Good Night, My Darling

by Inger Frimansson

  They had embraced each other. For a long time, they had stood and hugged, Berit’s hot snotty face, her drunken crying, I’ve blamed myself. I’ve been so afraid; children are like that. I kept telling myself, children have no sense of empathy, but it hasn’t helped, Oh, Justine, Justine, you have to forgive me.

  She was somewhat shorter than Justine, and thinner. But she was strong. When Justine pushed her to the floor, she followed without resistance. Justine climbed on her chest, heaved herself forward, and began to press against her throat, and it wasn’t until that point that Berit began to resist. Justine grabbed a book from the bookshelf, a Dostoyevsky, and she slammed the corner of the book right on the bridge of Berit’s nose. She heard the cracking sound, felt the body underneath her go still. The whites of her eyes shone; she had fainted for a moment, perhaps more from the shock than the pain. Justine ran quickly up the stairs into her bedroom, got her long scarf, wrapped it a few times around the throat of the unconscious woman, and pulled.

  She held on tightly until she had no more doubt. She heard the telephone ring. She lifted the receiver; it was a man, Nathan? No, Hans Peter. Nathan doesn’t exist anymore; his body was broken to bits in a waterfall on the other side of the ocean. That was a long time ago and all was forgotten.

  She silently put the receiver back in place.

  She knew exactly what to do. Even though she didn’t think about it in advance, it all came to her; a voice was leading her: get the cloth totes from the cleaning closet, the two white cloth totes with Konsum written on them. Then the scarf. Don’t look at the body’s face. Loosened the scarf from her neck-there came an unpleasant puff of air-tied it to one of the handles of the tote. Knotted it like a belt hard around Berit’s waist.

  The bird circled above her. Go and sleep, she told him; you can hurt youself here in the darkness. But he didn’t obey her; he sat on her shoulder the whole time she dragged the body down all the stairs. He made her forget what she was doing for a moment.

  He took off toward the upstairs once she started down to the basement.

  “I’ll return soon!” she called. “You know that I’ll come back; then you’ll get something good, a raw egg, a nice raw hen’s egg, the kind you like, maybe even with an embryo in it.”

  She had left Berit in the hallway. There were stones in the basement, she remembered where they were. Her father had brought them home. He had bought them from a business acquaintance who had promised to help him build an outside grill. Nothing came of that outside grill. Flora was against it. She suddenly heard the nagging voice: you never finish anything you start. Are these supposed to be here in the garden until the day we die? It’s slovenly, Sven. I will not have it.

  One day, her father had gotten angry, and he carried every single stone into the basement. He did it in ten minutes; he was pale and enraged. Afterwards he took the boat and went out on the lake.

  Justine carried up one of the stones. With a great deal of effort, she put Berit’s coat on her body, and the ugly brown plaid cap. She almost forgot the gloves which were on the hat shelf. When she discovered them, she tried to put them on Berit’s fingers, but stopped, sniffling, and pressed them into the body’s jacket pocket.

  Then she got dressed herself.

  She dragged the kick sled to the stairs, and now came the hard part, struggling to get the lifeless body down and place it on the kick sled. She was conscious of the pain in her foot the whole time, but it was as if the pain didn’t reach her. She steadied herself on it and it bit and ached, but it was a damped and suppressed pain. She would deal with that later.

  She heaved her burden onto the kick sled. The runners slid slightly; the dead person’s arms fell out against the snow. Justine tried to place them back in her lap, but they fell back, having no stability. So she had to go inside and look for some string. First she didn’t find anything; she pulled out every drawer in the kitchen, dumped its contents onto the floor.

  And now came the first moment of panic.

  She went to the mirror. She saw her own face in there, and spoke her name out loud: “Justine. You deserve this, don’t forget! Think about it the whole time!”

  Her hands had begun to shake, she lifted them and gave herself two hard slaps on her cheeks: Calm, calm, don’t become hysterical; you know what he thinks about that.

  Then it was over.

  Right after that she found the ball of string. It was in the niche by the window, she remembered using it the other day for… no, she didn’t remember why. She lifted the scissors from the floor and went back outside.

  Berit was sitting hunched over, ready to fall off. Justine tied her to the kick sled, her waist, her hands, her legs. The head hung, the strangled neck. Don’t look at the exploded eyes, don’t look. She drew the cap down as far as possible and went to get the stones.

  Each Konsum tote could hold five stones.

  The night was dark and misty. She was aware of an airplane high above her, heard its motor. With a great deal of effort, she managed to transport the kick sled to the lake. The runners cut through the snow the entire time. It was easier once she got out on the ice. She pushed the sled as far as she dared, frightened by the rumbling and sharp sounds coming from out there. She kept walking until her feet started to get wet. She saw a layer of water over the ice.

  Then she stopped, and got ready to run. She ran, limping, at the kick sled, gave it a push, made it slide quite a bit forward. But it was not far enough. The ice still held. She would have to try going a little bit further. She lay on her stomach, pulling herself forward. The water seeped into her coat, but she wasn’t freezing; it rather felt like burning. She placed her hands on Berit’s backside and pushed again. The kick sled slid forward about ten meters. There was a breaking and cracking sound, then the kick sled tipped forward. She saw how it slowly slid into the water, saw the swinging runners, how everything sank and disappeared.

  Back in the house, the pain in her foot resumed. She took off her wet clothes and hung them in the drying cabinet.

  In the shower, she discovered the marks on her arms, marks and wounds from fingernails. It smarted like venom when she spread lotion on them.

  But it wasn’t until she went to the bedroom door that she noticed Berit’s bag. It was still standing next to the chair where she had been sitting.

  Chapter THREE

  The following morning, she awoke with a heaviness on her chest. She tried to scream, but her throat was like a rasp. She kicked at the blankets and felt the bird; he had never gone into her bed before.

  She had hidden Berit’s bag in her wardrobe. When she came out in the upper hallway, she saw another bag, a dark blue tote with Lüdings Förlag on it, and a logo with a number of book spines. It had been thrown into a corner. She now remembered that Berit had brought flowers and a bottle of wine with her. She felt completely empty.

  She folded the blue tote and put it in the wardrobe, too. She spent the rest of the day with Hans Peter. She was able to suppress all those other events. She had thought about him; he was working his way into her consciousness. She felt a kind of tenderness when she remembered his collar bone, his neck, his hands. They were not like Nathan’s; they were softer, milder. He gave her a happy contentment.

  She had thought about taking care of Berit’s bag after he left, but she didn’t have the energy. Exhaustion knocked her out. She crept into bed; his aroma was in the sheets, his nearness.

  Tor Assarsson called again on Monday morning.

  “I just can’t deal with going to work,” he said. “I was hoping that you’d be home.”

  “I’m home.”

  “It is hellish. Everything is so damn hellish.”

  “I understand. Have you heard anything new?” “No.”

  “Wait until the mail comes. Maybe she wrote you, from Rome or Tobago. Maybe she just picked up and left in order to get some distance.”

  “You think?”

  “It’s not completely impossible.”

  “Maybe you’r
e right. Let’s hope so.”

  He said he had to come over and talk to her in person. She was able to hinder that. “Wait for the mail first,” she had said. “What time does it usually arrive?”

  He said he didn’t know. He was normally not at home during the work week.

  She promised to let him come over after lunch.

  She thought about Hans Peter.

  First she had to deal with the purse and the tote. In some strange way, she hoped that they had just disappeared by the time she opened the wardrobe door. Of course they were still there. Berit’s large leather purse stood on top of her gym shoes, just where she had placed it.

  Her headache returned.

  She sat on the floor with the scissors. She intended to cut the purse into small, small pieces, the purse and everything in it. When she took it in her hand, the way Berit had often held it, she realized that would be difficult. She didn’t want to open it, but she realized that she had to. The small metal clasps released, and the purse yawned open with its dark secret contents. The owner’s things, her life.

  On the top was a cloth handkerchief with vague lipstick marks, then all the rest that she didn’t want to see, but had to, all those personal belongings that would bring the picture of Berit back into her house: a wallet, worn out at the seams, the pocket with the bank card, the white plastic card from the landsting, an American Express card, a book club card that had expired a while ago, a pharmacy card. Justine lifted a flap and three person’s eyes met hers: the husband, Tor, and the two boys, school age. There were almost a thousand crowns in the bill area. She began with those, clipped them to pieces; then the photos, the plastic cards, the small pieces of paper and receipts that were in the pocket behind the bills. Then she took the pocket calendar. She flipped through it and read sporadic notations: the dentist at one-thirty; don’t forget to pick up shoes. At the very bottom, Berit’s driver’s license, loose. She did not look like herself in the photo. It was an old picture; Berit had her hair in a bun. It made her seem older. Keys, comb, mirror and lipstick. She started collecting it in a bag, sat for a while and tried to break the comb in two. It was a light blue plastic comb with a handle. She tried with all her might, but the plastic refused to give. A small bottle of perfume, Nuits indiennes; she rolled it into a small plastic bag to dampen the smell. The lighter was on the table. The cigarette pack was also there, five or six cigarettes left; she crumbled them to bits right onto the pile. Clipped the cloth tote into small pieces; tried to do it with the leather purse, but now she had to give up. The scissors had lost their strength.

  What was she supposed to do with this? She sat on the floor with her legs straight. Berit’s eye, cut loose from her driver’s license, stared right into her face. She took it between her fingers and stuffed it into the bottom of the pile.

  The telephone rang; she hadn’t pulled the line from the jack. She was thinking of Tor Assarsson’s and Berit’s children. She had to be available, the happy and wonderful friend.

  She spoke her entire name out loud, tensely.

  “My dearest sweetheart!”

  It was Hans Peter.

  “I was afraid you’d disconnected the phone.”

  “No…”

  “I’m longing for you. My whole body longs for you; my palms miss the warmth of your skin. I want to hear your voice and embrace you.”

  “Oh, Hans Peter…”

  “What’s wrong? You sound so different. Has something happened?”

  “No, nothing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m fine. Are you working today?”

  “Certainly, but not until evening. May I come over right now? I want to!”

  She froze from the sound of her own voice.

  “I can’t. I’m busy.”

  “When do you have time?”

  She noticed the lessening of his enthusiasm.

  “I’ll have to call you.”

  “When?”

  “Please, Hans Peter, there’s a few things I really need to take care of first, and I can’t talk about them now. But I will call you.”

  “Maybe I won’t be in.”

  “No, but I’ll try anyway. I have to go now. Sorry!”

  She hung up the phone. This was not how she imagined things. She placed her hands on her eyes, and whimpered.

  Should she burn up the purse? No. That would be too risky. She grumbled to herself and walked in circles. What to do? Then she remembered the transfer station Lövsta, on the other side of Riddersvik. Of course. Why didn’t she think of this before? She was very tired; she was dizzy when she went into the basement. She found the roll of black garbage bags. She stuffed the purse and its pile of remains into one of the bags and tied it up. She strode about, searching in all the rooms; no, no more traces. She put on her coat and drove away.

  She was afraid that someone would ask what was in the garbage bag. A man in overalls looked at her without any interest. She asked anyway, “Where’s the container for combustibles?”

  He pointed to one of the containers.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  When she returned to the car: “Have a nice day.” He muttered something unintelligible.

  As soon as she returned home, she dialed Hans Peter’s number. Of course he didn’t answer. Worry gripped her, began to transform into despair. She went into the bathroom and put on a thick layer of make-up, thick Kohl eyeliner and eye shadow. She put on a skirt, a cardigan and thick woolen leggings. Her foot was better after a night of rest, but it was still a bit swollen.

  She tried calling again. No, now he was unhappy and hurt; he wouldn’t answer, even if she called the whole day long. She could well imagine that he was the type who didn’t forgive easily.

  Someone was at the door. Was it him? There was a man outside; she saw him through the milky glass. It looked like Hans Peter. Was it him?

  It wasn’t him.

  She knew who it was right away.

  Tor, Berit’s husband.

  “You’re Justine, aren’t you?”

  He looked scruffy; there was stubble like a cloud over his chin and cheeks, his eyes small and confused.

  “Come in,” she said softly.

  He stood in the hallway, looked around.

  “So she was here as late as last Saturday. I’m trying to think my way into her mind, imagine what she was reasoning and doing.”

  “Yes…”

  “Where did you go after she came in?”

  “We went upstairs, I believe. We sat and talked up there for a long time.”

  “Let’s do that, too.”

  She pulled herself up the stairs with the help of the railing. Her foot was aching again. He noticed, but didn’t say anything. “Maybe you would like some coffee?”

  “No, I don’t want coffee. I don’t want anything.”

  The bird sat on the backrest of Berit’s chair. When he saw the man, he screeched. Tor Assarsson jumped.

  “What in the fucking hell is that?”

  “Everyone asks,” she said. “It’s a bird. My pet.”

  He remained standing. Justine held out her arm, the bird hopped up onto it, and launched from there to the top of the bookcase.

  Tor Assarsson stood with his arms over his head.

  “How in the hell can you have a pet like that?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Do I dare sit down, or is anything else going to swoop down and surprise me?”

  Justine was beginning to regret that she had let him in. He sounded irritated and provoked, probably was in shock.

  She sank down on the edge of the chair.

  “Were you sitting here?”

  “Yes, we did, I believe.”

  “We’ve been married for many years, Berit and I. Now I understand how much she’s become a part of me. Do you understand? And now it might be too late!”

  “Did you wait for the mail?”

  “Yes, but there was nothing. And, in addition, I found this.”

  He p
ut his hand in his pocket and took out a passport. He threw it on the table with force.

  “She can’t have gone anywhere. At least, she hasn’t left the country.”

  “What about the EU nowadays… Do you need a passport anymore?”

  “I think you still do.”

  “I’m sorry… but I’m afraid I can’t really do anything for you.”

  “May I ask, were you really friends when you went to school together? Were you best friends, as they say?”

  “Not really.”

  “Yes, I got that from her. She was hinting at something along those lines. You were bullied, weren’t you?”

  “It was a little difficult for me, but I haven’t really dwelt on it very much. It was really quite a long time ago.”

  “She hinted that there was something she wanted to bring up with you. She had a bad conscience; she was suffering from it.”

  “She did?”

  “Did she do it, say anything to you?”

  Her thoughts whirled around her brain, was it the right thing to do to answer honestly now? Was it?

  “I believe she said something like she hadn’t been so nice all the time.”

  “She said that?”

  “I think so.”

  “And what did you answer?”

  “I don’t remember… I probably said something like I hadn’t exactly been an angel myself.”

  His shoulders sank. She observed his shirt; the collar was wrinkled. He wasn’t wearing a tie.

  “The boys,” he said heavily. “What am I going to say to the boys?”

  “I know that you’re worried,” she whispered. “But it hasn’t been that long yet. Try and be patient. Maybe she’s calling you right now; maybe she’s on the phone.”

  “I have everything sent to my cell.” He patted his jacket pocket. “I’ll hear right away when the phone rings at home. Where did she say she would go? Which words did she use exactly?”

  “Oh, I don’t really remember.”

  “Did she just look at her watch and say something like, oh, I really have to go?”