What is Mine

by Anne Holt

  Adam smiled without joy.

  “. . . when the police just shrugged their shoulders and said there wasn’t much they could do. The detective agency invoiced him for sixty-five thousand kroner for a trip to Australia, which resulted in nothing more than a three-page report that said that Ellen Kverneland and her little boy were presumably not there either. The agency wanted to investigate some leads in Latin America, but Karsten Åsli didn’t have any more money. That’s about all we know at the moment. Maybe we’ll have a more complete picture in a day or two. Not a nice case.”

  “No custody cases are nice,” said Johanne in a terse voice. “Why do you think I agreed to share the care of Kristiane?”

  “I thought perhaps . . .”

  She interrupted:

  “This Ellen Kverneland was right, in other words. Not surprising she ran away. Karsten Åsli can’t exactly have promised to be the perfect father. It’s so difficult to get people to understand things like that in court. He had a clean record and obviously knew how to behave to make the right impression.”

  “But the case itself, this dispute about custody, might have . . .”

  “Made him psychopathic? No. Of course not.”

  “That’s perhaps the worst thing,” said Adam. “That we’ll never know why he . . . who Karsten Åsli actually was. What he was. Why he did what he . . .”

  Johanne slowly shook her head. The windowpane was cold against her fingertips now and she put her hands in her pockets.

  “The worst thing is that three children are dead,” she said. “And that Emilie will probably never . . .”

  She couldn’t bear to cry anymore. But her eyes filled up all the same, and she felt a cramp in her diaphragm that made her bend forward; she leaned her forehead against the window and tried to breathe slowly.

  “You don’t know how Emilie will cope,” said Adam, and got up. “Time heals most wounds. At least, it can help us to live with them.”

  “You saw her,” Johanne flared, and pulled away from the hand on her left shoulder. “Didn’t you see the state she was in? She will never be herself again. Never!”

  She threw her arms around herself and rocked from side to side, with her head down, as if she was holding a baby in her arms.

  Damaged goods, Warren had once said about a boy they had found after he’d been held hostage for five days. Those kids are damaged goods, you know.

  The boy couldn’t speak, but the doctors said there was a good chance that he would regain the ability. It would just take time. They should also be able to do something about the damage to his rectum. It would just take time. Warren shook his head without emotion, shrugged his shoulders, and again exclaimed:

  Damaged goods.

  She was too young then, too young and in love and full of ambitions for a career in the FBI, so she said nothing.

  “Can I stay the night?” said Adam.

  She lifted her head.

  “It’s late,” said Adam.

  She tried to breathe. Something was caught in her throat and she froze.

  “Can I?” asked Adam.

  “On the sofa,” said Johanne, and swallowed. “You can sleep on the sofa, if you want.”

  She was woken by a strip of sunlight squeezing its way in through the gap between the blinds and the window frame. She lay still for a long time, listening. The neighborhood was quiet; one or two birds had already started their day. The alarm clock said it was six o’clock. She had only slept for about three hours, but she got up all the same. It was only when she went to the bathroom that she remembered that Adam had stayed the night. She tiptoed out into the living room.

  He was sleeping on his back with his mouth open, but there was no noise. The blanket had slipped half off to reveal a solid thigh. He had on blue boxer shorts and her football shirt. His arm was resting on the back of the sofa and his fingers were clutching the coarse material, as if he was holding on in order not to fall on the floor.

  He was so like Warren on the outside. And yet so different in every other way.

  One day I’ll tell you about Warren, she thought to herself. One day I’ll tell you what happened. But not yet. I think we’ve got plenty of time.

  He grunted a bit and a small snort made his Adam’s apple jump. He turned over in his sleep to find a new position. The blanket fell to the floor. She carefully laid it over him again; she held her breath and tucked the red checkered blanket around him. Then she went into the study.

  Sunlight streamed in through the window to the east and made it difficult to see. She pulled down the blinds and turned on her computer. The secretary at work had sent an e-mail, with five messages. Only one of them was important.

  Aksel Seier was in Norway. He wanted to meet her and had left two numbers. One was for the Continental Hotel.

  Johanne hadn’t thought about Aksel Seier since she’d found Emilie. Unni Kongsbakken’s story had been forgotten in that tomb on Snaubu farm. When Johanne had been wandering aimlessly through the streets of Oslo, before Adam picked her up and took her to the homemade bunker on top of a hill some miles northeast of Oslo, she had been uncertain what to do with the old lady’s story. If there was anything she could do.

  All her doubts vanished now.

  The story of Hedvig Gåsøy’s murder was Aksel Seier’s story. He owned it. Johanne would meet him, give him what was his and then take him to meet Alvhild. Only then would she be finished with Aksel Seier.

  Johanne turned around. Adam was standing barefoot in the doorway. He was scratching his belly and gave a lopsided smile.

  “It’s early. Really early. Should I make coffee?”

  Without waiting for an answer he padded over to her and cupped her face in his hands. He didn’t kiss her, but he was still smiling, more broadly now, and Johanne felt a fresh morning breeze coming in through the half-open window, stroking her legs through her pajamas. The summer the meteorologists had promised for so long was finally here.

  “I think it’s going to be a lovely day,” said Adam, and didn’t let go of her. “I think summer is finally here, Johanne.”

  SIXTY-NINE

  When Johanne met Aksel Seier at the reception desk of the Continental Hotel on the morning of June 9, she barely recognized him. In Harwich Port he had looked like a fisherman and odd job man from a small New England town, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Now he looked more like a tourist from Florida. His hair had been shaved off and he had nothing to hide behind anymore. His face was somber. He didn’t even smile when he saw her, and didn’t ask her to sit down. It was as if he had no time to lose. He spoke in English when he told her that his son was in the hospital following a serious car accident. It was a matter of hours, he said bluntly. He had to go.

  “Do you . . .” Johanne started, then hesitated, completely thrown by the fact that Aksel Seier had a son, a son who lived in Norway, a son who was now lying in the hospital and was about to die. “Do you want company? Do you want me to come? Keep you company?”

  He nodded.

  “Yeah. I think so. Thanks.”

  It was only when they were in the cab that she put two and two together.

  Later, in the days and weeks that followed, when she tried to understand what had happened in the taxi on the way to the hospital where Karsten Åsli lay dying, she was reminded of her old math teacher from secondary school.

  For some reason she had chosen science. Maybe because she was good at school, and science was for the smart ones. Johanne had never understood math. Big numbers and mathematical signs were as meaningless to her as hieroglyphs; symbols that remained closed and silent in the face of her persistent efforts to understand. During an exam in her second year, Johanne had what she later thought of as an epiphany. Suddenly the numbers meant something. The equations worked. It was a glimpse into an unknown world, an existence where strict logic ruled. The answers were at the end of a beautiful pattern of symbols and figures. The teacher leaned over her shoulder; he smelled of old people and camphor lozenges.
He whispered:

  “There you go, Johanne. See! The young lady has seen the light!”

  And that’s exactly what it felt like.

  Aksel had talked about Karsten. She didn’t react. He told her about Eva. She listened. Then he mentioned their surname, almost in passing, in a subordinate clause as the taxi pulled up in front of the hospital.

  There was nothing that could surprise her anymore.

  She felt the hairs stand up on her arms. That was all.

  Everything fell into place. Karsten Åsli was Aksel’s son.

  “There you go, Johanne,” whispered her math teacher and sucked on the lozenge in his mouth.

  “The young lady has seen the light.”

  There were two plainclothesmen in the corridor, but Aksel Seier barely noticed anything or anyone. Johanne realized that he hadn’t yet been told what his son had done. She made a silent prayer that it could wait until it was all over.

  She put her hand on Aksel’s shoulder. He stopped and looked her in the eye.

  “I’ve got a story for you,” she said in a low voice. “Yesterday . . . I found out the truth about Hedvig’s murder. You are innocent.”

  “I know that,” he said without emotion, and didn’t even blink.

  “I’ll tell you everything,” Johanne continued. “When this . . .”

  She quickly looked over at Karsten Åsli’s room.

  “When all this is over. Then I’ll tell you what actually happened.”

  Aksel put his hand on the door handle.

  “And one more thing,” she said, holding him back. “There’s an old lady. She’s very ill. It’s thanks to her that the truth has eventually come out. Her name is Alvhild Sofienberg. I want you to come with me to meet her. Later, when all this is over. Do you promise me that?”

  He gave a slight nod and then went in.

  Johanne followed.

  Karsten Åsli’s face was bruised and swollen and was barely visible among the bright white sheets, bandages, and gurgling machines that would keep him alive for a few more hours. Aksel sat down on the only chair in the room. Johanne went over to the window. She was not interested in the patient. It was Aksel Seier she looked at when she turned around again, and it was only him she thought of.

  You served the sentence for your son, Aksel. You have atoned for your son’s sins. I hope that you’ll be able to see it like that.

  Aksel Seier was sitting with his head bent and his hands folded around Karsten’s right hand.

  The ceiling was blue. The man in the store claimed that the dark color would make the room seem smaller. He was wrong. Instead the ceiling was lifted; it nearly disappeared. That’s what I wanted myself, when I was little: a dark night sky with stars and a small crescent moon over the window. But Granny chose for me then. Granny and Mom, a boy’s room in yellow and white.

  I think someone’s here.

  Someone is holding my hand. It’s not Mom. She used to do that, every now and then, when she came into my room at night, when Granny had gone to bed. Mom always said so little. Other children were told stories when they went to bed. I always fell asleep to the sound of my own voice, always. Mom said so little.

  Happiness is something I can barely remember, like a light touch in a crowd of strangers, gone before you’ve had a chance to turn around. When the room was finished and it was only two days until Preben was going to come, I was satisfied. Happiness is a childish thing and I am, after all, thirty-four. But naturally I was happy. I was looking forward to it.

  The room was ready. There was a little boy sitting on the moon. With blond hair, a fishing rod made from bamboo with string and a float and hook at the end: a star. A drop of gold had dribbled down toward the window, as if the Heavens were melting.

  My son was finally going to come.

  It hurts.

  It hurts everywhere, a great aching without beginning or end.

  I think I’m going to die.

  I can’t die. On the nineteenth of June I’m going to complete my project. On Preben’s birthday. I lost Preben, but I made up for it by giving the others what they deserved. They betrayed me. Everyone always betrays me.

  We agreed that he would be named Joakim. He was going to have my surname. His name was going to be Joakim Åsli and I bought a train. Ellen got angry when I took it to the hospital. She’d expected some jewelry, I think, as if she’d earned a medal. I chuff-chuffed the Märklin locomotive over his face and he actually opened his eyes and smiled. Ellen turned away and said he was just making a face.

  I would have been an excellent father. I’ve got it in me.

  I’m little, standing on the kitchen table in some winter clothes that someone has sent me. Later I asked Mommy if it was Daddy who wanted to give me a present. She never answered. Even though I was only four, I can remember the stamps, big and foreign; the brown paper was covered in strange stamps and markings. The jacket and pants were blue and light as a feather and I wanted to go out and play in the snow. Granny pulled them off. Someone else got the clothes.

  Someone else always gets what is mine.

  Ellen and the child just disappeared. She hadn’t even registered me as the father. It took four months before I found out that the boy was named Preben.

  I have to finish. I have to live.

  Someone is holding my hand. It’s not Mom. It’s a man.

  I’ve never had a father. Granny always got a hard look in her eyes when I asked. Mom looked away. In a small town, the fatherless are given a thousand fathers. New names were constantly being whispered in corners at school, wherever people gathered and played. It was unbearable. All I wanted was to know. I didn’t need a father, but I wanted to know. A name was all I needed.

  Emilie. She’ll die in the cellar. She’s mine, just like Preben. Grete cried and refused and wanted to go back to her home and family. I was so young then and let her go. I didn’t care about the child. I don’t care about her. It was Preben I wanted.

  Emilie can die for all I care.

  The other children might also have been mine.

  I owned their mothers. But they didn’t understand that.

  Someone is holding my hand and there is an angel in the light by the window.

  AUTHOR’S POSTSCRIPT

  In spring 2000, I heard a true story. It was about Ingvald Hansen, a man who had been sentenced to life in prison in 1938. Hansen was accused of raping and killing a seven-year-old girl, Mary. The story, as it was told to me over a table in a restaurant, was fascinating. There was much to indicate that the man had been the victim of a miscarriage of justice.

  My first impulse was to investigate the case in more detail. But instead, I was inspired to create this book’s Aksel Seier, another character in another time. Hansen and Seier share a similar fate on certain crucial points, but they are of course not the same person. Everything I know about Ingvald Hansen comes from an article written by the professor of law, Anders Brathom, published in the Norwegian law journal Tidsskrift for lov og rett 2000, pp. 443 ff., and from a report in Aftenposten on Saturday, November 4, 2000. Apparently Hansen died a couple of years after a surprising and apparently unexplained release.

  Those readers who take the time to read these articles will see that I have also been inspired by reality on another point: when Ingvald Hansen applied for a pardon in 1950, his case was dealt with by a young female lawyer. This woman, Anne Louise Beer, a former judge in the probate court in Oslo, is primarily responsible for reviving the interest in Ingvald Hansen’s story. She never forgot the case, even though circumstances made it impossible for her to pursue the possibility that the man had been unfairly imprisoned. According to these articles, she tried to get ahold of the case documents in the nineties. They had vanished without a trace.

  I don’t know Judge Beer, and as far as I know I have never met her. Alvhild Sofienberg in this book is, like all the other characters in the book, entirely fictitious. However, Alvhild’s experience of Aksel’s case is, on several points, very simila
r to the experiences of Judge Beer in relation to the Ingvald Hansen case.

  The way in which I have “solved” the mystery of Aksel Seier in this book is purely imagination. I have absolutely no grounds for saying anything whatsoever about what happened when Ingvald Hansen was first sentenced and then later released under peculiar circumstances.

  I have had invaluable help from many people while working on this book. I would particularly like to mention my brother, Even, who gave me a frightening recipe for murder when writing his medical doctorate. Berit Reiss-Andersen is a very dear friend and wise critic. My thanks also to my editor and most important advisor, Eva Grøner, and to my Swedish publisher, Ann-Marie Skarp, for their enthusiastic and valuable support. I would also like to thank Øystein Mæland for his useful contribution. And I am particularly grateful to Line Lunde, a loyal mainstay since Blind Goddess. She told me the exciting story that was the inspiration for What Is Mine.

  And finally, a big thankyou to you, Tine.

  Anne Holt

  Cape Cod, April 18, 2001