by Jo Nesbo
“I hope you said good-bye properly,” Rakel said. “Saying good-bye is important. Especially for those left behind.”
“I don’t know,” Harry said. “We never properly said hello, he and I. I let him down.”
“How was that?”
“He asked me to dispatch him. I refused.”
The line went quiet. Harry listened to the background noise. Airport noises.
Then her voice was back. “Do you think you should have helped him on his way?”
“Yes,” Harry said. “I do. I think so now.”
“Don’t think about it. It’s too late.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, Harry. It’s too late.”
The line went quiet again. Harry could hear a nasal voice announcing boarding for a flight to Amsterdam.
“So you didn’t want to meet him?”
“I can’t do it, Harry. I suppose I’m a bad human being, too.”
“We’ll have to try to do better next time, then.”
He could hear her smiling. “Can we do that?”
“It’s never too late to try. Say hello to Oleg from me.”
“Harry …”
“Yes?”
“Nothing.”
Harry stood looking out of the kitchen window after she had hung up.
Then he went upstairs and started to pack.
The doctor was waiting for Harry when he came out of the bathroom. They continued down the last stretch of the corridor toward the prison guard.
“His condition is stable,” she said. “We might transfer him back to prison. What’s the purpose of this visit?”
“I want to thank him for helping us to clear up a case. And to get back to him about a wish he had expressed.”
Harry took off his jacket, gave it to the guard and held out his arms while he was searched.
“Five minutes. No more. OK?”
Harry nodded.
“I’ll come in with you,” said the prison guard, who was unable to take his eyes off Harry’s disfigured cheek.
Harry arched an eyebrow.
“Rules for civilian visits,” the officer said. “It has come to our attention that you’ve resigned from the force.”
Harry shrugged.
The man had gotten out of bed and was sitting on a chair by the window.
“We found him,” Harry said, pulling a chair close. The prison guard stood by the door, but was within hearing distance. “Thanks for your help.”
“I kept my part of the bargain,” the man said. “What about yours?”
“Rakel didn’t want to come.”
The man’s face didn’t move a muscle; he just shrank as if hit by an ice-cold gust of wind.
“We found a bottle of medicine in the first-aid kit at Prince Charming’s cabin. I had a drop of the contents analyzed yesterday. Ketanome. Same as he used on his victims. Do you know the drug? Fatal in large doses.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I was given some of it myself recently. In a way, I liked it. But then I like all kinds of drugs. Only you know that, don’t you? I told you what I did in the bathroom at the Landmark in Hong Kong.”
The Snowman eyed Harry. Glanced cautiously at the prison guard and then back at Harry.
“Oh, yes,” he said in a monotone. “In the cubicle at the end on …”
“The right,” Harry said. “Well, as I said, thanks. Don’t look in the mirror.”
“Same applies to you,” the man said and offered him a bony white hand.
When Harry was shown out at the end of the corridor, he turned and caught a glimpse of the Snowman tottering toward them with the guard. Before going into the bathroom.
94
Glass Noodles
“Hi, Hole.” Kaja smiled up at him.
She was sitting in the bar, on a low stool, on her hands. Her gaze was intense, her lips bloodred, her cheeks glowing. It struck him that he had not seen her wearing makeup before. And it was not true what he had once believed, in his naïveté, that a woman cannot be made more beautiful with cosmetics. She was wearing a plain black dress. A short gold necklace with white pearls rested against her collarbone, and when she breathed it reflected soft light.
“Been waiting long?” Harry asked.
“No,” she said, getting up before he had a chance to sit down, pulling him over, laying her head on his shoulder and holding him like that. “I’m just a little cold.”
She didn’t care about other people in the bar watching her; she didn’t let go, instead stuffing both hands under his suit jacket, stroking his shirted back up and down to get them warm. Harry heard a discreet cough, looked up and received a friendly nod from a man with body language that said head waiter.
“Our table is ready,” she said.
“Table? I thought we were only having a drink.”
“We have to celebrate the end of the case, don’t we? I ordered the food beforehand. Something very special.”
They were shown to a table by the window in the fully occupied restaurant. A waiter lit the candles, poured apple cider into the glasses, put the bottle back in the ice bucket and left.
She raised her glass. “Skål.”
“To what?”
“To Crime Squad continuing as before. To you and me catching bad men. To being here now. Together.”
They drank. Harry set his glass down on the cloth. Moved it. The base had left a wet mark. “Kaja …”
“I’ve got something for you, Harry. Tell me what your greatest wish is right now.”
“Listen, Kaja …”
“What?” she said, breathless, and leaned forward, eager to hear.
“I told you I would be on my travels again. I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” She laughed, and the smile faded as the waiter unfolded their napkins and spread them, heavy and white, over their laps. “Where to?”
“Away.”
Kaja stared down at the table without saying a word. Harry wanted to put his hand on hers. But refrained.
“So I wasn’t enough?” she whispered. “We weren’t enough?”
Harry waited until he could catch her eye. “No,” he said. “We weren’t enough. Not enough for you, not enough for me.”
“What do you know about what’s enough?” Her voice was thick with tears.
“Quite a lot,” Harry said.
Kaja breathed heavily, tried to control her voice. “Is it Rakel?”
“Yes. It was always Rakel.”
“But you said yourself she didn’t want you.”
“She doesn’t want me the way I am now. So I have to repair myself. I have to be well again. Do you understand?”
“No, I don’t understand.” Two tiny tears clung to the lashes under her eyes, wavering. “You are well. The scars are just—”
“You know very well it’s not those scars I’m talking about.”
“Will I ever see you again?” she asked, trapping one of the tears with a fingernail.
She grasped his hand, squeezed it so tight the knuckles went white. Harry looked at her. Then she let go.
“I won’t bring you back another time,” she said.
“I know.”
“You won’t cope.”
“Probably not.” He smiled. “But then who does?”
She tilted her head. Then she smiled with those small pointed teeth of hers.
“I do,” she said.
Harry remained in his chair until he heard the soft slam of a car door in the darkness and the diesel engine starting up. He looked down at the cloth and was about to get up when a soup plate came into view and he heard the head waiter’s voice announce: “Special order, at the lady’s instructions, flown over from Hong Kong. Li Yuan’s glass noodles.”
Harry stared down at the plate. She is still sitting in her chair, he thought. The restaurant is a soap bubble and now it is taking off, hovering over the town and is gone. The kitchen never runs out and we never land.
He got
up and made a move to leave. But changed his mind. Sat down again. Lifted the chopsticks.
95
The Allies
Harry left the dance restaurant that was no longer a dance restaurant, went down the hill to the seamen’s school that was no longer a seamen’s school. Continued to the bunkers that had defended against the country’s invaders. Beneath him were the fjord and the town, hidden by mist. Cars crept forward carefully with yellow cats’ eyes. A tram emerged from the mist like a ghost gnashing its teeth.
A car stopped in front of him, and Harry jumped into the front seat. Katie Melua oozed through the speakers with her honey-dripping agony, and Harry desperately searched for the off switch on the radio.
“Jesus Christ, what you look like!” Øystein said, horrified. “The surgeon must have definitely failed the sewing course. But at least you’ll save a few kroner on the Halloween mask. Don’t laugh or your mug’ll tear again.”
“I promise.”
“By the way,” Øystein said, “it’s my birthday today.”
“Oh, fuck. Here’s a smoke, from me to you. Free.”
“That’s exactly what I wanted.”
“Mm. Any bigger presents you’d like?”
“Like what?”
“World peace.”
“The day you wake up to world peace, you don’t wake up, Harry. Because they’ve dropped the big one.”
“OK. No private wishes?”
“Not a lot. New conscience, maybe.”
“New conscience?”
“The old one’s not so good. Nice suit you’ve got. Thought you had only the one.”
“It’s Dad’s.”
“Jesus, you must have shrunk.”
“Yes,” Harry said, straightening his tie. “I have shrunk.”
“How’s Ekeberg Restaurant?”
Harry closed his eyes. “Fine.”
“Do you remember the leaky shack we sneaked into that time? How old were we? Sixteen?”
“Seventeen.”
“Didn’t you dance with the Killer Queen there once?”
“Possibly.”
“Frightening to think that the MILF of your youth has ended up in an old people’s home.”
“MILF?”
Øystein sighed. “Look it up.”
“Mm. Øystein?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you and I become pals?”
“Because we grew up together, I suppose.”
“Is that all? A demographic coincidence? No spiritual fellowship?”
“Not that I’ve noticed. As far as I know, we’ve only ever had one thing in common.”
What’s that?”
“No one else wanted to be pals with us.”
They wound their way through the next stretch of road in silence.
“Apart from Tresko,” Harry said.
Øystein snorted. “Who stank so much of toe-fart no one else could bear sitting next to him.”
“Yes,” Harry said. “We were good at that.”
“We nailed that one,” Øystein said. “But, Christ, how he stank.”
They laughed together. Gentle, lighthearted. Sad.
Øystein had parked the car on the brown grass with the doors open. Harry clambered up onto the top of the bunker and sat on the edge with his legs dangling. From the speakers inside the car doors Springsteen sang about blood brothers one stormy night and the vow that had to be kept.
Øystein passed Harry the bottle of Jim Beam. A lone siren from the town rose and fell until it lost power and died. The poison stung Harry’s throat and stomach, and he threw up. The second swig went better. The third was fine.
Max Weinberg sounded as if he were trying to destroy the drumhead.
“It often strikes me how I ought to wish I had more regrets,” Øystein said. “But I don’t give a shit. I think I just accepted from my first waking second that I was an asshole. What about you?”
Harry ruminated. “I have loads of regrets. But perhaps that’s because I carry around such high notions of myself. In fact, I imagine I could have chosen differently.”
“But you fucking couldn’t.”
“Not at that time. But next time, Øystein. Next time.”
“Has it ever happened, Harry? Ever in the fucking history of mankind?”
“Just because nothing has happened doesn’t mean that it can’t happen. I don’t know that this bottle is going to fall if I drop it. Fuck, which philosopher was it again? Hobbes? Hume? Heidegger? One of the headcases beginning with H.”
“Answer me.”
Harry shrugged. “I think it’s possible to learn. The problem is that we learn so damned slowly, so that by the time you’ve realized something, it’s too late. For example, someone you love might ask you for a favor, an act of love. Like helping him to die. Which you say no to because you haven’t learned, you haven’t had the insight. When you do finally see the light, it’s too late.” Harry took another swig. “So instead you perform the act of love for someone else. Perhaps for someone you hate, even.”
Øystein accepted the bottle. “Got no idea what you’re blabbering on about, but it sounds fucked up.”
“Not necessarily. It’s never too late for good actions.”
“Don’t you mean it’s always too late?”
“No! I always thought we hate too much for it to be possible for us to obey other impulses. But my father had a different opinion. He said hatred and love are the same currency. Everything starts with love, and hatred is the reverse side of the coin.”
“Amen.”
“But that must mean you can go the other way, from hatred to love. Hatred must be a good starting point for learning, for changing, for doing things differently next time.”
“Now you’re so optimistic I’m considering puking, Harry.”
The organ came in the refrain, a whine, cutting through like a circular saw.
Øystein leaned his head to the side while flicking ash. And Harry was almost moved to tears. Simply because he saw the years that had become their lives, that had become them, in the way his friend flicked ash as he had always done, leaning to the side as if the cigarette were too heavy, his head angled as if he liked the world better from a slanted perspective, the ash on the floor of the smokers’ shed at school, down an empty beer bottle at a party they had gate-crashed, on the cold, rough concrete of a bunker.
“Anyway, you’re beginning to get old, Harry.”
“Why do you say that?”
“When men start quoting their fathers, they’re old. The race has been run.”
And then Harry found it. The answer to her question about what he most wanted right now. He wanted an armored heart.
Epilogue
Bluish-black clouds swept over Hong Kong’s Island’s highest point, Victoria Peak, but it had finally stopped raining, after dripping constantly since the beginning of September. The sun poked through, and a huge rainbow formed a bridge between Hong Kong Island and Kowloon. Harry closed his eyes and let the sun warm his face. The spell of good weather had come just in time for the horse-racing season, due to open in Happy Valley later that evening.
Harry heard the buzz of Japanese voices approach and then pass the bench on which he was sitting. They were coming from the funicular railway, which since 1888 had attracted tourists and locals up here to the fresh air above the town. Harry opened his eyes again and flicked through the racing program.
He had contacted Herman Kluit as soon as he’d arrived in Hong Kong. Kluit had offered Harry a job as a debt collector—that is, he had to trace people who were trying to flee their debts. In this way, Kluit would not have to sell the debt with a substantial discount to the triad, or think about the brutal recovery methods they employed.
It would have been stretching things to say Harry enjoyed the job, but it paid well and was simple. He didn’t have to recover the money, just locate the debtors. However, it turned out that his appearance—six feet four and a grinning scar from mouth to ear—was ofte
n enough for them to settle their accounts on the spot. And he very rarely had to resort to using a search engine on a server in Germany.
The trick, nevertheless, was to keep off dope and alcohol, which he had succeeded in doing thus far. There were two letters waiting for him at the reception desk today. How they had found him he had no idea. Only that Kaja must have been involved. One letter bore the logo of the Oslo Police District on the envelope, and Harry guessed Gunnar Hagen. With the other he didn’t need to guess—he immediately recognized Oleg’s upright and still-childish handwriting. Harry had put both letters in his jacket pocket without making a decision on when or indeed whether he would read them.
Harry folded the racing program and put it down beside him on the bench. He peered across to the Chinese mainland, where the yellow smog was becoming thicker by the year. But up here, at the top of the mountain, the air still felt almost fresh. He looked down on Happy Valley. On the cemeteries, west of the Wong Nai Chong Road, where there were separate sections for Protestants, Catholics, Muslims and Hindus. He could see the racecourse, where he knew jockeys and horses were already on the turf being tested before the evening’s races. Soon the spectators would be pouring in: those with hope, those without, the lucky and the unlucky. Those who went to have their dreams fulfilled and those who went purely to dream. The losers who took uncalculated risks and those who took calculated risks, but lost anyway. They had been here before, and they all came back, even the ghosts from the cemeteries down there, the several hundred who died in the great fire at Happy Valley Racecourse in 1918. For tonight it was definitely their turn to beat the odds, to conquer chance, to stuff their pockets full of crisp Hong Kong dollars, to get away with murder. A couple of hours from now they would have entered the gates, read the racing program, filled the coupons with the day’s doubles, quinielas, exactas, triples, superfectas—whatever their gambling god was called. They would have lined up by the bookies, holding their stakes at the ready. Most of them would have died a little every time the tape was crossed, but redemption was only fifteen minutes away, when the starting gates opened for the next race. Unless you were a bridge jumper, of course, someone who risked all his assets on one horse in a race. But no one complains. Everyone knows the odds.
