printed in red letters against a black background on a filthy glass door. The carpet inside is purple. Henning walks up to an imposing reception counter. Three tiny potted plants have been placed at random on the counter next to an index of workout cards and a till. A computer screen lights up the face of the short-haired woman who is staring at it. Two white cupboards in a corner behind her are stocked with protein drinks and dietary supplements.
Henning waits patiently for her attention. The receptionist he had initially classified as a woman isn’t particularly feminine. She has rings in both eyebrows, and she wears black make-up around her eyes and on her lips. The muscles in her biceps are defined in a masculine way. When she finally looks up at him she pushes her chest up and out. She is even wearing a T-shirt advertising a deodorant for men. He notices she has thin, encrusted scars running diagonally down her forearms. Whether they were made by an angry cat or something else Henning can’t determine without making it obvious that he is staring. The infected needle scars around the major veins in her elbow joint, however, are unmistakable.
Henning says hi and attempts a smile.
‘Hi,’ she replies.
‘My name is Henning Juul. I work for 123news .’
No response, only a dull stare.
‘I’m working on a story about gyms, I don’t mean gyms that belong to the big chains, but the independent ones that survive despite the fierce competition. I thought it was about time that someone wrote about you too.’
He flashes a smile as false as the Rolex watches on Karl Johansgate, but it will have to do.
‘And that’s why you are here? On a Sunday?’
Her voice is hoarse as if something is stuck in her throat.
‘Eh, yes. I’m writing a lot of other stories this week, and, as I happened to be in the neighbourhood, I thought that—’
Henning realises he is struggling to convince even himself so he shuts up. The woman says nothing. She just stares at him.
‘Is Kent Harry Hansen here?’
‘No.’
‘Oh no!’ he says, excessively positive. ‘So where is he?’
‘Some people have better things to do on a Sunday than work.’
‘Fair point,’ Henning says and smiles again.
The girl’s fixed mask remains intact.
‘I was wondering, is there anyone from admin here today?’
‘I’m the only one.’
‘And you are—’
‘I’m just the receptionist.’
Henning looks around.
‘How about Geir Grønningen? Is he here today?’
‘He doesn’t work here.’
‘No, but I’ve heard that he uses this gym.’
‘So what?’
‘I need a quote or two. Why people work out here and blah blah blah. It makes the article sound better.’
The girl behind the counter looks at him before she nods in the direction of a row of exercise bikes by the windows. A man in a white vest is pedalling at a sedate pace whilst looking at a screen on the wall.
‘That’s him?’
The girl nods. Almost imperceptibly.
‘Okay, thanks for your help.’
Henning attempts an ironic smile, but her attention is already elsewhere. He crosses the large room where white and black equipment in all shapes and sizes competes for floor space. Music blasts from the loudspeakers. The weights ring out. Grunting and bellowing alternate. The sound of testosterone, Henning thinks. No one here looks as if it bothers them that brute strength on its own is pointless if you can’t run 150 metres without getting out of breath. Many of the stomachs on display are bulging, but not from muscle.
‘Geir Grønningen?’
Henning puts his hand on the bike’s handlebars. A tall man with long thin hair turns to face him. He has a wispy beard around his lips and chin. And here was Henning thinking the age of grunge was long gone.
‘Hi,’ Henning goes on.
Grønningen’s only reply is to pedal more slowly. Henning gets on the vacant exercise bike next to him and discovers too late that his feet don’t reach the pedals, but he refrains from adjusting
Henning waits patiently for her attention. The receptionist he had initially classified as a woman isn’t particularly feminine. She has rings in both eyebrows, and she wears black make-up around her eyes and on her lips. The muscles in her biceps are defined in a masculine way. When she finally looks up at him she pushes her chest up and out. She is even wearing a T-shirt advertising a deodorant for men. He notices she has thin, encrusted scars running diagonally down her forearms. Whether they were made by an angry cat or something else Henning can’t determine without making it obvious that he is staring. The infected needle scars around the major veins in her elbow joint, however, are unmistakable.
Henning says hi and attempts a smile.
‘Hi,’ she replies.
‘My name is Henning Juul. I work for 123news .’
No response, only a dull stare.
‘I’m working on a story about gyms, I don’t mean gyms that belong to the big chains, but the independent ones that survive despite the fierce competition. I thought it was about time that someone wrote about you too.’
He flashes a smile as false as the Rolex watches on Karl Johansgate, but it will have to do.
‘And that’s why you are here? On a Sunday?’
Her voice is hoarse as if something is stuck in her throat.
‘Eh, yes. I’m writing a lot of other stories this week, and, as I happened to be in the neighbourhood, I thought that—’
Henning realises he is struggling to convince even himself so he shuts up. The woman says nothing. She just stares at him.
‘Is Kent Harry Hansen here?’
‘No.’
‘Oh no!’ he says, excessively positive. ‘So where is he?’
‘Some people have better things to do on a Sunday than work.’
‘Fair point,’ Henning says and smiles again.
The girl’s fixed mask remains intact.
‘I was wondering, is there anyone from admin here today?’
‘I’m the only one.’
‘And you are—’
‘I’m just the receptionist.’
Henning looks around.
‘How about Geir Grønningen? Is he here today?’
‘He doesn’t work here.’
‘No, but I’ve heard that he uses this gym.’
‘So what?’
‘I need a quote or two. Why people work out here and blah blah blah. It makes the article sound better.’
The girl behind the counter looks at him before she nods in the direction of a row of exercise bikes by the windows. A man in a white vest is pedalling at a sedate pace whilst looking at a screen on the wall.
‘That’s him?’
The girl nods. Almost imperceptibly.
‘Okay, thanks for your help.’
Henning attempts an ironic smile, but her attention is already elsewhere. He crosses the large room where white and black equipment in all shapes and sizes competes for floor space. Music blasts from the loudspeakers. The weights ring out. Grunting and bellowing alternate. The sound of testosterone, Henning thinks. No one here looks as if it bothers them that brute strength on its own is pointless if you can’t run 150 metres without getting out of breath. Many of the stomachs on display are bulging, but not from muscle.
‘Geir Grønningen?’
Henning puts his hand on the bike’s handlebars. A tall man with long thin hair turns to face him. He has a wispy beard around his lips and chin. And here was Henning thinking the age of grunge was long gone.
‘Hi,’ Henning goes on.
Grønningen’s only reply is to pedal more slowly. Henning gets on the vacant exercise bike next to him and discovers too late that his feet don’t reach the pedals, but he refrains from adjusting
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