The Fifth Element

by Jorgen Brekke

  Tall Lars seemed to be feeling philosophical. A few times Sving couldn’t figure out what he was going on about.

  “Evil, right?”

  “What now?”

  Short Lars groaned.

  “Take that guy Höss, for example.”

  “What did you call that piece of shit?”

  “Höss. Rudolf Höss. One of the evilest fuckers those Nazi maniacs ever produced.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “That just shows how fucking little you know about history, bro.”

  “Lars. I need to ask you this. You know we’re not really brothers, right?”

  “Shut up. This is serious. That guy Höss. He was in charge of Auschwitz during the war. A real monster. Built up the whole system. A merciless guy. Did you see the movie Schindler’s List?”

  “Was that one they were showing last year?”

  “Sometimes I don’t know why I even bother talking to you. It’s an old movie. Fucking old. We’re talking last century. But maybe you’ve never heard of that either.”

  “I don’t watch old movies.”

  “So forget I even asked. But in any case, in that film you see him standing on the porch, picking off people in the camp. Just choosing his victims at random and shooting them because he likes killing.”

  “What a sick fuck.”

  “That’s my point. It’s evil, right? There’s no other word for it.”

  “You’ve got a point there.”

  “Afterward the guy goes inside to be with his family. He’s married. He’s got five children. Five fucking children.”

  “Poor kids.”

  “No, that’s my point. He’s a good father. He’s nice to them, see? After the war all his kids remember him as a loving and playful father. So that makes you wonder. What is evil, really?”

  “The guy’s no good. It doesn’t matter what you say.”

  “I’m not defending him. No fucking way. But it makes you think. What are we made of, in reality?”

  “Are you trying to say that this has something to do with us?”

  “I’m not saying anything. I’m just thinking. Maybe it has something to do with everybody.”

  “You think too much. That’s what’s wrong with you.”

  * * *

  After dropping off the Lars Brothers at their place, Sving drove over to Jonsvatnet. He parked the car near a run-down farm that Karlstad owned, using it as a sort of warehouse for old junked cars that he thought still had some promise. Then Sving took the bus home. With twenty-two pounds of dynamite in the trunk, he wanted to leave the car as far away from his home as possible. On the way he thought to himself that he’d never see that dynamite again. It could just stay where it was.

  * * *

  Tina was sitting in the kitchen eating yogurt.

  “Where’s your mother?”

  “She went out.”

  “And you’re here all alone?”

  He noticed her cheek. There was a red mark under her eye.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Mamma got mad at me.”

  He picked her up and held her close. Then he carried her into the living room. She sat on his lap as he watched the news on TV. There was a short report on the Music Box case. Nothing about his rampages among the scum of Trondheim. He closed his eyes and listened to the little girl’s breathing as she slept.

  After this, I’m done. The Lars Brothers can take over, he thought.

  Since Tina was sleeping so soundly, Sving put her to bed. Then he made dinner for Sondre and himself. Again he carried the food all the way down to the basement. He set the plate outside his son’s door, along with the tin box containing the bits of gold.

  Back upstairs in the living room, Sving sat and stared at Facebook while he waited for Ane to come home. After half an hour he got a message from Sondre: I’d almost forgotten what the stars looked like.

  For his part, Sving had forgotten that they had called the old tin box the star box.

  Ane arrived a few minutes later. Her eyes were red.

  “Where have you been?”

  “I just went out for walk.”

  “How are you doing?”

  “Not good, Sving. Not good at all.”

  She let him put his arms around her. They sat on the sofa until late at night, like a married couple. When they made love, she was calmer than she’d ever been before, but she held on to him tight, as if she never wanted to let go.

  * * *

  He got up early and took the other car, an old VW Polo that had once belonged to his wife. He’d kept it for Sondre. At the Obs! Coop in Lade he bought a pair of skates. Figure skates, the smallest size they had, though he still worried they were going to be too big.

  * * *

  “I’ve never done this before.”

  “You haven’t?”

  “Pappa likes to go skiing. Pappa likes being in the woods,” Tina explained.

  Sving nodded. He tied the laces on her skates. She was wearing two pairs of woolen socks that used to be Sondre’s. He’d found them in a box up in the attic. With those extra layers, the skates fit her pretty well. He helped her up from the bench and gave her a little push. She slid forward a short way on the newly sprayed ice of the Leangen skating rink. The next second she fell on her behind. She landed softly, as only kids can, then turned around to give him a smile.

  “Aren’t you going to try it?”

  He looked at the old skates he’d bought back before she was even born, when he was trying to teach his son the joys of winter sports.

  “It’s easier for me to teach you if I’m wearing my regular shoes,” he told the little girl.

  “But then you won’t have any fun.”

  She tried to stand up but slipped and fell again. On her second try she managed to stay upright. This time she took several steps forward before falling.

  He saw that she was doing fine on her own, so he put on his skates.

  Then he wobbled around her as she got more and more steady.

  * * *

  It was his turn to work the late shift. They had an early dinner, the three of them together. Afterward, Tina went into the living room.

  Sving put some food on a plate for Sondre.

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Ane, giving Sving a concerned look.

  “Chronic fatigue syndrome—CFS, also called ME, myalgic encephalomyelitis,” he said. “Or at least that’s what we think. The doctor refused to give a diagnosis.”

  “When was the last time he went to the doctor?”

  “He hasn’t come up from the basement in several months.”

  “And you haven’t seen him in all this time?”

  “Just in the dark. Mostly when he’s sleeping.”

  “That’s awful.”

  Sving picked up the plate and looked at her, fumbling for something to say, but not finding the right words.

  Then he went downstairs to the basement. Today he opened the door and went into his son’s bedroom. Sondre was asleep in the dim light from a single lamp. But no matter how much he slept, he wouldn’t wake up refreshed, and it wouldn’t give him any energy or help him get through another day.

  Sving set the food on the nightstand and ruffled his son’s hair.

  “Could you please wake up soon?” he said. “Then we can start over.”

  When he went back upstairs, Tina had drawn him a picture. Two plump people on skates. One big and one small. The small one was him. The big one was her.

  * * *

  There were two demolitions to handle on the job that night, plus a lot of dead time spent with his co-workers who were aware of only about a third of what went on in his life.

  At 11:00 P.M. he left work. More tasks awaited him. The Lars Brothers met him outside the agreed-upon address in the city center. Sving barged in first to find a man around forty years old. He grabbed him by the hair.

  “What’s a man in a suit doing in a dump like this?” said Sving.

 
; He looked around the apartment. The drywall on the walls was ripped down in lots of places, revealing the studs underneath. None of the walls in the living room were painted the same color. Old movie posters were sagging from the thumbtacks barely holding them up on the walls. Sving dragged the man into the kitchen, which, strangely enough, had been newly remodeled.

  “Very stylish,” he said without letting go of the man’s curly hair. The Lars Brothers had followed him into the kitchen. “You’ve been in a real remodeling frenzy, I can see. Things like that cost money. Where’d you get the cash?”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I don’t want anything. But I have a friend who wants back what you stole from him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  Sving turned to look at the brothers while he kept his hold on the man’s hair.

  “Turn on the stove,” he told the brothers.

  “But—” one of them said.

  “But? But what? Do it!”

  Lars switched on the stove, turning the dial all the way up to nine on the display for one of the burners.

  “All of them!”

  “But, but—”

  “Have you started to stammer? Just do it!”

  Soon all four burners showed nine on the display.

  “Let’s see if a nice, thin seared steak might refresh your memory. Sorry I don’t have time to chop up any garlic.”

  Sving hauled the man’s head over to the stove and pressed one side of his face against the biggest burner. The scream he was expecting didn’t come.

  “Not warm enough for you? I guess it takes a little while for the burner to heat up. But I’m a patient man. I can hold you here for a very long time.”

  “Sving,” said a voice behind him. It was Short Lars.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  “The burner. I tried to tell you. It’s an induction stove. I have one just like it.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “An induction burner doesn’t produce direct heat. It reacts with the metal of the pot, so the pot heats up while the burner stays cool. You can’t hurt him like that.”

  Sving stared wild-eyed at the Lars Brothers. He felt like an idiot. Of course he knew what an induction stove was. But the one he had was the normal ceramic kind. He hadn’t even thought about this possibility. Now he was standing here with both hands around the neck of this jerk, pressing his face to a cold glass surface.

  “Are you saying I can’t hurt him like this?” said Sving sarcastically. “Watch this.”

  He lifted up the man’s head and held it for a second at the level of his own heart. Then he slammed it against the stove with all his might. The glass shattered instantly. Sparks flew out of the display. He did it several more times, pounding and hammering the poor guy’s head against the stove until it was so covered in blood that his face was nearly hidden. Broken glass was scattered all over the counter.

  Sving slammed the man’s face one last time against the pulverized glass, rubbing it around like a dishrag. Then he lifted up the limp body, flung him over the counter, and tore open his shirt. He yanked out the entire stove top, shook loose the cord that was plugged into the wall socket, and stuck the cord on the man’s chest. There was still some life left in him. He jerked like a shameful puppy, moaning loudly. Sving took two steps back. The man sank to his knees on the floor.

  “Is that enough damage for you two fucking imbeciles?” he said to the Lars Brothers. Only now did he notice the tears running down his face.

  “Shit, Sving, you’ve killed him!” said Tall Lars.

  “No, he’s still alive. He’s got a pulse. But I think you might have gone a little too far, boss,” said Short Lars.

  Sving got up and brushed off the microscopic pieces of glass from his coat. He bent down to the man on the counter. Using a clean handkerchief, he wiped the blood from the man’s face. He still had a face, sliced up and horrible, but still human. And he was breathing.

  “We’ll be back. And you’d better have the cocaine you took from Karlstad or two hundred and fifty grand in cash for me,” he grunted.

  The man nodded, breathing heavily.

  * * *

  Back in the car, they watched a woman walk past with a boy around ten years old. They went into the same stairwell leading to the apartment the three of them had just left.

  But the Lars Brothers didn’t seem to be paying much attention. They were busy arguing.

  “Trondheim is a fucking gloomy town,” said Tall Lars.

  “What are you talking about? I like this town. It has soul.”

  “There’s too much soul. Nothing but soul. That’s what makes it so gloomy. Do you realize this place was built on death and decay?”

  “Shit. Don’t start on all that stupid crap of yours again. Not when the rest of us just want to relax.”

  “I’m serious! Have you forgotten about Olav Tryggvason? If St. Olav hadn’t got himself killed somewhere up in North Trøndelag and then been buried here in town, right underneath the cathedral, Trondheim wouldn’t be the big place that it is today. Not at all. That’s a historical fact. It’s no use denying it.”

  “So what? It happened.”

  “Yeah, it happened. But don’t you get what it means?”

  “It doesn’t mean shit. That’s what it means.”

  “It means the whole town is built on death.”

  “Shut up!”

  “They built a church on top of a dead guy. The church means pilgrims, income, an archbishop’s seat, all the years of a long and lifeless Middle Ages, the cathedral school, education, scholarship. Trondheim as a cathedral city and a scholarly city. The whole thing built on top of a rotting corpse.”

  “What a load of bullshit!”

  “It’s creepy. Admit it! Hair that never stops growing. Shit, somebody should make a horror movie about it. The Return of St. Olav.”

  * * *

  A report of the incident appeared in the online edition of Adresseavisen:

  Man attacked by three intruders in his own home. There are no indications that anything was stolen. No explanation for the assault has been given. The victim’s wife and son found him bleeding and barely conscious.

  Sving shook his head. The man’s name didn’t match any on his list. Farther down in the article it said that the family had moved into the apartment only a week ago and had just started remodeling. Apparently the man Sving was looking for had recently moved out. Why had he blindly relied on Karlstad’s list? That was sloppy. He needed to do better advance work.

  Right now Sving was sitting alone on the sofa. Tina and Ane were both asleep. Downstairs in the basement Sondre lay in bed, his breathing as steady as a metronome. On the screen of his iPad, Sving was looking at a picture of the boy from the newspaper article. The mother and son had arrived home late from visiting the grandparents because the men remodeling the boy’s room had worked overtime. The carpenters had probably just left the building when Sving and the Lars Brothers showed up.

  Sving sipped his beer and wept.

  His tears couldn’t transform him into a different kind of person. All they could do was fall onto the table and eventually evaporate—molecules of water that turned into vapor and later became water again in some entirely different context. Sving had shed tears before. And he would again. But he couldn’t make any more mistakes like this one.

  * * *

  After he finished his beer, he went into the bedroom to Ane. He lay down on the bed without getting undressed and stared at the silhouette of her body in the dim light. Then he put his hand on her hip. She smacked her lips, still half-asleep.

  “What time is it?”

  “Twelve thirty.”

  “You’re late.”

  He didn’t answer as he stroked her thigh.

  “He was never late. I always knew when he’d be home.”

  “Who are you talking about?” He fe
lt his throat constrict.

  “I’m tired,” she said. “I was sound asleep.”

  “Do you think about him often?”

  “As little as possible.”

  “Do you still have feelings for him?”

  “You know what I feel. He’s a shithead.”

  “‘Shithead’ is not a feeling. What sort of feelings do you have for him?”

  She propped herself up in bed.

  “Is this an interrogation? I’m tired. I want to sleep.”

  “If we’re going to do this, I need to make sure you’re telling me the truth.”

  The words just slipped out, but he knew the second he said them that there was no going back. He’d stopped thinking rationally. He was in love. And he was lost.

  “Do what?”

  “You know what I’m talking about.”

  “Will you do it? Have you changed your mind?”

  “I haven’t decided. Do you still have feelings for him?”

  “You know how I feel. I’ve already told you.”

  “No, you haven’t. I want to hear you say that he hit you. That you’re afraid of him. That you think he wants to kill you.”

  “Calm down. You know what I asked you to do. Do you think I would do that for no reason?”

  “No. Do you love him?”

  “Let’s drop it.”

  “Do you hit Tina?”

  “What the hell does that have to do with anything? I don’t like all these fucking questions.”

  “She’s just a kid. She doesn’t have anybody except you.”

  “You’re a sick fucker. I know what you do for Geir. I know about a lot of the twisted things you’ve done. You’re sick in the head. And then you come here asking me whether I give my kid a swat once in a while? You’ve got some fucking nerve!”

  Then the slap came, the palm of her hand striking his cheek. He wasn’t prepared for that. A feeling of shame followed instantly. Then another slap. She was sobbing.

  “Fuck you!”

  Sving got up and left the bedroom. He went into the bathroom and sat down on the toilet. It’s her husband’s fault. It’s this thing she wants me to do that’s ruining it all, he thought. There was no hope for the two of them if he didn’t do it. But would there be any hope afterward? Would they finally be able to find some peace?

  When he went back to bed an hour later, Ane was sleeping as if nothing had happened. Her hair hid her face. He didn’t fall asleep until after dawn.