The Jealousy Man and Other Stories

by Jo Nesbo

  It was ten o’clock by the time Odd got back to the house and he made himself some coffee. Then he sat down at his computer and wrote. And wrote. He did not return to this world until gone midnight, when he heard the door open.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, and just stood there, sort of waiting.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, walked over to the woman he loved and kissed her.

  ‘Well, hello,’ she said softly as she put her hand against his crotch. ‘You have been missing me.’

  * * *

  —

  The police made no attempt to hide the fact that they regarded Ryan Bloomberg’s disappearance as a suicide. Not just because all the finds and circumstantial evidence pointed in that direction but also because Ryan’s close friends and family spoke of his despair following the break-up with Esther, and of how he had voiced suicidal thoughts. The presumption of suicide was further strengthened by the fact that he had recently purchased a Heckler & Koch pistol, and had chosen to kill himself close to where Esther was living with her new love Odd Rimmen.

  On the Sunday in question Esther had been in London and not returned home until late, but Odd Rimmen had been at the house and was able to tell police that he had seen a Peugeot parked by the gate outside the house, and that he thought he saw a man sitting inside it, and presumed that he was waiting for someone. This fitted with the police trace on Ryan Bloomberg’s mobile, they said. Signals from local base stations enabled them to see how Ryan/Ryan’s phone had started moving westward from Paris at first light in the morning, that it had been in the vicinity of Rimmer’s house for some hours before the last signal was received close to the clifftop at Vellet.

  So police activity in connection with the disappearance was confined to a short and intense search, and no one was surprised – given the strong ocean currents in the area – that no body was found.

  After some hesitation Esther decided not to go to the commemorative ceremony in London, fearing it might upset those of Ryan’s friends and relatives who blamed her for his death. She told the Bloomberg family of her decision, adding that she would pay her respects later.

  Odd Rimmen wrote with renewed zest. And made love with new zest too.

  ‘Let us celebrate this glorious day with a glass of something,’ he might say as the sun set in yet another blaze of red, orange and lilac. Then head down into the cellar to fetch one of the dusty bottles of apple wine. And then sometimes he might cross to the small, disused woodstove standing hidden in the darkest and most remote corner. Open the door, poke his hand inside and feel the cold steel of the Heckler & Koch, run his fingertips over the numbers on the barrel.

  * * *

  —

  ‘I’m pregnant,’ said Esther.

  She stood by the kitchen window with an apple in her hand, looking out across the Bay of Biscay where the livid sky and the whitecaps showed that yet another winter storm was on its way.

  Odd put down his pen. He had been writing since morning. He was now several weeks past his deadline. But he was writing again, that was the most important thing. And he was writing well. In fact damned well.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Pretty sure.’ She laid a hand on her stomach as though she could already feel it growing.

  ‘Well, that’s…’ He looked for the word. And suddenly it was as though his writing block had returned. He knew that there was only one, absolutely correct word. Situations were like bolts. There was one, and only one, nut that fitted. It was just a question of rooting around long enough in the drawer until you found it. In recent weeks the words had just come, presented themselves without his having to look; now, suddenly, it was pitch-dark. Was fantastic the right word? No, getting pregnant was trivial, something nearly all healthy humans could manage. Good? That would sound like a deliberate understatement, ironic and therefore doubly dishonest. During the nine months in which they had lived together he had explained to her that his work was everything; that nothing could be allowed to stand in its way. Not even her, the woman he loved more than anything (more correctly: than any other woman). Catastrophe? No. He knew she wanted to have children. If she never said so explicitly the tacit assumption was that they wouldn’t be spending the rest of their lives together, that at some point she would have to find someone who would be father to her child/children. Now she’d managed it without that, and she was an independent woman who would be very well able to manage as a single mother. So inconvenient, perhaps, but not catastrophic.

  ‘Well, that’s…’ he repeated.

  Did he suspect that she’d done this on purpose? That she’d been careless with her birth pills in order to test him? And if so: had it worked? Too bloody right it had. To his own surprise Odd Rimmen realised that he was, if not happy, then at least pleased. A child.

  ‘That’s what?’ she asked at length. It was clear he’d missed a deadline here too. Odd stood up and crossed to where she was standing by the window. Put his arms around her as he looked out into the garden. At the big apple tree that after twelve barren years had suddenly started to bear fruit again. As they harvested the big red apples and carried them into the kitchen Esther wondered what the cause might be. He replied that the roots were probably getting richer nourishment than usual. He could see she was going to ask him what he meant by that, and to be honest he didn’t know what he would have said if she’d done so. But she let it pass.

  ‘That’s a miracle,’ replied Odd Rimmen. ‘Pregnant. A child. It really is a miracle!’

  * * *

  —

  The news that Odd Rimmen had declined the invitation to appear on the world’s biggest talk show circulated for a while, but as far as Odd could see it didn’t have the same effect as the article in the New Yorker and the way he’d turned down the film project. It was as though the story of ‘Odd Rimmen: The Recluse’ had already been taken on board, and this was just one more version of the same thing.

  The reason Odd was able to reach this conclusion was that he had once again started using social media and was keeping up with the news. He told himself it was because as a father-to-be he had to emerge from his self-imposed isolation and reconnect with the world, as he put it to Esther.

  He travelled with her to London, where she had accepted an invitation to take part in a project aimed at mapping and interviewing the most important female voices in literature, film and music. They lived in a cramped little flat and Odd longed to be back in France.

  Each day after Esther left for work he sat down at his laptop and searched out what had been written about him on the internet. In the beginning he had been shocked by how much interest there was, or how much time people obviously had. Not only did they analyse his writing to pieces, they also shared news of where and with whom he had recently been seen (Odd was able to confirm that in ninety per cent of cases it was complete fiction), stories about secret children with secret mothers, what kind of drugs he was into, his probable sexual orientation, and which of his characters was really him. He had to admit all that scribbling delighted him. Yes, even those who criticised him or damned him as an arrogant and out-of-touch wannabe artist made him feel…what was the word? Alive? No. Relevant? Maybe. Noticed? Yes, that was probably it. He was forced to admit that it was banal, even depressing that he was so uncomplicated. That he should long so greatly for something that he despised so much in others, the insistent and irritating cry of the spoiled child to ‘look at me, look at me!’ when there was nothing to see beyond a profound egocentricity.

  But naturally, these reflections and this (shall we call it?) self-insight did not stop him searching. He told himself it was important to know his status in the world with a new book about to be published. Because not only was it his best book so far – he’d known that for a long time – it was also – and this was something he’s only recently come to realise – his masterpiece. The only novel he’d written that might turn out to be of lasting value
. And because it was a masterpiece, the obvious problem was that it was also very demanding. It had cost him a lot of hard work, and readers would have to work hard on it too. It wasn’t that the writer Odd Rimmen was unaware of the fact that great literature could be exhausting, for he had come close to giving up on both James Joyce’s Ulysses and David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest. But since the latter had become his favourite novel he knew he would have to do the same thing: aim for the goal without the slightest deviation. But in order to be a masterpiece, a masterpiece must be presented in the correct context. God alone knows how many masterpieces the world has missed out on, forgotten, or not forgotten but never even discovered, disappearing instead beneath the avalanche of the hundreds and thousands of books published every day all over the world. So, to get some idea of what his own contextual status was, Odd Rimmen began going through stuff on social media chronologically from several years back. He noticed that the number of tweets, references to his name and press stories showed a decline over the past year, and that for the most part those writing now were the same old same olds. And most of them didn’t get out much either.

  The book wasn’t due out for another four months (five months to term) and at a meeting at the publishers on Vauxhall Bridge Road Odd Rimmen discussed the launch with Sophie and her very young colleague (Jane something, Odd couldn’t remember the surname).

  ‘The bad news is that this is of course a difficult book to promote,’ Jane said, as though this was something everybody knew. She adjusted her oversized and presumably trendy spectacles and smiled broadly, showing a lot of gum.

  ‘What do you mean?’ said Odd, hoping that he didn’t sound as irritated as he was.

  ‘In the first place it’s almost impossible to describe what it’s about in two or three sentences. Secondly it’s difficult to find a target group beyond the very literary-interested and your own regular readers. Which is one and the same thing really. And that is, anyway, a…’ She exchanged looks with Sophie. ‘…quite small and rather exclusive group.’

  She took a deep breath and Odd realised there was a third thing too.

  ‘Thirdly, it’s a very dark and empty novel.’

  ‘Empty?’ exclaimed Odd Rimmen, who had no problem with its being dark.

  ‘Dystopian,’ Sophie added.

  ‘And there are hardly any characters in it,’ said Jane. ‘At least, not characters the reader can identify with.’

  Odd Rimmen realised that the two of them had conferred beforehand. He was at least pleased they hadn’t complained that the new book (Nothing) was lacking in the sex scenes that had become his trademark. He shrugged. ‘It is what it is. Take it or leave it.’

  ‘OK, but we’re here to focus on how to get them to take it,’ said Sophie. Odd recognised the sharp undertone now.

  ‘The good news,’ said Jane, ‘is that we have you. You are what the media are interested in. The only question is if you’re prepared to help your book by making public appearances.’

  ‘Hasn’t Sophie explained it to you yet?’ asked Odd Rimmen. ‘That I help the book by not making public appearances? That – for what it’s worth – is now my image.’ He spat the word with all the contempt he could muster. ‘Surely the sales department doesn’t want to spoil that and ruin the author’s selling point, do they?’

  ‘Silence can work,’ said Jane. ‘But only for so long, then it gets boring and counterproductive. Look at it like this: what silence has sown we must now reap. Every newspaper and magazine will be standing in line for the first, exclusive interview with the man who stopped talking.’

  Odd Rimmen thought about what she’d said. There was something a little strange about the words, some kind of hidden contradiction.

  ‘If I’m going to prostitute myself anyway, why do so exclusively?’ he asked. ‘Why not the full gangbang, total blanket coverage?’

  ‘Fewer column inches,’ said Sophie quietly. Her and Jane-something had definitely already talked this over.

  ‘And why not a talk show?’ he asked.

  Jane sighed. ‘Everyone wants to do those, and unless you’re a movie star or a famous athlete or reality star it’s very, very difficult.’

  ‘But Stephen Colbert…’ Now it was no longer the irritation but the pathos Odd Rimmen hoped they didn’t notice.

  ‘That was then,’ said Sophie. ‘Doors open, doors close, that’s the way of the world.’

  Odd Rimmen sat up straight in his chair, raised his chin, directed his gaze at Sophie. ‘I take it for granted you understand I’m asking out of curiosity, not because there’s any chance of my playing the media clown again. Let the book do its own talking.’

  ‘You can’t have your cake and eat it,’ said Jane. ‘You can’t both be an icon of cool and be read by the masses. Before we decide on a marketing budget for this book we need to know which is most important to you.’

  Odd Rimmen turned slowly, almost reluctantly to face her.

  ‘And one more thing,’ said Jane-something-or-other. ‘Nothing is a lousy title. No one buys a book about nothing. There’s still time to change it. The marketing department suggested Loneliness. It’s still dark, but at least it’s something a reader can identify with.’

  Odd Rimmen turned back to Sophie. The look on her face seemed to say that she felt for him, but that Jane was right.

  ‘The title stays,’ said Odd Rimmen and got to his feet. Suppressed anger make his voice shake, which made him even more angry, and he decided to shout in order to overcome it. ‘And the title also tells you just how much I intend to contribute to this damned commercial media circus. Fuck them. And fuck…’

  He didn’t finish but marched from the room and down the steps, since waiting for a lift that didn’t come might possibly spoil his exit, out through Reception and onto Vauxhall Bridge Road where it was, of course, raining. Fucking shit publisher. Shit town. Shit life.

  He crossed the road on green.

  Shit life?

  He was about to publish the best book he’d written, about to become a father, had a woman who loved him (maybe not expressed quite as openly as in their first days together, but everyone knows the strange effect hormone chaos in a pregnant woman can have on her moods and desires), and had the best job a person can have: to express something that is important to him, to be listened to, to be seen – read, for chrissakes!

  And that was exactly what they wanted to take away from him. Take away the only thing he had in life. Because it was the only thing. He could pretend all the rest of it was meaningful. Esther, the child, their life together. And of course it was meaningful. Simply not meaningful enough. No, truly not meaningful enough. He needed it all. The cake and eating it. Jam today and jam tomorrow. Overdose on overdose, he needed to kill off this shit life. Now.

  Odd Rimmen stopped abruptly. Stood there until he saw the lights change to red and the cars on both sides begin to rev their engines, like beasts ready to attack.

  And it occurred to him that it could stop here, like this. That it wouldn’t be a bad way of ending the tale. Sure. Great writers before him had chosen such an ending. David Foster Wallace, Édouard Levé, Ernest Hemingway. Virginia Woolf, Richard Brautigan, Sylvia Plath. The list went on. It was long. And strong. Death sells. Gore Vidal called it a ‘good career move’ when his fellow writer Truman Capote died; but suicide sells better. Who would still be downloading Nick Drake and Kurt Cobain if they hadn’t both killed themselves? And had the thought really never occurred to him before? Hadn’t it flitted through his mind when Ryan Bloomberg told him to shoot one of them? If only the book had been finished…

  Odd Rimmen stepped out into the road.

  He had time to hear a cry from the person who had been standing next to him on the pavement before it drowned in the roar of the traffic. He saw the wall of cars on its way towards him. Yes, he thought. But not here, not like this, in a banal road accident that could
be dismissed as just bad luck.

  The amygdala decided on flight and he just reached the pavement on the far side before the cars flashed past him. He didn’t stop, carried on running, slipping between people on London’s overcrowded pavements, knocking them. Got a few choice swear words in English yelled after him and yelled a few back in French, better ones too. Crossed streets and bridges and open squares, climbed steps. After an hour’s running he finally let himself into the cramped and damp apartment. His clothes, even the jacket, were drenched in sweat.

  He sat at the kitchen table with pen and paper and wrote a farewell note.

  It only took him a couple of minutes. It was a speech he had given to himself so many times before he didn’t need to weigh the words, didn’t need to edit anything. And on the instant it was back again – the spark. The spark he had lost when Esther entered his life. Rediscovered when he killed Ryan, and almost lost again when Esther got pregnant. And as he placed the suicide note on the kitchen worktop it occurred to him that it was the only absolutely perfect thing he had ever written.

  Odd Rimmen packed a small bag and took a taxi to St Pancras, from where an express train to Paris departed every hour.

  * * *

  —

  The house lay dark and silent and waited for him.

  He let himself in.

  All was as silent as the grave.

  He went upstairs, undressed and showered. He thought of Ryan dying on the living-room floor and went to the toilet. He didn’t want to be found with his pants full of excrement and piss. Then he put on his best suit, the one he had been wearing that evening at the Charles Dickens Theatre.

  He went down into the cellar. It smelled of apples and he stood still in the middle of the floor, the neon tube in the ceiling blinking on and off as though unable to make up its mind.

  Once it had stabilised he crossed to the stove, opened the door and took out the pistol.