Certain Signs that You are Dead

by Torkil Damhaug

  – Well all right.

  – Don’t you agree?

  – I’m not much interested in theories about bodily fluids, Jenny.

  – I’m not disposed to be depressed, is what I mean.

  He sat in a chair at the end of the table, his back to the window and the sharp light.

  – We change, he said. – You’re not the same now as you were ten or twenty years ago.

  She didn’t want to admit that he was right. For a while, mostly for fun, she had tried to categorise the people she met according to the four temperaments. It was the lightness of spirit she always felt somewhere inside her that led her to define herself as sanguine. It never left her, not even at the darkest times. But in recent years an undercurrent of something heavy and stubborn had begun to manifest itself. Maybe it was age, maybe it was this country and the mad extremities of light and darkness in its seasons. Or maybe that undercurrent had always been there and she had refused to recognise it.

  – I’m getting old, Zoran. And I’m not ready for it.

  She sat up, punctured the egg yolk. It formed a dark yellow pool on the blue plate.

  – It’s okay, she sighed. – You don’t have to say anything.

  He leaned forward, stroked her hair.

  – Did you finish the autopsy?

  – I’ve done the preliminary report.

  – You’re amazingly efficient.

  She could feel herself blushing. She blushed all the time, like a schoolgirl. Even in situations that weren’t in the slightest embarrassing. But it didn’t matter much if it was him seeing her like that.

  – It’s an okay job, she said. – If I slice off the wrong thing, it’s not going to kill anyone.

  She glanced across at him. He was leaning back in the chair, freshly shaved and showered. Coffee cup balanced on the tips of three fingers.

  – Not every day patients get murdered over there.

  – Only by lousy surgeons, she rejoined. – And nurses who can’t figure out the correct dosages.

  During the time she had been working there, there had been a steady stream of stories in the press about the hospital. It had more patients than it could handle, the routines were inefficient, they lacked qualified staff, all things that could result in fatalities among the patients. But what had happened last night was something completely different.

  – It was Arash who found him.

  – I know, she said, and had to yawn.

  – Been trying to get in touch with him. But he’s not answering his phone.

  – Smart guy. After a night like that. She thought about it. – Think he might be involved?

  – In the murder, you mean? A faint rough edge to his voice.

  She looked up at the ceiling, studied a crack in the plaster. She had fled too, it struck her, but not from any religious dictatorship. Or, like Zoran, from a war in which neighbours suddenly began to kill each other.

  – I know you like him, Zoran. You want to help him.

  – Arash is bright. Speaks five or six languages fluently. He was studying for a master’s when he had to get out.

  She pushed the plate to one side. – I guess that’s why they’ve got him wheeling beds about over in this country.

  – We’re lucky, you and I, he said, looking thoughtful.

  – Is that offer still good? That you’ll carry me?

  She got him smiling again. – It’s good all day. All week.

  – That’s it?

  – Longer than that.

  Without looking up, she felt his gaze. A couple of weeks ago he’d hinted that she might think about giving up her own flat and moving in with him. When she didn’t respond, he’d let it go. If he’d asked again now, she would probably have said yes, I’ll move in, I want you to take care of me. No matter what happens, I’ll be able to handle it with you at my side.

  Abruptly he stood up, held her around her neck and beneath her knees, swung her up into the air, swaying through the room and into his big bed. There he undressed her and tucked the duvet around her.

  – You don’t need to leave straight away, she murmured.

  – Aren’t you going to sleep?

  – You can lie here with me a little while, until I do.

  11

  They came to a farm. Arash had walked that way before. The track continued around the back of the barn and on between the fields. The corn in the fields was green. A sudden wave through it, loosed from an invisible hand, because as they walked past and on towards the forest, he felt no wind.

  He had walked there in winter too. Like walking through a house someone had moved out of, white sheets draped over everything. That first winter he had felt uneasy the whole time. Like sinking to the bottom of something and struggling to get to the surface again.

  – Shall we go back? he asked.

  She looked at him. – Why?

  The forest path slanted away upwards. It was a gravelled track and easy walking, but Marita was wearing sandals made of suede.

  – Your shoes are much too good for a walk in the forest.

  She waved away his objection.

  They came to a clearing where the trees had been chopped down and stacked in piles. There was a smell of bark and sap. Marita stopped and picked a flower from the side of the track. – This plant can cure deadly diseases. She held it up to show him. It was purple with white patches. – But if you take too much of it, it’ll kill you.

  He examined it closely. The stalk had tiny hairs on it; it was beautiful, but apparently dangerous too.

  – And this … She pointed to another one, yellow, with large, smooth petals. – If you want someone to tell you the truth, you put this in their drink.

  – You know such a lot, Marita.

  – I know almost nothing. Nothing about things that really matter.

  But she carried on showing him plants and telling him about their secret lives. – Did you know that flowers need sleep just as much as you and I do?

  There was a stream running along one side of the path. He remembered that its source was a tarn. The sun was almost directly over their heads. She was breathing more heavily; her forehead was shiny, tiny droplets of sweat just below the skin waiting to emerge.

  – Did you know that plants dream?

  He had to laugh. The light filtered down through the branches, not a breath of wind, only the singing of the birds and the flies buzzing around them, and the smell of the newly chopped trees, mingled with moss and marsh.

  Images flashed through him: the patient in the bed, the man he had followed in Lillestrøm. But there was nothing threatening in it any more, just thoughts. He could put them to one side, he could turn to Marita; it was she, no one but she, who walked at his side, and nothing of what he had just seen was real. He laughed again, and she leaned into him, without asking what he was laughing about. Today something new started, he thought. It wasn’t by chance that he had come to this land, and walked in a light that was never absent, not until deep into the autumn.

  He touched her.

  Her summer dress felt like silk; it had thin shoulder straps. He would look after her. A piece of his life that had been missing, the thing that would make everything else fit. Suddenly he felt stronger than he ever had before. Could have told her there and then what was in his mind, but could also wait. There was a certain order to things. But what was gathering inside him was so strong that it tossed him about in all directions, and he saw the same thing in her eyes too, in the way her body moved, her breathing.

  They walked around the marsh and he led the way over the little bridge, three logs laid across the stream, and up the hill on the other side. If he listened out, he could distinguish the songs of five or six different birds. Many of them spent the winter in countries like his own. But they never sang there the way they did up here in the summer light.

  – Here it is.

  They passed through a gap in the rocks that gave on to a grassy hill leading down to the tarn. – This is your place.


  – Are you giving it to me? she laughed. – That’s very generous of you.

  He said no more about what he could have given her. Not just the tarn and the forest behind, but the hills beyond them, and everything he could see.

  – I’m hot. She walked down towards the bank. – Join me in a swim! she shouted up to him, stepping out on to a large boulder that sloped down into the black water.

  He shook his head. – We don’t have our swimming costumes.

  She turned towards him, stood there for a few seconds, hair full of light, the dark water behind her. Then she pulled off her dress.

  He looked away. Had to keep watching out of the corner of his eye. She stepped out on to the edge of the stone and into the water.

  – It isn’t cold, she called up to him.

  He stood by her clothes, looked down at them, the thin frock on top, white, with big red flowers, almost like bloodstains. Hesitantly he undressed.

  She swam round in circles, watching him as he stood there naked on the boulder. He had never liked to swim in places where he couldn’t see the bottom. Put one foot down; it sank into mud that swirled up and clouded the water. He dived in and swam out towards her. Only her head was showing above the water. Her face a few centimetres from his, her breath ruffling the surface of the water between them. Something was about to happen. The shimmering light told him, and the clouds that pulled further and further away towards the horizon.

  She had packed the bag. He took out one of the blankets, allowed her to dry herself first, laid the other one on the grass. Flies gathered in a cloud around them, and there must be an ant heap somewhere close by. He took out bread and cheese, the bottles of water.

  She wrapped the blanket around herself. – I could live here. In your forest.

  He nodded, as though he agreed.

  – That’s the first time I’ve ever bathed naked with a man.

  He placed his hand next to hers. Again she touched his ring.

  – There’s something about that, she said.

  There was something about it. His father had got it from a pir, a Sufi teacher he wanted Arash to study under. Arash had always gone his own way. Now here was where he had ended up.

  – Can I try it?

  He could feel himself frowning. – The ring? Why? he thought. – Why not, he said. He eased it off. – Give me your hand.

  His father’s voice spoke to him from a distance, warning him, something about a curse, all the things that could be set in motion if he went ahead and did this. He didn’t hear the words, didn’t want to hear them.

  The ring was much too large. She tried it on one finger after the other; the thumb was the only place where it stayed put.

  – It brings happiness to the person wearing it, he said, managing to smile.

  She sat down in front of him, the sunlight in her eyes, all the grey gone from them, only the green left, flecked with brown. She waited. He leaned forward and let it happen. Her lips were cold and tasted of the water; it reminded him of blood, and he could feel something else about to take over, as though the hands holding her were not his.

  He let go.

  – Are you afraid?

  He was on his knees in front of her, naked. He wasn’t afraid. The thing growing inside him was a little like anger, but it was possible to make it head off in another direction.

  – We must take our time.

  She looked at him for a long time. – You’re wise, Arash. Let’s have something to eat first.

  First before what? he should have asked, but said nothing.

  – Have you got something to slice the bread with?

  He handed her the knife, watched as she sliced. Her pale fingers with the marks of the rings she wasn’t wearing. Instead she was wearing his on her thumb. The sun was high above the treetops on the far side. Made her red hair glow redder, her white skin whiter. The black enamel in the ring blacker. He reached out a hand, touched her cheek. You are beautiful, he thought in Farsi. The same words came out of him in her language. He said them again, because this moment had to be attached to something, and all he had were these words.

  – Don’t be afraid of me, she murmured, and wriggled out of the blanket until she was almost beneath him. He bent over her; she sank down into the grass without his touching her, and through what might be anger he could feel a need to protect her against everything that could happen, against anything he might possibly do to her.

  – Wait. She sat up. – I have to … you know. She gestured vaguely in the direction of her stomach. – You’ll wait for me?

  As though she was giving him a choice. As though it were still possible to leave this place without her. He closed his eyes, could feel that he hadn’t slept for more than twenty-four hours, shut out the light, the sound of the flies buzzing ever more densely around them, the smell of the water, and the wind crossing the surface to remind him of something he must never forget.

  – I’ll wait for you.

  He didn’t open his eyes again until she was over in the trees. He lay on his back and looked up into the sky. If he could have followed his gaze up there, he would never have found his way back again.

  Silence is the surest sign of your death. He couldn’t manage to turn his head to see where the voice was coming from; somewhere above him, or from the water. Further off, a woman screaming, and he felt for the knife, raised it to the sky and cut it open, and maybe it was then that she began to scream, but he couldn’t wake up, not yet. There was something his father wanted to say to him, and he couldn’t wake up until he heard what it was.

  The ring.

  I have it.

  You’ve given it away. Now anything can happen.

  He jumped up, the knife in his hand, staggered a few steps to the water’s edge and tossed it into the tarn.

  She might have been gone ten seconds, or an hour. He took his phone from his trouser pocket. Five past four. Some unanswered calls. One from Zoran. Put it down again, walked a few paces in the direction of the trees. Didn’t see her, didn’t hear her.

  – Marita.

  A sound somewhere off to the right, a path in that direction, just about visible. If she needed more time, whatever it was she had to do, he wouldn’t intrude on her. He stood there for a minute, two minutes. Then he headed up the path. There was a swarm of tiny frogs beneath his feet; he trod on one, jerked his foot back.

  – Marita.

  There was a different sound to her name. It sounded thinner. Something was missing. The path ran alongside the stream before crossing it. And in that moment, he knew he had walked there before, walked those exact steps. He froze.

  She was lying on the other side, where he knew she was lying. Head down towards the water, auburn hair lifting in the faint current, just the way he had imagined it. He ran up to her, bent over her. He had seen everything before. The eyes staring up at him, the broad band across the throat, as though someone had hung a chain of red gold around her neck, but something was running from it in a dark red stream, down into the moss.

  He opened his mouth. No sound emerged. He sank to his knees, leaned across to the other bank, grabbed at the moss by her head; it was saturated with blood that stuck to his hand, and he withdrew it quickly. Then the image of her disappeared, as though it were something that had arisen in his thoughts and belonged only there. But when he opened his eyes she was still there, lying on the other side, and he was still bent across the stream, like a bridge that never quite made it.

  Then he noticed something down in the water. A head covered in a black hood, with an opening just for the eyes, like a woman wearing a niqab. The head rose up from the bed of the stream, took on a body, arms, and a hand that was holding something shiny, and he realised that he was looking at a reflection in the water, and that the figure was approaching him from behind.

  The arm he saw reflected in the water rose slowly, like a snake about to strike. As the blow came, he rolled to one side, was on his feet and running, leapt over on to the other
bank of the stream, up towards where a tree had fallen across it. It grew dark around him, and he glanced over his shoulder, saw the whole figure there, in front of the sun, right behind the fallen tree stump, the black-clad and faceless figure, the head completely covered, the hand raised, and in it a gun. He heard a twang, like the sound of an arrow leaving a bow, felt the burning in his arm that ran all the way up towards his throat, and then the splashing sound of something falling into the water. I’ve been shot, he thought, but he didn’t fall over, carried on running in a zigzag between the trees, knew the black shadow was following him. Another shot, the bark ripped from the tree trunk right by his head. Is this the way you’re going to die? he shouted as he dived in between two spruce trees. Something grazed his ear, showering him with bark and splintered wood. He crept through the heather, the ground shook, an escarpment opened up beneath him; he felt himself sucked down into it, fell several metres, landed on something hard. The edge of a stone cut into his leg; he knew it hurt but he felt no pain. Blood was gushing down on to his bare foot as he got to his feet and hopped on. From the pond he had landed in he saw the outlined figure in black between the trees at the top of the escarpment, and he plunged on through the water, across a gravel track, on into the forest.

  He stopped when he came to a bog, stood there gasping for breath. As he bent to examine the wound in his leg, he heard a sound behind him, a twig snapping, a metallic click. Bent double, he staggered out across the bog. On the far side an area of tall bracken, on the right two large boulders leaning against each other. It would be possible to squeeze under them, a little hollow there. The deep notes of the birdsong suddenly grew more urgent, as though warning him. Not there, he mumbled, and wriggled his way backwards into the bracken.

  He lay there listening as the ground sucked the warmth from his body. He became nothing but this listening. Listening away from his pains. Listening to the drops of light falling from the needles of the trees. He clasped both hands around the gaping wound in his leg, as though to stop the sound of the escaping blood giving him away. He could hear four different birds now. Two of them warned him away, two tried to tempt him forward. Get up, get up, said one, and that told him that there were two kinds of birds, those that wanted to help him and those that wanted him to die. After a while, he was also able to distinguish the rippling of a stream, though it must be different from the one he had run alongside, away from the place where he had found her, where she still lay. He listened himself away from what he had seen. Concentrated on the sound of the birds that warned and the birds that tempted. A shivering through the trees, but no wind, must be something else moving the branches, and then her name was there. Marita. She puts on the ring. He lets her do it. Marita is dead.