by Pia Juul
‘No need,’ I replied, opening my laptop. ‘Just ring me when you know who did it.’
‘Roger,’ he said. Roger? ‘We’re trying to get in touch with the woman who put the death notice in the paper. Pernille, wasn’t it?’
‘She’s mad. She knew Halland’s sister. I think she went too far putting in that notice. What do you want her for, anyway? She lives in Copenhagen. She’s hardly likely to know Peter Olsen.’
‘Have you got her surname? Phone number?’
‘I’ll call you back with the number. Any news about Brandt?’
‘I expect you’ll know before I do when he comes home,’ Funder answered, sounding wounded. ‘His car’s parked outside the surgery, even though he normally walks there. His secretary can’t explain it. On Friday they closed the surgery at noon because of the funeral, but they left separately, and…’
‘And he didn’t arrive at the church. I didn’t notice who came; I was too embarrassed to look. But I know he wasn’t there.’
‘Why were you embarrassed?’
‘So many people had come because of the notice in the paper.’
The doorbell rang. I heard Abby talking to Brandt’s lodger in the hall. Had she made breakfast with him in mind? Craning my neck, I saw her hug him.
‘Funder?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’ve found Halland’s computer.’
‘You did what?’
‘I found Halland’s computer,’ I repeated.
‘Where?’
‘I’ve found it, that’s all. I don’t suppose you’ll be needing it once you’ve got hold of our parish marksman. Assuming he shot Halland by accident, that is.’
‘Leave Peter Olsen to me. I’ll send someone over to pick up the laptop. But we need to know where you found it!’
I hung up.
‘I’ll be off, then!’ said the lodger as soon as I joined them.
‘Not on my account, I hope. Abby’s baked a loaf,’ I told him.
‘Which reminds me, I better take it out of the oven!’ she said, squeezing past us with a swing of her hips.
‘I’ve got work to do, I’m afraid,’ the lodger explained. ‘I just wanted to say…’
‘Goodbye?’ I suggested. ‘Good morning? Thanks! You were wonderful?’
‘Mum!’ exclaimed Abby.
They exchanged glances over my head. I was nearly blushing myself now. ‘I need the loo,’ I said.
I didn’t actually. I stared at my face in the mirror above the sink. I let the water run over my hand, then turned it off. Waited. Peter Olsen. Who was he? And who was that woman in the mirror? That woman’s husband is dead. That woman’s long-lost daughter has come back. Does it make any difference? Her face is empty, but mirrors always make people’s faces look empty. Halland shaved without a mirror. Did I know why he used to do that? Is there no difference at all with him being gone and her being back? Why is there no difference? But there was a difference. I had a weight on my heart that hadn’t been there before Halland died. And I felt a need to laugh that hadn’t been there before Abby came back. But my face in the mirror appeared as empty as it always had been.
‘Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, a hundred! Coming out, ready or not!’ I called.
‘He’s gone!’ she called back.
We sat down in the kitchen again. It was like some kind of unpleasant test, I thought. But the bread tasted good, albeit rather doughy and too hot, right from the oven. I ate and enjoyed, and said nothing. I kept glancing over at Abby. The woman was undoubtedly her. How I could have failed to notice her among ten or twenty other people was beyond me. These were the same brown eyes, the same blonde hair, though darker and she wore it up now. She had put on a bit of weight and resembled Troels’s sister just as she had done as a child. But she looked like me too. I could see myself in her. And I was happy. Then I felt ashamed to be happy.
‘I didn’t open them or anything,’ she said. ‘But I found some boxes on the shelf upstairs… they had my name on them.’
‘You may open them if you want. They’re for you.’
‘What’s in them?’
I took a deep breath. ‘All sorts of things I was going to tell you about.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’re full of notebooks. Not diaries, because I don’t keep one, but… well, there were so many things I needed to tell you. You were growing up, you didn’t want to see me, so I wrote to you instead.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said my daughter, ‘but this all sounds a bit weird, if you ask me.’
I cringed. I had never imagined she could think like that. The notebooks were meant for Abby the child.
‘I suppose it is, in a way,’ I said. ‘I haven’t been well since… no, that’s not what I mean. Actually, I don’t know what I mean. Don’t read any of them. They will only embarrass us both. We don’t know each other any more. I intended those notebooks for the person you were then…’
‘Give me an example.’
I thought for a moment. ‘For example, I wrote about how I thought I was having an erotic experience when all I was doing was kissing a door.’
‘Mum!’
‘It’s true. I was having a sleepover with some friends. This was when I was a teenager – the last throes. I was nineteen, I think. And there I was on the floor, kissing this boy I had a crush on. Kissing what I thought was his upper arm.’
‘But it was a door?’
‘No, it was my sleeping bag. It had this shine, like the skin on a young man’s upper arm.’
‘Oh, come off it!’
‘I imagined that was the kind of thing one told one’s daughter as she was growing up. So I wrote it down.’
‘But there’s boxes and boxes…’ She gestured despondently in the direction of the stairs. She was right, no one, not even I, would read all that rubbish.
‘Do you know about Martin Guerre?’ I asked. ‘He’s rolled up in Halland’s study. I don’t have a big enough wall.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Martin Guerre deserted his family and his village. Then along came someone called Arnaud du Tilh, pretending to be Martin Guerre. He had everyone fooled, even Martin Guerre’s wife. So the story goes.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Do you recognize me?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Do you recognize me? Do I talk like your mother did when you were a child? Am I more human now, or still a monster? Or the other way round? What am I? Can you tell me who I am?’
For a moment she didn’t respond. ‘You’re a bit dippy,’ she said.
‘And you’re in love,’ I said. ‘Lucky thing.’
27
(The doorbell rings)
MR SMITH: Goodness, someone is ringing.
MRS SMITH: There must be someone there. I’ll go and see.
Eugène Ionesco, THE BALD SOPRANO
My grandfather was dead. I didn’t cry. Abby was still with me when my mother rang to tell her. My mother didn’t ring me, but I knew. She was probably offended that I hadn’t told her the date of Halland’s funeral. She loved a tit-for-tat: one funeral for another. Abby said she would go with me, but I wasn’t upset. I could do without seeing my mother. Anyway I had stopped missing my grandfather after I had spoken to him on the phone. He had been kind to me as a child. But the moment he called me ‘dear’ three times in two minutes I remembered that he was a miserable, resentful old man nonetheless. The funeral was arranged for the Monday, but I couldn’t attend. I was suppose to give a talk at a library in Jutland that Sunday and would be hard pressed to arrive in Reading on time. At least that’s what I told myself. Telling the talk’s organizer that my husband had died was out of the question, and I didn’t want to use my grandfather as an excuse either. So I should just go to Jutland as planned, thereby avoiding having to involve a stranger in my private life. I had already been on the front page of one of the tabloids, but the headline merely said, WRITER IN MOURNING. I could have been anyone; a
nd anyway, Pernille appeared more prominently in the photo. Abby asked who she was. ‘Is that the kind of paper you read?’ I returned her question.
I had given Halland’s laptop to Funder, though I still hadn’t told the police about the rented room. But they are very clever. Pernille rang on the Wednesday morning to say that they were standing outside her door and wanted to see Halland’s room. ‘Let them in,’ I said. ‘They’ve got the key.’
Boarding the train to Jutland felt like a relief. I just grabbed my bag, the one Halland had taught me always to have at the ready. On the train, I plugged my mobile in to charge and busied myself with the quick crossword, trying not to think. TWINGE–CONTRACTION, EXCLAMATION –ALAS, HOLLOW–TROUGH, DIVIDE–HALVE, MALE–BUCK.
I had received a text. From my editor, one of the few people who had the number. He couldn’t get through on the landline; would I call him? He had written the text the day Halland died. I deleted it.
Although I had never met the man who organized my reading, I could tell that he knew about my husband’s murder. But he said nothing, and as we drove from the station to the new library I wondered whether I should be offended by his lack of manners. Ought he not to offer his condolences, at the very least mention that he had read the awful news in the paper or heard an announcement on the radio? But truth to tell, I wasn’t offended. I wouldn’t have known how to react anyway if he had mentioned Halland.
‘I’ve been pushing for you to be our writer of the month!’ the man told me, blinking three times in quick succession.
‘Thank you.’
‘Have you decided what you’re going to read?’
‘Not yet. I like to get a feel of the audience first.’
‘I hope the turnout will be all right. On a sunny day like today, a lot of people will want to be out in their gardens. Do you take requests?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You might not think it suitable, but you published a story in a journal about ten years ago. None of your books include the piece, but I think it is magnificent. I brought a copy along in case you’d like to read it.’
‘Sounds intriguing.’
When he unlocked the library door, I noticed a large poster for another event three days earlier. He traced my gaze.
‘Yes, that was one of the library’s own events. We’re only a small group, so we borrow a room in the basement.’
The building was lovely, though. Filled with light from the bright sun. He locked the door behind us.
‘How will people get in?’ I gestured towards the locked door.
‘The library’s closed,’ he said. ‘But I will send Birthe up to stand by the door. She’s downstairs preparing the coffee, I should think.’ I sighed. I knew the routine. He ushered me into a small office where I sat down in a deep armchair. He left me alone. I heard them discuss how many people might come and how much coffee they needed to make. Birthe came in, said hello and handed me a fat envelope and a form to fill in. ‘Might as well do it now,’ she said, ‘so you have a fighting chance to catch the train after the reading.’
‘Shouldn’t you be guarding the door?’ I asked.
‘Someone else is doing that,’ she replied. ‘Two people have already arrived.’
I knew the scenario off by heart. The organizer came back into the room and handed me a photocopy of my old story. Without looking at it, I filled in the form with my ID number and address, and peeked inside the envelope. Seeing my fee in cash livened me up. Putting the form on the table, I stuffed the photocopy and the envelope in my bag and stood up. The organizer looked flustered as I strode past him.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘We usually get about twenty-five people.’
‘I’m just popping out for some air,’ I said.
‘You mean a smoke?’
‘No, some air.’
He gestured down the corridor towards a glass door.
‘That’s an exit. Just make sure to leave the lock on the latch so you can get back in again.’
I let the door slam behind me, went up some steps and found myself at the rear of the building. I gazed on lawns, sculptures, shade. A gravel path led into what looked like a small park.
Walking briskly, I glanced back over my shoulder like a thief, then ran, faster and faster, past old people on benches, past a play area and a fountain. When I reached the pedestrianized area I ambled along like a tourist. The shops were shut except for a pizzeria with tables on the pavement. When I asked the way to the railway station, I was annoyed with myself for saying railway station. People always gave me funny looks when I used that expression. I was hungry but I only wanted to go home. The next train was due in fifteen minutes. I walked through the tunnel beneath the tracks to the opposite platform and stood in the sun. I felt liberated, which was a much better feeling than having completed a task. After finishing a job, I always worry that I could have done better. But now, I only felt relieved to be on my way home.
My mobile chimed and I searched around in my bag.
One new message, it said. I pressed DISPLAY. The message was from Halland.
28
Third no return address. I cannot answer. He wants no answer. What does he want?
Anne Carson,
THE BEAUTY OF THE HUSBAND
‘Funder! Funder, Funder, Funder,’ I repeated to myself. I was so worked up that I pressed the wrong keys. The text disappeared. What did it say? When the train arrived, I hesitated but eventually decided to board. I found a window seat, dumped my jacket and went out into the vestibule with my phone. I realized I didn’t have Funder’s number and I couldn’t ring the emergency services because there was no emergency. What did the text say? I tried to remain calm and methodical. I clicked on my inbox. There was only one message and it was from Halland. I pressed the OPEN key. Where are you? it said. ‘No, please, please, please,’ I repeated, shaking my head vigorously. ‘That’s not funny. That’s’s not funny!’ Soldiers came through the carriage and one of them asked if I was all right. He had such a kind voice I could hardly bear it. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Yes, I mean.’ He scrutinized me for a moment. I nodded. ‘Everything’s fine,’ I said, repeating the words after the soldiers carried on through the carriage. Everything’s fine.
The conductor came through and asked for the ticket. I fumbled with my bag, then with my purse and my phone. ‘Is the reception especially poor around here?’ I asked. ‘I need to make a call, but I can’t get a signal!’
‘It’s always weak around here,’ she replied.
‘But I need to make a call!’ I repeated, my voice rising.
‘Is something wrong?’
I bit my tongue. This shouldn’t have happened. Shaking my head, I peered into my bag so the conductor wouldn’t see my face. I tasted blood in my mouth.
My jacket still lay on my seat when I got back. A man sitting on the aisle seat was reading a fat crime novel. He got up laboriously while I waited impatiently, fidgeting as if in a hurry. Across the table from us sat two women and our legs had to find space to settle. I took out my newspaper, all the while gripping my phone. I had finished the quick crossword on the outward journey. Now I began to read. We were still burdened with the same omniscient, incompetent government. There were still forgotten wars in Africa. We continued to wage war on terrorism: everyone was under surveillance; everything had to be dragged out into the light; soon there would be no secrets any more. I hadn’t paid attention to the newspapers’ take on my own story and found myself gazing at Halland’s picture for a while before I recognized him.
Keeping my eye on the signal bars on my mobile, I read about Peter Olsen. Apparently the police had spoken to him and concluded that he could not have shot Halland. He had an alibi. He had spent the night at his sister’s in Kalvehave. He had driven home only after breakfast; Halland was already dead by then. The police were running tests on Olsen’s hunting rifle. I looked out of the window. The sun was still shining, but the light seemed odd; perhaps because of the tinted glass. P
oppies appeared in the yellow sky. Maybe I was looking at a poppy field? During my childhood lots of poppies used to grow in fields and on building sites. Then they disappeared for years. Now they had returned.
The train came to a stop. The passengers glanced at each other in annoyance. They raised their eyebrows and sighed.
‘Are we running late?’ I asked the man next to me.
‘They just said we’ll be moving in a minute.’
I looked at my phone again. Pressed the number for directory enquiries. No connection. I felt a hot flush and shifted uneasily in my seat. Why did I get hot flushes now?
‘Do you want to get out?’ the man asked.
I shook my head, gasping a bit, then closed my eyes and tried to think of nothing.
‘The same thing happened the last time I took the train,’ he said. ‘Stuck for two hours we were. What a palaver. Can’t open the windows or doors… the recycled air is awful.’
Were they really unable to open the doors? Another hot flush. I couldn’t breathe any longer. Can one forget how to breathe? I wanted to get out. I thought I said so, but the man didn’t seem to have heard me. Who had Halland’s mobile? I could play along and reply as though he were still alive. The loudspeaker crackled. We would be sitting here indefinitely, they couldn’t find the fault. The man looked at his watch.
‘I’ll miss my bus,’ he said.
‘And I need to make a call,’ I said, barely breathing. My mouth was parched.
‘That time last winter, all we could do was sit and wait. No information at all, then all the lights went out. Pitch black it was. We all had to walk back along the tracks to Vejle.’
‘So they can open the doors,’ I said, breathing more easily at the thought.
‘Only in emergencies. Highly dangerous business sending folk out onto the tracks.’
I rested my cheek against the windowpane and relished the brief chill, pressing my face hard against the glass, moving my lips across it. Could I taste anything? The glass tasted of metal. Soft, soft, dark.
