by Karin Fossum
‘A nightmarish descent into hell.’
Chapter 17
Her name was Astrid Landmark. She had recently turned fifty-three. At fifty-nine her husband, Helge, seemed much older sitting in his wheelchair. She had wheeled him in front of the television, but he couldn’t follow the programme; he just sat there dozing, in the blue flicker of the screen. The light made him morbidly pale.
Astrid stood with her back to him. She held clothes that needed ironing. Because the paralysis rose in his body relentlessly, like tidewater, it was difficult to look him in the eye. Soon he wouldn’t be able to swallow, or talk or breathe. They understood this; they knew what to expect down to the smallest detail. The fear of death had sunk its claws in him, but he didn’t have the strength to fight back. She couldn’t stand it. She didn’t know where to look, what to say. Almost everything was taboo, almost nothing could be discussed. Phrases like until spring, or next Christmas, or another time had become impossible to utter; there wouldn’t be another time. They ought to discuss many things, important things about death and burial. And the cabin at Blefjell which he’d named El Dorado because it was such a money pit. Should she keep it? What about the house? Would she be able to maintain it? Would she be able to start the lawnmower? Manage the snowblower in the winter? Who would stain the house — it was already dry — or prune the fruit trees? Standing there with the iron, she was boiling hot. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t necessary to iron at all, because the shirts had gone into the dryer, and they were soft and smooth. But she preferred this kind of pottering, because it made her feel busy. As long as she stayed busy, he was quiet, and the truth, the awful truth, could be kept at bay. Now, with her back to him, he wouldn’t disturb her, she felt safe. Afterwards, she would have to make another trip to the cellar to load the washing machine again. She’d made plans to knead bread dough, wash the front-door window and sweep the kitchen floor. All while he sat in his wheelchair. As the fear crawled through him like ants. When she finally settled in beside him, on a recliner, he felt her despair, and he couldn’t bear it. When he asked her for help to lie down, she got an hour’s reprieve in the semi-darkness. There he lay crying against the wall of the bedroom as she watched television, sobbing.
She hung the newly ironed shirts on hangers. She heard him hawk and clear his throat — mucus in his airway — but he didn’t have the energy to cough. So it remained there gurgling in his throat. She was distracted by the gurgling; it was horrible. You would think he was a hundred years old instead of fifty-nine. She gripped the ironing board. She had to be strong and encouraging. She was supposed to stand by his side until he died, indefatigable, gentle and patient. She was supposed to help him die with dignity. But she couldn’t. Parts of herself she didn’t know existed had risen to the surface like poison. She cursed God and life, she cursed herself and her shortcomings, and she cursed death. But worst of all, in the blackest hours, she also cursed her husband, who was succumbing to this illness, to this miserable decline. It wasn’t part of the plan. He had always been big and strong, in charge, playful. He had taken care of things. Now his legs were useless, his skin no longer resembled skin; his skull looked as though it was covered with an old oilcloth. When she had these thoughts and admitted her own wretchedness, her own boundless cowardice, she fell apart even more. What if he knew how things really were and what she was really thinking? Could he feel it? Could he smell it? Was her betrayal perceptible in the room, did he hear it whispering in the corners? Was that why he’d stopped talking to her, even though he still could speak?
What was going through his mind?
When I’m dead, they’ll put me in the freezer, Astrid. I’ll have to lie there for several days. Then my cheeks will stiffen and turn cold as ice. Then I’ll burn, Astrid, in two-thousand-degree heat. It’s so hot the skeleton curls in the casket. I’m so scared, Astrid. Can’t you find a solution? Can’t you arrange a miracle? Can’t you slap my cheek and say, Wake up, Helge, you’re having a bad dream!
She pulled another shirt from the pile.
A blue shirt with a white collar and white cuffs, perhaps one of the best he owned. Even though she knew it would never be worn again, she ironed it as best she could; with all the buttons it was difficult. His throat no longer gurgled, and she didn’t like the silence either. When she glanced over her shoulder, she saw that his head had fallen to his chest, as if he was sleeping. Maybe he died, she thought, without my noticing. Then she heard him fumbling with something on the table, probably the remote control. No doubt he wanted to change the channel; there were many programmes he couldn’t watch. He couldn’t stand laughter and shouting, or loud music. His life was solemn, his world having narrowed to a dark passage where there was room only for himself: his fear, pain and sorrow.
Just then she looked out of the window. She heard something outside, a car, driving unusually slowly. It stopped at the gate for a few seconds then glided forward, a few metres past the driveway. Letting go of what she had in her hands, she craned her neck. The driver looked as though he was going to reverse into the driveway. What was this? They weren’t expecting anybody, and the car itself was rather strange. She remained still, staring. Perhaps I’m dreaming, she thought, this can’t be right. A large black car with a cross on its roof backed into the drive. She was about to faint. She held on to the ironing board, and glanced at her husband, who had also heard the car. The low, even hum from the motor, the tyres crunching gravel. A door slammed. Astrid Landmark panicked. She didn’t know what was going on. There was only one thing on her mind: Helge mustn’t see the car, not under any circumstances. He was unsettled. He put his hands on the wheels of his chair; he didn’t like people coming to the house, couldn’t bear anyone seeing him in this miserable state. Astrid went to the window. Perhaps she’d been mistaken? Maybe the car had some form of advertising on the roof, something she’d misunderstood. But it was a cross. The car was a hearse. A man in a dark suit had opened the rear door, and now stood looking up at the house. He seemed collected and composed. This was his profession. This was what he did every day to earn his wages.
‘Is someone coming?’ Helge asked anxiously. ‘Will they have to come inside?’ His voice had no strength.
Astrid held on to the windowsill. ‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘they’re not coming in.’
She was so confused that she could barely speak. As she saw Helge trying to manoeuvre the wheelchair towards the window, even though it cost him more energy than he possessed, she was seized by desperation.
‘Must be a mistake,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and talk to him.’
She trotted to the door, keeping her eyes on her husband. The chair was moving, its grey rubber wheels rolling slowly across the parquet floor.
‘No,’ she shouted. ‘Just sit!’
As if he could do anything else. But he could sense her panic, could sense that she was keeping something from him, and he didn’t want that. He wanted to look out of the window. He wanted to see what she saw. When she opened the door, he was halfway across the floor.
The man outside was about her age. He was immaculately dressed in a dark suit, and exceedingly polite. He extended a hand, bowing deeply and respectfully. ‘My condolences,’ he said.
‘What is this?’ she gasped.
He maintained his imperturbable calm. Perhaps he’d seen this before, this confusion. With the next of kin. When death had come to the house.
‘Arnesen,’ he said. ‘From Memento.’
‘Arnesen?’
‘I’m from Memento,’ he repeated. ‘The funeral home. Ingemar Arnesen.’
Astrid began to tremble. She stared at the road, wondering whether the neighbours could see the car. What about Helge? Had he reached the window — could he see everything that was happening? She leaned against the door frame for support.
‘But what are you doing here?’ she whispered, her mouth dry.
Ingemar Arnesen raised an eyebrow. For the first time, he suspected that something might be differe
nt this time, though nothing he couldn’t handle with dignity. He remained calm.
‘I was called,’ he explained, ‘to pick up Helge Landmark.’ He looked directly into her eyes. His irises were large and green.
Then it struck Astrid. She grasped the door frame and stared at him wide-eyed. ‘Helge Landmark isn’t dead. He’s sitting by the window watching us as we speak.’
Arnesen closed his eyes. The whirling thoughts in his head became visible as twitches to his mouth, and Astrid felt sympathy for him.
‘Who called you?’ she said.
He straightened up, and his eyes darted towards the window, then back to the black car. ‘The doctor.’
‘The doctor?’
‘Dr Mikkelsen from Sandberg Medical Centre. Helge Landmark’s doctor. He reported the death two hours ago.’
She shook her head uncomprehendingly. ‘We don’t know a Dr Mikkelsen. Helge’s doctor’s called Dr Onstad. Martin Onstad. At the Central Hospital.’ She stared into the open car, and was terrified. ‘Somebody’s playing a trick on us.’
‘It looks that way,’ Arnesen said.
‘But who is Dr Mikkelsen? Is it a doctor you know?’
Arnesen seemed lost. She noticed the crease of his trousers, sharp as a knife. Newly polished black shoes. Snow-white shirt. ‘Many doctors call us,’ he said miserably. ‘There are always new doctors, and then the locums — it’s impossible to know every name. But he sent me here. To this address.’ He shrugged. ‘Helge Landmark. Is he your husband?’
‘He’s sick,’ Astrid whispered.
She flinched, because the door to the passenger side of the black car suddenly opened, and a younger man — also in a black suit — stepped on to the gravel. Of course there are two of them, she thought, for carrying the body. She looked nervously at the window, but the reflection in the glass made it impossible to see anything.
The younger man neared the steps. He too greeted Astrid with a respectful bow. ‘Is this the wrong address?’ he asked, a hint of dread in his young face.
‘That would be safe to say,’ Arnesen said gravely. ‘This is a mistake on every conceivable level.’
‘But what did he say?’ Astrid asked. ‘The man who called himself Dr Mikkelsen.’
Arnesen tried to recall. ‘He was rather curt, and maybe a little animated. He sounded quite young, so I thought maybe he’d just qualified. He didn’t say that much, just gave me the address. And the name, of course. He said Landmark had been sick for a long time, and that his death was expected. I asked him for the certificate. If he could send it to us by post, and he said, “Yes, I’ll send it by post.”’
‘The certificate?’
‘Death certificate. Naturally, we’ve got to have it before we can start doing our job. The doctors often send it by post.’
Astrid summoned her courage to return to the house.
‘We’ve got to report this,’ Arnesen said. ‘Without delay.’
‘Do that for me,’ she pleaded. ‘I must return to Helge.’
Helge sat at the window.
His face was bathed in evening light, paler than ever.
The car from the funeral home had started its engine, but it remained parked in the driveway. The motor was barely audible, just a weak hum.
‘What are they driving?’ Helge asked.
Astrid looked at him sadly. ‘Someone called them here,’ she said. ‘But it was just a prank. We’re going to report it. You know, there’s been a lot of that going on recently — with fake obituaries in the newspaper and such. And that episode with the baby out in Bjerketun, remember? It’s probably the same people. Some boys, maybe, having a laugh.’
She turned away. Without knowing why, she imagined that he blamed her. As if she was the one who’d played this cruel trick. Now we’ll cross the line, she thought, now death has entered the house. This guest we’ve never dared talk about.
Helge gathered himself to speak. She saw how he struggled.
‘I suppose I could’ve gone with them,’ he said. ‘What difference would it make?’
He sniffed and laughed. The laughter was so bitter that Astrid was utterly racked with anguish. She knew instantly what he needed, and what she ought to do: run to him with assurances that she still needed him. Which was true. She needed Helge Landmark, the aeroplane mechanic, the tall, broad-shouldered man she’d met at the age of nineteen and whom she later married. But she didn’t need this sad man in the wheelchair. Illness had sneaked in everywhere; it was in the walls and in every room. A commode chair in the bathroom. A bedpan in the bedroom. A pill organiser in the kitchen. The last thing she saw before going to bed at night was his wheelchair. The big wheel and its grey rubber filled her field of vision, reminded her of a turbine sucking her in and throwing her around at great speed, until she didn’t know which way was up and which was down. Then she awoke to the same wheel in the morning.
The car was still there.
‘Why don’t they drive off?’ she said anxiously.
‘He’s talking on his mobile,’ Helge said. ‘He’s probably calling the police.’ He pressed his face to the glass to see. ‘Look at that car. It’s a limousine.’
They stared at the driveway.
‘Go and get them,’ Helge said suddenly.
Astrid was taken aback. ‘What?’
‘Get them. There’s something I want to say.’
‘But Helge,’ she pleaded, ‘they couldn’t help it. Someone called them.’
He looked at her imploringly, and grabbed her arm with a clumsy hand. Rarely did she see this type of engagement in him; it was as though he had been brought to life for the first time in months. ‘Please do what I say. You have good legs, after all. Hurry before they leave.’
Astrid ran to the steps. She reached the car just as it was about to drive off. The men looked at her curiously through the glass, the window slowly sliding down. ‘He wants to talk to you,’ she said in despair. ‘Can you come in? I’m sorry to disturb you, but this is very difficult.’
The men from Memento hesitated. The thought of seeing Helge Landmark face to face made them highly uncomfortable. He had something to say, and they didn’t feel they had the courage to hear it. But they did as Astrid requested, stepping out of the car and following her inside. They stood in the middle of the lounge and saw Helge Landmark in his wheelchair.
‘Good evening.’
Helge nodded, and they nodded in return. He pointed at the window with a pale hand. ‘Sorry for delaying you,’ he said. ‘But I’m interested in the car.’
The men looked at him uncertainly while they waited for him to continue.
‘I mean,’ Helge said, ‘that’s one hell of a car.’
Now they couldn’t help but smile.
‘It is,’ said Ingemar Arnesen.
Helge continued to study the limousine through the window. He put a hand in his matted hair. ‘Have you had it long?’
‘Since May.’
Helge looked at the other man. He was quite young, and this situation he’d landed in had flushed his cheeks red. ‘What is your name?’ he asked gruffly.
‘Knoop,’ he blurted out. ‘Karl Kristian Knoop.’ He bowed for good measure.
‘You’re an apprentice?’
The young man nodded. Wanting to do everything by the book, he made quick glances at his boss.
‘Have you been allowed to drive it?’
Knoop shook his head modestly.
Helge turned to his employer, now with a gleam in his eye. ‘You should let him drive. Give the young ones a chance. They have so much more energy than we do.’
A pause. Not knowing what to expect, Astrid rubbed her hands together. Helge had made a decision — she recognised the determination in his eyes.
‘Tell me about the car,’ he asked. ‘What kind of car is it?’
Instantly the men livened up, and Arnesen spoke.
‘It’s a Daimler. An Eagle Daimler, 87 model.’
‘Not bad,’ Helge said. ‘I imagine it
’s a pleasure to drive?’
‘Indeed it is.’
‘Not bought here in Norway, was it?’
‘We got it from Wilcox Limousines,’ Arnesen said. ‘Used. It came from a funeral home called Morning Glory.’
‘Right.’ Helge laughed. ‘Morning Glory. You could see it that way.’
‘One hundred and sixty-four horsepower.’
‘Hm.’
‘Princess Diana rode in a similar car,’ Arnesen said. ‘That is, it picked her up at the airport when she came home from Paris.’
‘It wasn’t cheap, that car,’ Helge said.
‘Four hundred thousand,’ Arnesen said. ‘But it’s full of leather and walnut, and other elegant details. You should smell the cabin. It has a scent of luxury and finesse.’
‘No passengers complain in the back seat?’ Helge winked.
‘No.’ Arnesen cleared his throat. ‘No one complains. The car’s like a ship sailing the ocean. Just a gentle swaying. The engine makes almost no sound.’
Helge Landmark looked out at the car again, then back at the men. ‘Is it possible to make a reservation?’
‘A reservation?’
Arnesen gave him a quizzical look. Knoop had fastened his gaze at a point on the floor where there was a knot in one of the oak boards.
‘I would like to be driven in that car,’ Helge said and nodded at the window. ‘When my time comes. Or when my time is up, if you will.’
It was silent in the Landmarks’ lounge. But the silence didn’t last long. For now the men walked across the room and took his hand.
‘It would be an honour and a pleasure,’ Arnesen said.
‘An honour and a pleasure,’ Knoop repeated.
‘That’s good,’ Helge said. ‘So everything will be easy for Astrid. When you two stand at our door and are old acquaintances. Are we in agreement, Astrid?’
She nodded, her eyes filling with tears.
