I Can See in the Dark (Karin Fossum)

by Karin Fossum

  Then his eyes settled on the cupboard once more, in the hope that I might have a bottle, and I saw the yearning like a light in those dark eyes. But he bit it back, clinging to the last shred of his dignity: he wanted me to do the offering. I would, too. Soon, once he’d sat there and stewed for a bit.

  ‘I want to tell you something,’ he began, fixing me with his gaze. ‘Just so you know how things really stand. I’ll tell you about something that happened a very long time ago. To a small boy. Who I know a bit about. That is, if you want to hear it.’

  ‘I want to hear,’ I said. ‘Fire away.’

  I sat still and listened attentively, noticing all the while how his eyes constantly darted towards the cupboard.

  ‘He was about six years old,’ Arnfinn began. ‘Well, five or six, knee-high, you know, with skinny legs. He was in bed asleep one summer night, with the window open. He slept alone. He had no brothers or sisters, so it was just him. Before he went to sleep he heard the trees outside, there was a bit of a breeze, you know what I mean, rustling in the treetops, the way that tends to make us sleepy. He was lying with his back to the window and he couldn’t hear anything except the trees. At last his eyes closed. Well, don’t ask me if he dreamt, because I don’t know. All I know is that the big house was completely quiet. And that his mother was sleeping in the room next door.’

  Arnfinn paused. He thought for a moment and scratched his chin.

  ‘In the middle of the night he awoke with a terrified scream.’

  ‘Why?’ I wanted to know. ‘What had happened?’

  ‘He screamed,’ Arnfinn repeated. ‘It reverberated through the house. And his mother was up in an instant, running to his room. Switched on the light. Stood staring at him as he lay beneath the duvet. And you know, he was as white as the sheets he lay in. “What’s the matter?” his mother asked. “Why did you scream? My God, you made me jump!”

  ‘The boy pointed to the foot of the bed. “There’s a snake under the duvet,” he said. Or rather, I should say he whispered it, because she could only just hear what he said. But she almost collapsed with relief. She was expecting something different, you see. This was something she understood. And then she assumed the look the boy knew so well, the sympathetic look, you know. And it was quite a resigned look too, because he had a lively imagination. Perhaps she thought, kids are kids, and they do say funny things. “You’re having a nightmare,” she said. “Now, wake up!” She patted him consolingly on the cheek. Then she pulled the duvet off him.’

  Arnfinn wrung his hands so hard in his lap that his finger joints cracked.

  ‘She pulled the duvet off,’ he said. ‘And there between the boy’s thin legs lay a huge snake.’

  Then he stopped again and nodded.

  ‘A huge snake,’ he repeated.

  ‘You’re joking,’ I interjected.

  ‘I never joke,’ said Arnfinn. ‘What would I do that for? It was a snake and it was enormous. Not one of those little ones. It was enormous. It had twisted itself into a great coil. It was black, with a sort of yellowish-grey, speckled pattern, thick as a grown man’s arm, and as long as a wet week. His mother could make out its head between the boy’s knees, its nasty, flat head. Have you seen a snake close up? They’re as ugly as sin, I’m sure you’ll agree. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was touch that snake, but she bloody well had to, because the boy was completely hysterical. So she grabbed hold of the huge thing and yanked. And you know,’ said Arnfinn, ‘when we’re frightened, we’re tremendously strong. The snake crashed to the floor with a horrible sound and quickly slid under the bed and coiled up. Then she grabbed the boy and fled from the room. Rang the police and sat waiting with the boy on her lap. When they came they weren’t too keen either, once they saw the horrible creature under the bed. But they had to do something. They put on protective gloves and hauled the snake out, shoved the monstrous thing into a sack. Then they drove off with the snake in the back of the car. Well, what do you think?’

  Arnfinn sank back on the sofa. He’d obviously finished his story and seemed tired.

  ‘Very good,’ I said calmly. ‘Is there a point to it?’

  ‘There certainly is a point,’ said Arnfinn. ‘That snake had escaped from one of the neighbouring houses, where a man had been keeping it as a pet. Then it got in through the open window and was attracted to the warmth under the duvet on the boy’s bed. Ever since that night, he’s found it extremely hard to sleep. He’s nearly sixty now, and he’s still got problems sleeping.’

  Here Arnfinn paused for a while. He was waiting for me to say something; it was probably my turn.

  ‘So, was it you?’ I asked, and now my interest was genuine, because the story about the snake was both compelling and a bit exotic.

  ‘You asked me why I drink,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t take much. That’s all I’m trying to say.’

  ‘Did you find a snake in your bed?’ I wanted to know. ‘When you were a boy. Is it a true story?’

  ‘I have problems sleeping,’ he repeated mulishly.

  He gesticulated with open hands. He’d clearly given me what he had to give, and now at last I went to the cupboard and fetched the bottle of vodka. I poured a stiff one and pushed it towards him.

  ‘It’s none of my business why you drink,’ I said generously. ‘And it’s none of your business why I do the things I do. But people always want to go round rubbing shoulders with each other. Confiding, understanding, explaining. Let’s skip all that, shall we? We’re grown-ups after all.’

  Arnfinn raised the glass of vodka to his mouth, and now he looked blissful.

  ‘But you’ve probably got a tale to tell, too,’ he suggested. ‘About a small boy.’

  I shook my head emphatically. At the same time I saw how Arnfinn’s face softened and turned gentle and friendly.

  ‘I’ve never been a small boy,’ I explained.

  Arnfinn chuckled good-naturedly. His body had become loose and relaxed, and he rocked as he sat on the sofa. He was migrating into those bright, shining halls again.

  ‘Never been a small boy,’ he mimicked. ‘Now I’ve heard everything.’

  ‘I haven’t a single childhood memory,’ I explained.

  He was a little taken aback by my obstinacy.

  ‘Were you ill or something?’ he wanted to know.

  ‘As I said,’ I reiterated, ‘I can’t remember very much at all. Apart from a little shit at school who called me a pike. Well, and I do remember my confirmation. And everything in between is missing. It’s simply missing.’

  Arnfinn’s eyes opened wide in amazement.

  ‘But I do have a memory,’ I added. ‘Of my mother. A skirt with two legs. And a pair of big shoes. Everything further up passed me by. Hands. Heart. Head. I mean, they were there all right, but I never managed to get hold of them. D’you know what she used to say? You’re always strongest when you’re on your own. That was the way I was raised.’

  ‘Yes, it’s just one unending bloody struggle,’ Arnfinn opined, but his tone was jocular now, the vodka had made him happy and turned his cheeks red. ‘My bodywork’s in terrible condition,’ he went on, ‘ugly, dented and rusty. But my heart ticks over like an old Opel engine. I bet that when my chassis has fallen to pieces, that motor will still be humming along. I get my strong heart from my mother. My God, how it beats.’

  He placed a hand on his chest and cocked his head.

  ‘And what do you get from your father?’ I wanted to know.

  Arnfinn pondered the question for a long time.

  ‘This here,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘He drank himself to death. Mind if I refill my hip flask?’

  Chapter 16

  NATURALLY, I REFILLED his hip flask.

  Naturally, I stroked and humoured him as if he were a lost dog. I listened to all his stories, both those that showed him in a good light, and those that showed him in a less flattering one, as a parasite. The narrative about the curse of alcohol, which I wanted to understand,
the cold and the loneliness, the wide road to perdition. I wanted to make a difference, to mean something to this forlorn individual, because I was in a friendly state of mind, and time was running out. Naturally I acquired another bottle of vodka and put it in the cupboard. And I continued to visit the park near Lake Mester. I sat on my bench and waited for the others; gradually they came trooping up, like beasts to a waterhole: Ebba, Lill Anita, Miranda, Eddie and Janne. The huge, unhappy black man from the Reception Centre. The strange thing was, although Arnfinn and I could now be counted as friends, or at least acquaintances, he never seated himself next to me on my bench. And he never started a conversation when we met in the park. This was part of the ritual between us, that everything should be done in moderation. We both understood that. And we followed the unwritten rule that nothing should be too intimate, but remain in modest, decorous proportion. Come to my house and drink yourself to warmth and brightness, I thought, but leave when the bottle’s empty. I can’t carry you the entire time, I’ve got enough of my own black days. So he was an unassuming friend in a mad world, a friend who kept me engaged and enthusiastic, something quite new in my barren and austere life.

  I went to work.

  I watched Anna and all her doings closely, I pictured her aura: it was large and warm and red. I tried to enter it, but it wasn’t easy, she was out of reach, as I’d always known she was. But I had something she wanted, something she lacked, something very valuable. The truth about her drowned brother Oscar. It was my great secret. But I kept it close, because I wanted it to last.

  Waldemar Rommen passed away. No one was with him when he drew his last breath, but Dr Fischer sat by his bed a long time mulling it over. The sad ending that overtakes us all. He was reminiscent of a mournful dog as he sat by the bed rubbing his temple. A few relatives eventually turned up to take their final farewell. One of them, a teenaged boy, seemed terrified by the thought of what lay in store. But there was nothing frightening about Waldemar. He lay like some ancient chieftain on his bed, with prominent cheekbones and a sharp, impressive nose. The undertakers took him away quite quickly, and we had an empty bed. A sixty-year-old woman with MS was admitted to the ward.

  I paid a quick visit to the room to see to her. I had to assess her character and how I should behave towards her. She could speak, and she seemed orientated, so I couldn’t do anything to her. I don’t tempt providence.

  Her name was Barbro Zanussi and she was in pain, every waking moment was a torture to her. Each time I entered her room, she raised her head with extreme difficulty and looked me right in the eyes. It was a powerful, luminous look. As if she wished to transfer some of her suffering to me, and I must say she succeeded. Her husband, a small, dark Italian, came only once, and then with a set of divorce papers. Anna had to help her hold the pen, so that she could sign her name to their final separation.

  The days and the weeks passed, the summer grew warmer, light and airy, and this was all the excuse people needed to make them go barmy with joy. They threw off their clothes and went out, beguiled, their belief in life renewed. I frequently sat in the park by Lake Mester. I received Arnfinn, I listened, I filled up his hip flask. I went to work, I plunged hypodermic syringes into mattresses and wrote nursing notes, I discussed things with Dr Fischer and Sister Anna. Can we do anything for Barbro? asked Dr Fischer with a tormented twist of his lips. No, we couldn’t do a damned thing for Barbro. The disease took its course, it spread throughout her body with devastating effect. I went out to the kitchen to see Sali Singh, gave him a friendly pat on the back. He gave no visible reaction to this touch, he was a simple man who lived in his own world. Maybe his mind was away in Delhi, in the slums he’d frequented as a boy. I could imagine Dr Fischer as a young boy too, in shorts and patent leather shoes, and Anna in a blouse and pleated skirt. I’ve got plenty of imagination. I watch them and think my thoughts. Life is a gift, people say. Life is a challenge, a miracle, something God-given.

  I’m not so sure.

  I see so much toil and worry.

  I hear so much moaning and misery.

  Miranda’s thin cheeks had begun to get a bit of colour.

  Old Ebba’s bedspread had come on well; her hands worked rapidly, and the work grew in her lap from day to day. Eddie and Janne were still together. They came at regular intervals, sat there fondling in the usual manner, always with the same greediness and intensity. I knew they spent some of their time at the Dixie Café, sucking Coke through a straw and ruining their teeth. We saw little of the black man now. Perhaps he’d been deported, or sent to another Reception Centre. Maybe he’d found a job and some digs, but I thought it unlikely, I’ve never been much of an optimist. I’d got used to Arnfinn fetching up at my door from time to time, begging for a treat like a child, just a wee drink. And I always let him in. There was something solid about him in spite of everything, something straightforward and solid, yes, something unfeigned and honest and genuine. He always sat right in the corner of the sofa, bent slightly forwards with his elbows on his knees. I told myself that he came for my company, too, it wasn’t only the vodka. He was like a great, good-natured dog, sitting there holding his glass in both hands. And like a dog he had that look, the look that says: don’t be cruel, I can’t take all that much.

  But the day came when I could no longer show such forbearance. My endurance has its limits too, and we breached them together, Arnfinn and I. It was a Friday in the middle of July, 17 July, and I had the day off. Not because it was my birthday, which it was, but because I was due some time in lieu.

  So, it was 17 July. Arnfinn came to my door that day. He stood hesitating on the bottom step, with that mixture of embarrassment and shame I’d seen so often. Stooping forward, with one hand on the banister and imploring eyes. I’d become fond of this grave, sombre man and his simple life, so I was pleased to see him. And I harboured a few pleasant thoughts about the future. The years would pass, Arnfinn would visit, as steadfast as the sun, to get his vodka.

  He sat in the corner of the sofa as always. I fetched the bottle as usual, and immediately the conversation flowed more freely, he warmed to it so much that he sat and purred like a stove. I’ve never been open-handed, but I watered him like a rare plant. In reality, I was teetering on a knife-edge, I just didn’t realise it. When, later in the afternoon, and after a considerable quantity of vodka, which I’d so generously poured for him, he headed to the toilet, it never occurred to me that everything was about to change. That everything would end in disaster, that life would take a grisly twist from now on, his life and my life. Shortly afterwards, he came out of the bathroom. He stood for a moment in the hallway, swaying, I could see him in the corner of my eye, because I’d got up and gone to the window. But he hadn’t realised this. He was standing there with something in his hand; he glanced quickly over his shoulder, a bowed and wary figure in the dimness of the hall. He’d picked up my wallet and was now turning it over. I usually left it on the sideboard out there once the bustle of the day was over. Of course he wasn’t sober, so he took a couple of off-balance, sideways steps. Then the unthinkable happened. It felt like a slap in the face. Suddenly, he opened my wallet and pulled out a couple of notes. They disappeared into his shirt pocket; it was all over in a matter of seconds.

  Dear old Arnfinn. A man I’d thought of as a friend. With his grubby fingers deep inside my wallet.

  In my consternation I think I must have regurgitated some gastric juice, because I had a sour taste in my mouth, and the room began to spin in front of my eyes. Then he replaced my wallet on the sideboard. He walked back perfectly calmly and sat down in his sofa corner. I could see the bulge the notes made in his shirt pocket. But he sat there as if nothing had happened. Just as if he were still the same dear old Arnfinn.

  My teeth were chattering with rage.

  My arms were dangling like two clubs of solid stone.

  ‘When I was little,’ Arnfinn began, in a voice that was exactly as normal because he didn’t realise what was happe
ning right in front of him, that I was consumed with his treachery and my own fury, obsessed with the thought of the retribution I felt his mean theft deserved. ‘When I was little,’ he repeated, ‘there was a boy in my class, his name was Reidar. Was it Reidar? Yes. He wasn’t quite all there, if you know what I mean. One day when his parents were out, he cut the legs off the family’s budgie. With nail clippers. I was there, as a matter of fact, and I saw him do it. And I won’t forget that legless budgie. It only weighed a few grams. A tiny ball of yellow feathers.’

  Here Arnfinn paused to fortify himself with vodka. Afterwards, he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and coughed up a bit of mucus from his throat.

  ‘When its legs came off,’ he went on, ‘it fell over on its side and died then and there. It was the shock, I should think. I remember the sound, as the bird’s small feet flicked through the air. There was a girl there too, she went into hysterics. Maybe she finds it difficult to sleep, too,’ said Arnfinn. ‘We human beings find excuses for most things when it comes to justifying our actions. And the way we live. And all that stuff.’

  He took another gulp.

  ‘Don’t we, eh, Riktor? We find an excuse?’

  He patted his shirt pocket. I suppose he wanted to make sure the money was still there. How much was it? I kept a couple of thousand kroner in cash, didn’t I? – yes, I thought so, a couple of thousand of hard-earned money. I couldn’t utter a word. Rage gripped my heart and affected my circulation. I couldn’t breathe. I felt powerless and white-faced, yet his words had conjured up a clear image of the legless bird, although the story was probably a lie, just as the story about the snake would have been a lie, the way Arnfinn’s whole person was one big lie, a drunken bluff. A coarse felon, a deceiver. I’d thoroughly misjudged him, it was more than I could bear. I opened my door to you, I reflected bitterly. I’ve poured vodka for you. I’ve replenished your hip flask every single time.