Fireraiser

by Torkil Damhaug

  – My father lived in a shed, not much more than a stable, and was poorly paid. When he raised the question with them, it became clear that they thought Pakistanis were something quite different from Norwegians, if I can put it like that.

  – Do you know Elsa Wilkins? Dan-Levi offered.

  – Who is she? Shahzad said, wrinkling his brow.

  – She was the daughter on the farm at that time. I’ve just interviewed her. On a completely different matter.

  Shahzad shrugged his shoulders, fell silent.

  – You have a lot to thank your parents for, Dan-Levi said, resuming the thread.

  – God and my family.

  Dan-Levi recovered his pen from beneath the table. – Many people find a strength in their faith, he said evenly.

  – For me it was a turning point in my life when I rediscovered God, said Shahzad. – The home I grew up in wasn’t particularly religious. My father went to the mosque every Friday. He didn’t touch alcohol and raised us to be believers, but he rarely prayed himself. My mother was more pious, but even she didn’t talk about her faith much. I had to find it myself.

  – How? Dan-Levi wondered.

  – One summer when I was in Pakistan visiting relatives, I met a pir, a holy man who has achieved clarity through faith and self-denial. We’re still in regular touch. It’s thanks to him that I’m sitting here today and not in a prison cell in Ullersmo. Do you know anything about Sufism?

  Dan-Levi knew that Shahzad Chadar had talked about this in an earlier interview, as he had Googled it. At first glance Sufism seemed to have quite a bit in common with what he believed in himself. Though there were New Agey sides to it, our joint soul, stuff like that.

  – It is a branch of Islam, he offered.

  – Not a branch, Shahzad corrected him. – Sufism can without difficulty be incorporated into other aspects of the faith. It is as strong within Sunni as Shia. You might say it’s a direct channel to God.

  Dan-Levi was immediately more curious than sceptical. Where he came from too, what mattered was to achieve direct contact with God, a state known to the congregation as being filled with the presence of the Spirit. Some of Dan-Levi’s strongest memories were of sitting on one of the front rows and seeing his father, a calm man who rarely raised his voice at home, take his place at the pulpit. Then he was no longer his father; that was when he became Pastor Jakobsen. He could laugh and shout, condemn, plead for mercy. With the tears coursing down his cheeks, he could always make things happen in that crowded room: people fell to their knees or raised their arms above their heads and began to talk in tongues they had never learnt. For a long time Dan-Levi was afraid when he saw the change that came over his father, that normally friendly and taciturn man up on the podium suddenly alternating between loud laughter and weeping. Throughout his childhood this manifestation of the Spirit had frightened him, and he was still not at ease with it, the joy he could experience during the meetings always mingled with despair. He could never free himself from his childish fear that his father would remain where he was, in the presence of the Spirit, and never come down from the pulpit to be himself again.

  – How can you tell that you have achieved contact with God? he wanted to know now.

  Shahzad Chadar looked to be thinking this over for a few moments.

  – Gratitude, he replied. – That is the most illuminating word I can find.

  – Gratitude, Dan-Levi exclaimed.

  Shahzad studied him. – In Arabic, the word kufr means both heathendom and ingratitude, because these two things are essentially the same.

  Dan-Levi realised he was sitting there nodding.

  – Sufism is the teaching of reconciliation, Shahzad continued. – Within it lies the possibility of our leaving this period of conflict behind us. It is the opportunity to come together, as Christian or Muslim. Or Jew.

  He talked about this for a while, and Dan-Levi did not interrupt. He couldn’t bring himself to ask a single question about sharia, and the Muslim plan for world domination and the expulsion of the unbelievers, the reverse crusade as they called it in his congregation.

  Dan-Levi had another agenda too, and hidden agendas were a form of lying. His father, who was a very learned man, often spoke of a concept developed by the Jesuits called reservatio mentalis. By using an expression that was ambivalent and misleading, and in the privacy of one’s own mind ascribing a distinct meaning to it, the Jesuit allowed himself to lie. According to Pastor Jakobsen, this was one important reason for the decline of the Church, and Dan-Levi had set his own limits on how far he could go during the interview. There was no question of employing the Jesuit tactic, and for the almost three quarters of an hour in which he was a guest in Shahzad Chadar’s home, he had tried to avoid any thought of what Synne Clausen had said to him. Only once they were in his car afterwards, passing through the Opera tunnel on the way to the centre of town, did he decide to approach the subject anyway.

  – You have a sister.

  – I have two sisters and a brother, Shahzad answered. – I am the oldest.

  – One of your sisters is named Jasmeen?

  – Do you know her? Beneath the friendly tone there was a hint of scepticism.

  – Not personally, but I know someone who has met her. Dan-Levi scratched the side of his neck. – I’d like to talk to Jasmeen too. It’s good to have some other reference points in a portrait interview like this.

  Shahzad Chadar’s face tightened slightly. – My sister has gone back to Pakistan.

  Shortly afterwards he added: – Who do you know who has met her?

  Their conversation had reached a critical point. Dan-Levi considered backing off, but continued: – Her name is Synne Clausen. Her brother was in the same class at school as Jasmeen.

  – Oh really.

  – You probably know about him. He disappeared.

  Shahzad Chadar didn’t answer. Silence descended on the car, a change of seasons. Dan-Levi began to regret his persistence.

  – Is it him you’ve come to talk about? said Shahzad once they were clear of the tunnel.

  Dan-Levi made an effort to wriggle out of it. – I’m here to interview you.

  – Was it this girl who asked you to come and see me? Synne Clausen?

  His voice was cold now, and beneath the chill it seemed to Dan-Levi he could hear a real anger.

  – No, he said. – I’m here for the newspaper.

  Shahzad Chadar pointed to a bus bay at the end of Bygdøy Allé.

  – Pull in there. This interview is over. He added: – There is no interview. Save yourself the trouble of writing it. It will never be printed.

  He opened the door even before the car had come to a standstill, left it open as he walked away.

  Dan-Levi was left there staring at the morning traffic heading in towards the centre. He felt like a Jesuit. Or more like Pepsi after the dog had received a telling-off and crept away into a corner. The shame made him nauseous, and suddenly he seemed to recall Elsa Wilkins saying that the Lovers upside down didn’t just relate to the love between two people. It could also refer to faith and doubt. Through the still open car door, the stink of the morning rush hour filled the car. Sitting there, Dan-Levi knew that he was going to have to talk to her about just that.

  15

  Maja was still not back. Synne had asked the others in the corridor. None of them had seen her that weekend, nor heard any sounds from her room. But they didn’t know her very well and hadn’t thought any more about it. Synne called the music school, finally got through to one of her teachers. Maja hadn’t turned up for her practice sessions and hadn’t called in with any explanation either. That was all he knew.

  Then she called the police. Was put through to the duty group. The woman at the other end sounded about her own age.

  – Might she have gone back to Poland? she suggested even before Synne had finished speaking.

  – Without locking her door? Without telling anyone? Without packing? Without taking her flute
, or her passport?

  Again she was interrupted. – Give me her full name and national identity number and we’ll look into it.

  Synne went into Maja’s room, looked up the details in the passport she had found in the desk drawer the previous day.

  – And when did you say you last saw her?

  She looked out the window, down at the lawn at the rear of the block.

  – Thursday.

  Then it hit her. Maja had been going to meet someone. Synne recalled how excited she had been on her friend’s account. Suddenly she froze, exited the room and closed the door behind her.

  Snowflakes drifting down. Halfway across the footbridge, I stop. Stand there looking down at the rows of cars streaming by beneath me, in both directions. Maja said something about the man she was going to meet, but I wasn’t listening properly.

  Carry on across the bridge. It’s spring, and these light flakes are already gone by the time they reach the ground, but I reach out to catch them, and the warmth of my hands make them melt. Certain thoughts are like that too. Karsten’s absence is a gateway. That’s why I’m writing about those who knew him. I must write something about Adrian Wilkins. I was thirteen years old. Begin there. See with the eyes of the young girl I was then. Adrian Wilkins enters the room. Think it’s the living room in our house. Adrian is Karsten’s best friend. He’s a few years older, maybe twenty-three or four. He stands in the middle of the floor. His eyes scare me, but I don’t want him to look away. Because I become something else when he looks at me.

  If I had not had an attack that evening, nothing would have happened to Karsten. But what Jasmeen Chadar says turns everything upside down. They were out to get Karsten. There’s a reason he disappeared. I have never believed he took his own life. And now Maja is gone. Is it me who makes people disappear?

  Synne deleted the last two lines. Without looking at the rest of what she had written, she stood up, picked up the towel and the make-up bag she hardly ever used. As she opened the door, she had the idea that she was alone, not just in the corridor, but in the whole block. She popped back inside, picked up the key and locked the door behind her.

  In the bathroom, she pulled off her clothes, turned on the shower. If you want to remember, you’ll remember. She had fallen off her bike. But why had she cycled down by Lillestrøm secondary and not taken the shortest route home? And where did the blood come from?

  Afterwards she wiped the steam from the mirror, stood there looking at her face. Suddenly the door handle turned; someone was trying the door. She jumped, pulled on her dressing gown, stood there listening a while before starting to breathe again. As she took out her mascara, she changed her mind, pulled a face at her reflection in the mirror, which new layers of steam had almost obliterated, made a turban of her towel, packed her clothes into a bundle, let herself out. As she shuffled down the corridor in her slippers, she heard a noise from the kitchen, didn’t turn round, stood there fumbling with her key. Just as she got the door unlocked, someone behind her shoved it wide open. She was pushed inside, was about to scream but a huge hand clamped over her mouth and her arms were trapped against her sides.

  – Don’t say anything!

  Her head was forced up against the wall, she couldn’t move. She felt everything freeze inside her.

  – Not one sound. Do you hear?

  Now it’s going to happen, she thought. She tried to nod. The hold was released, the weight of the stranger’s body moved and pulled away slightly.

  – Sit down. The voice spoke Norwegian with a tiny displacement in the stresses.

  – No, she whimpered, not daring to look at him. Registering that her bathrobe had slipped open, she fastened it around her waist.

  – What do you want? she whispered, even though there could be little doubt.

  He didn’t answer, and at that same moment she knew something terrible had happened to Maja. She could scream now, she’d have time before he could stop her, but she didn’t have the strength; her muscle fibre had stopped reacting. She could give up and fall into a pit, freeze solid and stay frozen until it was all over. I’ve been in that pit before, she whispered, so quietly she didn’t even hear herself.

  – I’m not going to touch you.

  She didn’t hear what he was saying; there was a ringing in both her ears and the room was spinning round and about to disappear. She slumped down into the chair.

  – I am not here to cause you any harm.

  Slowly she picked up these words, even more slowly gathered the meaning of them. But she couldn’t believe them. They were said so that she would come up out of the pit again, up to the man who stood there waiting.

  – I don’t have anything, she tried to say.

  – Relax, he said hoarsely. – I’m not going to steal anything.

  She glanced up at him.

  – Or touch you, he repeated.

  He was dark, his hair almost black, and he was wearing dark clothes. She still didn’t dare to look at his face. But he was sitting on the side of the table, arms dangling at his sides. And once again he said he was not going to touch you. As though he had not already done so.

  – You’re going around asking about Chadar.

  She tried to understand whom he was talking about.

  – Jasmeen, she mumbled, still confused.

  The room around her slowed down. She was nauseous, but could feel herself breathing. Hold on to it. Take it in deeply. Hold it. Let it out. It was Erika’s voice, telling her how to breathe.

  – I met Jasmeen. Is that why you’re here?

  He didn’t answer her question. Instead he said: – You’re trying to find out what happened to your brother.

  She didn’t know if that was what she was doing, or if it would help her to say yes, but she nodded. She could have said: Yes, I want to know what happened to Karsten, I want to know where he is, I want him to come back.

  She started to cry.

  The man’s hands began to move, as though he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

  – I thought you were going to kill me, she mumbled. – My friend has gone missing.

  – Sorry.

  Dimly she realised that he meant it.

  – Had to be sure you wouldn’t scream. No one must know I’m here.

  And then the rage came, like an avalanche.

  – Fucking idiot, she yelled, leaping to her feet.

  The guy stood up. He was a mountain of muscles.

  – I know what happened to your brother, he said, and that made her sit back down in the chair again. But something was changed, and now she dared to look into his face. The description was recited inside her. Strong, wide face, scar on the forehead. Big mouth, small eyes close together, eyebrows meeting above the bridge of the nose. She was doing the reciting herself. I’ve seen you now, she thought. You’d better get out of here without touching me. Or kill me. Though she no longer believed he would do that. She fastened the bathrobe tighter around herself.

  – Does Shahzad Chadar have anything to do with this? she asked as firmly as she could.

  The guy looked at her for a few moments.

  – Shahzad knows everything, he said finally. – He picked your brother up that night.

  – Picked him up?

  – They were waiting outside your house. They took him off in a car.

  She saw in a flash Karsten disappearing into a vehicle.

  – How do you know that? she asked and got up again. – Were you there?

  He shrugged. – Maybe I was, maybe not. That’s not something you need to worry about.

  She let that sink in.

  – They drove off with him, over to the runway. Shahzad took him down to the river. No one has seen your brother since then.

  – Why are you telling me this?

  He took a step forward.

  – We know you are writing a book about your brother. Someone wants you to know what happened. What you do with the information will be up to you.

  She stood between
him and the door. Wanted him to leave without saying anything else. Wanted him to stay until he had told her everything. She moved away into the corner by the desk.

  – I can’t just write something like that without proof.

  He was standing with his hand on the doorknob. – If you dare to publish it, we’ll give you more.

  He left, closing the door carefully behind him.

  Afterwards, she lay on the bed. Couldn’t even lift her head up. Didn’t have the strength to lock the door. She tried to organise all the things flooding through her. Had to abandon the attempt, closed her eyes, and there was that image of Karsten again, getting into the car. She’s there too, very close, lying on the ground, or sitting on a step, trying to call out his name, but nothing comes out. She has seen this happen, or dreamed it. The car is dark, not very big; one of the rear lights doesn’t work. Is this detail a sign that this really took place, or does it mean she is unable to prevent herself making things up?

  It had grown dark outside. She got up from the bed, sat at her computer, typed without thinking, stopped for a moment, closed her eyes. She sees herself in another room. She’s lying on the floor, peering down at her naked body. The door bursts open.

  She stood up, opened the window; the cool spring air streamed in. She picked up her phone. Luckily Dan-Levi answered at once.

  – Good to hear your voice, she burst out, and could hear how embarrassed he was.

  Dan-Levi listened without interrupting. It took a while before she managed to say anything about the stranger who had been there. Once she started, it came pouring out. She told him about Maja, how she was sure something bad had happened to her, that for a while she thought something bad was going to happen to her too.

  – Now the police’ll have to do something, he said when she had finished.

  – I must talk to him, she interrupted. – I need to get hold of Shahzad Chadar.

  – You mustn’t even consider it, Dan-Levi protested. – As it is, I feel very worried about you. If there is anything at all in this business about Chadar and Karsten then you must stay away from him, Synne.