not many people had settled in the dining car, in fact only two of the tables were occupied — this was no doubt because those who travel all the way to Kristiansand, as most of the passengers do, tend to go to the dining car only later in the journey. I bet the place is packed near Herefoss, thought Singer. He sat down at an empty table and one of the waiters immediately rushed over. Singer ordered an open-face sandwich with ground beef and a cup of coffee.

  The train was traveling along the Drammen River. It was a glorious summer day. The middle of the day. The river was blue. The landscape was meandering and civilizingly inhabited. He had the impression that there was actually a series of villages situated along the Drammen River, and each had its own station and factory. When the train arrived in Hokksund, it stopped there for more than five minutes, perhaps because the imposing train station in Hokksund demanded a longer stop so as not to seem comical. Yet there was no reason the station in Hokksund should be comical, at least as far as Singer was concerned. After Hokksund the landscape abruptly changed character. The waiter brought Singer’s sandwich and his coffee, which came in a silver pot. The sight of that silver coffeepot made Singer restrain the slight irritation he felt because he’d ordered a cup of coffee. He was familiar with these sorts of irritations from restaurants in Oslo, but the sight of the gleaming silver pot on the white tablecloth banished all dismay, and he enjoyed his light meal, as the train headed through the Norwegian landscape of woods and ridges, marshes and stillness, forest clearings and farms with hayracks on steep slopes. But mostly forests, spruce forests. He let himself be carried along by the train’s rhythm, and by the fairly monotonous landscape, closed-in and dense, that passed outside the train window, lulling him into a sense of inlandness. So it was a strange feeling, suddenly, without transition, to arrive at a town, which the train circled, allowing him to see a church, venerable wooden buildings, streets, and modern-looking shops situated on both sides of a river, with a thundering waterfall, before the train pulled into Kongsberg train station. Afterward, they continued through the same inland landscape as before, with forests and clearings, scattered farms, ponderous granite crags, steep precipices, slopes, cowberry thickets, and glimpses of timber and livestock. Singer sat there, thoroughly enjoying the journey as he ate his ground-beef sandwich and drank his coffee, which he poured from the silver pot, until a voice on the loudspeaker announced that the next station was Hjuksebø. Singer, who had already paid the waiter, stood up and walked back through the train to his seat, grabbed his luggage, and got off the train when it pulled into Hjuksebø station.

  Very few passengers got off, and most of them were picked up in cars. Only three passengers remained on the platform when, after a brief stop, the Sørlandet Express, long and elegant, moved off and disappeared around a curve, continuing on its comfortable journey toward Kristiansand. Three solitary travelers waited at the Hjuksebø station deep in the interior of Telemark. One of the passengers turned to the stationmaster to ask where to board the train for Not­odden. “Over there, track three,” said the stationmaster in a lilting Nynorsk dialect as he pointed. And there was the train they needed to transfer to. Slightly out of the way. Actually, so out of the way that it was almost hidden behind a long toolshed and thus difficult to spot. Singer and the other two passengers crossed the platform and went over to the train. It was a rickety little train, an old, worn rail trolley with hard wooden benches, but divided into two compartments, one for smokers and one for nonsmokers. Singer hauled his luggage into the compartment for smokers and found a seat.

  According to the schedule, it was fifteen minutes before the rickety train was supposed to depart, but the stationmaster announced that there would be a further ten-minute delay because the Sørlandet Express from Kristiansand, which they were waiting for, was delayed. So Singer stepped outside to walk back and forth on the platform as he took a look at Hjuksebø. The station was up on a ridge, with the village and Lake Heddal below. A scent of summer. Lush green grass on the hills and birch-covered slopes. He saw livestock grazing everywhere, on all the hills and slopes. Sheep, high up. And cattle farther down. Now and then, long, drawn-out lowing came from the cattle as well as breathless bleats from the sheep, breaking the green silence. The farmsteads rose up, each on its own hill, the buildings painted and well maintained beneath a bright blue sky. Down below, a dusty road wound its way toward the shores of Lake Heddal, which shimmered blue and idyllic. But the only local resident in evidence, after the passengers who got off at Hjuksebø had been hastily carried off in cars, was the stationmaster, in full uniform and cap, holding a green signal flag. Yet from a nearby farm, Singer heard the sound of hammering. He had an expansive view from the Hjuksebø station, he could see far into the distance, where the slopes and valleys stretched northward, and way off he could also make out some mountain ridges. But in the far north, all the way up north, there was a strangely incongruous sight. There he could see smoke rising up, and it was unmistakably some sort of industrial smoke. Smoke from factory chimneys way out there in the countryside. That was Not­odden, Singer’s destination. It was an enchanting sight, he thought. How enticing that faraway factory smoke seems. That’s where I’m going, thought Singer. Over there is a town, and that’s the goal of my journey. He stared in the direction of Not­odden, off in the distance. By staring at that peculiarly placed factory smoke, he felt a quiver of excitement about going there.

  Eventually the delayed Sørlandet Express arrived from Kristiansand, with its powerful electric locomotive and its numerous, ultramodern train cars. A few passengers got off and headed for the small rail trolley that would take them onward to Not­odden; the other passengers had already gone on board, two in the compartment for nonsmokers and one in the compartment for smokers. One of the new passengers came into the smoking compartment and sat down right across from Singer. The stationmaster raised his green flag and blew hard on his whistle, and the newly arrived Sørlandet Express, elegant and irresistible, departed the Hjuksebø station. The stationmaster then ambled over to the spur track where their little rail trolley waited and repeated the same procedure, raising his green signal flag and blowing hard on his whistle, and the rickety Not­odden train reluctantly set off. It headed along a track across the hills above Lake Heddal so that, when they weren’t inside a forest or behind a barren ridge, the passengers could occasionally see the flash of blue far below. The man sitting across from Singer was a younger gentleman. He might have been Singer’s age, maybe even a few years younger, wearing a nice summer suit and a tie, and holding a briefcase. He looked up at Singer’s luggage in the rack, then asked if he was going to Not­odden and how long he was planning to stay. When Singer said that he was in the process of moving to Not­odden to start work as a librarian at the town’s library, the other man nodded knowingly. He asked if Singer was familiar with Not­odden, and Singer said that he was not. It was pure chance that he had applied for a job at the Not­odden library and been hired, and so here he was. Then the well-dressed younger gentleman laughed, stood up, and shook Singer’s hand.

  “Adam Eyde,” he said. “I’m in charge of the bad times.”

  Singer also stood up to introduce himself, and then Adam Eyde opened his briefcase. Singer stared, wide-eyed, because the briefcase contained a holder with six slots, and in each slot was a champagne glass. Three of these glasses were filled with champagne and sealed with a plastic lid. The other three champagne glasses were clearly empty, and three plastic lids lay in the bottom of the briefcase. Adam Eyde took out a champagne glass, and now Singer saw that it was an expensive glass made of the finest crystal. Adam Eyde handed it to Singer. He removed the plastic lid of his own glass, and Singer did the same. They were both still on their feet, because neither had taken their seats again after making introductions.

  “Skål,” said Adam Eyde. “I’m the head of Norsk Hydro in Not­odden, and I’m on my way back from a champagne breakfast at our headquarters in Oslo. Did you come via Kongsberg?”

  Singer nodded, and Eyde looked partially envious, partially bursting with glee.

  “I always travel the correct way,” he said. “Via Skien. I take the Brattsberg Line to Nordagutu, and there I change trains to Hjuksebø, before catching the rail trolley to Not­odden. The route is somewhat longer, but it’s the only real way to travel. For me. And also for a librarian in Not­odden. So you know nothing about Not­odden?

  “Oh, these champagne breakfasts in Oslo,” he sighed. “Once every quarter, on July 31, October 31, January 31, and April 31. You may be taken aback when I said April 31, because there is no April 31 on the calendar, but nevertheless, we at Hydro have our champagne breakfast on April 31 every year, on the day that is generally called May 1. But at Hydro it’s April 31, and the second champagne breakfast of the year. We come from far and wide, all the Hydro directors, to drink champagne at ten in the morning. After that we each return to our own area, and I, as the director of good old Not­odden, stroll down Drammensveien in Oslo to the Vestbane station to catch the train via Skien and Nordagutu back to Not­odden, but not without first filling my briefcase with champagne for the long journey, which is somewhat of a detour. Did you see the smoke while you were waiting for the train?” he added.

  Singer nodded.

  “That’s good. Because soon you won’t see it anymore. It’s from the Tinnfoss Ironworks, which we’re going to close before the year is out. And that will be the end of smoke over Not­odden. Technically we’re not the ones who own the Tinnfoss Ironworks, but we’re still going to close it down,” said Adam Eyde, giving Singer a sly look. “It can’t go on. There’s nothing to be done about it. There’s no future in it, if you know what I mean. . . . Let me tell you about the town you’re headed for. Not­odden was created by us, and we’re the ones who will close it down, in a sensible way; that’s actually my assignment. While I’m waiting. Waiting for what, you may ask? Waiting to become general manager of Norsk Hydro. That is my destiny. But first I have to put things in order in Not­odden, clean up old mistakes. More about that later.”

  Eyde held out his hand for Singer’s empty champagne glass, which he put back in the holder inside his briefcase before giving him the last full champagne glass.

  “You’re drinking it too fast,” he said. “Look at me, I’ve only taken a few sips of mine. It’s good to taste the champagne. Did you notice that it’s not cold but lukewarm? Lukewarm champagne is best. At headquarters, we’re served cold champagne, from proper champagne buckets, and I drink it, but I look forward to the return trip to Not­odden — via Skien and not Kongsberg — and to the lukewarm champagne that will be a treat for my tongue. All true lovers of champagne like lukewarm champagne best, the champagne that’s served the day after a party, poured from an open bottle, lukewarm, preferably at breakfast time. Serving champagne cold is merely convention.”

  The old rail trolley had made its way down the slopes and was now traveling along Lake Heddal. After rounding a promontory it came to an abrupt halt. Singer looked out the window. The train had pulled into a station, and he saw a rather large brick building that looked the same as most Norwegian railroad stations. The sign said: “Not­odden, 31.2 meters above sea level.” They had arrived. Singer lifted his luggage down from the luggage rack, declining Adam Eyde’s offer of help, and dragged his two heavy-as-lead suitcases out of the train, dropping them on the platform of the Not­odden station. He inhaled deeply. How fresh the air was here, deep in the interior of Telemark. And what a glorious summer day! But where was the town? There was virtually no sign of it. A short distance away, off to the right, he saw a big manufacturing plant, but that was all. When he turned around, he could see up on the slopes a number of single-family homes, but surely that couldn’t be the town? Right in front of him was Lake Heddal, narrow and unfailingly idyllic. On the opposite shore of the narrow waterway he saw farmsteads. Adam Eyde must have guessed what Singer was thinking because he said that the station was located a little outside of town. The town itself was situated up on a hill above the station but on the slope behind, so it wasn’t visible from here, and consequently it was impossible to tell that you were in a Norwegian town; you had to trust what it said there, explained Eyde, and he pointed at the sign on the station: Not­odden.