CHAPTER 5.
"Matteus?"
He heard the voice the instant the door slammed. He promptly reached for the bag of sweets in his pocket. Wanted her to notice it and clap her hands.
"Yes," he said in a low voice, rustling the bag. His mother came in from the living room. She pressed his cheek to her breast.
"Did you meet someone on the way home?"
"No, but my jacket was under all the others," he blurted out.
"Grandpa is here."
Matteus rushed into his grandpa's open arms. And then he flew up in the air, flew like the wind, almost up to the ceiling.
"Watch out for your back," Ingrid said to her father.
And then she smiled. After so many years alone, he had at last pulled himself together and grown from 96 centimetres to two metres tall, or so it seemed. Because of a woman.
69."You're 17 minutes late," said Sejer, looking at his grandson.
"My jacket was underneath all the others," Matteus repeated.
"I see," said Sejer, smiling. "With all the buttonholes tangled up in each other?" A network of delicate lines appeared on his face as his smile grew. Nothing gave him as much joy as this child with the chocolate-coloured skin. He felt overwhelmed, tender, almost weak in the knees. It was unsettling, considering what life was like and everything that could happen. And that was something about which he knew a great deal. The boy slipped under his arm and grabbed his hands from behind.
"Teach me the police hold!" he begged eagerly.
"I'll give you a police hold," Sejer said, laughing, as he spun the boy around, bundled him up, and carried him to the sofa. "Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?" Matteus squealed with glee. Ingrid stood leaning against the doorframe, watching them. Sejer looked up. Her back curved in a certain way that reminded him of her mother.
"You forgot about the time because you were having so much fun!" he guessed, looking into the boy's brown eyes. "You forgot your promise to your mother."
70."No," shouted Matteus, wriggling on to his stomach.
"You met a stray dog on the street. You sat on the curb to stroke him, while you tried to work out how to get your mother to let you keep him. A scruffy-looking mutt. Am I right?"
"No, no!" he shouted again. He grabbed a pillow and put it over his head.
"You met a gang of bullies, and they wouldn't let you pass."
Silence. Ingrid looked at her father in surprise, and then at her son, who had curled himself up into a ball of corduroy and denim.
"They were sitting in a car."
"Who?"
Ingrid was at his side in an instant.
"Relax," said Sejer swiftly. "He's here, isn't he?"
"What did they do? Tell me!"
"Nothing."
He was talking into the upholstery.
"Don't play games with me!"
"I don't like my name! Matteus is a stupid name!" he shouted, throwing the pillow to the floor. He wasn't crying. He almost never cried. He had soon realised that he was different, that people expected other things from him. That it was best if he moved quietly and didn't make too much noise. With his kind of colouring it was almost too much for them. 71 "I want to know what they did," said his mother again.
"Ingrid," said her father, "if he doesn't want to tell you, he should be allowed to keep it to himself." Matteus cleared his throat. "They asked me how to get to the bowling alley. But they knew where it was. Afterwards they came back. They didn't do anything."
He took out the bag of sweets that he had been clutching in his hand, lifted it up to his nose and sniffed at it. It contained sour balls, jelly worms, and marshmallows.
"I'm sorry," said his mother softly. "I was just so worried."
Chief Inspector Konrad Sejer picked up his grandson and sat him on his lap. He buried his face in the boy's curly hair and thought about the years yet to come. Tried his utmost to decipher the shadowy images that lay ahead, far in the future.
"They said I had a cool jacket," said Matteus, grinning.
"What's inside is even cooler," Sejer said. "Walk me to the door. I have to go home."
"No, you don't. I know Kollberg isn't alone."
"I have to go home to Sara."
"Is she going to move in with you? Where am I going to sleep when I come to stay?"
"She's not going to live with me. She lives with 72 her father, because he's sick. But she comes to see me, and sometimes she stays overnight. If she's there when you come over, you can sleep on the floor. All by yourself. On a foam mattress." Matteus blinked his eyes in dismay. He stood there holding his grandfather's hand, tugging at it. Ingrid had to turn away to giggle.
"She's not fat, is she? So that there wouldn't be room for all of us?"
"No," Sejer said, "she's not fat." He patted his daughter rather awkwardly on the arm and went out into the courtyard. Waved to Matteus in the open doorway. He drove slowly towards his apartment building. Later he would remember that, in those few minutes it took him to drive home from his daughter's house, life had seemed so orderly, so predictable and safe. Lonely, perhaps, but he had his dog. A Leonberger that weighed 70 kilos and was lacking in any manners. He was actually ashamed about that. Sara had a dog too. A well-behaved Alsatian. Sejer didn't like surprises. He was used to being always in control. He had almost everything. A good reputation. Respect. And, after many years as a widower, he had Sara. Life was no longer predictable. She was waiting for him now. They had invited Jacob Skarre to dinner. He was a younger officer whom Sejer liked and in an odd way counted as a friend, even 73 though he was old enough to be Skarre's father. But he liked that. Enjoyed being with someone who was still young. And, he had to admit, it was good to have someone who listened, who still had a lot to learn. He had never had a son. Perhaps that was where his fondness for Skarre stemmed from.
He braked gently for a red light. Sara is standing in the kitchen. She's dressed up, but not too much. Probably put on a dress, he thought. She has brushed her long, blonde hair. She's not stressed. Her movements are measured and gentle, like the way I drive my car through town. The nape of her neck. A shiver ran down his spine. Those short, blonde hairs against her smooth skin. Her wide shoulders. She looks at her watch because she's expecting me home, and Jacob could turn up at any moment. The food is ready, but if it's not, that doesn't make her nervous. She's not like other people. She's in control. She's mine. He started humming a tune by Dani Klein "Don't Break My Heart" and then he glanced in the rear-view mirror. For a moment he was shocked at how grey his hair was. Sara was so blonde and slender. Oh well. I'm a grown man, thought Konrad Sejer as he pulled in to the garage. He took the stairs, even though he lived on the 13th floor. He was trying to stay in shape, and maybe he'd have time for a shower. He ran up the stairs without getting out of 74 breath. As he pushed down the door handle, he heard his dog making a racket and coming rushing out to greet him. He opened the door a crack and whistled. Once Sejer was inside, the dog stood on his hind legs and pressed him against the wall. Afterwards he was wet all over. Now he definitely needed a shower. The dog sauntered into the living room. Sara called hello.
That's when he noticed the smell. He stood still for a moment, breathing it in. There were several different smells: nutmeg from the kitchen, and melted cheese. Fresh-baked bread from the oven. He could also still smell the dog, who had nearly devoured him. But the other smell! The unfamiliar smell coming from the living room. He took a few steps, peeked into the kitchen. She wasn't there. He kept going, the smell got stronger. Something wasn't right. He stopped. She was sitting on the sofa with her feet propped on the table. Soft music reached his ears from the stereo. Billie Holiday singing "God Bless the Child". She was wearing lipstick and a green dress. Her hair gleamed, blonde and shiny, and he thought: She's beautiful. But that's not it. He glared at her.
"What is it?" she said gently. There was no trace of anxiety in her voice.
"What are you doing?" he stammered.
"Relaxing." She gave him a radiant smile. 75 "Dinner's ready. Jacob called, said he'd be here shortly."
It smells of hash, thought Sejer. Here, in my own living room. I know that smell, it's not like anything else, I can't be mistaken. He was dumbstruck. He was a mute beast, a fish out of water. The smell was thick in the whole room. He cast a wild glance at the balcony door, went over and opened it. He was so unbelievably surprised, so completely bowled over.
"Konrad," she said. "You look so strange." He turned to face her. "It's nothing. Just . . . something occurred to me." His voice didn't sound normal. He tried to think. Jacob could be there any second. Sara didn't look stoned, but maybe she would be soon. Jacob would think he condoned it, and he didn't. What on earth should he do? She's a psychiatrist, she works with people who are very sick, many of them destroyed by drugs heroin and ecstasy and here she sits, getting stoned. On my sofa. I thought I knew her. But I suppose, after all, I don't. The crease on Sejer's forehead was deeper than it had ever been.
Sara got to her feet. She placed her hands on his chest and stood on her toes. He was still taller than she was.
"You look so worried. Please don't be worried." The only thing he smelled was the caramel scent 76 of her lipstick. He swallowed hard, and there was an audible gulp in his throat.
Why do I become a child in the arms of this woman? he wondered. And then, out loud, his voice hoarse: "What's that strange smell?" She laughed slyly. "I put a whole nutmeg in the mousaka by mistake, and I haven't been able to find it."
He stared at his feet. He certainly didn't have time for a shower now. Jacob would be at the door any moment. The fresh September air came streaming into the room. Billie Holiday was singing. He didn't know if the smell was still there as the room gradually cooled off. Norwegian law, he thought. In accordance with Norwegian law. It sounded ridiculous. He could say anything to her, but not that. It occurred to him that this woman had her own laws. And yet she had higher moral standards than anyone he knew. He felt like a schoolboy. Realised there was so much he didn't know, so much he had never tried. He was curious about people, he wanted to know about them, who they were and why they were that way. But right now he felt something wavering inside him.
The doorbell rang. Sara went to open the door. Jacob was sharp, for all that he looked like a schoolboy. Was the smell still there? His eyes stopped at the picture of Elise on the wall in front 77 of him. She smiled back. She had no worries. She disappeared for an instant, seemed more dead than usual. It was harder to summon her back, her voice, her laughter. He felt a new kind of grief that she was about to disappear in a different way. Would it never end? He went out to the balcony. He liked the crisp autumn air and the bright colours. Liked this time of year better than the summer. He took several deep breaths. He thought he ought to work out more; he wasn't getting any younger. There was plenty of life left. Matteus would grow up, black in a white world. He had to be there for him. Sejer shook his head, bewildered. Couldn't understand his sudden gloom. And then, there was Jacob Skarre standing next to him.
"Smells good!"
"What do you mean?" asked Sejer, on the defensive.
"From the kitchen," Jacob said.
They ate and drank and talked about their jobs. Sara told stories from the Beacon psychiatric hospital, where she worked as a doctor. She wasn't the least bit stoned, at least not that Sejer could see. But now and then he would glance at her surreptitiously, and he scrutinised Jacob more closely than usual. One of the things about Jacob was that he was so tactful. If he noticed anything he would never say so. Should he mention it himself when 78 they were alone? He brooded over this as Jacob talked about a shooting incident. It was a bad case, but, even so, an old story that repeated itself with few variations. Jacob was determined to confer with his God, to find some meaning in something which had no meaning. Because there wasn't any meaning or purpose, it wasn't part of any higher plan that would lead to anything good. Sejer was convinced of that.
"It was a bunch of kids who were going to have a party. It happened the same way it always does. The guys bought the alcohol and then picked up the girls. One of the boys, called Robert, had a rented room. And a stereo system. The landlord was gone, it was perfect timing. The idea was to get drunk, get laid, and then brag about it the next day." Skarre looked up at Sejer with the bluest eyes in the world.
"Somebody also brought along some dope. They weren't really drug users, it's pretty much considered decadent to smoke a little hash at a party, and it's not exactly a major crime any more, not these days. To keep it short, the whole thing ended in the deepest misery. Drunkenness, then fighting. Robert got out a shotgun and shot his girlfriend right in the face. Her name was Anita, 18 years old. She died instantly."
He paused and stared into his glass of red wine. Held it by the stem, not wanting to leave any 79 fingerprints on the bowl of the glass. It was amazing, Skarre's attention to detail.
"They were ordinary boys," he said to Sara. "I know it sounds as if they were nothing but the dregs at the bottom of society, but they weren't. They all had jobs or were students. They came from decent homes. Had never done anything criminal." He started swirling the wine in his glass. "In a way it's impossible to understand, don't you think?
Except to suppose that something took over.
Something from outside."
"You can't blame the Devil," said Sejer with a smile.
"I can't?"
"Hasn't he been officially excluded from the Norwegian church, as being non-existent?"
"That's a great loss to human kind," said Skarre meditatively.
"Why so?" Sara wanted to know.
"If we don't believe in the Devil, we won't be able to recognise him when he suddenly shows up."
"Blame the Devil? For heaven's sake. That would cut a lot of ice in court."
"No, no." Jacob shook his head. "Try to think of it like this. We encounter the Devil all the time. The question is, how do we handle him?" He fell silent for a moment. "I don't really believe in the Devil, but I have doubts now and then," he said, smiling. 80 "For example, when I saw the photo of Anita what was left of her or Robert's face through the bars sitting in his cell. He's a good person."
"All of us are both good and bad, Jacob," Sara said. "It's not an either/or."
"You're right. Some people are fundamentally good. Others are fundamentally cynical. I'm talking about a basic tone that exists in every person. And in Robert, it's good. Don't you agree, Konrad?" Oh yes. He agreed. And he didn't understand it. He didn't go to bed. Gave himself an extra hour. Sara and Jacob were going in the same direction, so they shared a taxi. He patted his leg, the signal for his dog to come and lie down at his feet. His thoughts whirled. Matteus, Sara, Jacob, Robert, and everything that happens. But life is not basically bad. The red wine had taken its effect, he had to admit. He'd drunk his fill, and a little more besides. Matteus would be fine, everyone was healthy, he was doing well in his job. And he would work out this thing with Sara. Later. He stared up at the picture of Elise. Since all was finally quiet in the building and anyway no-one could see him, he drew her a little closer.
Ingrid Sejer was also still awake. She had put Matteus to bed at 8 p.m., sung him a song and 81 tucked him in. Later on she went to get his school bag to check that everything was there. Books and gym kit. She took it out to the living room and opened it. Glanced through his books, made sure the pencil was sharp, that the rubber and glue stick and scissors were there. A folded slip of paper fell out. The blue-tinted paper was not one she recognised. Perhaps it was a message from his teacher, intended for her.
"I'M GONNA CUT THREE GASHES IN YOUR BACK.AND I'M GONNA RUB SALT IN THEM SO THEY HURT.
LIKE HELL.
YOU FUCKING BLACK!".
82.
CHAPTER 6.
As I said, Andreas was handsome. He had a flawless complexion. Fair and smooth, with rosy cheeks. And clean. I've always been cautious of the importance of cleanliness; it's something I learned early on. Nothing is ever left lying around at my house, either inside or out. I go out in the evening to check. The neighbours are not so meticulous. I've seen everything from bikini tops to dirty coffee cups on the patio table next door. Now, I don't mean it's a catastrophe, but I don't understand it. How can they stand at the window and see those dirty cups, and still sleep soundly? For myself, I am always considerate. I think that's important. We're not alone in the world, after all.
I sit in the red chair in the dark and listen. Even though it's quiet, I think I can sometimes hear someone outside. A warning of everything that is to come. A silent stream of people coming to the house, curious. Ingemar won't miss me, but he will do his duty. Put a notice in the paper. Send word to my two sisters, who are far away. But they always 83 write at Christmas. Everything is fine. We keep in contact with other people.
We're not really afraid to die. We're only afraid of being forgotten. We know that we'll be forgotten, and the idea is unbearable, don't you agree? As time passes we become infrequent visitors in the minds of those left behind. The ones who clear out the house and divide up the belongings. Throw away the rubbish. And forget. If we knew that every evening someone lit a candle and sat down to think thought about us if only for a few seconds then we could depart this earth in peace. No-one will light a candle for me. Who would do that? But I've arranged things so that when my name is mentioned it will be with horror and amazement. A picaresque story. Maybe my picture will be in the paper. I've got rid of all of them except one which shows me almost young, 40 or so. The worst thing about dying is not being dead and buried. Something as proper and final as that: dead and buried. It's the hours before, when you fall into the hands of the living. They're only human, after all. I can imagine some of the things they'll say. I won't repeat them here, but they'll be said. I know what they are.
Andreas sauntered along, taking giant strides, with Zipp plodding diligently at his side. They were 84 making for the river. It wasn't because of its steady roar or the way lights flickered in the black water, those weren't things they thought about. Nevertheless the water drew them. There was a raw wind, and Zipp stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets to warm them. They found a bench. Sat there in silence. When water is flowing past, it's not necessary to talk. Instead each was lost in his own thoughts, fantasising about falling in, struggling against the current and the cold of the water. A sense of solemnity came over them. Zipp was gloomily thinking about the girl in the striped jumper. Annoyed, he scratched his crotch.
"A nightcap right about now. That would be good."
Andreas nodded and squinted down at the river. Something black and heavy that never really got going. They had spent all of Gina's money.
"If an old lady with a handbag came along, I'd fucking grab it," he said. "Just grab it and run."
"We've done enough for one day," Zipp said.
"And by the way, all the old ladies are in bed by now."
They fell silent again. A low murmur could be heard from the square behind them. Laughter and curses. Lots of people were drunk. They'd been drinking all night, at last finding courage and selfconfidence, and now they were bent on showing it. 85 Ready for a fight, in other words. There were signs of a brawl in the taxi queue, and they could hear a few words: "You ape." "Damn Turkish devil."
"Shit," Andreas snapped. "Let's mug someone."
"Mug who?"
"Anyone."