The Ice Swimmer

by Kjell Ola Dahl

  She gave him a broad smile. It was her gesture to him, an invitation to laugh together, to smile away the seriousness of the situation and extinguish the strange antagonism that lay smouldering in some intangible place between them. The question was intended to clear the area they had to chisel out for each other – the relationship between work and private life.

  But Steffen didn’t smile back.

  She wanted him in a light, humorous mood. ‘I suppose you realise this conclusion would make for a juicy debate?’

  ‘That’s not how it works,’ he answered sombrely. ‘You’re police and I’m a journalist. We do different things. We have different angles on the same topic. We printed the photos because they were in the public interest. Why? Well, because Vestgård was present at the dinner. The Ethics Council talking to Polisario is not in the slightest bit dramatic. Nor when it happens over a meal. But when the meeting is set up and organised by Aud Helen Vestgård you have to question to what extent a low-ranking official is working in a neutral, unprejudiced capacity, simply because Vestgård is not just anyone. She has status. She has authority. It’s obvious that this meeting between the three of them is in the public interest.’

  ‘I don’t want a quarrel with you,’ she said, ‘But there is one thing to say. I went onto the CIA’s homepages and Polisario is not on any lists of terrorist organisations.’

  Steffen pulled an irritated grimace. ‘That’s not the point,’ he said.

  ‘But you claim they’re terrorists.’

  He dismissed her argument with an angry flick of his hand. ‘The photos carry the article. And they prove that any work Adeler did with regard to Western Sahara is worthless!’ Steffen raised his index finger and wagged it to emphasise every word. ‘If the Ethics Council or the Oil Fund have made decisions based on Adeler’s work with Western Sahara the decisions have to be reversed. We live in a country with a free press. Officials working for the Ethics Council are supposed to be neutral. They’re not supposed to be pandering to one side of a disputed territory and taking up a position according to what Norwegian politicians say they should!’

  Lena interrupted his flow. ‘How can you know this? You have no idea what they talked about!’

  ‘And what do you know?’

  ‘Do you know what they talked about at the meeting?’

  ‘I told you. I have a source. My deep throat knows what was said at the meeting. We don’t publish the photos for fun, you know!’

  ‘Is Vestgård your source?’

  ‘Are you crazy? Of course she isn’t.’

  ‘What was said at the meeting?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that now.’

  So that was how he sorted out a relationship. She shook her head and sighed.

  ‘Vestgård lied to the police,’ Steffen persisted. ‘The one person who knows about that is you. The photos we published prove that a Norwegian MP is lying. Why is she lying? There’s only one explanation. She has a private agenda with regard to the Government Pension Fund Global and Polisario. It’s the duty of the press to bring such matters to public attention. Or do you think I should keep my mouth shut? Should the press lie down, crawl and meow just because Vestgård’s an MP?’

  ‘The press shouldn’t lie down,’ she said, ‘but it does have a duty to quote its sources correctly.’

  He smiled disarmingly. ‘I apologise for that. I have done already.’

  Lena was once again amazed at how quickly Steffen’s mood could change.

  However, she simply didn’t believe in Steffen’s alleged scoop. She had greater faith in Vestgård’s version. Lena would have liked to tell Steffen he was on a wild-goose chase. She could have told him there was no secret alliance between Vestgård and Polisario, that the connection between them was about two students who fell in love and a pregnancy in Paris slightly more than twenty years ago. But Lena was unable to do that. She had sworn an oath of confidentiality.

  Here we are, she thought, together and apart. He keeps his secrets and I keep mine.

  There was a lengthy silence. When she raised her head she looked into his open face. ‘You’re still here,’ he said warily.

  She gave a smile of resignation.

  ‘Shall we eat?’

  She glanced across at the table, the bowl of prawns and the wine. Deep down, she knew it would be a mistake to sit down at the table. It would be a mistake to stay here any longer. A mistake to go to bed afterwards. A big mistake, she thought, watching him move towards the table and open the bottle. She sat still and watched him pour, watched him take both glasses and pass her one.

  ‘Skål,’ he said softly. ‘To us.’

  Lena closed both eyes and took a sip from the glass.

  It was night. The light from the streetlamps outside cast a yellowish-grey gleam over the room.

  Lena lay in Steffen’s broad bed looking at the floorboards. They ran parallel along the floor and tapered slightly near the wall. She imagined they continued behind the wall and tapered again until they met at a fixed point far away.

  Lena let her eyes wander across the wall. Focused on the door. There was a light on in the room behind.

  The door handle moved.

  The door opened, slowly.

  A little girl stood in the doorway. She had plaits and was wearing a tattered dress. Her tights were twisted round her thin legs. The girl beckoned furiously for Lena to get out of bed. Lena glanced at Steffen. He was fast asleep. She got up carefully and swung her feet to the floor. Pulled on her jumper, which hung over the chair, and followed the girl, who was already out of the door. Lena moved quickly down the stairs. It was cold under her bare feet. The cold went up her bare legs. The girl was always half a staircase ahead. The door slammed shut as they ran out. It was freezing cold outside. Lena told the girl to wait, but she just kept running, waving her arms and shouting that Lena had to hurry. A bit further down the dark street an open gateway shone. There was an orange, glowing light inside, as though it were on fire. The girl disappeared. Lena stopped. She didn’t want to go on, didn’t want to go into the reddish glow. She called that she wasn’t going in. But her cries were drowned by church bells peeling. Then a shadow leaned over her. She screamed.

  And woke up.

  She was looking straight into Steffen’s face. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked, befuddled.

  He just looked at her in confusion. ‘I can hear something ringing,’ he said sleepily.

  Then she heard the sound. An alarm! A shrill, piercing sound rent the air.

  ‘I can smell burning,’ Steffen said.

  Immediately Lena was awake. She jumped out of bed. Pulled on her underwear, tights and jumper.

  He was still in bed, calmly staring up at her.

  ‘That’s a smoke detector,’ she said. ‘An alarm.’ She put on the rest of her clothes and opened the door a fraction.

  The sound was coming from the staircase outside the flat. There was a stronger smell of fire in the sitting room. She ran through the room, into the hallway, and unlocked the door.

  People were thundering down the stairs. The smoke detectors were getting louder and grey smoke poured in through the door opening. At that moment another smoke detector went off. It was above her head. The noise was ear-splitting.

  She slammed the door shut. Turned to Steffen. He was wearing trousers and a vest and holding his ears. ‘Fire,’ she shouted.

  Steffen hobbled around putting on his shoes and socks.

  ‘We’ve got to get out,’ Lena said.

  ‘How? There’s no balcony.’ He pulled a jumper over his head. Went to the window and looked out onto the street.

  She pulled on her boots and jacket. It was cold outside, but outside was where she was going. Lena opened the front door. Running feet crashed down the staircase, which was pitch black. Smoke immediately billowed into the flat. ‘Come on,’ said Lena, grabbing his hand.

  Friday, 18th December

  1

  Gunnarstranda always woke up early when he stayed in
a hotel.

  It was five o’clock in the morning and the noisy air-conditioning was on. He knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep.

  He looked at his alarm clock on the bedside table. Switched off the alarm. He thought about Tove.

  At that moment the phone rang.

  ‘I was thinking about you,’ Tove said. ‘So I thought you would be thinking about me and it wasn’t too early to ring.’

  ‘You’re right. I was,’ he said.

  ‘How’s the weather in Stockholm?’

  ‘Haven’t managed to see yet, but I would guess it’s like yesterday. Cold.’

  ‘How was the visit to Polisario?’

  ‘In fact, the trip’s been a waste of time. Asim Shamoun hadn’t seen anyone with a camera outside the restaurant. This paparazzi guy must’ve concealed himself well.’

  Tove roared with laughter at his resigned tone. She could never understand how people could regard a flight abroad as failed if you had access to a duty-free shop at the airport. ‘Have you had a nice time then?’

  Gunnarstranda sat up and swung his feet to the floor.

  ‘Asim Shamoun’s a passionate man, an enthusiastic reader of newspapers. He gets so caught up by an article or an item that he stands up and paces around the room, takes a pair of scissors, cuts out the extract and puts it somewhere for safekeeping. Then he turns the page, reads a book review and becomes as enthusiastic as before, cuts out what he’s read and puts notes in his pocket. While he and I were talking he went through what he’d read and cut out while waiting for me. Five pieces of paper. So I sit watching the guy thinking, what does he do with all this paper? I ask him. And he says: “I keep them”. Do you understand? No archive or filing system. Presumably he puts everything in a cardboard box or in the rubbish bin. The last note’s forgotten as soon as the next one’s been cut out. The guy’s a dreamer. Today will bring a new enthusiasm. Perhaps he’s up now, walking around his room. He picks up the scissors and cuts, finds some old paper in his pocket, which he throws away, then reads on and exclaims: “Would you listen to that! What eloquence! Listen to what the man has written!”’ Gunnarstranda grinned.

  ‘Reminds me of Torstein, my ex-husband,’ Tove said.

  ‘Similar,’ Gunnarstranda said. ‘Asim Shamoun’s a well-meaning, nice, innocuous man.’

  ‘When are you coming home?’

  ‘This afternoon. He’s insisted on driving me to the airport.’

  ‘Did you find out what you wanted?’

  ‘Yes indeed. But what a waste of time coming to Sweden. I could’ve just rung the guy.’

  2

  A big fire engine with a ladder blocked the pavement. The compressor in the vehicle droned. Three powerful searchlights cut through the darkness and cast a yellow light over the scene, making it seem unreal.

  A firefighter wearing a mask trudged through the door and into the artificial yellow light.

  A smoke diver, Lena thought, shivering in the cold air and stifling a yawn. She had no idea how long it had been since she stumbled out of the very same door.

  The smoke diver tore off his mask and collected the residents around him.

  Lena moved away from the wall and joined the circle. The man had a scar on his top lip, Lena noticed. A harelip. His face reminded her of something. She scanned her memory to no avail.

  He announced that they could return to their flats now.

  It was a sleepy group of people who slowly ambled back into the block. An aged woman with a fur coat over her nightie stood apathetically staring into the distance. One of the firefighters took her arm and led her back in. A young couple had their arms wrapped around each other. An elderly man wearing a coat over his striped pyjamas hadn’t heard the announcement and asked what was happening.

  Steffen and the smoke diver with the harelip came over. ‘He says the build-up of smoke was caused by someone having lit some old rags in a zinc bucket at the bottom of the cellar stairs,’ Steffen said.

  Lena was unspeakably tired and pulled her jacket tighter around her.

  ‘That would never have caused an actual fire,’ the smoke diver assured them and continued on his way to the immense fire engine. The man clambered into the driver’s cab. The compressor stopped at once.

  She turned to Steffen. The previous night she had been in agonies about what to tell him. She hadn’t mentioned or hinted at the tumour once. They had barely spoken. She had slept maybe two or three hours. It seemed unreal watching firemen joking and laughing as they handled heavy machinery, gas masks and protective equipment.

  ‘I’m going to work,’ Steffen said. ‘For me this is a story.’

  Lena yawned. She felt most like going back to bed. But she took his point. Journalists can’t report on world events from their bedrooms.

  ‘Shall I drive you?’ she asked, motioning to her car parked by the pavement.

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he said. ‘I’m off now. I’ll think up a few well-formulated sentences on the tram.’

  She nodded.

  He cleared his throat. ‘What’s the time?’

  She automatically pulled up the sleeve of her jacket. No watch. ‘It’s on your bedside table,’ she said.

  He put his hand in his pocket and brought out a key. ‘Here. While you’re up there take a shower, have some breakfast and put the key in the letter box when you leave.’

  She took the key. And watched the figure hurry away beneath the streetlamps without so much as a backward glance.

  The engine roared as the fire vehicle drove off. She turned to the block of flats. The searchlights were gone. The darkness of the night was back. People had returned to their flats. The front door was wide open. A small child with plaits ran in and up the stairs. Lena smiled and followed. The child was like the girl in her dream.

  It felt odd to be on her own, going to unlock the door to Steffen’s flat. She walked up the stairs slowly. The windows in the stairwell were open to ensure proper ventilation. Nonetheless, a smell of smoke still lingered inside the walls. There was total silence. You wouldn’t believe the residents of this block had just been dragged from their beds.

  It was quiet, like when you duck your head under water and hold your breath, that kind of quiet.

  She swung around the landing and looked straight at the door to Steffen’s flat.

  She stopped.

  The door was ajar.

  She had one foot on the landing and one on the first step. Craned her neck. The door really was unlocked, with a gap of a few centimetres.

  But hadn’t she slammed the door shut after them as they raced out … how long ago? An hour?

  She couldn’t remember, only the panic and the haste.

  She walked slowly up the last steps. Concentrated and tried to recap what had happened:

  The murky staircase. She remembered that. The darkness and the thick smoke; the fear she shared with the other residents dashing out of the building.

  Why had the stairs been in total darkness? The person who set fire to the rags must have switched off the light. Now a dim ceiling lamp lit the landing.

  She had run out of the flat first. Of course. Steffen had followed her. He must have forgotten to shut the door.

  But how could he have done?

  They were on their way out of what they supposed was a fire. Draughts allow fires to spread. How could they have forgotten to close the door?

  Ah, the crew of firefighters. They had a master key. They must have been in to check everything was alright.

  Lena relaxed. At that moment the silence was broken by running feet on the floor above. It must have been the girl with the plaits.

  The sound broke the oppressive atmosphere. Lena lifted her right hand and pushed the door open to its full extent.

  She walked into the hall. She was dressed. It was six o’clock in the morning. The car was outside. It would be best to get her watch and then drive home, have a shower and a bite to eat before going to work.

  She placed her f
oot on the threshold, but stiffened when she heard a sound.

  Someone was inside, in the sitting room.

  Lena stood still and breathed through her open mouth.

  Someone had simulated a fire. The residents ran out. And now there was someone in Steffen’s flat, someone who didn’t belong here.

  The glass over the film poster reflected parts of the sitting room. Above the face of Ingrid Bergman, who was looking at Cary Grant with bedroom eyes, she could see the sitting-room window, the sofa…

  The glass frame that held the film poster reflected the blind spot behind the door. She could clearly make out a shadow in the reflection.

  But the shadow wasn’t human. It was a lampshade. Lena breathed out and went in.

  She continued into Steffen’s bedroom. No smoke had seeped in here. The room smelt of sleep.

  She took her watch and walked to the door, fastening the strap. The situation was reminiscent of something, but what? She went on into the sitting room. And looked up.

  She read the title of the nearest poster: Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye.

  A second later she was lying on the floor with an icy pain in her head. She saw the man’s shadow in the glass frame. She rolled over onto her stomach. The very next moment she was being pressed into the floor. She screamed as he pulled her up by the hair and forced a knee into her back. At that moment she registered a nauseating taste in her nose and mouth. She saw Humphrey Bogart laughing. His smiling mouth stayed the same size as his head shrank. It became smaller and smaller and finally merged into the black darkness.

  3

  Out of the speakers came Arab music. Flute laments accompanied a man’s voice that sang with a pronounced vibrato. Asim Shamoun’s shoulders swung in time with the music. With one hand on the wheel and his eyes firmly on the traffic he turned the music up a little higher. The drums came in. He flicked the fingers of his left hand. Sang along with the refrain.