‘You were together once.’
‘We were, but good God, Varg – it was so long ago. I don’t go around years later thinking about somebody I was with for a couple of months a long time ago.’
‘But he loved you, didn’t he?’
‘I – I don’t know about that,’ she said abruptly.
‘No,’ I said. ‘Maybe not. But didn’t you think it was funny that he suddenly turned up in your neighbourhood? In the next building?’
‘No. Why should I? You meet so many people again – just like that. You go to a party and suddenly you meet somebody you haven’t seen for ten years. You go to the cinema and there’s a girl you went to school with twenty years ago sitting in the row in front of you.’
‘But you met Gunnar Våge and talked to him?’
‘Met him? I ran into him several times. In the street. And we exchanged a few words. We hadn’t much in common – any more.’
‘But at one time …’
‘Gunnar and I? Yes. We had a good time together for two months one summer a long time ago. That was before I met Jonas. Yes. I met Jonas that very same autumn. If I hadn’t, who knows? But I did and that was it. I never looked at another man twice after that. It was only Jonas. That’s how love is, isn’t it?’
‘That’s what they say,’ I said. ‘So it was really Jonas who – meeting Jonas caused you to break up with Gunnar Våge? Back then?’
‘Yes. Maybe so. But it doesn’t mean.
‘What doesn’t it mean?’
‘You can’t believe – you don’t think …’
‘What can’t I believe? What don’t I think?’
‘Really! It’s too ridiculous. It was a hundred years ago, and it’s got nothing to do with – it can’t have anything to do with this.’
‘You don’t have to …’ I realised I was being too harsh. My voice was too loud. I tried again. ‘You don’t have to protect anybody else, Wenche. Let Gunnar Våge defend himself if he needs to. His mouth is more than big enough. You’re the one we have to clear. Right?’
‘Yes, but …’ The film of frost covered her eyes again. Her voice lost its colour. Became neutral. ‘It’s hopeless, Varg. I’ll be found guilty. I know it. They’re going to lock me up for the rest of my life, and I’ll never see Roar again. But maybe it’s just as well. I don’t care any more. Jonas is dead. And he had cheated on me before that. What’s out – what have I got to do – out there?’
I leaned across the table again. ‘You’ve got everything to do out there, Wenche! You’re young. Christ! You can start again. Meet a new man. We don’t love just one person in our lives. We love a lot of people – our mothers and daughters, fathers and sons, husbands and wives, lovers. You’ll meet somebody new. If not this year, then next year. Maybe not today, but tomorrow. You can’t give up now. Understand?’
She was silent.
‘After – after Jonas left you and you knew Gunnar Våge was in the neighbourhood, didn’t you ever think of – starting up the friendship again? Could you – didn’t you ever think you could begin a new relationship with him? He was somebody you knew and had been happy with before.’
‘No, Varg. No. Never.’ She gulped and then her eyes suddenly filled with tears. There were tears in her voice when she said, ‘It’s just that …’ And her lips silently pronounced a dead man’s name.
I let her cry. She wept silently, with her back straight and without raising her hands to her face. Tears streamed from her eyes, ran shining down her cheeks, around her nostrils to her mouth and chin. I watched them as if they were spring’s very first ice-free brook, the beginning of a March thaw when the glaciers melt under the young sun and night prepares to celebrate the coming dawn.
And then her tears stopped. I found a clean handkerchief in a pocket, and leaned towards her. Wiped the tear-stains from her face until all that was left were those anxious inflamed circles under her eyes. ‘I’ll be back, Wenche,’ I said. ‘Just take it easy. It’s going to be OK. I’m sure of it.’
She nodded. Her lips were swollen.
There was a strange feeling in my stomach. I looked slowly from her lips to her eyes. I tried to burn away that film with my gaze, snap the passivity and detachment like a bow string, wake her from her Sleeping-Beauty trance. Without knowing what I was doing, I leaned across the table. I could feel its edge in my stomach, see her face grow larger.
If she’d leaned towards me I’d have kissed her.
But she didn’t. She sat like a ramrod across from me, two thousand miles and another love away. So I leaned back again.
‘Well. That’s that,’ I said.
We stood up at the same time. There was nothing more to say.
‘Be careful, Varg,’ was all she said.
‘I will,’ was all I said.
The guard stood up too. I watched her take Wenche Andresen away to her cell. Wenche Andresen moved like a patient who’s just begun walking again after a long illness. The guard was a sturdy ward nurse leading her patient carefully back to bed.
And me? I was the wind. I blew past people and they hardly knew I’d gone by. I asked new questions and got new questions in return. Love’s like that, isn’t it? she’d asked.
I believed it. Love’s a lonely thing. It’s a stone you once found on a beach and carry around in the pocket of a pair of trousers you seldom wear. But it’s there, somewhere in the cupboard. And you know it. It’ll follow you all your life. From your birth to your death. Love’s as blind as a stone, as lonely as an empty beach. And you know it.
I left the police station as light-footed as a locomotive and as happy as somebody who’s just identified a body.
42
A cement lid had been screwed tight over the city and it was abnormally dark. The rain would come soon now.
I walked quickly down to Sandkaien and into the building where my office sits when I’m not there. When I went past the cafeteria on the second floor a strong smell of coffee assaulted my nose. But I didn’t fall for it and kept going.
I let myself into the office. It smelled of dry radiator air, old dust, abandonment, and it was like a tomb. ‘Hello, grave. Here comes the body,’ I said.
But nobody answered, not even the echo of my own voice.
I took off my jacket and sat behind the desk. A calendar hung in the middle of the wall. It still showed February, but I knew I wasn’t going to stand up, walk over there, tear off the sheet and turn the year ahead to March. Besides, I liked February’s picture better. It was a photograph of the harbour with a drift of snow over the roofs and mountains and the kind of sky a six-year-old would have painted: pure and blue.
I swivelled the chair and looked through the window. An angelic hand had splashed a handful of water against the pane. It was pitch-black outside now. The cars of Bryggen had their headlights on as if the drivers had forgotten to turn them off after the Eidsvåg Tunnel.
I could see the grocers down at the market hurriedly stretching tarpaulins across their stands, people scurrying to shelter with their umbrellas on guard.
Then the sky split down the middle. Lightning ripped the darkness. The thunder sounded as if Mount Fløien and Ulriken had collided and now were exploding into thousands of fragments. The thunder rumbled and rolled between the mountains like boulders. An invisible hand dashed a flock of chalk-white gulls against Ask Island and they protested loudly as they vainly tried to brake with their wings. A pigeon with black button eyes landed on the cornice outside my window and hurried into the corner where it stood with its head cocked and waited for the voice of doom to fall silent and the wheat to be separated from the chaff.
And then the rain came.
It was as if the sea itself loomed like a wall over the city. The raindrops were huge, heavy and grey, and they fell in cascades. They burst on the pavements and streets, in seconds turned the tarpaulins in the market into bulging hammocks. They turned the gutters into spring-crazy mountain brooks, sent brown water seething into the drains with the speed of a hurr
icane.
The streets emptied in minutes. People sheltered against walls, under gateways, in doorways and entrances to the public toilets. The shops filled with people just looking around and in cafeterias four or five strangers sat at each table.
I sat in my office and watched that violent drama. New bolts of lightning struck the city like fountains of fire. New thunder claps rolled over us like water rushing into a basin. A deluge washed the city clean for the forthcoming week and flooded away all traces of the weekend.
It was almost half an hour before it was over. The lightning died away over Fana like distant distress signals from a flashlight with a fading battery. The thunder weakened to a distant rumbling. The rain tapered off and lay like shining silk on the rooftops, the trees on the mountainsides and farther out on Strandkaien. It glistened on the colourful umbrellas of people leaving their hiding places, one by one, with their white upturned faces and eyes like newly lit suns. The storm was over and life could go on.
I flipped through the phone book, found the right number and called Richard Ljosne. When he answered I said, ‘Ljosne? This is Veum.’
‘Oh? Hello again. Thanks for – the last time.’
I listened to his voice and I could see him. The Wolf. Wolf-grey hair. On guard behind his desk. Steel in his arms and legs.
‘I’ve just been talking to Wenche. She said not to give you her best.’
‘What do you mean?’ he said.
‘She said not to give you her best.’
‘No?’
‘No. She wasn’t exactly pleased by what you told me.’
‘That I … But did you tell her …?’
‘You lied, didn’t you, Ljosne? You didn’t sleep with her last Tuesday, did you? You didn’t get that far. For once you had to pass, didn’t you?’
I listened to the silence. The sky was already getting lighter. It had stopped raining. ‘Well? Ljosne?’
‘Well, perhaps I didn’t,’ he said slowly. Reluctant.
‘Why did you lie, Ljosne?’
I would have liked to see him but I didn’t have time to travel that far just to look at the stupid expression on his face when he said, ‘You know – how it is, Veum. Between us men.’
‘No. No, I don’t know how it is. Tell me about it. You’re the one who’s seen the world. You’re the expert on women.’
‘Listen, Veum. You don’t have to be a smart-arse. I know I – I know it was stupid. A person ought to keep his mouth shut now and then.’
‘Not just now and then,’ I said. ‘All the time. But you still haven’t told me how it is between us men.’
‘Well. Well. No, I didn’t sleep with her. That’s true. But sometimes you say more than you mean to. Am I right? And I’d already said plenty – about all the other women. And I told you Wenche turned me on. How could I go on to tell you about my biggest rejection? Just like that? I couldn’t do it, Veum. I couldn’t. I’m too much of a man to admit I was turned down.’
‘So she said no?’
‘So she said no. Simple and direct. No. I asked if I could come in. And she said no, absolutely not, Richard. And that was that. She said no and I went home and slept with myself instead.’
‘And was that so hard to tell me?’
‘Damn right it was, Veum.’
‘As hard as the other thing?’
‘The other thing?’ Long pauses between the words.
‘About your son. The Man Without a Country. Johan Pedersen. Joker. Your son by a woman named Hildur Pedersen. A son you’ve kept track of and helped all his life but always at a distance. Why didn’t you tell me, Ljosne?’
‘I … I … I don’t see what this has to do with anything. A man’s entitled to some secrets.’
‘As long as he’s not hiding a murderer.’
‘A murderer? That’s ridiculous, Veum. You can’t mean that Johan had anything to do with …’
‘No, Ljosne. I don’t mean that. I know he didn’t. But we’re dealing with a murder and the more secrets, the harder it is to get to the truth. If there is any, other than –’
‘Veum.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘I’ve got money, Veum. I can pay. If you’ll just keep my name out of it. So people won’t know about Johan. I can –’
‘What’s wrong with an illegitimate child these days, Ljosne?’
‘It’s not that. But people will know and they’ll say I let him down. That I made him what he is today.’
‘Maybe they’d be right.’
‘Listen. I don’t know who’s paying you for what you’re doing. But I doubt it’s Wenche. I’ll be glad to pay my share of your fee, Veum. So you can help her. If you’ll just …’
I stared at the ceiling. This was the moment just before somebody knocked a hole in it and started pouring gold pieces on to my head. People promised me money right and left, but it never made it to my letter box for some reason. Maybe there was something wrong with the delivery.
‘My fee will be paid, Ljosne. Any more secrets for me before we hang up?’
‘No. No, but –’
‘So long, Ljosne. See you some time at the old folks’ home. Or at a truss sale. Run today, Ljosne, but stay off my roads. OK?’
‘I –’
I didn’t wait to hear the rest. After I’d hung up I realised he could have got me some bottles of aquavit cheap. But then I realised they wouldn’t ever taste good.
I had a very important call to make. The bright patches of sky had grown. Maybe we’d get a glimpse of blue before it faded and got dark.
I called the Pallas Advertising Agency and asked to speak to Solveig Manger. ‘One moment please.’ The voice was bored.
I waited, looked at my watch. The display worked under the broken crystal. Already after two. Somewhere behind that grey-white wool blanket the sun had fallen two degrees closer to the horizon. Like the ghost of a distant summer it was sneaking quickly and guiltily across the sky without ever showing itself.
I heard her voice. It sounded anxious as if she hadn’t heard much good news recently. ‘Hello? This is Solveig Manger.’
‘Hello. My name’s Veum. Varg Veum. I’m a private investigator, and I –’
She interrupted. ‘If this is a joke, then –’
‘No, no, Fru Manger. It’s no joke. I’m sorry if it sounds like one, but –’
‘I’m sorry. I’m a little – sensitive just now. I’ve never talked to a private investigator before.’
‘No. Right. You haven’t,’ I said. Relieved. ‘Not a lot of people have. Until I call them. But I – I’d be exaggerating if I said I knew Jonas well, but we – we got pretty close late one evening before he … And he talked about you in a way that … Well, you might want to know what he said, and maybe you could tell me something about him. As a matter of fact, I’m trying to find out what really happened.’
‘Find out what really happened? I thought the police … I … OK, just a minute.’ She’d been interrupted and I could hear her saying, ‘No, not just now. Could you give me five minutes? OK. Close the door if you don’t mind.’ And then she was back. ‘Hello! You said you wanted to talk to me?’
‘I would really like to,’ I said. ‘If it’s not too much trouble. I thought a lot of Jonas, as a matter of fact, even if I didn’t know him well. I –’
She interrupted again. ‘Let’s get one thing straight – Veum. That is your name?’
‘It is.’
‘My husband knows all about Jonas and me. At least he does now. The police were kind enough to tell him. I suppose they felt they had to.’ She sighed so you could have heard her all the way across Vågen. ‘So there’s no money in case that’s what you were thinking. Not to insult you, but –’
Now it was my turn to interrupt. As calmly as I could I said, ‘People have the wrong impressions of private detectives, Fru Manger. They see too many American films. They get the idea that we’re broad-shouldered, dark-haired studs with a bottle of whisky in one pocket and a sexy blonde in the other. If we’re not dirty little
grease-balls with egg on our ties who comb our greasy hair over bald spots and make a living blackmailing naughty housewives, the truth is …’ I looked around the office.
‘The truth is,’ I said, ‘that we’re little grey non-entities who hang out in shabby little offices with a stack of unpaid bills we’ve let go so long that they don’t bother us any more. And we own calendars we haven’t the courage to tear February off. And we look like encyclopedia salesmen.’ I drew a deep breath. ‘When can we meet?’
‘Tell me,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘do you usually talk like this?’
‘Only when I’m sober,’ I said.
‘I don’t know if I see the point in –’ she said.
‘Don’t let my nonsense scare you, Fru Manger. I get carried away, and then I’m not responsible. But face to face with a lady under sixty? I’m as lovesick as a thirteen-year-old and as dangerous as a wingless fly.’
‘There’s a tea-shop in Øvregaten behind the Maria Church,’ she said.
‘Right. I know where it is.’
We could meet there. About three-thirty?’
‘Great. I’ll be there.’
‘It’ll have to be quick. I’ve got to be home by four-thirty. My husband …’ She didn’t finish the sentence and I could understand why. Manger’s patience was bound to be a little strained.
‘No problem,’ I said. ‘See you then.’
I hung up. ‘Good lord,’ I said to myself. I’d done it.
I stood up, walked around the desk and over to the calendar and raised my hand. Stood there. ‘No, not yet,’ I said. ‘Not just yet.’
Then I locked up and dawdled the two floors down to the ruination of everything man considers edible. Ate my dinner as slowly and carefully as a condemned man might. But no condemned prisoner could ever have deserved that punishment.
43
The Bergen Electric Ferry Company owns and operates the little ferry which crosses Vågen between Nykirken and Bradbenken. The company’s logo – B.E.F. – is painted on the sides of the boat.
Yours Until Death Page 23
