by Karin Fossum
She didn’t manage to write any more.
She called her father for the second time, and he got in the car right away. He was at her door half an hour later, stroking her gently on the cheek.
“More to worry about, eh?” he said. “As if you didn’t have enough already. But you know what, he’ll turn up. Just you wait and see. Come, let’s go and look for him. Maybe he’s gone down to Stranda; he likes being by the water. What do you think?”
She nodded and stood up straight. Yes, of course he’d gone down to Stranda. She should have thought of that before. She left the door unlocked in case he hadn’t taken his keys with him. She couldn’t be sure. Suddenly she couldn’t be sure about anything.
“Shall we take the car?” her father asked.
“No,” Carmen said. “We’ll walk; it will give him a bit more time. Then, when we get home, I’ll give him what for.”
“Well, it’s certainly a lovely day,” Pappa Zita said. “Nothing bad can happen when nature is on our side. And the October sky is blue and not a cloud to be seen, which must be a good sign.”
“Dad, this is serious,” she said. “He just shrugs, no matter what I say. He doesn’t care about anything, and it’s really annoying.”
Zita walked, deep in thought. A furrow appeared on his brow. “It sounds like serious depression,” he said. “Maybe he should get treatment. Maybe there are some pills that could help him get out of it.”
Carmen shook her head. “You won’t get Nicolai to take pills,” she said. “He’s totally against them. Let’s take the path, even though it’s slightly longer. When we get home again, he’s bound to be there. And sorry to say it, but screw him.”
Zita made no comment to this. And they walked on in silence.
“We’ll be getting the puppy in three weeks,” she said enthusiastically. “I’m really looking forward to it.”
“And Nicolai?” Zita asked. “Is he indifferent about the puppy as well?”
“Yes, he couldn’t care less about anything. But I’m sure he’ll fall in love with it, like me. There’s just something about puppies.”
She fell silent again. She had to work hard to keep up. Her father had long legs and kept a steady pace. It took them twenty minutes to walk to Stranda, but there was no Nicolai to be seen by the water. The waves rolled in lazily and broke along the shore. Carmen strained her eyes, staring out onto the horizon. Zita wandered along the water, picked up a stick, and then threw it down again almost immediately.
“Do you remember when you were little?” he started. “Do you remember all the good times we had, you and I?”
“Yes, of course. You used to carry me on your shoulders,” Carmen said.
Then she dried a tear and looked at him with her worried blue eyes.
“What if he’s not back by this evening?” she said. “What if it gets dark? What will we do then?”
When they got back, Pappa Zita went straight to the bedroom, as if he thought that Nicolai had come home and gone to bed in a moment of desperate loneliness. It was of course a possibility, and he did not want to imagine the worst. But the room was empty and quiet, just the bed with two crumpled comforters. Carmen sat down by the kitchen table, exhausted and confused.
“Have you been down to the cellar?” he asked tentatively.
Her answer was swift, with a slight sigh: “No, but I shouted down to him, obviously. From the top of the stairs, I mean, just in case. And he didn’t answer, so he must be out. I’m fairly sure he must be. Don’t talk like that,” she added hastily, “it makes me nervous.”
They sat for a while looking at each other, and Zita’s eyes were narrow with doubt and uncertainty. He picked up the saltshaker that was on the table, unscrewed the top, and then put it back on again. His hands suddenly looked so big and out of proportion on the scrubbed table, with nothing to hold.
“I’ll go down and have a look,” he said, “just to make sure. You sit here and wait; I’ll be back in a minute.”
Carmen nodded but didn’t say anything. Her father got up and went into the hall. She heard his feet on the stairs, clearly at first, but then more and more muffled as he descended into the dim cellar. A minute ticked by, and her thoughts started to wander to darker places. She couldn’t help it. More than anything she wanted to get up and go out into the hall and shout down to him and ask if everything was all right. But she couldn’t move. Dad, she thought, you have to find him. Well and alive. You have to sort this out, like you always do. Because this is more than I can stand. Two minutes passed and the silence was deafening. Once again she heard the humming in the air, but this time it got louder. She looked nervously out of the window, staring down at the horrible dark pond. What if he’d drowned himself? What if the worst thing imaginable had happened? She had experienced so much tragedy in her short life. No, she reprimanded herself. He’s just fixing the bikes. They’ll come into the kitchen at any moment, and Nicolai will be happy and smiling. He’ll be smiling because he’s pulled through, she thought. Life will be the same again, all smiles and laughter. And they could walk hand in hand out into the big wide world, happy as skylarks.
“Carmen,” he said in anguish.
His arms were hanging loose by his sides and his eyes were black.
“Carmen, you’re going to have to be strong. Nicolai has hanged himself in the cellar. Presumably last night while you were asleep. Don’t go down. Stay up here and wait. I’ll call for help.”
“It’s not my fault,” she screamed. “It’s not my fault!” She tipped down toward the floor, taking the chair with her as she fell. She tried to get to her feet again but was weak and frail. He scooped her up in his strong arms.
“Sit down!” he ordered, pushing her into a chair. “Sit still and don’t move!”
She collapsed onto the table and cried with shock and pain.
Pappa Zita went downstairs into the basement for the second time. Thirteen heavy steps in a somber spiral. This time he had a lump in his throat and a knife he had found in the kitchen drawer. He registered the open toolbox, oilcan, and overalls on the floor. Two old bikes had fallen over. And of course there was a good deal of junk, like the box of old schoolbooks. The sight of Nicolai hanging from the rafter was so shocking that he gasped. A plastic garden chair lay upended beneath the primitive gallows. He righted the chair and stood on it. He put one arm around the thin boy’s body and cut the rope. The body fell to the floor with a dull thud. He got down from the chair and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, intending to dial 911. His fingers were shaking so much that he got it wrong again and again, but finally he heard a voice at the other end. He explained the situation and then remained sitting in the chair, trying to gather his thoughts.
It was while he sat there that he spotted Tommy’s crib in the corner. It had been taken apart, and the mattress was lying beside it. He was filled with sudden unease when he saw this. And he remembered what Nicolai had said down on the jetty the day after Tommy had died.
There’s a lot you don’t know.
Now he wondered what he had meant by those words, and a hint of fear knotted in his stomach. But the thoughts that filled his mind were so awful that he pushed them to one side. He refused to think them. He had to believe his daughter’s distraught explanation; anything else would be impossible to bear. And yet he was extremely shaken by seeing the crib. There’s a lot you don’t know. There’s a lot you don’t know. It went around and around in his head, like a scratched record he couldn’t stop. Eventually he went back upstairs to Carmen. He picked her up from the chair and hugged her tight, all the while tormented by the difficult questions he didn’t dare to ask. In the end, he mustered the courage. He put her back down into the chair and looked her in the eye.
“His crib,” he whispered. “Tommy’s crib. It’s down in the cellar. What were you thinking? It’s damp down there, and the mattress will be ruined. It’ll get moldy, Carmen, you know that?” Carmen immediately started to cry and threw her arms around him, sob
bing uncontrollably.
“No,” she stammered. “I didn’t want the memories. I couldn’t bear to see the empty bed. And if we have another baby, we’ll get new stuff.”
Zita comforted himself that this was understandable. There was a wisp of fear there that he could not ignore, but it was not the time for confrontation. He took Carmen with him into the living room and they sat on the sofa. He put his arm around her shoulders, trying to console her.
“Don’t be angry,” he said quietly. “Don’t carry this with you through life as rage. Then you’ll never get over it. You have to forgive.”
Soon they heard the cars. Only a few minutes had passed, and they both went out onto the front step to meet them. They recognized Jacob Skarre standing beside the police car.
“I’ve already cut him down; he’s lying on the floor in the cellar,” Zita said. “We don’t know when it happened. He drove off last night around eleven o’clock and must have come back from his night drive at some point. It all happened while Carmen was asleep.”
She stayed in the living room when they carried Nicolai’s body up from the cellar, strapped onto a narrow stretcher. She followed the police’s advice and didn’t look at him. They said it was a terrible sight. Her father had told her in a firm voice that she did not want to carry the image with her; she had to remember Nicolai as he was. So she kept out of the way, even though she was aching with curiosity. In a strange way, the drama turned her on. But there was something in her father’s face, something ominous that she took seriously. Skarre came into the living room with all his questions. How had yesterday been, if he had shown any signs, if she had found any letters, if she had suspected that something was up. If he had a history of depression, if there had been other suicides in the family. No, he was just the same as always, Carmen said. I’m in shock.
Skarre went on for an hour, digging and asking questions. He wanted to know everything. He wandered around the house as though he was looking for evidence. What kind of evidence, she wondered in desperation. There’s nothing to find. What had happened was Nicolai’s final wish, and she couldn’t understand it. He had been willing to die, to put a noose around his neck and jump. Alone in the dark cellar. When he could have been lying safely in a warm bed, with her hand in his. The thought of it made her cold as ice. And she told Skarre the truth, that he’d left the house around eleven the night before and driven off in the Golf. He told her that he just wanted to go for a drive and stroked her cheek. For the last time. But how was she to know, she thought. She was used to him driving off; he was a loner. But now she remembered everything in detail. His breath on her face, the slim, warm hand on her cheek, the clear green eyes. His footsteps on the ground as he walked to the car, the engine starting. The red taillights disappearing around the dark bend.
Afterward, when they had left and taken the body with them, she went to Møllergata 4 with her father. She could scarcely walk on her own through the door. Everything felt cold and unreal and incomprehensible. She lay in her parents’ bed, flat on her back, without moving. And while she waited to feel like herself again, she watched a fly buzzing around the ceiling light. Her lower back ached, but she couldn’t be bothered to change position. She lay there as though dead. She could lie like that forever, without moving, watching the fly. It buzzed around energetically, furry, black, and revolting. Zita came into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. He grasped her hand and squeezed tight.
“You’ll stay here with us,” he said.
She didn’t answer, because she had nothing to say. She had no drive or willpower left. She wanted to get up, but something was holding her down. It felt like a wall. She knew that time was passing and that outside the door life went on. It was almost impossible to understand that people could laugh and joke. But it carried on, regardless, irrepressible life. Her father went back to Granfoss to pick up some clothes and her medicine. She asked him to bring her diary back too. It was at the back of the bottom drawer in the desk.
“Is it helpful?”
“Yes,” she said, “I write in it every day. It’s like everything is easier when I can write about it.”
She tried to sleep but couldn’t. She just lay there in bed and stared blankly. She wanted to get up and engage but felt that she was expected to lie there. At least for the first devastating twenty-four hours. She opened and closed her hands, as if she wanted to help the blood pump around her body. The fly didn’t stop; it was so caught up in its busy little life. A few longer spins around the room, but always back to the light in the eternal pursuit of light and warmth. Just like people.
36
DEAR DIARY,
Today is the worst day ever. And I am writing to you in sorrow and desperation. Because Nicolai has hanged himself in the cellar, and the shock triggered a major epileptic seizure. It’s not strange at all that I finally collapsed. Dad has been sitting by my bed and I’ve been lying here ever since. The sustained cramps have left me exhausted. When I woke up and came to, I’d forgotten everything. Dad had to tell me the whole tragic story all over again. That Nicolai had gotten up on a chair and then thrown himself off. Is that cowardly or courageous? I don’t know. All I know is that now I am bitterly sad and disappointed that he left me. And angry. And one thing holds true and that is that I’m strong and resilient. No one will ever send me over the edge.
So I finally came around. And the fly that had been buzzing by the light had disappeared. Maybe it had found a crack in the wood somewhere in the bedroom where it could die a quiet death. It’s autumn, after all. It’s so strange that I remembered that detail but had actually forgotten that Nicolai was dead.
I know that I foam at the mouth when I have a fit. And sometimes I wet myself, which is just hideous. Of all the things that come with my condition, that embarrasses me the most. But Dad is tactful. Because obviously I’m proud and I worry about my appearance. But I’ve lived with this for so long that I guess I don’t care anymore. Right now, though, it’s too much, I’ve had enough.
Still, I’m lying here and I’m alive. Now I can start all over again. Everything is open in the years ahead, and I want to see this as a new chapter. After all, like the Chinese say, a crisis is a new opportunity, isn’t it? And outside the window the moon is still shining white. It’s hard to imagine that they’ve been up there with a rocket. I’ve tried to understand it, and I can to a point. At least you can see the moon. You just need to head straight for it, that shining white disc in the dark sky. But when it comes to Mars, I’m lost. Because you can’t see Mars, it’s so far away. How did they manage to get there? They just fired the engine. It makes me realize that people have endless potential. So I must be able to succeed in a few things. A new man, a new baby, a new life. And Dad will keep me going. Mom has made me some hot milk and honey. As if that would ease the pain. But I do what they say. I drink the hot milk and cry on Dad’s shoulder. Nicolai is dead. And no matter what they say, I have to see him with my own eyes to believe it.
37
TWELFTH OF OCTOBER. Morning.
What sad times, he thought. The leaves are falling from the trees and rotting on the ground. Nature is freezing over and Nicolai is dead. As a rule, he only met his own eyes fleetingly when he looked in the mirror. There was an odd shyness; even though he was handsome, it didn’t make much difference. But now, today, the twelfth, he stood and studied himself with renewed interest. He stared at himself, searching for signs of weakness. And he certainly found them. The lines by the corners of his mouth were more marked. But how could I have prevented it, he asked himself. When someone has decided on it, it’s not easy to prevent death; it’s not easy to stop them falling out of time. And yet he was weighed down by sorrow at Nicolai’s death. No way back, once you’re hanging from the noose. A strong nylon rope was enough. But now perhaps he was reunited with Tommy, even though he didn’t believe that either. Death was cold and final, the cessation of life and nothing else.
When he had finished shaving, which he did
with extra care given the day’s plans, he went out into the kitchen. He put on the coffee and buttered a piece of bread. Frank padded over to his water bowl for a drink, knowing that he would get his morning walk if he was patient. Following this simple breakfast, Sejer went into the hall and clipped on the leash. Together they walked down the stairs and came out into the parking lot. The morning sky was gray with mist and it was drizzling. There’s nearly always guilt, in some form or other, attached to death, he thought. There was always something you could have done differently and better. Carmen would now be feeling guilty, as was Marian Zita. Just like I’m feeling guilty, he thought. He pulled at the leash, struggling to get the dog to follow him. Something had been there before them, a bitch perhaps. Now it was too late and Nicolai’s death tormented him. But his thoughts drifted on to other things. Frank had found a pinecone. He carried it proudly in his mouth and lifted his leg as dogs are wont to do. A quarter of an hour later, he turned and walked back to the apartment.
Well, he thought when he had driven into the center, I’m about to get my final verdict now. No matter what, he’d take it like a man, even if it was perhaps terminal. He had always been balanced by nature: patient, calm, and rational. No one lived forever. He parked the car and went into the medical practice. There were others waiting. He dutifully took a pair of blue shoe covers from the basket and put them on. They looked ridiculous and none of the others in the waiting room had done the same.
While he waited, he read a medical journal. He believed that his health was generally very good, even though he was prone to melancholy and was a worrier by nature. He had managed well in life so far. Through the grief and loss of Elise, through unrelenting murder cases. Yes, he had been strong and stubborn and robust all his life. Dedicated and almost self-sacrificing in relation to the people he served. And here he was reading about five-year-old American children on antidepressants and toddlers taking sleeping pills, incredible. He himself had never taken anything other than acetaminophen, on the rare occasion that he got a headache. But there was nothing that helped for dizziness, other than keeping as still as possible until it passed.
