‘But—’
‘But,’ I interrupted, ‘we’re living in a time that positively demands a wakening. You said that yourself. The new millennium. A change of century is an important turning point in human history, and a lot will happen this decade before it’s with us. Such turning points create fear. Suddenly you’re standing there naked as a new and unknown millennium unfolds in front of you. And when humans feel fear they search for a security outside themselves. Some of them call this security God. And it helps.’
‘So you don’t believe in God, Veum?’
I shrugged. ‘I can’t say I believe and I can’t say I don’t. I’ve always allowed myself to belong to the sceptics on this earth. But I believe in faith itself. I believe in a human need to have something to believe in, something beyond yourself, something before and after death. And the need for rituals. Even I’m moved when I experience the church’s ceremonies: christenings, weddings and funerals. Also I’m gripped when the congregation’s singing echoes around the vaults.’
‘That’s mere sentimentality. What about the big – the so-called big – questions in our lives? How did life start? What is the meaning of life? Where do we go afterwards?’
‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ I mumbled in a low voice. Aloud, I said: ‘That’s what I’m saying. Everyone, all over the world, has always felt a need to have precisely these questions answered. And they’ve given these answers names. Here they’re called God and Jesus. In other religions they have other names. I can’t see that one religion is necessarily truer than another or that a particular people should be God’s chosen ones. If God really created us, then he created us all and he created us equal. That’s the same need and the same answers. It’s only the languages that are different. But I will concede that the mystery of our origins exists. There is a beginning, there are roots, we here, down below, can barely guess at. But I can’t tell you if that beginning is called God or Allah or anything else. For that matter, it could equally well be Erich von Däniken’s visitors from outer space.’
He smiled wryly. ‘So for you Jesus wandered the earth in vain?’
‘Actually I was saying the opposite. And where do we get our calendar from? As I happened to grow up in a Christian culture it’s obvious that my relationship to religion is bound up with Christianity, with all its myths, legends and great stories – from Adam and Eve to Jesus and John the Baptist. Whether you believe in divine power at all or not, you can’t escape the fact that that’s the imagery you grew up with. In the wake of Noah’s ark and the shadow of the Tower of Babel. You can still learn important things from the Sermon on the Mount. And whether He was God’s son or only a man with an utterly incredible impact, Jesus of Nazareth still has a message and a programme it’s worth listening to down here. So I wouldn’t say he wandered the earth for nothing.’
With a gentle smile and a shake of the head he opened his arms to me and said: ‘So give yourself to Him, Veum. Don’t let your doubts fester any longer. With the Lord God you’ll find peace and calm for all your restless thoughts; with the Lord Jesus you’ll find light in the darkness. Veum, you’re a lamb that has strayed from the herd, but the shepherd is searching for you in the darkness, and you will find your way home again, I can assure you of that. You will find the way home because in your heart you’re one of us, you belong in our great … boundless flock.’
‘The great white flock, as in our traditional hymn?’ I held up my palms in defence. ‘That’s enough. Enough. Give me a break and let’s return to the real reason you’re here today.’
That stopped him in his tracks. His arms froze and sank slowly, his face lost the commitment and heat, and passion flowed out of him like melting snow from a car radiator.
‘Rebecca,’ he said flatly, sitting down heavily on the chair again. ‘I came here because of Rebecca…’
‘Exactly. And what you were going to explain to me was…’
‘Just a minute, Veum. I don’t know how well you know Rebecca.’
‘We grew up together. In the same street.’
‘Right. Then you’ll remember her father was a preacher.’
I nodded.
‘But as an adult Rebecca rebelled, broke with her childhood faith, which I’m fairly sure would’ve deeply wounded her father. I think her guilt regarding this rests heavily on her heart – and the fact that she was unable to make it up to him before he died.’
‘And how would she make it up to him? By changing course, against her own, genuine convictions?’
‘At any rate she came to me … as her spiritual adviser. I think that I … became like a father to her. I took on the paternal role in this situation and was someone she felt she could confide in.’
‘And you exploited her vulnerability?’
‘No, Veum. That’s not how it was. You mustn’t believe that this was planned. That would be to pour opprobrium on me, my integrity and my principles.’
‘Beautiful words when you wear them for decoration.’
‘Spare me the cheap cynicism, Veum. What happened between Rebecca and me then just happened. You can’t understand what I suddenly felt for Rebecca.’
‘Oh no?’
‘No!’ he almost barked.
Meekly, I said: ‘Well, maybe not. But don’t forget I knew her before she got married.’
‘You … knew her … in the Biblical sense?’ His eyes swept past me, the way headlights sweep past you in the winter darkness.
‘No, Brevik,’ I said quietly. ‘Not in the Biblical sense, but…’ I shrugged. ‘Don’t let me put you off finishing what you have to say. I’ve never been in the habit of judging people. I’m not … yeah, well.’
He shook his head. ‘A priest can have feelings too, Veum. Even when they put him on a collision course with the Ten Commandments.’
He sat down again, leaned forward, rapt in his own thoughts, and stared at the surface of my desk as he began to speak. ‘When she came to me, two years ago, she entered my life like an angel. Where there had previously been darkness, she brought light. Where there had been desert, she planted flowers. Where for years I’d been wandering alone and hungry, she was my manna from heaven. I’d lived alone for years and had never had any female acquaintances other than … friends, often older than me. Colleagues in the communities where I served, women who sought me in an official capacity. But I wasn’t without emotion. I, too, felt the lusts of the flesh awaken in me. From the outside, the Christian world may seem de-eroticised and unemotional. But it isn’t like that. If you read hymn poetry you’ll find many powerful declarations of erotic love; and in my life in Christian societies I’ve seen many a devoted couple whose mutual love – and desire – has shone like a sun around them both.’
Biblical metaphors not only coloured his speech, but also his face. A gleam of elation and rapture spread across his pale complexion and his eyes sparkled darkly. ‘Rebecca was … like that for me. She came to me at a difficult time. She talked to me about her worries, about her betrayal, she came to me with her bad conscience and fragile marriage and the fact that the man she was married to was one of my closest co-workers didn’t make any of this easier for me.’
He shot me a quick glance, then looked down. ‘So I gave her the comfort, the care and the advice she needed. I gave her the strength she needed to return to Jakob with an open mind and then … she went. Back. But in a way she stayed with me. Over me hung a shadow … of light – a reflection, I suppose I should say. She was in my thoughts, and I could circle around the chair where she had been sitting in my office – a very ordinary spindle-back chair, dark-brown wood with red leather on the seat and back – and I experienced this as … as though it had become a holy relic. That was all. Nothing else happened.’
I looked at him enquiringly. ‘Nothing?’
‘Not then,’ he added solemnly. ‘Not until the following year. Last year … it happened, the anguish for both of us. But first of all a great trust grew between us. After I’d managed to get her back on
an even keel and steered her back to her marriage she used to drop in now and then. I realised that she felt alone and needed someone to talk to. A father, a brother, a … well.’ He hunched his shoulders and stretched out his hands.
‘So that was what I became for her. Her confidant. And she mine. There wasn’t a thing we couldn’t talk about. I’d never experienced anything like it – being able to speak to another person and, on top of that, a woman. So open and so without … barriers. And then perhaps we became too close…’ He searched for words. ‘In the end I invited her home. I wanted to make a fuss of her … I even made her waffles. Bought some liqueur. We … It just happened. We found each other.’ He looked up at me, his eyes begging me to understand so that he wouldn’t have to go into details.
I nodded stiffly. I understood.
‘But it only happened once. Afterwards…’ His voice broke. ‘Afterwards everything had to finish. We couldn’t even meet as we usually did. All closeness was a danger for further falls. I had to accept that. And she did, too.’
‘But yesterday…’
‘Jakob came to me a few months ago and told me she’d left him … again.’
‘Did he know about…?’
He shook his head, in shame. ‘I could never bring myself to tell him. What she did, I don’t know. I certainly hope she didn’t tell him. But of course he knew we’d become good friends, and he thanked me when she returned, on my advice. But perhaps he sensed it anyway? I don’t know. I have no experience of this.’
‘No, of course not.’ Casually, I remarked: ‘Strictly speaking, in liberal times like ours, this isn’t so much to get upset about, is it? One blemish – surely there’s forgiveness for that?’
‘In heaven, yes. But down here?’ He beat his breast. ‘In my own heart? For the feelings that are still here. Anyway, when I visited her yesterday it was with only one thought in mind: to counsel her to go back home, once again.’
I could feel my neck tighten. ‘And did she follow your counsel this time too?’
He looked at me sadly. ‘No, I don’t think so, Veum. This time I’m afraid she’s serious. I talked about the children, their situation, Jakob’s difficult position within the parish, the church’s view of such matters. Once again I urged her to fight with herself, to fight the demons she must have inside her, drive them out and return to the safe embrace of Jesus, but … not this time.’
I breathed out slowly. Then I said in a low voice: ‘Did she return at all to what you call her childhood faith?’
Again he shook his head sadly. ‘No, but she was on her way, Veum. I’m sure she was on her way.’
In a flashback, I saw her father coming down the street with his worn briefcase under his arm, meek and stooped by nature, but always with the time to stop and talk to us while we were playing, to ask what we were doing and how things were. Rebecca’s father. Later, in the years when I wandered full of dreams to their door in Landås, he had acquired more wisdom and there was more resignation in his eyes, and he met me with friendly scepticism, sat at the kitchen table and rolled a cigarette of the cheapest variety, which he placed neatly beside the open Bible and only lit after he had read the text for the afternoon. And, finally, some rare glimpses of him in the street: a lean face and a body the unseen enemy was already consuming. A death notice in the newspaper, and then his face is slowly erased, disappearing in the hustle and bustle of the time, then it is suddenly there again, part of a collection of memories.
‘Why don’t you think she’ll go back to him this time?’ I asked.
‘I think she’s been through too much. She’s forgiven him too often. And forgiveness is a divine gift, Veum. We have been allocated our share, but we don’t have limitless resources. She’s experienced terrible things.’
I could feel that I was instantly on the alert again. ‘You’re thinking about what happened to The Harpers?’
‘I’m thinking about everything, Veum. I can’t sit here and allude to one particular event. There is, after all, an oath of confidentiality.’
‘That hasn’t bothered you so far.’
‘Because I was talking about myself. I’ve come here today to present my situation to you so that you don’t misunderstand Rebecca … or me. As far as what she’s said is concerned, my vow of silence is inviolable.’
‘But … from a neutral point of view, can you see why she’s not going back to him?’
He leaned forward to me again, so close that not even the shadows could hear what we were saying. ‘Let me tell you one thing, Veum. It’s not easy when someone opens a door for you and you see … straight down into Hell.’
I watched him, waiting for more. But it never came.
He retreated into himself.
I said drily: ‘Well, it’s probably best to have a valid membership card on you.’
He jumped to his feet, walked past my desk and over to the window, so quickly that I almost tipped over as I followed him round in my swivel chair.
Outside, yuletide Bergen glittered in its cold finery. The mountains lay dark and bare. Only at the top of Vidden and around the TV mast on Ulriken was there a thin sprinkling of snow, like the dust of crushed stars.
Berge Brevik made a dramatic gesture with his hand. ‘When I see the town on an evening like this, do you know what I see, Veum?’
‘No, what do you see?’
‘It’s eerie, but it’s a vision that pursues me. I see the town two weeks after doomsday, bombed out and with no signs of life. Up on the mountainside you might glimpse in some ruins the flickering of bonfires the survivors have lit for a few weeks. Then they’re gone too and a sombre darkness envelops the landscape before it starts snowing, in August. Soot-black snow, which will cover everything.’
He finished on a crescendo: ‘So it’s good to know you have your place in the flock gathered at the feet of our Lord, Veum. It’s comforting to know you have a homecoming in the light, a father who will receive you and eternal rest in the arms of Jesus Christ…
‘Isn’t that right?’ he added after a slight pause. As though he still wasn’t absolutely sure it would be like that.
Then he went to the coat stand, put on his coat, wrapped the scarf around his neck and stood holding his knitted hat. ‘Thank you for listening, Veum. Should you feel the need for solace one day … you know where to find me.’
He smiled and was gone.
I sat gazing up the mountainside. There still wasn’t a single bonfire to be seen. But the prophecy had been clear enough, and you didn’t need to believe in God to see that it could well come true.
In the meantime we all had our assignments on earth. There were still questions to ask, still answers to root out in the darkness.
Gradually I could see the outline of a pattern. The person who could help me to see it with total clarity was probably Ruth Solheim.
Or Jakob.
Or Rebecca.
39
I rang the bell downstairs and Rebecca’s voice came from the adjacent intercom speaker: ‘Yes?’
‘Varg here.’
For a moment there was silence. Then the lock buzzed and I pushed the door open. The harsh light inside peeled off an elongated shadow of my body and pasted it onto the wall behind me. The stairwell resounded with a hollow echo, as though it was the shadow’s footsteps I heard.
As I walked up I saw Rebecca standing outside the door, waiting. Her face was pale, her mouth tightly pursed. But she had always been pale. Even after two months on holiday in the summer she was. But then she had always spent her summers in Hardanger.
‘Hi,’ I smiled cheerily. ‘May I come in?’
She shrugged and let me pass. ‘In there,’ she said, pointing to the kitchen. ‘Helga has a visitor.’
I could hear she had. From the sitting room came loud feminist laughter, as if after a successful castration. I walked by quickly before they scented the blood of a Christian male.
The kitchen was large with a blue-and-white checked wax cloth on the table, new un
its in white wood, green ceramic tiles above the sink and charcoal sketches in black varnished frames on the walls. Portraits of women, shaded and thoughtful.
Two empty wine bottles stood on the worktop and coffee was dripping contemplatively through a machine. Rebecca indicated the back staircase. ‘Up there.’
I opened the door and came into the stairwell facing the yard. ‘The door on the right,’ she said, from behind me.
I opened it and went in.
It was the smallest bed-sit I had ever seen. The floor surface couldn’t have been more than twelve to fifteen square metres. There was enough room for a sofa bed along the wall on the left of the door, a desk and a chair facing the window in the middle, and a dresser and shelving along one short wall. On the other side of the room there were two suitcases, and skirts, blouses and a coat hung from clothes hangers.
On the desk there was a pile of student exercise books, an open coursebook and an English dictionary. On the window sill there was a black portable radio; someone was rambling on about how people used to celebrate Christmas in the old days.
A desk lamp cast sharp, white light over the open books. Otherwise the room lay in merciful half-light, although it was still unable to hide the stains on the carpet, the worn lino covering the floor and the impression of a homeless boarding-house existence that covered everything like dust. It felt like being in the lift, halfway between two floors in life, during a power cut after the caretaker had gone home.
I turned round and looked at her. ‘Bit cramped in here.’
She stood in the doorway. If she came all the way in she wouldn’t be able to avoid some intimacy between us. ‘It’s only for a little while and … Helga lived here for years.’
Fallen Angels Page 26
