Cultural City Bergen 2000, Bergen Public Library

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Bibliography

Novels and
other prose

Plays

Children's books

World
premières

Articles
by Gunnar Staalesen

Excerpts

Like a bee
to honey

The witch ring

1900 Sunrise

Fallen Angels

Amalie Jensen Blues:
the story of the one who
(almost) became my first
girlfriend

Translations

of Gunnar Staalesen

by Gunnar Staalesen

Miscellaneous

About Gunnar Staalesen

Excerpt from
1900 Morgenrød
(1900 Sunrise)

Consul Carl August Frimann was struck down and killed on the night that heralded the end of the nineteenth century. When the maid servant found him at about half past seven the following morning, he was still wearing the wolf-mask from shipping magnate Dünner's New Year's ball.
The maid's screaming woke the consul's wife, Helene Margrethe Frimann, who had retired early the previous evening nursing a thunderous headache that had kept her from the masked ball. The noise also roused their two daughters, seventeen year old Sofie Helene and late arrival Henricke Cecilie, who'd never been called anything but 'little Rikke' during her entire one and a half years of life. Widow Troye was forced from her bed on the floor above, for a moment wondering if the new century had summoned her with sinister trumpet blasts to the Day of Judgement.
With the furious little Rikke in her arms, Sofie Helene stumbled out onto the landing in nothing but her nightshift. She took up position behind her mother, who lent against the doorframe as if she were about to collapse.
"Dear Jesus, oh my dear Jesus," widow Troye intoned from where she'd come to a stop at the head of the stairs. The maid was screaming as if her breast was fit to burst.
Consul Frimann lay face down before them on the tiled floor. His dinner jacket was covered in dark, congealed blood and an indefinable grey-green slime, which oozed from the back of his crushed head. The ridiculous wolf-mask was twisted to one side, its empty eyeholes staring obliquely up at them.
His wife pitched forward. "Carl August." Her words were barely audible. She pressed her slim hands to her mouth. Ill-smelling vomit seeped from between her fingers and dribbled down her light blue silk dressing gown.
The maid fell silent at last, and the only sound came from widow Troye. "Dear Jesus, oh my dear Jesus."
"S-shouldn't we c-call the police?" said Sofie Helene finally.

Translated by Kevin Reeder