by Karin Fossum
He’d got a good way out.
I stared after the long legs in their red tights, and then I noticed something happen. All at once, his steady rhythm changed. He lost speed and seemed to stumble over his skis. At first I thought he might have hit a rough patch of ice, because he was working his arms very fast, and then their movement became frantic. He fell through the ice. As I watched from the shore, he fell through the thin ice on Lake Mester and started sinking. My pulse began to race with a mixture of fear and shock; my whole body felt hot, my cheeks and neck were burning. Now he was struggling in the water like a madman. Suddenly, he had the idea of using the spikes on his poles for purchase and dragging himself out like that, but this didn’t work because the ice kept breaking. Time and again flakes, large and small, broke off from the edge. I stood as if turned to stone on the shore and watched the frenzied struggle for life. Simultaneously, I reached for the mobile phone in my pocket, as if there were time enough for that to save him. I certainly wasn’t willing to sacrifice my life for some unknown idiot. So I stood there watching in horror, while he fought frantically in the icy water. I heard his screams clearly, and although he was a long way off, their harrowing sound pierced me to my very marrow. His cries wrung me, but I also found them strangely exciting. He should have known better than to cross an ice-covered lake in April, I thought. People generally get what they deserve, don’t they? The ice continued to crack beneath his hands. His shouts had lost something of their strength. Sometimes he left off for a few moments, it was clear he was beginning to get chilled, he was moving more slowly in the black water.
You skied as fast as you could over the fields, I mused, as I stood watching.
You were skiing for life.
But death was waiting a little way ahead.
And then, silence.
The dark pool gaped like the jaws of a predator. The man in the red suit had disappeared, swallowed up by the inky water. I stood on the lake shore panting, my cheeks still flaming hot, for his death throes had also played themselves out in me. I strove to calm my body, my respiration and heart, no one else had witnessed what I had seen. For an eternity I stood there staring. Then I turned and walked quickly homeward, glancing over my shoulder now and again, afraid that he might have risen from the depths again in his red ski-suit. As I walked I clutched the mobile phone in my pocket, I really should report it. But something held me back. An unwillingness to draw attention to myself, to admit that I’d stood there looking on ineffectually, and perhaps be criticised because I hadn’t done anything, hadn’t shouted a warning after him as he’d raced over the fields, I could at least have done that. When, forty minutes later, I reached my house at last, I was dizzy and faint. I attempted to digest this new self-awareness, that I was not a man of action. I tried to think clearly, but I was intoxicated by what I’d seen, the man who’d struggled and sunk, screaming with fear and agony. Then for a while I imagined his watery death and the pain he’d endured, the feeling of pressure behind his eyes, the fire in his lungs. That it had taken time. The thoughts that had raced through his mind, the dizzying feeling of loneliness in dying out there alone in the cold water. Eventually I collapsed into a chair. I sat there for a long while with my head in my hands. Perhaps he’d noticed me standing on the shore staring. What treachery it must have seemed to him that I hadn’t lifted a finger.
It was a long and restless night.
Accusations came from every corner of the room, recriminations from under the bed, threats from up near the ceiling, that I was a miserable and worthless person. That I lacked backbone and any notion of self-sacrifice. At the same time I was dazzled by it all, as if someone had selected me as sole witness to that awful event. I didn’t get to sleep until nearly daybreak, exhausted by everything that had happened, and when the light came through the window, I jumped out of bed.
Chapter 10
I WENT STRAIGHT to the living room and switched on the radio.
When the foreign news was over, they ran a piece about a missing skier, just as I’d expected. The man had gone out for exercise and hadn’t come home, they said. They feared he’d gone through the ice. Search parties had found ski tracks on the lake. I listened to all this as I prepared a light breakfast: a couple of slices of wholemeal bread with marmalade, and some really hot, strong coffee, which tasted wonderful. It struck me that I could still phone the police, and simply mention guardedly that I’d seen a skier dressed in red in the fields close to Lake Mester. But I ate and did nothing; I was excited by the whole event, and a bit troubled at my own reaction, and there was a slight rushing in my head, like there used to be when I was a boy and had eaten too much sugar. The sight of the man who went through the ice was mine alone, it was something I wanted to keep to myself. God hadn’t seen him, nor yet the devil, only I, Riktor, had that drowning man branded on my memory for ever.
Afterwards, I went to the park.
I sat by the fountain and wrestled with thoughts of life and death. The secret lay there like a shining red mark on my chest, and I imagined that everyone could see it through my clothes. Suddenly a man came walking up the path, big, muscular and bowed. He took no notice of Woman Weeping, but went directly to one of the benches and sat down, slightly hunched, ignoring my modest presence. Straight away I felt a little nervous, because there was undoubtedly something awe-inspiring about him. His skin and hair were black, he was dressed in combat gear and tall, black leather boots as if he were fighting a war. I realised immediately that he was from the Refugee Reception Centre, it wasn’t far away, only ten minutes’ walk from the Dixie Café. Where, incidentally, the asylum seekers weren’t welcome because they stole things. At least, the owner claimed they were a bunch of thieves, stealing sweets and other things that were on the counter. People from the Reception Centre were often to be seen wandering along the road, they walked without any object or aim, they had nothing to do, apart from play table tennis, and that soon wears thin. Knocking a ball back and forth over a net isn’t much of a challenge. The man suddenly stared in my direction, and I froze and willed myself to become invisible. His eyes were black and hard, there wasn’t an iota of friendliness in them, only despondency. I was careful not to return the stare, I didn’t want to arouse any violent impulses in him, didn’t want to activate that mountain of muscle. Perhaps he was traumatised, that’s probably why they come, perhaps he’d seen his own child hacked up with a machete, or impaled on a bayonet, you never can tell. And the brutality we hear of in other parts of the world is almost impossible to imagine.
Where’s his knife? I wondered, in the midst of my fear, for by now my imagination was running wild. Could it be in his boot, or does he keep it in a pocket? Perhaps it was my turn to face death now, and there were no witnesses. Someone would find me on the ground, bleeding, in front of the bench, with punctured lungs, possibly it would be Miranda and her mother, possibly Arnfinn. Maybe I’d be able to crawl down the path to the Dixie Café; sometimes people managed such things even though they were dying. But the black man evinced no interest in me. He just sat wrapped in his own tormented thoughts, his gaze now fixed on his black leather boots. There was something so abject about him, something so wretched and hopeless that in the end I found myself feeling a crumb of sympathy for him, even though sympathy isn’t my strong point. Despite that, I was moved. A black giant, in combat kit, probably friendless, without home or family, unemployed, and with no rights of any sort. He’d come over here, and he’d been allowed to play table tennis as often as he wanted; that’s not much to celebrate. Not that I’m especially sympathetic, as I said, they only come over here to help themselves to what we’ve got.
Suddenly he rose from the bench. I flinched slightly when that great bulk moved so quickly, because I was still thinking that he might decide to attack. He might fly at me without provocation, it was always happening, you read about it in the newspapers. The massive body moved away through the trees, walking with a heavy rolling gait, and almost immediately blended in with th
e leaves. I relaxed once more and followed him with my eyes. To be so big and strong, I thought, and so lonely and miserable. Maybe he was on his way to the Dixie Café to steal sweets.
Then Arnfinn came tottering along the path.
He must have encountered the black refugee from the Reception Centre, but he showed no sign of it, the alcoholic is indifferent to most things. He lurched over to his usual bench, sat down heavily and groped automatically in his windcheater for his silver hip flask. Remembering it was lost, he patted his other pocket, and took out a half-bottle. He put it to his lips and drank. I didn’t quite know why, but I approved of the simple life he appeared to lead: sleeping, drinking, pottering about in the park, without cares or responsibilities, other than finding enough to drink. While the rest of us toiled. While the rest of us paid taxes and dragged ourselves from one chore to the next, he sat on his bench drinking a half-bottle of vodka. While the world at large hummed along without him. His eyes were veiled with intoxication, but also with modesty and shame, I don’t want to be a burden to anybody, the eyes said, when I nodded affably in his direction. He also had the habit of tilting his head to one side, as if recalling an old memory, and then a smile would soften his ravaged features. He never addressed anyone from his bench. He never apologised, and he never asked for the smallest thing, neither did I for that matter, I minded my own business, as I believe we all should. He took time over his drink, enjoying every last drop. Each time he took a nip he closed his eyes, and the spirit coursed through his veins and warmed him. When the bottle was empty, he got up and left, went home to unconsciousness and oblivion. In all probability, he slept deeply and dreamlessly, and well into the following day. Presumably he missed his hip flask, which was now in my possession. Of course one day, when I was good and ready, I’d return it. But I was in no hurry.
The sight of the man struggling in the water haunted me from hour to hour. Again and again, I saw the ice crack beneath his hands, I saw his arms working like the sails of a windmill, I heard the outraged screams of a man who had been big and strong, but was now in the clutches of death. How much life there is in a human being, I marvelled, how much strength, how much will to survive, how much fear for the end of existence and the great darkness. Each time the image projected itself on my inner eye, my pulse increased, but it was also a curse. It reminded me of who I was, someone on the outside of everything, a paltry observer of life. Sometimes, at night, the scene was in close-up, as if I were standing on the edge of the broken ice looking down at him. Then he would stare back at me with burning eyes. As whisperings filled the corners of the room, and that damned lorry stood there, its engine turning, filling the bedroom with the acrid smell of diesel fumes.
Chapter 11
IF ONLY I had a woman!
It gnawed at me, this desire, this longing to be part of a couple, but I’m no good with women. I continued to send Sister Anna long, lingering glances, even though I knew it would never lead to anything. I don’t arouse anything in women, bitter experience has taught me that; I’ve spent my whole life in total solitude. She was off work for a couple of days, but it couldn’t have been anything serious because soon she was back again. I was on the late shift and ran across her in the corridor. But she didn’t stroke my arm as usual, her eyes were distant, and she passed me without a word. Her indifference was almost unbearable. I was used to a smile and a passing touch, and now I got nothing. I carried on pacing the corridors like a pauper, numbed by my yearning for attention, for life is tough enough as it is, and I need some comfort.
At three o’clock we had a short meeting. Dr Fischer sat rubbing his temple as usual. He seemed distant as well, as if his thoughts were somewhere far away from the ward office. He was surprised, he confessed, that some of his many prescriptions weren’t having the desired effect. He could hardly have known that I was flushing the tablets down the toilet, and that occasionally, just for fun, I would swap them around, and give Waldemar Rommen the pills that Mr Larsson should have had, and vice versa. It wasn’t really of any consequence, but this small, mundane hoax gave me a frisson of excitement, because I was making a difference. Here, to explain these destructive tendencies of mine, I could say that my mother used to beat me with a stick. But it wouldn’t be true. In reality she was just taciturn and indifferent, only coming out with endless critical saws about how life ought to be lived. We’ve only ourselves to blame, she would say, you reap what you sow. You’ve made your bed, now you can lie on it. There was no end to them. But she never hit me. We never had much contact. She was always engrossed in the house, all the things that had to be cleaned and polished, watered and looked after. I think she felt more for her house plants than she did for me. There was something about her eyes and her hands when she held a flower between her fingers, a sudden tenderness. I’ve no idea what made her bring me into the world, presumably it was an accident. These are the tedious thoughts I struggle with as I walk up and down the ward’s corridors. With my predilections and my sharp nails.
In and out of the old people’s rooms.
Aged wretches, lying in the antechamber of death.
*
If only there were a bond between me and Anna. A line to Sali Singh, a thin thread between me and Dr Fischer, something that kept me right in the world. But I have no such link to others, no ropes holding me to the ground, no hawser to stop me drifting. Once I came across a dog on the road. I was just a small boy then, but the memory is so clear. It stopped to sniff, and I grabbed it firmly by the ears and peered into its yellow eyes, stood there holding it fast. The dog looked back at me with the intensity of a predator. And I discovered something far down there, in the depths of the black pupils which evoked a sort of resonance deep within me. That we were distantly related. But it was so fleeting. The dog pulled itself free and vanished, and I was no longer sure of what I’d seen.
Anna is the only one who brings out anything good in me. I follow her about the corridors like a puppy, waiting for her kindly hand, waiting for her scent, her slim feet in their white shoes. But now she seems distant. Something is distracting her, and I’m being excluded.
I often think that only I inhabit this terrain.
At the foot of this volcano, in the harsh, barren landscape where nothing grows.
Chapter 12
ONE DAY, WHILE I was sitting alone in the park, surrounded by all the green shoots of spring, Lill Anita came up the path pushing Miranda in her wheelchair. I knew she was called Lill Anita, I’d heard her on her mobile phone, hi, this is Lill Anita, she’d say, as if her being on the other end of the line was some sort of event in itself. Their approach was silent, the rubber wheels made no noise, but I saw the glint of metal as they came round the bend. They halted at Woman Weeping. Lill Anita attempted to explain something using large, clear gestures, and Miranda’s uncontrollable hand dabbed at her own hair. They arrived at the bench, the one they always used. The wheelchair was placed where they could reach each other easily, and the brake duly applied. A light pressure on the pedal, and the wheels were locked.
They glanced quickly over at me sitting by myself, they were used to me being on my own. Perhaps they guessed, quite correctly, that I had no one, not a single person I could call a friend, barely even an acquaintance, apart from my colleagues at Løkka, and I didn’t have anything to do with them when I wasn’t at work. Mine was a simple existence without any great responsibilities, but there was something missing even so. Sometimes I felt that this need was getting the upper hand. And making me desperate for closeness and companionship. But then it would recede again, and I would take pleasure once more in the freedom and advantages of solitude. I’d never exchanged a single word with Lill Anita, we were only on nodding terms. So I gazed at the fountain and the flowing water, the day held no promise for me, I was just killing time until my next shift.
Miranda was wearing a dress and, because there was a nip in the air, a pair of thick socks as well. They were patterned with some sort of yellow-and-grey zigzag, r
eminiscent of a snake. She had a bow in her wispy hair and chalky white trainers on her feet. Lill Anita was clad in studded jeans. The faded denim had several large tears in the thighs, so you could see the pale skin beneath. With all those studs, and a good deal of piercing too, she resembled a bed of nails. This apart, she was nice enough, with a wan, heart-shaped face and a pouting, pink mouth which I assumed would be quick to purse in sarcasm if she were annoyed. She tapped eagerly away on her mobile phone, busy sending a text message, her fingers, slender as noodles and tipped with black nail varnish, working rapidly. Miranda was left to her own devices. Her eyes rolled up in her head, and she slipped slightly over to one side; there wasn’t much backbone in that frail body. Occasionally she would bend backwards in a spasm. I wondered where they came from, these involuntary movements. Now Lill Anita began a telephone conversation, and I listened keenly, I could hardly do otherwise, as her words wafted in my direction. Her voice cut through the air. It had a particular, sharp edge.
