The Jealousy Man and Other Stories

by Jo Nesbo

  Odd could see that Ryan was making a real effort to be interesting, but since the pop psychology he was dishing up was already stale news Odd presently turned his attention to Esther. She said she lived in London, where she worked as a freelance culture journalist but that she and Ryan commuted to see each other ‘as often as they could’. Odd noticed that she seemed to be directing this more to Ryan than to him, perhaps with a subtext along the lines of: Do you hear that, Ryan? I’m describing things as though we still have a passionate relationship, that all we wish was that we could spend more time together. Happy now, you fucking boring whitewasher?

  Odd guessed all of this must be just one of Odd Dreamin’s excursions. But maybe it wasn’t so far off the mark either?

  ‘Why have you just stopped?’ Esther asked as the waiter poured out a third glass.

  ‘I haven’t. I’m writing more than ever. And better, I hope.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  He shrugged. ‘Everything I have to say is on the pages of the books. The rest is just distraction and bluff. I’m a sad and pathetic clown. Exposing myself as a person doesn’t do my work any favours.’

  ‘No, on the contrary, it seems,’ said Esther and raised her glass. ‘It seems like the less people see of you, the more you get talked about.’

  ‘My books, I hope you mean.’

  ‘No, you.’ Her eyes lingered a little too long on his. ‘And, as a result of this, your books, naturally. You’re in the process of turning from a cult-cult writer into a mainstream-cult writer.’

  Odd Rimmen savoured the wine. And the characterisation. Licked his lips. Hm. Could already feel himself wanting more. More of everything.

  When Ryan left to go to the toilet he leaned forward and put his hand over Esther’s.

  ‘I’m a little bit in love with you,’ he said.

  ‘I know,’ she said. And he thought she couldn’t possibly know, because until that very moment he hadn’t been. Or had he – unlike her – simply not realised it until now?

  ‘What if it’s just the wine?’ he said. ‘Or that with Ryan sitting there you’re unattainable?’

  ‘Does it make any difference?’ she asked. ‘If it’s because you’re lonely or because I happen to have been born with a symmetrical face? Our reasons for falling in love are banal. It doesn’t make falling any the less delightful, does it?’

  ‘Perhaps not. Are you in love with me?’

  ‘Why should I be?’

  ‘I’m a famous writer. Isn’t that banal enough?’

  ‘You’re a nearly-famous writer, Odd Rimmen. You aren’t rich. You left me just when I needed you most. And I’ve a feeling you could do it again if you got the chance.’

  ‘So you are in love with me?’

  ‘I was in love with you before I met you.’

  Both raised their glasses and drank without taking their eyes off each other.

  * * *

  —

  ‘It’s just incredible,’ Sophie almost shouted into the phone. ‘Stephen Colbert!’

  ‘Is that big?’ Odd Rimmen leaned back and the rickety wooden chair gave a warning groan. He looked out at the old apple trees that his mother claimed she could remember bearing fruit. The air smelled of wild, neglected garden and of the sea, borne on the pleasantly cooling Atlantic breeze from the Bay of Biscay.

  ‘Big?’ gasped Odd Rimmen’s editor. ‘He’s overtaken Jimmy Fallon! You’ve been invited onto the biggest talk show there is, Odd!’

  ‘Because…?’

  ‘Because of the filming of The Hill.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I said no to the film.’

  ‘That’s exactly it! Everyone’s talking about it on social media, Odd. Everyone’s raving about your integrity. The man who sits in a run-down old house in France and writes a book about nothing, that won’t sell any copies, says no to worldly fame and stinking riches in the name of the art of writing. Right at this moment you are the coolest writer in the world, do you realise that?’

  ‘No,’ Odd Rimmen lied. Because naturally he had been well aware that the uncompromising and apparently puritanical choices he had been making since that evening at the Charles Dickens Theatre not necessarily would but very likely could result in exactly the same thing as was happening now.

  ‘Let me think about it.’

  ‘The recording is next week but they need an answer today. I’ve booked your flight to New York.’

  ‘I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Great. You sound very happy by the way, Odd.’

  There was a pause, a moment in which Odd wondered whether she might have unintentionally identified what he was really feeling. Triumph. No, not triumph, for that would suggest a goal he had consciously been aiming for. And all he had been aiming for was to organise things in such a way that he could write truthfully, without worrying about anyone or anything, and certainly not his own so-called popularity.

  All the same. He had just been reading the neuroendocrinologist Robert Sapolsky’s description of how a recovering alcoholic’s reward centre in the brain can be activated simply by walking down the street where his favourite bar from the old days is; even though he has no intention of drinking, the acquired expectation from the days of his drinking will liberate the dopamine. Was that what was happening to him now? Was it the mere prospect of a worldwide attention focused on his person that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up? And he wasn’t sure, but was it maybe panic at the thought of ending up in the same old mess as before that made him grip the phone tighter and say a cold, hard no.

  ‘No?’ Sophie repeated, and from the slight confusion in her voice Odd realised she thought he was responding to what she had said about him sounding happy.

  ‘No I won’t be going on the talk show,’ he specified.

  ‘But…your book. Odd, honestly, this is a fantastic opportunity to tell the world that it exists. That real literature does exist. You’ve got to do it!’

  ‘If I did do it then I would have betrayed my vow of silence. I would have betrayed all those who, according to you, praise me for my integrity. I would have become the clown again.’ (He noticed that he was using the Conditional.)

  ‘In the first place there’s no one to betray, Odd. You’re the only one who’s committed to your silence. And as for being a clown that’s your vanity talking, not the man to whom literature is a calling.’

  There was an edge to the editor’s tone Odd Rimmen hadn’t heard before. As though she’d just about had enough. Had already had enough. She simply didn’t believe he was being honest. That he, with his anti-Charles Dickens attitude, had become more like Charles Dickens than Dickens himself. Was that it? Was he just playing the part of the principled artist? Well, yes and no. His frontal lobe, the part of the brain that, according to Sapolsky, was responsible for considered decisions, that was probably honest. But what about the nucleus accumbens, the pleasure centre that demanded enjoyment and immediate reward? If the two of them were devil and angel, one on each shoulder whispering into his ears, it wasn’t easy to know which he was listening to, which was his true master. All Odd Rimmen could say with certainty was that he had been honest that evening he left the theatre. But hadn’t something happened once he discovered that his steadfast resistance to being publicly promoted had resulted in exactly the opposite, that he had become the priest who, with his vow of celibacy, had paradoxically become a sex symbol, and who in all secrecy – secretly even from himself – enjoyed it?

  ‘Odd,’ said Sophie, ‘you’ve got to head for the light. D’you hear? Head for the light! Not the darkness.’

  Odd coughed. ‘I’ve got a book to write. Tell them that, Sophie. And yes, you’re right, I am happy.’

  He ended the call. Felt a warm hand touch his neck.

  ‘I’m so proud of you,’ said Esther, sitting in the garden chair beside him.


  ‘Are you?’ Odd turned and kissed her.

  ‘In an age where all people do is run after the clicks and the likes? You bet I am.’ She stretched her arms in the air and yawned, supple as a cat. ‘Shall we go into town or just eat home this evening, what d’you think?’

  Odd wondered who it was who’d leaked the news that he’d said no to a film of The Hill. Whether it was Sophie. Or whether indirectly he was responsible himself, since he had, after all, mentioned it to several people who might have spread it about.

  Going to bed that evening he thought of what Sophie had said about heading for the light. Wasn’t that what you said to people who were about to die? That when they reached the other side they would see a bright light and they should turn their steps in that direction? Like a moth to the garden lamp that in another moment would scorch off its wings, Odd thought. But he had another thought too: had Sophie meant that, as a writer, he was dying?

  * * *

  —

  Autumn came, and with it a withering of Odd Rimmen’s creativity.

  He’d heard other writers talking about writer’s block but never quite believed in it himself. At least not for him. He was Odd Dreamin’. The golden goose. The stories just rolled out of him whether he liked it or not. So he assumed it was something that would pass and took the chance to spend more time with Esther. They went for long walks together, discussed literature and films. A couple of times they drove to Paris in Odd’s old Mercedes and visited the Louvre.

  But the weeks passed and still he couldn’t write. His head was empty. Or rather, it was filled with things that didn’t make for good literature: good sex, good food, good drink, good conversation, real closeness. The suspicion arose: was it the fault of all this happiness? Had it made him lose the despairing courage that had driven him to explore those dark corners from which he had sent back his reports? But even worse than the euphoric happiness was the sedate security. The feeling each day that nothing was really all that important, just as long as he and Esther had each other.

  They had their first quarrels. The way she did the housework. Whereabouts things were kept. Trifles, things that he had never normally bothered with. But enough for her to pack a bag and say she was off to London to spend a few days with her parents.

  Odd thought it was a good thing. Now he’d find out if that was enough to get Odd Dreamin’ up and about again.

  Sunday morning he had moved out from his study to the garden table under the dead apple trees, and then indoors again to the dining-room table. Didn’t help. No matter how hard he tried he couldn’t manage more than a couple of meaningless sentences.

  He considered ringing Esther to tell her he loved her but didn’t. Instead he asked himself if he would be willing to exchange happiness and Esther for the ability to write again.

  Maybe the answer didn’t surprise him, only the speed with which it came: yes, he’d make that trade.

  He loved Esther, and right now he hated writing. But he could live without Esther. On the other hand, without writing, he would die, wither and rot.

  He heard the door open.

  Esther. She must have changed her mind and taken an earlier train.

  But from the sound of the footsteps Odd knew it couldn’t be her.

  Someone was standing in the living-room doorway. Long, open raincoat over a suit. Dark hair and a sweaty quiff plastered against his forehead. Panting.

  ‘You stole her from me,’ said Ryan, his voice hoarse and quavering. He stepped forward and raised his right hand. Odd saw that it held a gun.

  ‘And for that you want to kill me?’ asked Odd. He was a little surprised to hear how matter-of-factly he spoke, but he was only saying what was on his mind. He really was more curious than afraid.

  ‘No,’ said Ryan, turning the pistol in his hand and holding it out to Odd. ‘I want you to do it yourself.’

  Odd, still seated, took the gun and looked down at it. Long lines of numbers – he was reminded of telephone numbers – were engraved along the black steel barrel. And now that he was safe he felt an even stranger sensation. A mild disappointment that the threat had gone as quickly as it had come.

  ‘Like that, you mean?’ asked Odd and placed the muzzle of the gun against his temple.

  ‘Exactly like that,’ said Ryan. His voice was still quavering, his eyes glazed in a way that made Odd wonder if he might perhaps be under the influence of some chemical substance.

  ‘You know you won’t get her back even if I’m gone?’ said Odd.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So why get rid of me? It’s not logical.’

  ‘I insist that you take your own life. All right?’

  ‘What if I refuse?’

  ‘Then you’ll have to kill me,’ said Ryan. His voice was no longer just hoarse, it was choked with tears.

  Odd nodded slowly as he went through it: ‘So one of us has to go. Does that mean you can’t bear to live in a world in which I exist?’

  ‘Shoot one of us now and get this over with.’

  ‘Or do you want me to kill you so that when Esther finds out she’ll leave me and dream of you, the one person she can’t have back?’

  ‘Shut up and do it!’

  ‘And if I still refuse?’

  ‘Then I’ll kill you.’ Ryan reached inside his coat and pulled out a second black gun. The paint on it seemed strangely dull. He squeezed the grip so tightly Odd could hear the plastic crack. Ryan pointed the barrel at Odd, who raised the gun he was holding himself and pulled the trigger.

  It happened quickly. Very quickly. So quickly that afterwards Odd Rimmen’s defence attorney would have (Conditional) been able to convince a jury that it was only the brain’s quicker amygdala, with its fight, flight or freeze response, that had had time to react. That the frontal lobe, the one that says to you hey, wait a sec, think this through, had never had time to engage.

  Odd Rimmen got up from his chair, walked over to Ryan, looked down at him. At Esther’s former boyfriend. At this formerly living human being. At the bullet-hole on the right-hand side of the forehead. And at the toy pistol lying at his side.

  Odd bent down and lifted it up. It weighed almost nothing and the butt was cracked.

  He’d be able to explain to a jury. But would they believe him? That the dead man had given him his own, real gun and then threatened him with a harmless, broken toy? Maybe. Maybe not. Of course the pain of love can drive a man mad, but a trusted member of the British diplomatic service would hardly have a history of abnormal behavioural or psychiatric problems. No, a defence based on the claim that Ryan had deliberately solicited his own death as a sublime revenge would seem too far-fetched for the average male or female juror to take.

  But then something else struck Odd: that reporting it would be a news sensation. And give birth to a thousand myths. Author kills rival in love drama. But this thought at least had time to be processed in the frontal lobe. And there, of course, dismissed.

  He crossed to the door and looked out. An unfamiliar Peugeot was parked just outside the gate. The nearest neighbour was so far away that it was unlikely the shot from within the living room had carried. He returned to the corpse, searched the coat pockets and found car keys, a mobile phone, wallet, passport and a pair of sunglasses.

  Odd spent the next few hours burying Ryan’s body in the garden. Ryan’s grave was directly under the largest apple tree, where Odd usually placed the table when he was working, or when he and Esther were eating. He didn’t choose the site because he was morbid but because the ground was already well trodden and no one would find a bare patch of grass there unusual. And on the few occasions he had seen dogs on their property it had been on the periphery of the garden, they never ventured that close to the house.

  Light rain had started to fall, and by the time he was finished his clothes were wet and dirty. He showered, put his clothes in the was
hing machine, scrubbed the floor in the living room and waited for night to fall.

  When it was dark enough he put on Ryan’s coat and sunglasses, his own gloves and a dark cap he found in one of Esther’s drawers. He stuffed a lightweight rain jacket into the coat pocket and went out.

  In a strangely elated mood he drove Ryan’s Peugeot the six kilometres to the clifftop at Vellet. There were often people here during the daytime, especially at weekends, but seldom after dark, and Odd had never seen anyone there when it was raining. He left the car in the car park and walked the hundred metres up to the lookout point. Stood on the very edge of the cliff and looked down at the waves below as they smashed into foaming white surf. He took Ryan’s mobile phone from his pocket and dropped it over the edge. Watched it disappear soundlessly into the darkness. Then he pulled the rain jacket out of one coat pocket and made sure the car keys, passport and wallet were still in the other before folding the coat and placing it on the ground, clearly visible and with a stone on top to stop it blowing away.

  Then he put on the rain jacket and headed towards home. Thoughts came and went in his head as he walked. Deep down had he always known that the gun Ryan was holding when he shot him was a toy? If so, why had he pulled the trigger anyway? Had his brain had time to consider the alternatives? What would have happened had he not shot him? What would Ryan’s next move have been? To attack him physically? So that Odd would still have had to shoot him, but it would have left him without the excuse of feeling that his life was threatened?