by Jo Nesbo
‘Are you sure that the gentleman in question is here?’ the head waiter asked, looking in the reservations book even though he knew perfectly well that Barli had turned up at 10.00 on the dot, as always, and sat down at his usual table on the glass veranda facing Stortingsgata. The unusual thing – which gave the head waiter some cause for concern about Barli’s mental state – was that the jovial producer had made a mistake with the day and come on a Thursday instead of on his regular day, Wednesday.
‘Forget it. I can see him,’ the man in front of him said. And he was gone.
Harry had recognised Wilhelm Barli by his mane of hair, but as he drew closer he began to wonder if he was mistaken.
‘Herr Barli?’
‘Harry!’
Wilhelm’s eyes lit up, but died just as quickly. His cheeks were sunken and the healthy, suntanned skin of just a few days before was now covered with a layer of white, lifeless powder. Wilhelm Barli seemed to have shrunk; even his broad shoulders appeared to be narrower.
‘Herring?’ Wilhelm pointed to the table in front of him. ‘Oslo’s best. I eat them every Wednesday. Good for the heart, they say. But that presupposes that you have one, and the people who come to this cafe…’ Wilhelm spread out his arm to present the almost deserted room.
‘No, thanks,’ Harry said, taking a seat.
‘Have a piece of bread, anyway.’ Wilhelm held out the bread basket. ‘This is the only place in Norway where you can get genuine fennel bread with whole fennel seeds. Perfect for herring.’
‘Just coffee, thank you.’
Wilhelm signalled to the waiter.
‘How did you find me here?’
‘I went to the theatre.’
‘Oh? They were told to say I was out of town. The journalists…’
Wilhelm imitated a stranglehold. Harry was not sure if that was supposed to demonstrate Wilhelm’s own situation or what he would like to do to the journalists.
‘I showed them police ID and said it was important,’ Harry said.
‘Good. Good.’
Wilhelm’s attention was focused somewhere in front of Harry when the waiter arrived with a second cup and poured coffee from the pot already on the table. The waiter withdrew, and Harry cleared his throat. Wilhelm gave a start, and his attention returned.
‘If you’ve come with bad news I want it straightaway, Harry.’
Harry shook his head while drinking his coffee.
Wilhelm closed his eyes and mumbled something inaudible.
‘How’s the play going?’ Harry asked.
Wilhelm smiled weakly.
‘A woman rang from the culture desk at Dagbladet yesterday and asked exactly the same question. I explained how the artistic side of things was going, but then it turned out that what she really wanted to know was if all the publicity surrounding Lisbeth’s mysterious disappearance and her sister’s jumping into the breech was good for ticket sales.’
He rolled his eyes.
‘Well,’ said Harry, ‘is it?’
‘Are you crazy, man?’
Wilhelm’s voice boomed forebodingly.
‘It’s summer. People want to have fun, not mourn for some woman they don’t even know. We have lost our main attraction: Lisbeth Barli, the undiscovered singing star from C amp;W land. Losing her just before opening night is not good for business!’
A couple of heads deeper into the room turned, but Wilhelm continued in the same loud voice.
‘We’ve sold almost no tickets. Well, apart from for the opening night – for that the tickets went like hot cakes. People are so bloodthirsty, they can smell a scandal. Basically, Harry, we are entirely dependent on rave reviews to pull this one off. But right now…’
Wilhelm banged a fist on the white tablecloth and the coffee jumped in the air.
‘… I can’t think of anything less important than bloody business!’
Wilhelm stared at Harry. All the signs were that the outburst would continue when, without any prior indication, an invisible hand wiped the fury from his expression. He was dazed for a moment, as if he didn’t know where he was. Then his face fell apart and he quickly hid it in his hands. Harry saw the head waiter send them a strange, hope-filled look.
‘I apologise,’ Wilhelm mumbled from behind his fingers. ‘I don’t usually… I’m not asleep… Oh shit, I’m so theatrical!’
He sobbed, a sound that was somewhere between laughing and crying, he hit the table again with his hand and pulled a grimace which he managed to twist into a kind of desperate smirk.
‘What can I help you with, Harry? You look sorry for yourself.’
‘Sorry for myself?’
‘Saddened. Melancholic. Cheerless.’
Wilhelm shrugged and piled a forkful of herring and bread into his open mouth. The skin of the fish glistened. The waiter glided soundlessly by the table and poured Chatelain Sancerre from a bottle into Wilhelm’s glass.
‘I have to ask about something that is perhaps unpleasantly intimate,’ Harry said.
Wilhelm shook his head as he washed down the food with wine.
‘The more intimate, the less unpleasant, Harry. Remember, I’m an artist.’
‘Fine.’
Harry took another gulp of coffee to give himself a mental run-up.
‘We found traces of excrement and blood under Lisbeth’s nail. Preliminary analyses match your blood group. I would like to know if we need to run a DNA test on it.’
Wilhelm stopped chewing, put the index finger of his right hand against his lips and stared pensively into the air.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to bother.’
‘So her finger has been in contact with your… excrement.’
‘We made love the night before she disappeared. We make love every night. We would have made love during the day too, if it hadn’t been so hot in the flat.’
‘And then…’
‘You’re wondering if we practise postillioning?’
‘Eh…?’
‘If she fingerfucks me up the backside? As often as she can. But carefully. Like sixty per cent of Norwegian men of my age, I have haemorrhoids. That was why Lisbeth never let her nails grow too long. Do you practise postillioning, Harry?’
Harry choked on his coffee.
‘On yourself or with others?’ Wilhelm asked.
‘You should, Harry. As a man especially. Letting yourself be penetrated touches on absolutely fundamental things. If you dare, you will discover that you have a much greater emotional range than you imagine. If you clench up, you close others out and yourself in. But by opening yourself, making yourself vulnerable and showing trust, you quite literally give others the chance to come inside you.’
Wilhelm was waving his fork around.
‘Of course, it is not without risk. They can destroy you, cut you up from the inside. But they can also love you. And then you embrace all their love, Harry. It’s yours. We say that the man takes possession of the woman during sexual intercourse, but is that true? Who takes possession of whose sex? Think about it, Harry.’
Harry thought about it.
‘It’s the same for artists. We have to open up, make ourselves vulnerable, let them in. To have the chance of being loved we have to take a chance on being destroyed inside. We’re talking about serious high-risk sports, Harry. I’m glad I don’t dance any more.’
As Wilhelm smiled, two tears rolled down – one from each eye in turn – in a jerky parallel slalom down his cheeks where they disappeared into his beard.
‘I miss her, Harry.’
Harry concentrated on the tablecloth. He considered whether he should leave, but stayed put.
Wilhelm pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose with a loud trumpeting sound before he poured the rest of the bottle of wine into his glass.
‘I don’t wish to impose myself, Harry, but when I said you looked sorry for yourself I realised that you always look sorry for yourself. Is it a woman?’
Harry fidgeted with his coff
ee cup.
‘Several?’
Harry was going to give an answer that would fend off further questions, but something made him change his mind. He nodded.
Wilhelm raised his glass.
‘It’s always women. Have you noticed that? Whom did you lose?’
Harry looked at Wilhelm. There was something in the expression of the bearded producer, a pained sincerity, an unguarded openness he recognised and which said he could trust him.
‘My mother fell ill and died when I was young,’ Harry said.
‘And you miss her?’
‘Yes.’
‘But there are several, aren’t there?’
Harry hunched his shoulders.
‘Six months ago a female colleague of mine was killed. Rakel, my girl…’
Harry paused.
‘Yes?’
‘This is hardly of any interest.’
‘I guess we’ve got to the heart of the matter,’ Wilhelm sighed. ‘You’re going your separate ways.’
‘We aren’t. She is. I’m trying to make her change her mind.’
‘Aha. And why does she want to go?’
‘Because I am the way I am. It’s a long story, but the short version is that I am the problem. And she would like me to be different.’
‘Do you know what? I’ve got an idea. Take her to my production.’
‘Why?’
‘Because My Fair Lady is based on a Greek myth about the sculptor Pygmalion, who falls in love with one of his sculptures, the beautiful Galatea. He begs Venus to bring the statue to life so that he can marry her, and his prayer is heard. The performance will perhaps show Rakel what can happen when you try to change another person.’
‘That it goes wrong?’
‘On the contrary. Pygmalion, in the form of Professor Higgins, is entirely successful in his intentions in My Fair Lady. I only put on shows that have happy endings. That’s my motto in life. If there is no happy ending, I make one.’
Harry shook his head and gave a lopsided smile.
‘Rakel is not trying to change me. She’s a smart woman. She’ll go her own way instead.’
‘Something tells me that she wants you back. I’ll send you two tickets for opening night.’
Wilhelm signalled to the waiter for the bill.
‘What on earth makes you think she wants me back?’ Harry asked. ‘You don’t know anything about her.’
‘You’re right. I’m talking rubbish. White wine with brunch is a good idea, but only in theory. I’m drinking more than I should at the moment. My apologies.’
The waiter came with the bill. Wilhelm signed it without even looking and asked him to put it with the others. The waiter left.
‘Taking a woman to a play on opening night with top-class tickets can never go completely awry, though.’ Wilhelm smiled. ‘Believe me; I have tested this one out thoroughly.’
Wilhelm’s smile reminded Harry of his father’s sad, resigned smile, the smile of a man looking backwards because that’s where the things that made him smile were.
‘Thank you very much, but -’
‘No buts. If nothing else, it’s a pretext for you to ring her if you’re not on speaking terms at the moment. Let me send you the two tickets, Harry. I think Lisbeth would have liked it. And Toya’s improving. It’ll be a good production.’
Harry fidgeted with the tablecloth.
‘Let me think about it.’
‘Excellent. I’ll get things moving before I go for a nap.’ Wilhelm got up.
‘By the way.’ Harry put his hand in his jacket pocket. ‘We found this symbol near two of the other crimes. It’s called a devil’s star. Can you remember if you’ve seen it anywhere after Lisbeth disappeared?’
Wilhelm studied the photograph.
‘Can’t say that I have, no.’
Harry put his hand out for the photo.
‘Wait a moment.’ Wilhelm peered again while scratching his beard.
Harry waited.
‘I’ve seen it,’ Wilhelm said. ‘But where?’
‘In the flat? By the stairs? Down on the street?’
Wilhelm shook his head.
‘None of those places. And not recently. Somewhere else, a long time ago. But where? Is this important?’
‘It could be. Ring me if anything occurs to you.’
When they separated Harry stood and stared up Drammensveien where the sun was shining on the tramlines and the shimmering hot air gave the impression that the tram was floating away.
22
Thursday and Friday. The Revelation.
Jim Beam is made with rye, barley and a whole 75 per cent of maize which gives bourbon the sweet, round taste that marks it out from straight whisky. The water in Jim Beam comes from a source near the distillery in Clearmont, Kentucky, where they also make the special yeast that some people maintain is taken from the same recipe Jacob Beam used in 1795. The result is stored for at least four years before it is sent all over the world and bought by Harry Hole, who doesn’t give a shit about Jacob Beam and knows that the guff about the water source is a marketing gimmick on a par with Farris, the Norwegian mineral water, and the Farris source. And the only percentage he cares about is the one in small letters on the label.
Harry stood in front of the fridge with a sheath knife in his hand staring at the bottle of golden-brown liquid. He was naked. The heat in the bedroom had forced him to strip off his underpants, which were still damp and smelled of chlorine.
He had been abstinent for four days now. The worst was over, he had said to himself. It wasn’t true; the worst was far from over. Aune had once asked him why he thought he drank. Harry had answered without hesitation: ‘Because I’m thirsty.’ Harry, in a variety of ways, bemoaned the fact that he was living in a society at a time when the disadvantages of drinking outweighed the advantages. His reasons for staying sober had never been principled, merely practical. It was extremely wearing to be a hard drinker and the reward was a brief, miserable life of boredom and physical pain. For an alcoholic, life consisted of being drunk and the intervals between being drunk. Which part was real life was a philosophical question he had never had sufficient time to study since the answer would not be able to offer him a life that was any better anyway. Or worse. According to the alcoholic’s basic law of life – The Big Thirst – everything that was good, everything, would be lost sooner or later. That was how he had viewed the equation until he met Rakel and Oleg. It had given temperance a new dimension. But it didn’t invalidate the alcoholic’s law. And now he couldn’t bear the nightmares any longer. Couldn’t bear the sound of her screams. Couldn’t bear to see the shock in her rigid, lifeless eyes as her head rose towards the ceiling in the lift. His hand moved towards the cupboard. He could leave no stone unturned. He put the sheath knife down beside Jim Beam and closed the cupboard door. Then he went back to the bedroom.
He didn’t switch on the light; a shaft of moonlight fell between the curtains.
The pillows and the mattress seemed to be trying to rid themselves of the clammy, twisted bed linen.
He crawled into bed. The last time he had slept without having a nightmare was when he fell asleep for a few minutes on Camilla Loen’s bed. He had dreamed about death then too, but the difference was that he hadn’t been frightened. A man can lock himself in, but he has to sleep. And in sleep no-one can hide.
Harry closed his eyes.
The curtains moved and the shaft of moonlight trembled. It shone onto the wall over the bedhead and the black marks of a knife. It must have been done with a great deal of force because the cut went deep into the wood behind the white wallpaper. The continuous groove formed a large, five-pointed star.
She lay listening to the traffic outside the window in Trojska, and to his deep, regular breathing beside her. Now and then she thought she could hear screams from the zoological garden, but it might just have been the night trains on the other side of the river braking before they entered the main station. He said he liked
the sound of trains when they moved out to Troja, which was located at the top of the brown question mark that the River Vltava formed on its way through Prague.
It was raining.
He had been away all day. In Brno, he had said. When she finally heard him unlocking the front door of their flat, she calmed down. She heard the scrape of his suitcase on the hall floor before he came into the bedroom. She pretended to be asleep, but she observed him in secret as he slowly and calmly hung his clothes up and occasionally cast a glance in the mirror beside the cupboard to look at her. Then he crept into bed; his hands were cold and his skin sticky with dried sweat. They made love to the sound of rain on the tiled roof and he tasted of salt and slept like a baby afterwards. Usually she was also sleepy after making love, but now she lay awake as his juices ran out of her and soaked into the sheet.
She pretended that she didn’t know what was keeping her awake, even though her mind always returned to the same thing. That she had found a longish blonde hair on the sleeve of his suit jacket when she was brushing it the day after he had returned home from Oslo. That he was going back to Oslo on Saturday. That it was the fourth time in four weeks. That he still wouldn’t tell her what he did there. Of course, the hair could have come from anything, from a man or maybe even a dog.
He began to snore.
She thought back to the time they met. To his open face and his openhearted confidences which she had misinterpreted as meaning that he was an open person. He had melted her like the spring snows in Vaclav Square, but when you fell so easily for a man there would always be a suspicion gnawing at you that you were not the only one to have fallen in the same way.
He treated her with respect, though, almost like an equal, although he could have bought her as he could any of the prostitutes in Perlova. He was a windfall, the only one she had ever had, the only one she could lose. It was the certainty of this that made her cautious, that kept her from asking where he had been, with whom he had been, what he actually did.
