by Pia Juul
‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I replied, and looked out over the fjord to see if I agreed. He sat down. As I was turning away, he said something else. All I heard was ‘Halland’.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I said.
‘I’m sorry about Halland.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied, walking off briskly. I didn’t care who he was, or how he knew me. I could see the white-painted summer house with the silly weathervane. A blackbird sang. I went up the path. It could have been a normal day. I could have been going back to make coffee and wake Halland. When I reached the garden, I stopped and looked back on the jetty. The man hadn’t moved. If he was a journalist, he certainly wasn’t the keen sort. The smoke from his pipe created a cloud around him. I had forgotten my newspaper; it stuck to the wet planks. The fjord lay calm. Its bluish-grey surface glistened here and there with the rays of the sun. I almost didn’t feel sorry.
7
Christian VI had no mistresses and waged no wars.
A CONCISE HISTORY OF DENMARK
Caution in the face of novelty. The hesitant curiosity I had felt about Halland, about the house in which we were going to live, about the garden. The place was ours, yet I held back. I experienced the world with provisos.
The call of a cuckoo startled me. Cuckoos were supposed to call from far off, not from a tree in one’s own garden. What did they say about the cuckoo’s call, about death and how many years you had left? But death had already come and gone. Or was the cuckoo calling for me? I shied away from trying to understand Halland’s death. Out of fear? But I was not afraid. And now my grandfather was about to die as well. For many years I had missed him terribly; now I didn’t want to see him. I felt nothing any more, not sorrow, not grief.
I went back upstairs to Halland’s office. I stood for a moment, then sat down in his chair, closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. The room smelled of nothing in particular, dust perhaps, the warm fragrance of wood from the furniture. Under the desk was a pair of roll-front cabinets, one to the left, one to the right. The keys were in the locks. When I opened the one on the left, the roll-front clattered to the floor. The drawers were nearly empty: some letters and a couple of brochures, a few loose photographs of the garden and the view out over the fjord, some of me, one of Halland’s mother. I didn’t find the photo with the maverick.
The drawers of the right-hand cabinet were full of documents to do with Halland’s business: VAT forms, tax forms, old mileage records. Although I had never rummaged through his papers, I didn’t feel I was intruding. Halland’s tidiness made me feel safe. Then I saw the two keys, this time on a loop of string: an ordinary one and one for a security lock. Halland had tied a little tag to them: SPARES. They looked exactly like the ones Funder had shown me. I weighed them in my hand before returning them to the drawer. Then I pulled up the roll-front and rose to my feet. Next, I opened the cabinet again, pulled out the drawer, took the keys and put them in my pocket. Leaving the cabinet unlocked, I went downstairs, only to change my mind again. I returned to Halland’s office, removed the cabinet drawers one by one and searched through their contents. I didn’t know what I was looking for. A piece of paper, perhaps, with the words THIS IS WHAT THE KEYS ARE FOR. Anyway, I found nothing.
I slumped over the desk and rested my head on my arms for what seemed like a long time, my nose pressed into the fragrant wood.
Funder had left a card with his number. I could call him. On the other hand, I expected the police to return. Weren’t they supposed to pursue their inquiries? Shouldn’t they be going through Halland’s things, questioning me, making progress on the case? Somewhere out there was a man with a hunting rifle – and he had to be found. But they would hardly find him here. I had discovered some keys. The police already had a set. So I didn’t ring Funder.
I had to get out. Go for a walk or do some shopping. Anything. As I left the house, a figure ducked behind an open door. Then the door slammed shut as if someone had kicked it. Were people avoiding me?
Despite the sunshine, a chill lingered in the air. On the high street outside the newsagents I recognized Halland’s shadowy face on a tabloid placard. WHO SHOT HALLAND? asked the headline. Where did they find that photo? As so often, anger grabbed me and I was about to storm into the newsagents. Hadn’t Halland been a customer for years? Where were their manners? Did they even know what manners were? However, I turned on my heel and took a short cut down to the stream. My breathing quietened. My mind ran on two parallel tracks: one thinking about nothing, merely existing, the other churning out unpleasant explanations. At least I managed to hold the second track at bay. I clasped the unfamiliar keys in my pocket as I criss-crossed the narrow streets. Suddenly I heard a car behind me. This is it, I thought. Now they are going to run me over. What will death feel like? Will I scream or fall silently? But nothing happened.
8
Being there for each other in the proper way is a fine art.
Peter Seeberg, SHEPHERDS
Inger came outside just as I was unlocking my front door. ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she said.
‘I know.’
‘Is he really dead?’
‘It says so in the paper.’
‘Was he really shot?’
‘Didn’t you hear the shot?’ I asked, vaguely interested in what she would say.
‘Yes, I did. The sound woke me up. At first, I thought it was Lasse coming home late. Have they found the murderer?’
I didn’t reply.
‘How are you doing?’
I didn’t reply.
‘It always happens to the person next door, doesn’t it?’ she said. ‘But I don’t want it to happen to the person next door. I’m frightened. Aren’t you frightened?’
She always had something to say; she was constantly jabbering on. I cocked my hip, the posture I used to adopt as a bored teenager. I had never stood that way since. I was fond of Inger, but I didn’t want to listen to her.
‘On the inside I’m the same person I’ve always been,’ she went on. ‘I look at myself in the mirror in the mornings and think, It’s high time you had an early night. Then I think, But you had an early night last night, and the night before. It’s just the way I look! Shocks me every morning because I feel young inside, or at least the same as I’ve always felt.’
I didn’t think Inger looked old, but then I myself didn’t feel like the same person inside any more. Perhaps she was expecting me to say something. I couldn’t.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked.
‘Shopping.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll leave a casserole on the step for your supper. You might want something by then.’
I went inside. The postman had come. When I picked up the newspaper and a letter, I recognized my mother’s handwriting and tore open the envelope. The phone rang. As I dashed into the bedroom to answer it I banged my leg against the bed frame. Rubbing my knee, I picked up the receiver, expecting to hear Abby’s voice. It was a journalist. I pulled the plug out of the wall. The letter lay crumpled in my hand. It read: ‘Dear Bess. She doesn’t want to. I’ve told her you called and that Halland is dead, but she doesn’t want to. What did he die of? Love, Mum.’ Why didn’t she ring to tell me? Was this her idea of a condolence letter?
I had led a good life with Abby and her father. A normal, everyday life full of joy, sex, laughter, boredom, drudgery, acrimony and minor arguments. My husband took a sabbatical from his teaching job to go on some courses. He travelled a lot that year. I met Halland. If the five-minute encounter in a bookshop could have been avoided, everything would have worked out differently. Of course, any event can be thought of as inevitable or as something you could have altered or ignored.
The moment I told him I was leaving, my husband became consumed by a fury I never knew he had in him. For a year, Halland and I tried, though never consciously, to make my decision to live with him work. We really tried. We we
nt on holiday and to parties. During the summer, we swam in the fjord every morning. Had people round. Planted roses. I painted the little summer house white; we put a weathervane on the roof. We never had any children, though. Before the year was out, Abby’s father became the father of twins. There was no turning back. A cliché, for sure. But it described reality. Abby wouldn’t see me. Halland and I were happy – at least until he fell ill.
Despite our year together we barely knew each other, and our relationship became more difficult as his condition worsened. Though we ate together and shared a bed, I felt as shy and awkward as I had been when we first met. That never changed. Right from the beginning I kept my sanitary towels, make-up, lotions, even my vitamin pills hidden away in drawers in my study. I rarely revealed myself to Halland, not if I had time to think before I spoke. The thoughts sounded wrong inside my head so they never came out of my mouth. Eventually I convinced myself that we understood one another without recourse to words. His personal belongings and affairs were so inconspicuous that I never considered them at all. But his illness filled my entire consciousness. I couldn’t look away any longer. I helped him in little ways, though I spoke of the illness as seldom as possible. Only once did I ask him if he was in pain. He turned away without replying, because he was in pain, I suppose, but I never knew. Poor Halland. I think he would have liked to have known me.
I stood in the living room. The lid of the piano was open. Halland had put candles in the holders. He had given me the piano when I moved in with him because I had told him I played. The only time I showed any interest in the instrument was the day the tuner came. I still had ‘Golliwog’s Cakewalk’ at my fingertips. Part of it, anyway. But then I ground to a halt and didn’t return to the keyboard other than to run a duster over it, which happened rarely. We never spoke about the piano again. Now I began rummaging for my childhood sheet music. I found the box and placed it on the coffee table. I sorted through the sheets, chose a piece and began to play. Progress was slow, but I was in no hurry. When I looked up, I realized that an hour had passed. I felt at peace.
I had left a window open onto the street. A man stood in the square as if listening. At first he didn’t bother me, until I recognized him as the man from the jetty. What on earth was he doing here? I noisily closed the window. He acknowledged me with a nod and went on his way.
9
The monkey looked the buzzard right dead in the eye and said, ‘Your story’s so touching, but it sounds jes’ like a lie.’
Irving Mills,
STRAIGHTEN UP AND FLY RIGHT
I waited until dusk before going to see whether Inger had left supper on the step. I had already decided to bin the food, but as I carried the casserole into the kitchen, my stomach suddenly knotted. I couldn’t remember if I had eaten since Halland’s death. The smell of the cold stew wafted out as I lifted the dripping lid. I grabbed a fork and ate straight from the pot, standing up at the kitchen counter. My stomach contracted. I left the fork in the pot, guzzled some water from the tap and then threw myself onto the sofa, burying my face in the cushions and drawing the blanket over me. I closed my eyes and kicked off my shoes. I felt sated and drowsy, serene and utterly relaxed. Now I could sleep. But my mouth filled with acid. I knew what that meant, the familiar twinge behind my eyes. When I swallowed, the bile rose again, more insistent. My head began to spin. I flung the blanket aside and raced into the hall, reaching the toilet just as Inger’s stew flew out of my mouth in a cascade of vomit. I slumped groaning on the bathroom floor. ‘Ugh!’ The sound helped. The floor was warm. I lay there for a moment – the briefest of moments – curled into a ball till the doorbell rang. It was dark outside. My body ached. The floor was hard, and I had no idea how long I had slept.
Someone stood in the light of the street lamp, but I couldn’t see who. As I opened the door my queasiness faded. The young woman wasn’t Abby. Doe-eyed, legs apart, a holdall over her shoulder, she seemed to be thrusting her pregnant stomach right at me.
‘Sorry to turn up so late,’ she said, not sounding at all apologetic. ‘It’s such a chore getting here from Copenhagen without a car. The journey took longer than I expected.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Pernille.’
‘Have we met?’
‘I’m Halland’s niece. I read about his death in the paper. Didn’t he ever mention me?’
I stood aside so she could come in. The fact that Halland had a niece was news to me. Dropping her bag on the floor in the hall, she looked around.
‘Well!’ she exclaimed. ‘So this is Uncle Halland’s little love nest…’ She now stood in the living room, nostrils quivering. A doe indeed.
‘This is where he lived,’ I said, ‘and for a good many years as well. I don’t recall him ever mentioning you. Are you Hanne’s daughter? I didn’t think she had any children.’
‘No,’ Pernille replied.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ I asked, gesturing towards the sofa in case she wanted to sit down.
‘Water would be fine,’ she said.
I went into the kitchen. As I turned on the tap, I had a brainwave.
‘You’re Hanne’s foster-child,’ I said, handing Pernille a glass of water.
She nodded. ‘My parents are dead. When Hanne died, Halland was the only family I had left.’
‘Was he indeed?’ I felt dizzy and sat down. ‘Were you thinking of staying here?’
Pernille didn’t reply.
‘Do you want to stay here?’
She nodded.
‘Listen,’ I went on, ‘I need to go to bed. Can we talk in the morning?’
‘I’m tired as well,’ she said. ‘But can’t we talk now?’
‘What about?’ I sensed unpleasant news coming my way. ‘Perhaps I’d better make some coffee.’
‘You’re a writer, aren’t you?’ Pernille asked as I filled the espresso maker. ‘What are you working on?’
‘What do you mean, what am I working on?’ I glared at her from the doorway. ‘Don’t try to have a normal conversation with me! Halland is dead! Isn’t that why you’re here? Or was there something else?’
She began to cry. Even in floods of tears she looked adorable. I turned on the gas. My hands were shaking because I had shouted the word dead. Only a simple word. But I shook because the word described the truth. Halland was dead.
What did Pernille want? I grabbed a piece of crispbread from the cupboard and gnawed it as I went back into the living room.
‘Why are you here? Does your husband know where you are?’
Startled, she looked up. ‘I haven’t got a husband,’ she said, passing her hand across her stomach. ‘Halland was the only family I had left. I was so shocked to read about what happened.’ She wiped her eyes.
‘He’s not your family!’ I said, rather too emphatically.
‘No, but he keeps his things…’
‘What things?’
‘The things in his room.’
His room.
You’re lying, a voice said inside me. I don’t know why, but you’re lying, you’re lying, you’re lying. I didn’t accuse her to her face though. I simply gazed at her brown eyes, her nose, her swollen stomach.
‘He’s been paying rent, and now I don’t know what to do. About the rent, I mean. His things can stay where they are for the time being.’
The rent.
‘And then there’s… well, I suppose this sounds odd, but he promised he’d be with me when the baby came.’ She glanced over at me, her mouth slightly open, showing her white teeth.
Looking up at the ceiling, I stifled a sneer. Halland and hospitals… Did she have any idea what she was talking about? And did I want to know if she did?
‘I could do without this,’ I said. My words surprised me, because I was actually curious. Nevertheless I was determined not to know more. Not yet. Tomorrow, perhaps. Pernille had come to me with a problem she wanted me to solve, not realizing that she created one for me in the proce
ss.
‘We can talk about the rent in the morning,’ I said. ‘I need to get some sleep.’
I took Pernille up to the guest room. On the way back downstairs, I realized how much I wanted to sleep in my own bed. I splashed cold water on my face and took off my clothes, threw them in the washing basket and went into the bedroom. I switched on my reading lamp and climbed in under the covers. There I lay, gazing at where Halland was supposed to be. I reached out to touch him. I closed my eyes. They were burning. I was exhausted. I switched off the lamp and found myself migrating to his side of the bed, crawling under his duvet, inhaling his scent as deeply as I could, embracing his pillow, burying my face deeper and deeper. ‘Halland,’ I breathed. And again, louder this time. To no avail.
10
The landscape is of no consequence to us. We are not poets; our delight is in consistent activity.
Peter Seeberg, THE SPY
I awoke to the sound of rain falling, saw light coming through the window and felt relieved. With no dreams to digest, I simply listened and savoured the peace.
The next moment something was wrong. After my divorce I used to wake in the mornings heavy with grief, as if someone had died. But when I saw Halland lying next to me, I realized no one had died. He was there. But Abby was gone. Now I turned and saw my empty side of the bed. I lay on Halland’s side. He was dead. And a pregnant woman was sleeping in the bedroom upstairs.
The last night we spent here together, I slept well until I awoke suddenly. The room was dark and silent. I switched on the lamp and checked the clock.