Norwegian-Givers

A cold, blustery night outside the eco-friendly mansion of Al Gore near Nashville, Tennessee. Under the cover of darkness, five strange figures crouch near the large shrubs in the front yard. One – apparently the leader – is a man wearing a white ski sweater with a red and green snowflake pattern, and a purple Laplander winter hat with long tassels hanging down over his ears. The other four are women, similarly garbed in colorful sweaters, nylon ski pants and warm-looking but fairly conspicuous headgear. The group moves across the front yard, their attempt at furtiveness somewhat undermined by the swishing noise of their nylon ski pants as they duck-walk from shrub to shrub. Suddenly the leader halts and turns to his gang.

“Shhhh! Can’t yew girls make less noise dan dat? Remember, ve are on a secret – vhich means qviet - mission, an’ yew all soun’ like a room full a’ paper cutters!”

“By gawly, Thorbjøm, it vas yer idear tew steal Al Gore’s Nobel Prize medal back! Ve shoulda got holt a’ some real guerilla gear, like black ski masks an’ dark yackets an’ cargo pants. Yet here ve stand – or sqvat, radder – lookin’ like de Norvegian bobsled team practicin’ up for Vankewver.”

“Listen, here, Sissel; it vas our committee dat recommended Gore fer de prize, based on his movie about global varmin’, an’ now ve know de whole t’ing is a crock, ve got tew get it back fer de honor of Norvay! He never replied tew our letter askin’ nicely fer him to return de medal, so it’s up tew us. Now, time is of de essence; besides, ve don’t need all dat ninya shtuff; yew yust have tew valk bow-legged-like tew avoid makin’ dat svishin’ noise, and de shadows vill gib yew all de cover yew need.”

Another member of the team piped up. “But, Thorbjøm, how ve goin’ tew get intew dat big place. It looks like vun ‘a dose mansions in Gone vit’ de Vind.

“Yumpin’ jiminy, Inger-Marie! Yew got tew larn tew t’ink positive. Maybe dere’s a vindow open somevheres.”

“Dat’s yer plan ‘A’?” asked Kaci, incredulously. “Hopin’ tew find a’ open vindow?

Suddenly, the crouching figures found themselves bathed in a bright pool of light; they had tripped a sensor and the security lamps had come on. They froze in place, resembling nothing so much as a group of mannequins in the shop-window of a sporting-goods store, set up to push the clearance sale of a discontinued line of winter-wear. The front door opened, and a corpulent man in a velour bathrobe with blue and silver stripes and black leather slippers walked out on the porch. “What’s going on here?” he queried nervously.

A high-pitched voice, unheard till now, vocalized the thought that was on everyone’s mind. “Ok, Thorbjøm,” Agot squeaked. “Vhat’s yer plan ‘B’?”

* * * *

A few moments later, the Norwegians were standing in Al Gore’s library in front of his desk. Gore lowered his bulk into a long-suffering leather swivel-chair that squealed like a baby pig pulled away from its mother’s paps.

“So, you’re professors from the University of Oslo and you stopped in to pay your respects?”

“Ja, dat’s right Meester Gore,” Thorbjøm said excitedly. “Ve yust popped in tew say ‘hey’.”

Sissel nudged their leader in the ribs. “Oof! Oh, er, an’ tew say how glad ve are dat yew vun de Nobel Peace Prize fer yer gewd vork on global varmin’. Ahm…dew yew by any chance haff de medal aroun’ here someplace? Ve vould sure be delighted tew see it, by cracky!”

Al Gore rose from his chair; in his flashy bathrobe, he resembled an awning being unfurled. A smile spread rapidly across his puffy face, like a crack in the rind of an over-ripe cantaloupe. “W-e-l-l…Why, of course I’d be glad to show you the medal!”

The faces of the Norwegians fell in unison as Gore reached into the recesses of his bathrobe and pulled out his medal, rather in the manner of a farmer hauling a bucket of water up from the bottom of a well. Agot whispered to Thorbjøm, “Ve ain’t never goin’ to get holt a’ dat dam’ t’ing if he vears it aroun’ his neck!”

Thorbjøm gulped and said, in a small voice, “Dat’s de biggest silver chain I ever did see, Meester Gore.”

Gore smiled and, taking up the slack in the chain with one hand, shook it lightly. “Oh, that’s not silver; it’s triple-forged stainless steel. Wouldn’t want to lose my medal!” Becoming convivial, with the opportunity of basking in the warm glow of these obvious admirers, Gore grew expansive. “Say, it’s a cold night out; how would you all like a glass of brandy?” The Norwegians eagerly accepted this display of hospitality. Gore poured out sizeable snifters for himself and his guests and they all went and sat down around a coffee table on the other side of the room.

Suddenly, a puzzled expression stole over Gore’s face. “You know, you all look familiar to me for some reason. I could almost swear that we have met before. Did you attend the Nobel Prize ceremony by any chance?”

The Norwegians – who, as members of the selection committee, had all been on the stage when King Olaf had presented Gore with his medal – automatically pulled their hats lower and looked at their boots. “No,” Inger-Marie said, “ve veren’t dere.” Gore shrugged and tossed back his brandy.

Agot whispered to Thorbjøm, “Maybe if ve can keep him drinking, he goes tew sleep and ve slip de medal off.” Thorbjøm agreed that this was their best hope, so he proposed a toast. “Permit me tew offer a toast in yer honor, Meester Gore, for vinnin’ dat dere Nobel Prize medal. Here, let me fill up yer glass.” Gore simpered and tossed back the brandy. “Well, now,” Gore said, picking up the bottle and pouring a good-sized splash in everybody’s glass, “permit me to propose a toast to King Olaf.”

And so it went, both sides proposing one toast after another – to Michael Mann, the hockey stick, the University of Oslo, the Great State of Tennessee, Tipper Gore, Tippecanoe and Tyler, too…on and on until the room began to spin and eyelids grew heavy and the sound of communal snoring filled the air…

Thorbjøm bolted out of his chair on hearing a loud report. “Dere vas no need tew shyoot him!” he shouted. He tottered in a daze before the coffee table, blinking slowly. He groaned as he realized that he had been dreaming. Stumbling to the window, his head pounding, he pulled back the drapes and was immediately blinded by a shaft of sunlight hitting him square in the eyes. Squinting in agony, he saw Al Gore back his car out of the driveway and head off down the road. The noise he had heard must have been the front door slamming.

Thorbjøm turned to look at his colleagues, who, variously slumped in their chairs or curled up on the floor, presented a scene that suggested a drug deal gone bad. He staggered over to their comatose forms, shaking a shoulder here, nudging a prostrate body with a boot there, until the piles of gaudy winter-wear began to stir. The other members of the team slowly pulled themselves to their feet, grasping their heads and howling like the damned.

“Vhat…vhat happened?” Agot asked in a strangled voice.

“By yimminy,” Thorbjøm muttered, “dat feller mus’ haff a hollow leg. He drank us under de table. Umm…vhat haff ve here?” He bent over the coffee table – slowly, fearing that his eyes might come uncorked and his brains spill out – and picked up a sheet of note paper. On it was written a message:

“My dear friends –

You all must have been exhausted by your journey and the late hours because you fell asleep. I didn’t have the heart to disturb you, so I left you where you were. I have to be off to Washington for a few days, so kindly lock the door on your way out. You’ll find some freshly-squeezed carrot juice and soybean sausages in the kitchen if you’re hungry [ Thorbjøm’s hand involuntarily rose to his mouth to suppress a vomiting impulse]. I hope you will all stop by again sometime, and I wish you a safe trip back to Norway.

Al”

“Uff da!” Thorbjøm said between clinched teeth. “Ve haff failed.” He raised a fist and shook it at a framed photograph on the wall showing Vice President Al Gore accepting a check from a Buddhist monk. “By Odin, I’ll track him down tew de ends a’ de ert’!”

“Not tewday, Thorbjøm,” Sissel pleaded.

“No, not tewday. First, ve go by de airport an' denn ve go back tew de Motel Six an' rest."

“Vhy ve go by de airport first?” Kaci asked.

“To buy airline tickets, 'cuz tewmorrow ve are goin’ tew make a leetle trip tew Vashington!”

He was met by a chorus of angry objections, to which he held up a firm, if somewhat shaky, hand. “Laydeez, please! Is dis de ol’ Viking spirit of Sweyn Forkbeard an’ Harald Bluetooth?”

“Dey vere Danes,” Inger-Marie said, unhelpfully.

“Och! Vell, Bárður Snæfellsás, denn. De point is, ve come to get dat medal an’, by yimminy, ve are goin’ to get it!” The four women, recalled to a sense of their patriotic duty, managed a weak cheer.

Thorbjøm called a cab, and ten minutes later, five unbowed – in spirit, anyway – Norwegians piled in, ready to embark on a mission that they hoped, someday, might well justify the composition of a contemporary Nordic saga.