by Håkan Nesser
‘But if someone else passed himself off as Rein, couldn’t your honourable publishers also be deceived?’
I thought about that. Drank a little water.
‘In principle,’ I admitted. ‘But I consider that out of the question.’
‘Thanks,’ said the lawyer. ‘That was all.’
The judge signalled to me that I could leave my place in the witness stand and I was escorted out by the same guard who helped me in. As I passed the defendants’ table, I tried once again to make eye contact with Mariam Kadhar, but she still sat motionless with her gaze aimed down at the table. Otto Gerlach on the other hand stared hard at me, and I understood that he would gladly have killed me if we had found ourselves in somewhat more uncivilized circumstances.
When I came out onto the broad steps of the court building, I was met by flooding sunshine. I looked at the clock and could see that my effort had taken up less than an hour.
I took off my jacket. Hung it over my shoulder and started walking towards the city centre. The nausea lingered in me and I realized that I probably needed a couple of sturdy drinks to restore balance.
I rarely dream, but when she appeared I knew immediately that she was not real.
The dress was the same as in the courtroom and her white shoulders shimmered unnaturally white by means of some type of artificial lighting I could not localize. She approached me slowly, very slowly and carefully: I understood without looking that she must be barefoot, perhaps I heard the soft soles of her feet against the dark marble floor. Or felt them: the contrast between the warm, sensual and the cold, hard was razor sharp; I also recognized the floor itself, without a doubt it was that chancel in the Pierra del’Angelo church in Tusca, where Ewa and I made love one night ten years ago.
Eleven, if you want to be particular. From two steps away she stopped and let the dress fall to the floor. Her nakedness filled the whole sanctuary without inhibitions, I reached for her, took hold of her, drew her skin into my nostrils; an aroma of timothy and of sandalwood that had been left in the sun on a long, hot day in summer. And of lust. In a gentle curtsying movement she leant down and closed her lips around my stiff member; got down on her knees, I followed, she let go of me, placed herself on her back with legs parted and I entered her. And noisily we started making love, just like we had done that night so long ago. Her excitement echoed in the sanctuary, our hot bodies smacked against the smooth marble, as we like . . . like horny heathens, like unprincipled animals, made love in the Santa Margareta chancel in Pierra del’Angelo church.
Then suddenly another woman was standing in the high window oval; I saw that it was Ewa, and that the woman who was now riding on top of me and who threw her head backwards gurgling was not Ewa at all but Mariam Kadhar.
Ewa was wearing the same black dress; as soon as I noticed her I pulled out of and away from Mariam Kadhar. Ewa approached and let the dress fall to the floor and her body had the same shimmering whiteness and she approached us where we were lying on the floor. Her eyes were lascivious and while she slowly slid right next to us, she caressed herself with both hands over her breasts and in her sex. I curled up and crept further backwards, Ewa bent forward over Mariam Kadhar, who was still whimpering a little because I had pulled back, then she pressed her face in between her legs and they started making love with each other. Excitedly. Solemnly and passionately at the same time. Lay there with their mouths pressed into each other’s sex and licked and sucked. I sat with my back against the wall and could not tear my gaze from them, even though my head echoed with voices that said I must get away from there. After a while they stopped and turned towards me. ‘Rein!’ they whispered. ‘Come to us, Rein!’ and suddenly one of them was transformed to a man, I don’t know which one of them. Only now did I try to escape, finally understood how dangerous it all was, but it was too late. They started taking hold of my legs and arms and pulled me out to the middle of the floor where crooked beams of light shot in through the side window. The woman, whom I could now clearly identify as Ewa, ordered the man to go and retrieve something and he disappeared between the rows of pews.
‘Rein,’ she whispered. ‘You are Rein, aren’t you?’
She spoke with her face only a few centimetres from my own and I felt that the words came from her breath and were caught, not through my ears, but instead through my skin and my pores.
‘No, I’m not Rein,’ I said. ‘I’m David. You’re Ewa.’
Her nearness was strong again. ‘We have time to make love before he’s back!’ she whispered. ‘Come!’
She straddled me. Guided me into her hot sex and started slowly raising and lowering herself over me. She was tighter and hotter and more beautiful than I had ever experienced before and I was close to coming, but now at a distance footsteps were heard, they approached and echoed in the deserted sanctuary.
‘Rein,’ the woman moaned who was riding me. ‘Rein! I love you but I have to kill you.’
‘Who are you?’ I asked. Her breasts were Ewa’s, without a doubt, but her head was thrown back again, so I could not see her face. And her voice was every woman’s.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘Come now.’
And I came.
Then I woke up and heard a tram rattle past out on Ferdinand Bolstraat. Beatrice was sitting beside me in the bed, staring at me with yellow, reproachful eyes.
I got up and went into the bathroom.
I read about the release of Rein in Gazett. The same day Kerr also called and confirmed that all the information was correct. The sales the first days had been quite excellent. The book and its significance in the trial just started had been noticed in more or less every media outlet all over Europe. The expected lawsuit from Otto Gerlach was not long in coming, but apparently there was no risk that the edition would be withdrawn – which Gerlach demanded immediately.
They had evidently threatened both one thing and the other, but at the publishing house they only laughed at the commotion. The only thing that possibly might be a trifle worrisome was that the text constituted evidence in the ongoing legal proceedings, but because it was not a question of closed doors, they didn’t expect any problems there either.
‘We’ve got a number of bids on the original manuscript,’ Kerr explained elatedly. ‘How are things going for you?’
‘With what?’
‘Damned if I know. The journalists, for example.’
‘No problem,’ I answered, but of course that wasn’t really true. Late last evening I had sold myself to a young and very beautiful writer at de Journaal. I got two thousand gulden for the interview plus a few pictures, but naturally I would much rather have gone to bed with her for free. My sexual needs were great just these past few days.
The phone rang a few times too. I don’t know how they got hold of my number, and every time I answered with surprise that no David Moerk had ever lived at this address.
A little later yesterday evening a red-nosed newshound from some obscure weekly magazine had forced himself on me while I sat at Vlissingen, but he was not particularly hard to brush off.
Back to the courtroom. To see how the whole thing developed, I tried to convince myself, but I knew of course that it was actually only Mariam Kadhar I was interested in. I had to see her again. See if she looked like she did in the dream, see if it was possible to get a little eye contact, see if her slender shoulders could retain their whiteness under any circumstances whatsoever.
Since my testimony was over there was no reason why I had to stay away. My part of the affair was now settled, and naturally I had the same right of access to the legal machinery as any other citizen. Albeit a foreigner.
As soon as I decided it became urgent. I went down to the street and realized that there were just fifteen minutes until the public would be let in. I hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take me to the court as fast as he was able.
It must have been my hope that she would wear the same bare-shoulder dress again today.
The same as the
day when I sat in the box.
The same as in the dream.
Now she did not. Another dark affair, true, but it did not leave a bit of the collarbone exposed.
I managed to get an excellent place, even though I arrived a bit late; furthest to the right in the first row of the gallery, from which I had a good overview and could see Mariam Kadhar in a completely clean profile beside the lawyer.
And when she was sitting in the box, of course she simply turned the other cheek.
It was breathlessly silent in the whole room while she stood up and with restrained dignity took the few steps over to the witness stand. She sat down, took a sip of water and clasped her hands in front of her on her lap. It was impressive, simply put. I felt goose bumps on my forearms.
The prosecutor assumed his usual place, sucked in his cheeks and let his tongue run across his teeth a few times, as if he had just enjoyed a good cognac and wanted to be sure not to miss out on any of the aftertaste. Then he coughed lightly into his hand and got started.
‘Ms Kadhar, how long were you married to the author Germund Rein?’
She did not answer immediately, and it seemed as if she actually sat and counted.
‘Fifteen years. In two months.’
‘How old were you when you married him?’
‘Twenty-four.’
‘How old was your husband then?’
‘Forty-two.’
Just to the right of me an elderly gentleman was sitting, making notes. It took a while for me to realize that he was a stenographer, and sure enough, the next day the questioning of Mariam Kadhar could be read in de Telegraaf. Word for word.
‘Do you have any children?’
‘No.’
‘You haven’t been married before?’
‘No.’
‘And your husband?’
‘Two times.’
The prosecutor nodded and made a short pause. You could feel that the court ushers, as well as the whole audience in the gallery, were holding their breath. The silence in the packed room felt like a vacuum – as if it produced some kind of acoustic negative pressure, I recall thinking; when Otto Gerlach’s lawyer tapped the table two times with his ballpoint pen, for a second everyone’s eyes were aimed in his direction.
‘Did Germund Rein have any children from his previous marriages?’
‘No. Is it really the case that you don’t already know these things?’
‘Of course I know about them, Ms Kadhar, but I’m not the one who is going to judge your guilt.’
She sighed, which seemed to be what was needed to allow the rest of us to start breathing again.
‘Is it correct that you are the sole heir to your husband’s estate?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know the value of that estate?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘I have information that says somewhere between five and six million gulden. Could that be correct?’
‘Yes.’
New, brief pause. I found myself thinking about whether this tall prosecutor practised fencing in his spare time. And if Mariam Kadhar did. The questioning resembled without a doubt a battle on the piste: three, four, five attacks and just as many ripostes, before there was a short pause while the combatants collected themselves for the next attack.
‘Did you love your husband, Ms Kadhar?’
‘Yes.’
The answer came without a quiver, and I don’t believe there were many persons in the hall who doubted that she spoke the truth.
‘Were you faithful to your husband?’
‘I don’t understand the question.’
The prosecutor feigned surprise like a third-class amateur actor.
‘I asked if you were faithful to your husband. How is it that you don’t understand such a simple question?’
‘Fidelity is not an unambiguous concept.’
He smiled quickly.
‘That may be. Did you have relationships with other men?’
Her lawyer jumped up from his chair and protested.
‘Will you reformulate your question?’ the judge asked, and the prosecutor nodded obediently several times.
‘Is it correct that you had a sexual relationship with your husband’s publisher, Otto Gerlach?’
‘Yes.’
Not the slightest quiver here either. The prosecutor paused very briefly to catch his breath, before he attacked anew on the same point.
‘When did you start your relationship with Gerlach?’
‘Two and a half years ago.’
‘Did your husband know about it?’
‘No.’
‘Are you certain?’
She hesitated a moment.
‘I think he suspected towards the end.’
‘What do you mean by “towards the end”?’
‘As of last summer, maybe.’
‘What makes you think that?’
She shrugged her shoulders slightly, but did not reply. The prosecutor repeated his question.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Just a feeling.’
‘Why were you unfaithful to your husband if you loved him?’
‘I would be grateful if I didn’t have to answer that question.’
‘Ms Kadhar,’ the judge interrupted, leaning over in her direction. ‘I will ask you to bear in mind that we are trying to administer justice. The more information you choose to withhold, the greater latitude you give to caprice.’
‘As far as I understand I have the right to remain silent the whole time, if I so wish?’
‘Quite correct,’ the judge admitted. ‘You can decide for yourself what questions you will and will not answer. But if you really are innocent, it is almost always better to speak than to remain silent.’
‘What was the last question?’
The prosecutor had listened to the judge’s little intermezzo with lowered head. Now he cleared his throat and resumed.
‘You maintain that you loved your husband. Why were you unfaithful if you loved him?’
‘Our sex life didn’t work.’
For the first time that day a murmur broke out in the gallery. The judge raised his gavel, but never needed to strike it on the table to get silence.
‘Did you love Otto Gerlach too?’
She sat in silence for a few seconds, but it did not look as if she was thinking. Her lawyer made a sign to her with his hand – I assumed that he wanted to know if he should protest again – but she simply shook her head lightly.
‘I don’t want to answer that question.’
‘Why?’
‘Who I love and don’t love is my business.’
‘You are accused of murder, Ms Kadhar.’
‘I understand that.’
‘Did you murder your husband?’
‘I did not murder my husband.’
‘I have information here that says that he hit you.’
‘I see.’
‘Is that correct?’
‘It happened two times.’
‘How seriously?’
‘I had to see a doctor the second time.’
‘When was that?’
‘About a year ago.’
‘What was the reason?’
‘It was my fault.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I object!’ her lawyer interrupted, standing up. ‘The prosecutor is constantly asking insinuating, irrelevant questions. I suggest that he get to the point or sit down!’
The exchange was met with some approval from the audience, and the judge chimed in.
‘Will the prosecutor please start addressing the alleged crime, starting now,’ he instructed acidly.
‘Gladly,’ the prosecutor said with a smile, who evidently did not take this type of admonition particularly seriously. ‘Tell the court about the night your husband died, Ms Kadhar!’
Mariam Kadhar sat silently for a few moments. Then she turned her head in the judge’s direction.
‘Can I speak a little
with my lawyer first?’
The judge nodded and the lawyer hurried up to her. After a whispered deliberation he went over to the judge and said something. The judge wrote a few lines on a sheet of paper and straightened up.
‘The court will take a short break,’ he explained, pounding the gavel on the table. ‘Fifteen-minute break!’
The days are getting hotter and hotter. As long as the sun is up it is basically inconceivable to be anywhere other than down by the water. I have tried to stay indoors or up in the olive slopes, but it soon becomes unbearable. Only the sea is able to give sufficient coolness; but you don’t need to swim, just stay somewhere close to it, in the shade, dip your feet now and then or rinse your head.
Thalatta.
The other day I tried to make my way along the stony, rough coast around the point to the east. My thought was to reach the first of the sheltered sandy beaches and perhaps inspect the house that I had seen from up in the chapel a bit more closely. Naturally it would be simpler to get there by boat; I’m going to rent one too, within the next few days. The effort took me over three hours all in all, and even so I never really got all the way there – it was my own decision, to be sure; you see, the beach was populated by a dozen people, all of whom were running around as naked as they came into this world. Men, women and children. Two boats were also there; a rather big motor yacht that was bobbing a little way out in the water, and a smaller wooden boat that had been pulled up on the shore; roughly the same type as the Kazantsakis brothers’. The house was fifty metres up on the slope; a big, whitewashed building, surrounded by cypresses. A terrace ran around it as far as I could see; parasols and white furniture and beach towels clearly showed that the whole group lived here. I also drew the conclusion that these were not Greeks, because they appeared on the beach with such shameless nudity.
But enough about this. On a few evenings I have taken the bus to the main town and sat under the grapevines at the taverns. The street life is intense and the local population gladly mixes with the tourists in rather even numbers. I have shown my photographs a few times and on at least two occasions they have been met by nods and smiles of recognition. I am not sure, however, if that really means anything, or if it was just an expression of courtesy and general goodwill. They speak almost nothing but Greek, apart from the most common service phrases, and in the midst of it all something is also holding me back.
