The Jealousy Man and Other Stories

by Jo Nesbo

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But now and then you get a story like that which actually turns out to be true. And this is one of those stories.’

  ‘How many girls have you used that on, Martin?’

  ‘A couple. I probably wasn’t lying, but I was mistaken, they weren’t one of those stories. This time I’m not mistaken. We’re not mistaken.’

  ‘We? You know nothing about me, Martin. Do you realise how long we’ve known each other?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve thought about that, but I don’t know. Do you?’

  She slackened her pace. Then stopped completely. ‘What do you mean?’

  I shrugged. ‘From the first time I saw you, the first time I spoke to you, I’ve had this constant feeling of déjà vu. It’s as though everything that’s happening has happened before.’

  ‘Oh yeah? So what’s going to happen now?’

  ‘Now you’re going to ask me about this, and I’m going to reply that my advance knowledge is so short that it’s like when you sing a song you don’t know the words to if you think about it – all you know is that the words will come to you just before you get to them, all you need is the music to lead you along. And even before I said this I knew just before I said it that I would say it.’

  ‘Air, nothing but hot air, not good enough,’ she said with a wave of her hand. ‘You’re just talking it away. Give me something concrete.’

  ‘We’ll sleep together tonight.’

  ‘You wish!’ she exclaimed and took a swipe at me.

  ‘No, not like that,’ I said. ‘With our clothes on. We won’t even kiss each other.’

  ‘Exactly. So now you’re giving me an excuse to say yes to sleeping with you? Thanks, but I’ve met boys like you before. You’re so creepy.’

  The phone in my pocket vibrated and I knew it was Peter trying once again to get in touch with me. I hadn’t answered because I didn’t know what to tell him, at least not now that I wouldn’t be coming back this evening. Before leaving for San Sebastián I had planned to explain my absence by saying that I had simply got caught up in Pamplona’s noisy moveable feast and hadn’t realised the phone had been ringing.

  Miriam folded her arms and shivered. The wind hadn’t dropped and now the cloud cover was so dense it completely blotted out the evening sun.

  ‘I have to get back to Mamma,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure? I was going to offer you dinner as a way of thanking you for the room tonight.’

  She gave an exasperated little groan and shook her head.

  ‘I can’t afford to take you anywhere like the Arzak,’ I said. ‘But if the tapas in that bar is anywhere near as good as the breakfast then you’ll be missing out on something.’

  She put her head on one side, pulled the hair back from her gorgeous eyes and looked at me. ‘Missing out?’ There was something about the way she looked at me, as though she was searching for something. Or recognised something.

  ‘I might be exaggerating,’ I admitted. ‘But it’s probably…a pretty good meal.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Yes?’ I said in disbelieving surprise.

  ‘I’m very hungry,’ she said. She had already turned and was on her way back.

  * * *

  —

  Over dinner I told her everything I could think of about myself. About my impracticality, my indiscipline, my limited capacity for analytical thinking. About my slightly too vivid imagination and my desire to be creative, at the same time as I doubted that my artistic talents matched my ambitions. About how clumsy I was in matters of the heart. About my fling with Peter’s girlfriend when we were younger. As though it was important for me to put it all out there, the good and the bad, while I had the chance.

  ‘So then, in a nutshell, you’re stupid and egotistical,’ she said, and took a sip of her red wine. She sat with her long thin legs twined around each other, her back bowed and the narrow shoulders projecting forwards, as though she was mildly disabled. A while ago it had seemed to me she was less beautiful than when I had seen her at the Arzak. Now I thought she was even more beautiful. Maybe it was the softer light. Maybe because she was more relaxed. Or perhaps it was me.

  ‘Yes, I am stupid and egocentric,’ I confirmed.

  ‘Are you saying that because you think it makes you more interesting? Because I’m not seeing a bad boy here, Martin.’

  ‘So then what do you see?’

  ‘A boy who’s actually quite nice.’

  ‘How come you make that sound as though it’s you that’s five years older than me and not the other way round?’

  ‘We’re the same age.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Peter told me you two are the same age.’

  ‘I see. What else did he say about me?’

  ‘Not a lot, actually. Your name didn’t come up until I asked if he was really travelling completely alone to San Fermín.’

  ‘And did he say he was?’

  ‘No, not in as many words, but it’s as if he wanted to give me that impression. That you didn’t exist. At any rate, he avoided talking about you.’

  ‘Strange,’ I said, lifting my own glass.

  ‘Not if he’s made up his mind that he’s going to have me, and the two of you usually end up liking the same women.’

  ‘And you still think I’m a nice boy?’

  ‘I think you do things you know are wrong, but at least you have a guilty conscience afterwards.’

  ‘Yes, well, that’s always something. And what about your bad sides?’

  ‘I steal,’ she answered without hesitating.

  ‘You steal?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a kind of habit. I’m not a kleptomaniac, but I think I need the excitement. That’s probably why I mostly steal things I don’t really need.’

  ‘Like the hearts of naive boys?’

  ‘That’s cheap,’ she laughed, and we toasted each other.

  It had grown dark and there were ominous rumblings from the clouds as we ate the last pieces of tapas and she talked to me about herself. About the boyfriends she’d had in Moscow, about her plans to move to Singapore, maybe get a job as a journalist on an English-language newspaper. But nothing about why she had swum out into the waves and almost drowned. At one point she picked up her phone; the screen lit up her face in the dark and she frowned.

  ‘Your mother?’ I asked as she laid it aside without answering.

  ‘Yes,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Uh-oh,’ I said.

  ‘Uh-oh?’

  ‘You might be good at stealing, but you’re an even worse liar than me. Was that Peter?’

  She sighed. ‘He must have texted me twenty times since yesterday.’

  ‘And you think that’s too many?’

  She made a face. I wanted to ask how many messages she had sent back but managed not to.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, with a nod towards the empty plates. ‘That was good.’

  ‘Something else to drink?’

  ‘Definitely not. Mamma is waiting for me.’

  I gestured for the bill. She watched as I signed the credit card receipt.

  ‘Christopher,’ she said.

  I looked up.

  ‘I thought your name was Christopher,’ she smiled.

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I saw you.’

  ‘Did Peter say that –’

  ‘Baywatch m-aaa-n!’

  The bow-legged man in the kilt and the Scotland football shirt was standing by our table. He swayed about, and his breath smelt like fresh windscreen-washer fluid.

  ‘My hero! I need ten euros to go to the encierro tomorrow. I’ll play you a love song.’

  ‘Vete!’ snarled the waiter, pointing towards the square.

  I gave the Scot a five-euro note and he staggered o
ff and disappeared into the darkness.

  ‘Let’s hope he sobers up before the bull run,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, he is not going, he is here all the time,’ said the waiter, rolling his eyes.

  We stood up. Miriam shivered as the wind suddenly rose, and this time it wasn’t just a gust – the soughing in the trees around us grew louder and louder.

  ‘We’ll take a taxi,’ I said, and glanced up as lightning flashed. It was as if the heavens had literally burst open: the bolt looked like a thin, glowing crack that revealed something behind it, some other world. And then, tumbling from the crack, came the rain. It hit the parasols, the table, the cobblestones, and everyone was on their feet and running. By the time Miriam and I found shelter a few seconds later in a gateway arch between the square and the back yard of the hotel we were drenched.

  ‘We’re not going to get any taxi now,’ I said.

  ‘It’ll stop soon,’ she said.

  I glanced up at the sky. ‘Maybe. You’re shivering.’

  ‘You too.’

  I held up the room key. ‘Come on up, we’ll dry off in the meantime.’

  * * *

  —

  We unlocked the door and I turned on the light. The rug hadn’t been replaced.

  ‘Have a shower, that’ll warm you up,’ I said.

  Miriam nodded and disappeared into the bathroom, and I sat down on the bed in which I had slept two nights previously. The sounds of the rain and the shower mingled with each other, just as my own feelings of happiness and frustration did. The phone rang again. It was Peter. I knew I had to call him. I’d changed my explanation; now my story was that I had gone out to their village with those two Spanish girls from the barricade, that me and the blonde one had really hit it off and it looked like I would be spending the night there. He’d buy that. Wouldn’t he? I thought of the corpse in the mortuary. I wasn’t sure of anything any more. I heard the shower being turned off and put the phone back in my pocket. I couldn’t feed the lie to Peter with Miriam listening in; I knew I quite simply wouldn’t be able to handle it.

  She emerged from the bathroom draped in one of the white towels, hurried across to the other bed and crept shivering in under the blanket.

  ‘Suddenly there was only cold water,’ she groaned. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘Since I’m already wet I’ll go out and buy something. Anything you want?’

  ‘You’re going out to ring Peter,’ she said.

  ‘That too.’

  ‘Lie,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Why? We haven’t done anything.’

  ‘But you will lie. I’m just saying that it’s OK by me.’

  I went out and descended the stairs. Stopped in the gateway and took out my phone. Had tapped in Peter’s name and was about to press Call when I realised something. The sound of the pouring rain was so loud that Peter would be bound to hear it, and it was by no means certain it was also raining in the area around Pamplona. In fact it was unlikely; before setting out we had read that even though they were so close to each other, it rained twice as much in San Sebastián as in Pamplona at this time of year.

  I looked out across the square. It was deserted, but through the rain I heard a cracked voice singing – ‘Mull of Kintyre’ unless I was very much mistaken. And there, on the far side, alone beneath the awning over a closed shop, stood the Scot, thrashing away on his guitar.

  I ran across the square, ducked beneath the same awning. He gave a big smile and stopped playing.

  ‘Baywatch m-aaa-n, what d’ya wanna hear?’

  ‘Can you play anything Spanish or Basqueish?’

  By way of reply he at once began bellowing ‘La Bamba’.

  ‘Keep going until I’ve finished this conversation,’ I said. He nodded. I pressed Call and Peter answered before the second ring.

  ‘Martin! I was beginning to think you were dead!’

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ I said. I couldn’t stop myself. But he ignored it. Instead he started going on about how worried he’d been. And I told him my story.

  ‘So I gather,’ he said. ‘Sounds like a real party, I can hardly hear you.’

  The Scot looked as though he was about to finish and I gestured for him to continue.

  ‘Wish me luck, Peter. And I’ll see you tomorrow!’

  ‘You don’t need luck, you bastard.’ He gave a short laugh, but it wasn’t as sincere as he usually sounded. ‘And make sure you’re back in time for the bull run.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You promise?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Pause. The rain splashed around us, and I could only hope the Scot’s hoarse ‘La Bamba’ was drowning it out.

  ‘Are you in love, Martin?’

  I was taken aback. ‘Maybe I am,’ I answered, swallowing.

  ‘Because you sound as though you are.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Yes. Now that I know what that sounds like, it’s what you sound like.’

  I swallowed again. ‘See you,’ I said.

  ‘See you.’

  I shoved a soaking ten-euro note onto the end of one of the strings sticking out from a tuning peg on the Scot’s guitar and headed back across the square.

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Miriam once I was back in the room. She’d pulled the blanket right up to her nose.

  ‘That I sounded as though I was in love.’

  ‘Well, you look cold anyway. Go and dry off.’

  I went to the bathroom, took off my clothes and with the last remaining towel tried in vain to rub myself warm. As I was standing there I saw a large insect walking along the wall by the toilet bowl. It looked injured, limping and dragging its leg along behind it. I moved closer, thinking to put it out of its misery, and then saw that the legs were stuck together and had left a thin trail behind them. I bent down and peered in behind the toilet bowl. There, beneath the pipe, in a place that would be hard to reach with a cloth, lay a small pool of some dark, dried matter. I put my finger into it, already with a pretty good idea of what it was. Beneath the blackish coating it was damp and sticky. I examined my fingertip in the light. There could be no doubt about it; it was blood.

  ‘You look pale,’ said Miriam as I returned to the bedroom with the towel wrapped around my waist.

  ‘I’ve been using factor fifty.’

  She laughed softly. Lifted up the blanket. ‘Come here and warm yourself.’

  I got under the blanket and snuggled up to her.

  ‘Keep your hands to yourself,’ she said, turned on her side and pressed her nose into the pit of my neck. She was like a little oven, and the warmth she radiated gave me more goose bumps than the cold outside.

  I lay completely still, not daring to move for fear of breaking the spell. Or of waking from the dream. Because that was what it felt like. Like being in a dream that was partly sweet and partly nightmarish. The blood, the rug, the corpse in the mortuary. And there was another thing.

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Did you know that Peter got himself a tattoo that day he met you at the hospital?’

  ‘No. What kind of tattoo was it?’

  ‘He didn’t mention it?’

  ‘No. Why do you ask?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘This business about my name being Christopher, was that something he told you?’

  ‘No. Is it?’

  ‘It’s my middle name.’

  ‘Is it?’ she laughed. ‘But that’s fantastic.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Fantastic.’

  I didn’t know if it was just my imagination, but it felt as though she had wriggled a little closer to me. And neither of us was cold any more. But I didn’t move. Nor did she. Outside, the rain had changed from a hammering to a steady drizzle. The hoarse, suffering voice of the Scotsman was still audible – he m
ust have been the only person out there. His song must have been one with many verses.

  ‘I’ve heard that song before,’ I said. ‘I just can’t remember where.’

  ‘He told us it was an old Irish song,’ said Miriam. ‘About the merrow with the red cap.’

  ‘Merrow?’

  ‘It’s Irish for mermaid.’

  The mermaid in the red cap. I thought of my dream. Of rising up through the cold dark water to the surface and the light. Something else rose to the surface too.

  ‘When you say he told us, do you mean you and your mother?’

  ‘Me and Peter. We walked past him as he was playing not far from the restaurant we’d eaten at. Peter gave him fifty euros and asked him to sing “The Red Capped Merrow” again.’

  I closed my eyes and cursed inwardly.

  Even though Peter wasn’t especially musical he must have heard that the guy who was singing ‘La Bamba’ was the same person he and Miriam had been listening to. OK, but if he had noticed then I could perhaps convince him that the Scot had moved on to the little village and started busking there. Anyway, if the jig was up then the jig was up. Oddly enough the thought made me calmer.

  ‘Of course, fifty euros was far too much,’ said Miriam. ‘But I don’t think Peter did it to impress me. I think he did it out of…how shall I describe it? A sense of duty?’

  I nodded and folded my hands behind my head. ‘I think you’re right. Peter understands that money can help, that it’s practical to have money, but not that it can impress, or make others feel small. In fact, he can be embarrassed about the fact that he’s so privileged. And I know he sometimes experiences it as a burden and an obligation. He told me once he envied me.’

  ‘Envied?’

  ‘He didn’t explain it, but I think he sees in me something he can’t have, the naive innocence of the ordinary person, the freedom of not having enough money and power to feel obliged to take responsibility. Just the same way I see in him the naive innocence in the fact that he actually believes he has a moral responsibility for the rest of the world, that he’s one of the chosen ones, that his inherited wealth is proof that a guiding hand is at work in this world.’

  ‘But you don’t believe that?’