by Pia Juul
‘Perhaps you won’t…’ Pernille said dreamily, as people do when they are reading and not listening. I glanced down at her. ‘What have you’ve found?’ I asked. She looked up in annoyance. ‘I’m not sure. A travel journal, I think.’
‘Halland didn’t keep a journal.’
‘No,’ she said. I closed my eyes again.
‘What does it say?’ I asked.
‘Nothing. There’s all sorts of things here, notebooks, letters, manuscripts.’
‘All that stuff was in his desk.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Yuck.’ She tossed a black notebook onto the bed. I flipped it open with one finger. ‘That’s not Halland’s handwriting.’
‘I can see that.’
‘Why did you say “yuck”?’
‘Read it yourself,’ she replied.
‘Do you mind if I have a nap? You don’t have to do all that.’ Lying down on my side, I pushed the pillow onto the floor and pulled the cover over me. I fell asleep at once.
When I opened my eyes, Pernille’s face was hovering above mine. ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘What?’ I spluttered. I had no idea where I was.
‘You were dreaming! I’ll make you that coffee.’ She left the room. The bedcover was wet beside my mouth. Turning over, I looked across at Halland’s desk. There were neat piles on it now. I sat up. The computer would have to come back with me; the detective would want it. I felt no urge to pry. My natural curiosity had vanished the moment I found the keys to the room.
I looked through the black notebook that Pernille had flung on my bed.
It’s the most wonderful thing. The dream of happiness come true. This is amazing, indescribable, it’s…
‘Yuck,’ I said, and put it aside.
Pernille returned with a cup of black coffee. The smell woke me up.
‘Isn’t it gross?’ she asked, and edged past me. She sat down on the bed.
‘What do you do exactly? I said. ‘I didn’t know that you were interested in literature.’
‘Oh, but I’m not,’ she said, and then she started laughing. ‘Actually I am. I work in a bookshop just along there.’ She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. Her laugh showed her off well and I laughed alongside. Laughter has never suited me; I always cover my mouth if I remember to. ‘But that’s not literature,’ she said. I agreed.
‘I was having a nightmare, and now I’ve forgotten the subject. I have a sort of Bluebeard feeling that I’ve dropped the key and stained it with indelible blood. I hate prying into other people’s stuff. Thank you for doing all of this.’
She shrugged and sipped her coffee. ‘What’s Bluebeard?’ she asked.
‘You don’t know what nibbles are either,’ I said. ‘Not doing very well, are we?’
Her nostrils flared. ‘You’re not prying. It’s just words on paper. Halland has been murdered. There might be something important here.’
For a moment we sat silently together on Halland’s bed. ‘I’ll take the computer back with me. And Martin Guerre.’
‘What?’
‘Him!’ I pointed up at the wall.
‘You’ll have a job taking that down!’
‘Down it’s coming, all the same.’
‘There’s something else you should take with you. I had it in my bag when I came to see you, but you sent me packing.’
Just for a moment, I had forgotten what happened before and thought how kind she was. Now I began to grumble again. The death notice in the newspaper. Who did she think she was?
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘His post.’
His post.
‘I don’t know why, but he had his post forwarded here.’
‘Since when?’ Now I was angry again.
Struggling to her feet, she left the room, then returned with a stack of envelopes. Mostly bills, by the look of them. Placing them in my lap, I stared at the redirection notice. A permanent change of address, commencing two weeks before he died.
I looked at Pernille standing there, her legs apart, trying to catch her breath.
‘Why would he do that?’ I demanded.
‘No idea. I was going to ask him the next time he came.’
‘Did he want to move in with you?’
Her eyes glazed over. ‘What do you want me to say? You wouldn’t believe me anyway.’
‘Try me.’
‘He never actually said that he wanted to and I don’t believe he would have done. But I can’t be sure.’
I got up and went over to the desk. There was an old photo on top of one of the piles. As I reached for it, Pernille said, ‘Isn’t that a lovely picture? It’s Halland as a boy – with a maverick!’
Without so much as a glance in her direction, I crumpled the photograph in my hand. Maverick indeed.
‘What are you doing?!’ she burst out.
‘None of your business!’ I said. ‘I’m leaving. I need to get these things down to the car, and then I’ll be off.’
‘And you will drive yourself?’
I didn’t reply.
18
‘And all the while, I suppose,’ he thought, ‘real people were living somewhere, and real things happening to them…’
Edith Wharton,
THE AGE OF INNOCENCE
Halfway home I stopped at a service station for a sandwich consisting of meat and a disgusting white undefinable spread. Sitting in the fading light and watching people fill up with petrol in the dreary weather, I drank a bottle of water. Then I switched on the car’s interior light. Martin Guerre was rolled up lengthwise on the back seat. On the passenger seat lay Halland’s computer bag, his redirected post and the black notebook. ‘The most wonderful thing, indeed!’ I flicked through the pages again, skimming over entries describing a journey. A firm hand, blue biro, no dates, just days of the week.
We’re sitting waiting at a dark station, looking forward to going home, though no one awaits us there, or because no one awaits us there; we’re self-contained, as everyone should be allowed to be once or twice in their lives. We had bought some things for a picnic: a bottle of wine, a crusty loaf, two types of cheese, fragrant tomatoes that burst and drip. We had a compartment to ourselves, and when the conductor asked to see our tickets we were already half drunk and in high spirits; I imagined him rather envious in a friendly sort of way. He explained something I understood, but I didn’t let it sink in. I thought we had plenty of time, and anyway we had to eat the food first. When I staggered out to the toilet, the wine and the train and the joy made me uncertain on my feet. And to my great delight I deposited the biggest, well-formed turd I had ever seen into the toilet bowl. I looked at it with contentment and was only sorry that I couldn’t tell anybody about it. And then, just as I was about to let it slide from the bowl onto the tracks below, I realized that we were standing at a station. Flushing the toilet was forbidden. On my way back to the compartment I passed only empty seats; I opened a window in the corridor and stuck my head out to see how far we’d come, then called out that – according to the conductor’s orders – we must go to the front of the train. We ran as fast as we could with the suitcase and clutching the food, but we were too late. At the end of the carriage we came to nothing. We had been uncoupled and the rest of the train had left. And yet we were happy; it was the most wonderful thing.
I recognized the handwriting. I couldn’t breathe. That’s enough. Secret pregnant nieces. Secret rooms. And what kind of secret was this? Maverick? I know what goes on in Halland’s mind. I fell in love with him, of course I know. I can read his slightest passing thought; I can sense him without touching. I can hear the modulations in his voice when we speak on the phone, and I know exactly what each of them means. Such is true love.
It was time to go home. I got out of the car and strode across to a bin and dropped in the bottle and sandwich wrapper. I liked the smell of service stations. A smell that could make me cry.
The rest
of the way home, I sang snippets of all the hymns I could remember, and when the words ran out I sang on unabated: Halland, oh Halland, oh why and wherefore, and glorious Halland, oh Halland, ha ha, and ye noble Martin Guerre, oh Halland the dwarf, a riddle was he, what is it that leaves and never comes back…
I parked on the square and sat for a while before opening the car door. My hands were sore from gripping the wheel. I had avoided the funeral reception that never was. I thought no one would be at the church besides Inger and Brandt, and they could have come back for coffee in my kitchen. The flowers and wreaths must have been placed on the grave. Wasn’t that customary? I wanted to see if they were there, though it was nearly dark.
But I never got that far. I could just make out the flowers – the white ones were still visible, even in the gathering darkness – but I had a strange feeling. Turning my head, I listened. Footsteps? Someone running? The sound of my own breathing drowned out what I might have heard. I tried to stop breathing and found I couldn’t. But there were footsteps. There was someone running. And then I ran myself, as fast as I could, to the churchyard exit. The heavy gate creaked.
19
Come on in – there’s nobody in here but me and a big bluebottle fly.
Raymond Chandler, THE LITTLE SISTER
I opened the door. Brandt’s lodger. I haven’t described him. I won’t bother now; it’s irrelevant.
‘Have you seen Brandt?’ he asked. Lowering my gaze, I stepped aside so that he could come in. I had slept for hours but cried so much in my dreams that I felt exhausted.
The lodger had expected Brandt the day before. Having made dinner, he thought the doctor must have been delayed at the surgery. But Brandt never came. So the lodger ate his dinner, did the washing-up and waited. Then he called the surgery and Brandt’s mobile several times, but either he reached an answering machine or made no connection. He slept badly and was unsure whether to report the doctor as missing to the police.
Brandt’s hand on my neck. Dusk. I was looking forward to seeing him again. My stomach hurt. ‘Do sit down,’ I said. ‘Life ends so abruptly,’ I ventured. ‘Or can do.’
‘Do you think he might be dead?’ The lodger hadn’t shaved. The shadow of his stubble made his features all the more prominent.
‘Of course not!’ I said. ‘Can I offer you a wee dram?’ I heard the voice of my grandfather in my own. He always offered his guests a wee dram.
Brandt was a grown-up. We didn’t need to worry about him. So we drank one aquavit and then another. We chatted about Brandt, about how unlike him it was not to call. But today was a Saturday and his day off. Polite conversation between strangers. The aquavit helped, but not much. The drink was sharp yet smooth on the tongue, with a taste of caraway and aniseed, but mostly of alcohol. I sipped, then knocked the rest back in one.
‘Would you like another?’ I asked.
‘Perhaps he met a woman on his way home from work,’ the lodger suggested, sounding unconvinced.
‘Perhaps he did,’ I said, looking out onto the square. ‘Perhaps he met a woman.’
There was a dead fly on the windowsill, a lot of dust and some mysterious black spots.
‘He didn’t come to the church yesterday either,’ I said. ‘I found that odd, but thought I knew why.’
‘Was the funeral yesterday? He didn’t mention it.’
I went to the phone and called Brandt’s secretary, but no one answered. The lodger looked out of sorts. Perhaps he needed a cigarette.
‘And then there’s the dog,’ he said.
‘Is it still at Brandt’s house?’
‘Yes. I don’t care for dogs much, but I took his for a walk.’
‘He can’t have met a woman, then,’ I said. ‘Not while he’s looking after a dog.’
‘Which he isn’t any longer,’ the lodger replied.
20
With the carefree ingratitude that becomes spoiled children so well, the boy reaches out for the marmalade, while Mrs Andersen, who always smells so chastely of soap and ironing, carefully removes the shell from his egg.
Tove Ditlevsen,
VILHELM’S ROOM
When the lodger had gone, I drank another shot of aquavit. After that I stared out of the window, then rang Brandt’s mobile. No answer. Wedging Inger’s casserole dish under my arm, I went next door and knocked. I could hear raised voices inside, hers and Lasse’s. I rang the doorbell, though I knew it didn’t work, then knocked again.
‘I won’t put up with it for one more minute!’ Inger yelled in my face, stepping past me into the square.
‘He’s just a teenager,’ I mumbled.
‘That doesn’t excuse everything! I’m sick to bloody death of him. Never lifts a finger, lounging about all day… He was supposed to help me this morning, but he’s only just crawled out of bed with a hangover. He thinks he’s going out again tonight. How can you get drunk when you’re seventeen anyway? Isn’t it against the law?’
‘Just leave him,’ I said, and went inside. Lasse sat in the kitchen, slumped in front of a bowl of porridge and a glass of chocolate milk.
‘Got a headache, have we?’ I chuckled. Hangovers are funny at that age. They’re proud of them. ‘You haven’t seen Brandt, I suppose, either of you? His lodger says he’s gone missing.’
They hadn’t. And didn’t seem that bothered either. I watched Lasse. He was so listless, so boyish and self-conscious. A few moments ago he had yelled at his mother. She was still livid.
‘He takes and takes and never gives anything in return!’ she fumed. Lasse cowered. I wanted a teenager at home, even an unreasonable one. As unreasonable as they came – I wouldn’t mind. Not everyone is cut out for children, but most people have them anyway. As always, I was overcome by a rather gratuitous tenderness since I had no children living with me. Besides, Abby would be twenty-four soon. But there had been a time when she was small, just growing up. A time when she laughed and cried, played on the swing, spilt her food down her front; a time when she immersed herself in play, sat still to have her hair brushed; a time of sleeping and waking; a time of singing and shouting and squealing with joy; a time of whispered secrets and finishing her dinner; a time of pulling faces, and dealing out kisses, and shying away from kisses offered in return. I wanted it all back, yet at the time the opportunity seemed to have passed me by. When I wept from the pain of not having Abby, I really wept for not being a decent mother. I had been a hypocrite who had wanted Abby to like me. But she couldn’t. It was as simple as that. I often thought of how I held her in my arms as a baby just as I recently held my cousin’s sleeping newborn grandchild. I sat and gazed into that little face, longing to relive the entire experience, even the part where Abby started answering back as children do. I even wanted her to despise me again because she would at least be with me. I had made one of my despairing attempts at becoming a decent mother after reading an article claiming that mealtimes delivered many benefits. One had to make an effort with the table, for example by using colourful napkins. The first time I tried this, I don’t think Abby or her father noticed. In fact, Abby tried to pick a fight and her first mouthful prompted the obnoxious comment: ‘Your food tastes like shit!’ Although her words upset me, I nearly burst out laughing. She noticed straight away and flew into a rage. And now I could only remember her comment and her eyes filling with tears, not the reason for her anger. Perhaps her father and I had already decided to split up. Yes, that must have been the reason.
‘What happened to you yesterday?’ asked Inger. ‘And who was the pregnant young thing doing the honours at the door?’
I shrugged. ‘Thanks for your help at the church. I needed to get away.’
‘But who was she?’
I gave Inger a look that said later, though I had no intention of pursuing the matter. Turning back to Lasse, I asked, ‘Where are you off to tonight, then?’ His mouth full, he pointed at the local paper lying open on the table in front of him. Pavilion reopens, it said.
‘Oh,’ I
said. ‘Can you believe it?’
Standing behind me with her hands on my shoulders, Inger read the article.
‘Halland always said someone should reopen that place, and when they did we’d…’
‘We’d what?’
‘Be the first ones to go. Inger! Let’s go tonight, you and me. What do you say?’
‘She’s not going!’ Lasse said.
He was right. Inger wasn’t going. Moreover, she was mortified that I would even consider the idea. ‘Bess,’ she said. ‘Do you really think that would be appropriate?’
Lasse looked displeased.
‘I won’t let on that I know you,’ I promised him. Smiling awkwardly, he got up from the table.
‘Plate!’ Inger barked. Lasse moved his plate to the counter, then turned to leave the room.
‘Dishwasher!’ she barked again. ‘And what about the glass?’ But he was gone. Her face contorted and she turned away. I felt like asking her if she loved him, asking why she would yell at a child because of a plate. But I hesitated, and then she was herself again, sitting down at the table and reaching for a book that lay open. ‘It’s one of those books for the loo,’ she said, ‘Victorian instructions for mourning. A widow was supposed to mourn her spouse for two or three years, a widower only three months. If you lost a child or a parent, you were supposed to mourn for a year. These rules may seem silly, but they make some kind of sense.’
There was a loud knock on the door. Inger leapt to her feet.
‘Goodness, someone is ringing!’
‘No, they’re not! Isn’t it time you got the bell fixed?’
‘It’s a quote!’ she shouted from the hall. ‘Beckett!’
While she spoke to the person at the door, I flicked through the loo book.
‘It was the lodger,’ she announced when she came back into the kitchen. ‘Asking after Brandt.’