Fallen Angels

by Gunnar Staalesen

  ‘Three Bergen dollars, Kaggen. Is that alright?’

  He gratefully patted my arm. ‘You’s a good ol’ boy, Varg. I’ve allus said that. A good ol’ boy.’

  Then he hobbled back to the others, as proud as a junior after his first goal in a proper match.

  I walked on. Such is life. When you walk around your home town, you meet your own past everywhere. Childhood is a wound that never heals; your youth a poster someone has tried in vain to tear down. All the years you have lived are here, like dirty footprints in the snow behind you. You have left your own chalk-marks on most of the walls in this town and no charlady has bleach strong enough to wash them off completely. And the child you once were, you will never be again.

  21

  I went to my office, took all the advertising brochures from my post box and saw that no one had left me a message on the answerphone.

  I dialled Jakob’s home number. No one answered.

  Then I got in my car, crossed Pudde fjord, turned north and parked down from the white wooden church that would have been at home in a rural parish and not in what was more or less a city. Around the church lay small timber houses that belonged to another time and another district. For some reason that was how it had always been. Laksevåg would never quite be Bergen. Actually its rightful location would be somewhere in Rogaland.

  Behind the church autumn had spread its matt, wet veil over the extensive, green lawns up to Damsgård Manor, the white baroque building that was now being totally restored. It reigned like a palace over Laksevåg’s otherwise proletarian urban development.

  I got out of the car. Even outside the church I could hear the roar of the organ.

  Above the main entrance there was a wooden sculpture of Saint Paul and a reference to Romans 1:16 written underneath. In the portal itself there was a gilt angel’s head that was reminiscent of the baptism angel in Nordnes’ Nykirken.

  I tried the door. It was locked.

  I went through a gate to the right of the church and tried a side door. It was open.

  I entered a room with several doors. A staircase led up to the belfry, a door to the porch and one to the nave. I chose the last.

  When you enter a church, you are filled with a feeling of solemnity, whether you are a believer or not. If you are wearing a hat, you remove it. You walk carefully across the floor and if you have to say something, you whisper. Even in Protestant churches, which are cool and bare, purged of saints’ images and without the mysterious twilight you find in Catholic churches, you find yourself looking upwards at the ceiling vault and whatever might be above. Gripped by this same solemnity I stood still just inside the door.

  It was a warm and intimate interior. The walls were constructed with brown timber and led up to a blue ceiling dotted with yellow stars, almost like a child’s drawing.

  I walked across the floor. Along both nave walls hung three signs, shaped like shields, bearing the words FAITH, HOPE and LOVE to the left and STRENGTH, REPOSE and LIFE to the right.

  The entrance to the chancel was watched over by a wooden angel with an electric torchlight in her hand, and from the ceiling Jesus hung from the cross with two women at his feet. The walls at the side of the altar were covered with paintings: to the left a landscape that had to be the Garden of Eden painted in a naïve style, and to the right people kneeling by a river.

  Behind the altar three stained-glass windows faced Damsgård Manor. The one on the left depicted an angel with a harp. Beneath the picture it said: THIS IS THE DAY THE LORD HAS CREATED. In the picture to the right was an angel holding a zither and underneath it said: LET US REJOICE AND EXULT IN IT. Between them was the picture of a strong male figure with a Bible in his hand. He might have been God, Jesus, Peter or Paul. The figure symbolised the Word.

  The organ music swirled around me like autumn leaves in the wind. It wasn’t a tune I recognised but improvisations, exercises to loosen the muscles, keystrokes and moods rather than melody lines or harmonies.

  I turned and looked up at the gallery. Beneath two star-shaped lamps I met Jakob’s eyes in the mirror above the organ. He played two verses of ‘Yesterday’ to show that he had seen me then finished with a flourish and an exclamation mark in the form of a two-voiced chord.

  Then he got up and signalled for me to join him. I went through the side entrance and up the staircase on the left.

  He met me with a serious face. ‘Have you seen the papers?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I tried to call you, but…’

  ‘Oh. I was … out of circulation, you might say.’

  ‘What do you think happened? Who do you think could…?’

  I looked at him. ‘I was thinking of asking you the same question.’

  ‘I just don’t understand it.’ He smiled wanly. ‘Stig Madsen seemed pretty keen to meet Bella that night, didn’t he. And was equally agitated that Johnny hadn’t shown up.’

  ‘Are you suggesting…?’

  ‘Nothing. It just struck me.’

  ‘What about you? I mean … when you left. Did you say anything to him?’

  ‘N-no.’

  ‘Which route did you take?’

  His eyes wandered for a second. ‘I went to the station to get a taxi.’

  ‘And did you find one?’

  ‘No. No. I had to wait a … while.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I … we were all a bit…’

  ‘But you did get one eventually?’

  ‘Oh, yes. And I went straight home. Alone.’ And added, pulling a face: ‘Officer.’

  ‘We should expect to hear from the police, both of us.’

  He glanced at me nervously. ‘The police? Why?’

  ‘They’ll probably check his movements over the last day or so and they’re bound to hear we visited Johnny in Bella’s dressing room on Friday evening and that I was in his video shop on Saturday.’

  ‘Do you think they’re that thorough? Don’t you think they already have their suspicions? I mean … usually they check out the partner first, don’t they? You’re in that line of business, sort of, aren’t you?’

  I nodded. ‘You mean that because he has a reputation of being abusive to his partners, one of them has finally learned to pay him back in his own coin?’

  ‘Don’t you think?’ He watched me expectantly.

  ‘I met her yesterday. I don’t know … I’ve been wrong before, and it’s just a feeling, but I didn’t get the impression she was particularly … violent.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  A door to the left of the pulpit opened. A tall, thin, dark-haired man wearing a grey suit and a priest’s collar came out and looked up at us. There was something serious and solemn about the way he moved, with slow steps, as if he were walking in fresh, wet snow.

  A little smile crossed his lips and his voice was accompanied by a rude echo talking at the same time as him: ‘It was suddenly so quiet. I was wondering if something had happened.’

  Jakob got up from the organ stool and leaned against the railing. ‘No, no. I’ve got a visitor. That’s all. You…’

  ‘Can I come up and say hello or would I be disturbing?’

  ‘I was on the point of inviting you…’

  While the priest came up Jakob mumbled a quick explanation. ‘This is Berge Brevik. He’s the resident chaplain. He knows about … Rebecca.’

  Then Berge Brevik was with us. He smiled at Jakob and eyed me with curiosity. ‘Dr Livingstone, I presume,’ he said with a dry chuckle, the way priests laugh when they are sitting with a cup of coffee at the six-monthly church bazaar.

  We shook hands. His was cold and clammy. Like the priest who had confirmed me. Perhaps it had something to do with the atmosphere in large churches. They could often be chilly and damp.

  ‘Veum, Varg Veum.’

  He looked at me with a humorous glint in his eye. ‘And I’m Brevik, Berge Brevik. “Women-and-Children-First”, as they used to call me at college.�
�� Another dry chuckle, the way they chuckled during the lunch break at the theology faculty when someone told an amusing story about working in Madagascar.

  ‘I’m an old school friend of Jakob’s,’ I explained.

  ‘That’s nice. You’ve kept in touch ever since?’ He spoke a refined Møre dialect, somewhere between Ålesund and Molde.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. We—’

  ‘We met at the funeral on Friday,’ Jakob said. ‘I think I mentioned it to you. A former school friend.’

  Berge Brevik nodded. ‘Unfortunate circumstances to meet under. Nevertheless, it’s uplifting that something positive has come out of it, don’t you think?’ He placed a hand on both of our shoulders. ‘That old friends can meet again, eh?’ He embraced us with a benign look.

  I studied him more closely while he was talking. His complexion was pale and his dark beard visible beneath the shave. His eyes were dark blue, his facial features classically clean cut and his carriage erect. He had strong, white teeth, lips with a red, feminine tinge and slim, white hands that were expressive and hairless.

  He had turned to Jakob now and asked in a hushed voice, with a concerned expression: ‘Anything new … from your side?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  ‘You haven’t heard anything?’

  ‘Not since last time.’

  Berge Brevik gloomily shook his head. Then he squeezed Jakob’s shoulder. ‘It’ll be fine, you’ll see. It’ll all work out in the end.’

  For a moment he stood immersed in his own thoughts. Then he visibly tore himself away, shook off the apparent melancholy, smiled and said: ‘Well, I won’t disturb your chat with your friend anymore. As I said … I just noticed the silence.’ He shook my hand. ‘Perhaps we’ll meet again.’

  I shook his hand once more. ‘Not impossible. In which case … until we meet again.’

  ‘Until we meet again, Varg Veum.’ As he left he added: ‘I’m glad I wasn’t on duty for your christening. That would’ve been an entertaining occasion.’

  ‘You were being christened yourself at the time, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, probably. Now you come to mention it.’ He smiled again and left.

  After he had gone down the stairs, I said in a low voice: ‘Your private spiritual advisor?’

  Jakob smiled uneasily and hesitated. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘By the way … Rebecca.’

  He became serious again. ‘Yes?’

  ‘You mentioned something about addresses of girlfriends I could check out.’

  He looked at me with an indefinable expression in his eyes. ‘So you still want to try to find her?’

  I opened my hands. ‘As long as I don’t have any other pressing jobs. Christmas is coming up, insurance companies are keeping a low profile and jobs are few and far between at the moment. I’m living off my October fees. It doesn’t do me any harm to keep my hand in. Let’s put it like that.’

  ‘I can pay, if it’s that…’

  ‘No, no,’ I said, on the defence. ‘This is a favour, Jakob. Perhaps you can return the favour one day?’

  ‘And how could I do that?’

  ‘You could play for free at my funeral,’ I smiled. ‘Well, have you got some addresses in your head or should I try to find them myself?’

  He racked his brains. ‘The problem is that I only have their old addresses, from the seventies, while they were at university.’

  ‘They have useful archives up at the uni. What’s more, I have a little friend at the National Registration Office. That’s usually enough.’

  ‘OK. I’ll write them down for you.’

  He tore a page from his Filofax and jotted down three names and three addresses. ‘Here they are, more or less. If we draw a blank there, I’ll have to think a bit harder.’ He smiled wearily and gave me the sheet.

  I scrutinised them. Two of the addresses lacked house numbers. One of the names didn’t have a surname. ‘These house numbers – can you at least describe the houses if you’ve ever been there?’

  ‘The one in Olsvik, that’s the first floor of a small white house. The first one you come to when you turn into the street. Margrete something-or-other. The other two are in Nygårdshøyden. That one, Helga Bøe, I think she’s called. I imagine she still lives there. She wasn’t the type to get married.’

  I looked askance. ‘Really?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fosswinckelsgate … And you have the number there.’

  He nodded.

  ‘That’s Daniel Hansens gate. They’re quite close together – and it’s not far from where you erected your tepee.’

  ‘No. That’s Unn Helene. It’s a bed-sit as well. An off-yellow house with a rendered front. Up in the attic. Not much room.’

  ‘Who are these women?’

  He gave a taut smile. ‘If you’ve ever witnessed an eighth of March International Women’s Day procession, you’ve seen them. They were like clones. You couldn’t tell them apart as they marched under the banners with baggy jumpers, dark-blue jeans three sizes too big, jackets like circus tents and festooned with scarves they’d got from Sigrun Berg or the Palestine Committee. They were a sight to behold – blindfold.’

  ‘And your Rebecca was with them?’

  ‘Mhm.’

  ‘While you were at home looking after the children?’

  ‘Mhm.’

  ‘And what about all the other days?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘All the Fridays and Saturdays you were out gigging with The Harpers?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Then she was at home looking after the children?’

  ‘Yes. So?’

  ‘No, nothing. I just don’t quite understand what you’re so angry about.’

  ‘Well, drop it then. How did it go with your marriage, Varg? Didn’t it finish as well, sometime in the seventies?’

  I nodded slowly. ‘It was a hard decade for marriages.’

  ‘You’re telling me, Varg. You’re telling me.’

  We stood looking at each other as the long shadows from the seventies settled over our faces like zebra stripes.

  Then I held up the sheet with the three names and addresses on. ‘OK. I’ll see if she’s at one of these places. I’ll let you know whichever way it goes. Are you at home tonight?’

  He gave a faint smile. ‘Still looking after the kids.’

  Before I was out of the church the organ was roaring again: a desperate, disharmonious sound until he pulled himself together and started on a frenetic postlude. Unless it was a requiem to the seventies.

  22

  I left the car by a parking meter in Strømgaten, paid the fee for two hours and strolled into Fosswinckelsgate.

  The address Jakob had written down turned out to be a three-storey house on the slope between the Freemasons’ seventies bunker and the natural-sciences building; it was attractively set back, and was fronted by a small garden with a paved pathway down the middle.

  I walked up the long path and tried the door. It was locked. To the right there were three bells with names and intercoms. The middle one belonged to Helga Bøe, but neither she nor anyone else was in. At any rate no one answered.

  I crossed the street and looked up at the house like a cat burglar casing the joint. The building was in good order, recently painted grey, with blue window frames and doors, and the heavily curtained windows were slumbering in the morning darkness. They didn’t so much as open an eyelid.

  I walked on a few blocks and crossed the dirty stream of cars in Nygårdsgaten. I found a building that with some charity might be regarded as having once been off-yellow, but now was definitely more off than yellow. There seemed to be quite a lot of bed-sits here, but I was out of luck. No one called Unn Helene lived here and the people I spoke to found it hard enough remembering who had been living there the previous month, never mind in the seventies. Hello and goodbye.

  I walked up Strømgaten again and calculated I had donated the parking-meter comp
any an hour of my time. Then I drove to Olsvik.

  My map led me to the right street. But the little, white timber construction that might have been there in the seventies was gone now, replaced by a row of terraced houses, complete with tricycles in front, leaking roofs and panoramic windows with a view of the Vadmyra residential district and adjoining splendours.

  There was of course a slight chance that Margrete of the unknown surname had bought one of the houses for nostalgic reasons. But if I were to ring the doorbells and ask after Margrete No-Name I was afraid the house-husbands would have the police after me before I could say ‘gender equality committee’.

  I drove back towards town feeling as useful as a football coach at a dancing-school ball. I returned to Fosswinckels gate with no expectations. I parked outside the house, went up to the bells and pressed the middle button.

  This time someone was at home. ‘Yes?’ the intercom crackled.

  ‘Veum here,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Who?’ came the barked reply.

  ‘Varg Veum,’ I said. ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘And who might you be?’ she said just as uncompromisingly.

  ‘I’m an old friend of Rebecca’s.’

  There was a long silence.

  Then the voice returned: ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To talk to Rebecca.’

  ‘She isn’t here.’

  It was my turn to be silent.