by Karin Fossum
Chapter 6
DR FISCHER, WHO’S in charge of our ward, was once an idealist, or at least I imagine that he was; with a genuine desire to assauge the pain of others. Alleviating discomfort and despair is important to people right at the end of their lives.
Dignified and self-sacrificing, he wanted to move amongst the beds making a difference. Now he has a resigned and round-shouldered look as he mooches from room to room wearing shabby suede shoes and a downcast expression. He has worked at Løkka Nursing Home for more than twenty years, and the people he cares for only have a short time to live. It’s as if the mere thought of this takes his breath away. He also possesses a very fastidious conscience. It cries out over the least little thing, as if all the misery in the world were his fault. It’s often struck me that one fine day this troublesome conscience will be the death of him, because such things weaken the entire organism. He has a habit of massaging his temple. As if there’s something in there that’s irritating him, a difficult idea, perhaps, or a painful recollection. Each time he sits down to rest, he raises his hand and begins the massage. His job is strenuous. In my mind’s eye I see a thousand hands tugging and tearing at his coat, grabbing at his hair, forcing him up against the wall.
I need help, voices cry, I must have relief, I want more, and right away!
Painkillers, sleeping pills, something that eases fear and anxiety, something that lessens grief and hopelessness. He can’t get away. Perhaps he’s got problems at home to wrestle with too, for all I know. A wife he no longer loves, children who have no respect for him. He’s trapped in his world, trapped in his white coat, his pricking conscience chasing him up and down the corridors. I sense that Dr Fischer doesn’t like me. He’s out to get me, I think. He’ll catch me, if he has the chance, he’s always waiting for an opportunity. I’m very sensitive to such things; it’s something to do with energy, or lack of energy. Nothing flows between us, no warmth, no sympathy.
I keep out of his way, for he’s a kind of harbinger of things to come.
I’ve never seen him in the park near Lake Mester.
Ten minutes’ walk from the park is the Dixie Café, half hidden amongst a clump of birch trees, with its dark green plastic tables and chairs. Two large palm trees in blue pots stand by the door. They’re artificial, of course. Perhaps the owner thinks this is an exotic touch, but there, amongst the birches, they simply look odd. The Dixie has a youthful clientele. They buy burgers and Coke, and loiter by the wall, nudging and jostling each other in a friendly way. I’ve walked there a couple of times and sat at one of the plastic tables with a styrofoam cup of anaemic coffee, watching the youngsters. They don’t inhabit the same world as me. Perhaps it’s more that I’ve been cut adrift from everyone else, as if a cord has been severed. Or the wheels of time have worn it through. I don’t really understand my own situation, I don’t understand this sense of always being an outsider, of not belonging, of not feeling at home in the day’s routines. Forces I can’t control have torn me away from other people. I like being on my own, but I want a woman. If only I had a woman!
At this point I might mention that when I was a small boy, I found my father hanging from a rafter one day. His face was engorged and bluish black, and a great, thick tongue stuck out from between his lips. If nothing else, it would help to explain why I’m the way I am. But it’s not true. My father was a decent man and he never hurt a fly. Distant and detached he certainly was, but he didn’t hang himself from a rafter. He died when I was fourteen, of a massive thrombosis.
I’m sure Dr Fischer is soft on Sister Anna and has his dark and wistful eye on her. Perhaps Sali Singh, who works in the kitchen, has too. I notice such things immediately. There’s a lot of communication between human beings that isn’t expressed in words, and I’m exceedingly observant. Some people don’t understand this, they concentrate on what’s being said, while others, like me, become masters of the hint, the tiny signals that tell. A quick glance at Sali and I know how he’s feeling, even though he may have his back to me. I look at his shoulders, notice if they’re hunched. Is he standing four-square, or tripping about nervously. I take in how the movement of his hands emanates from his squat body, evenly, or in fits and starts, haltingly or fluently. Sali is a big man, most of his weight is round his waist. I wonder what he thinks about Norway and Norwegians, deep down in his dusky, Indian heart. Probably nothing very flattering, we’re so unbearably spoilt. But he makes lovely open sandwiches, standing in his kitchen at Løkka. He’s indifferent to budgets, just loads the bread generously with all manner of good things. How odd that must seem to a man who can hardly be a stranger to poverty. His eyes are almost black. His oily hair takes on a bluish sheen, as he stands there working beneath the fluorescent lighting.
Chapter 7
EDDIE AND JANNE are often at the park.
I used to think of them as Romeo and Juliet, but that was before I knew their names. The other day they were calling to each other in the spring air, like two playful children. Look at this, Janne, no, stop messing about, Eddie, and so on in that vein. They sit close together on the bench, entwined in each other, they neck and pat and stroke, purring like cats. I’ve never seen anything like it. They’d eat each other, skin, hair and all, if only they could. And they’re never self-conscious, even when there are several of us sitting by the fountain. Some people break into soft smiles, I notice, others turn away because they don’t like it. Personally, I don’t know what to think, but surely this is something private, there should be more decorum in public. And nothing about Eddie and Janne is decorous. They always bring something to eat. When they’ve given each other a thorough squeezing, they open a bag of buns, or a bar of chocolate. They eat the way children do, with unabashed greed. Eddie is perhaps sixteen or seventeen, Janne possibly a little younger, both are slim and good-looking, clad in precisely the same costume: distressed jeans and grey hoodies. Both have dark hair, identically styled: close-shaved at the sides and with a comb of hair on the crown, you can hardly tell them apart.
I remember Sali saying that when he first came to Norway, he couldn’t tell the difference between men and women. Everyone wears jeans, he said, and trainers. The women cut off their hair. It is not very nice, why don’t they make themselves look more beautiful? I explained that climate dictates the way we dress. Norwegian women can’t go around in saris and sandals, I said. You know what the autumns and winters are like here.
Eddie and Janne will never get married, never have children, or own a house or a car, experience responsibility and debt and difficult days. The bond between them is only a frail alliance, although they don’t know it themselves. Sometimes a wave of sadness washes over me when I think of the impending break-up, the tears and recriminations, the bewilderment that it didn’t last, the apportioning of blame. When I’m feeling generous they put me in mind of newly opened tulips, as they sit on their bench. It’s April. The thaw is here and everything melts and runs away, there’s too much of everything. An agonising and confusing time that chills my back as I sit on the bench in front of the fountain, while my face is gently warmed by the sun. My jacket comes off and goes on again, coltsfoot squeezes up through the snow, and crisp, wafer-thin ice decks the puddles in the morning. The asphalt is bare, so summer shoes can come out of the cupboard; but it remains deep winter in the forest, with dark and frosty nights.
I often think about the old people in their beds at Løkka. Those cavernous faces, those bony hands always groping for something to hold on to. They, who have seen and understood the most about life and how it should be lived. I know so much more now, they think, I understand things at last, but it’s too late. Now the greenhorns are coming to take over, and they won’t listen to us, lying here twittering like birds.
Arnfinn comes to the park a little later in the day.
He appears on the paved path, ignores Woman Weeping, takes short, tentative steps because he’s frightened of falling. With an apologetic look he seats himself on his usual bench and
listens to the splashing water. He has hands that tremble violently much of the time. At first I thought he had Parkinson’s. Then, having kept him under observation for some time, I realised that he’s an alcoholic. He has periods when he doesn’t drink. Often this is when his Social Security has run out, he’s certainly on Social Security. But usually he has a hip flask in his pocket. Of vodka or brandy, or whatever it is he pours into himself. Clearly, this flask is a sovereign remedy. After a few pulls he slowly relaxes. His breath comes calmly and easily, his features soften, his eyes glisten. He wears an old windcheater and thick, stained trousers which are too short for him, lace-up shoes he doesn’t bother to tie. This is the costume he always wears whatever the time of year, and I can even picture him sleeping with his clothes on. Imagine him simply collapsing on a sofa, wearing his shoes and everything. He talks to himself a bit, sits there mumbling unintelligibly, but he cringes if I turn my eyes in his direction. I don’t know if he eats anything. His hip flask looks very refined, it speaks of a different time when perhaps he had a job, a family and responsibilities. It could be made of silver, possibly it was a fortieth or fiftieth birthday present; now he’s probably sixty-something. He often has this hip flask with him. He pats his pocket to make sure it’s there. His hands are like great, meat-coloured clubs. Presumably he’s done a lot of manual work, you can see that his body is well used. His hair is grey and his face florid, the arteries in it are blocking up. This process forces the blood to find new passages beneath the skin.
When we’re sitting in the park, he sends surreptitious glances in Miranda’s direction. It’s hard to guess his thoughts when he sees that little cripple, she’s often screaming and impossible to ignore. Sometimes she hits her mother with her fist. That’s human beings for you: if we can’t find the words, we fall back on the fist.
One day, when Arnfinn and I were alone in the park, he tottered off down the path without his hip flask. It lay there on the bench after he’d gone, silver and shining, but I didn’t notice it until he’d vanished amongst the trees. I was curious, and went over immediately to take a closer look. It really was a most elegant hip flask, with a screw top and a cap to drink from, and last but not least, a neatly engraved inscription.
Here’s to Arnfinn.
I unscrewed the top and held the flask to my nose. It contained a small amount of liquid which was almost odourless, so I concluded it must be vodka. I stood with the hip flask in my hand, unsure of what to do. Obviously if I left it there, someone would take it. So I put it in my inside pocket; it didn’t take up much room. Naturally, I’d return it at some point. I reasoned that its loss would be a large one for him, once he felt his pocket and realised it was missing. I returned to my own bench with the trophy close to my heart. I sat and admired the dolphins spouting water. This was in the morning. I was on late shift that day, and wasn’t due at work until two o’clock. I kept half an eye out for Arnfinn, in case he came back for his hip flask. But he didn’t show up. He’d probably collapsed somewhere, on a sofa or under a bridge. You never can tell with people like that, they’re past all help.
Chapter 8
I’M TAKING FOOD, juice and medicine from room to room, checking off that the old people have eaten and drunk and swallowed their tablets. But the truth is rather different. The injections go into the mattress, the food is tipped down the toilet, and ditto the drugs. Then I flush it and cover all traces. Boiled fish or mince disappears into the plumbing system, there to serve, presumably, as nutrition for rats the size of elephants. The old people wave their pale, wrinkled hands helplessly after the vanishing food. No one understands what they’re saying or why they’re fretting. No one at Løkka has discovered my little game. But caution is required. Some relatives enjoy creating a fuss, they watch us like hawks, making sure we’re doing what we’re supposed to. What are we supposed to be doing, I often think, especially on days when I’m feeling very tired. Are we supposed to keep them alive no matter what, by any means, for as long as possible? Even though they’re on the brink of death and are unproductive and useless now, and don’t even afford anyone any pleasure? I can’t cope with all this helplessness, and sometimes my temper turns evil. What’s the point in eating when you’re almost a hundred?
Ebba often comes to the park.
She always brings something she can do with her hands, some crocheting or knitting, a sock or a doily. There are people who can’t sit quietly with their hands in their lap, Ebba is one of them. I’d put her at close to eighty, but she’s upright and strong in body, and fleet of foot. When she comes walking along the path, she often stops to admire Woman Weeping. She stands looking at it for a moment, her head to one side. She’s always well dressed, her hair beautifully coiffured, and her hands work industriously at her knitting or crocheting. I imagine she must have been something like a schoolteacher, a secretary, or a nursing officer in a hospital, or maybe even an accountant, but certainly a career woman. I assume she’s crocheting for her children and grandchildren. Small tablecloths or long lengths destined to become bedspreads. She seems very content, both with herself and the life she leads, she’s certainly not bowed with age, she’s at one with everything. With the bench she’s sitting on, with the earth beneath her feet. Just occasionally, but only very rarely, she lowers her work to her lap. Then she turns her face up to the sun and closes her eyes. But after an instant she’s off again with renewed vigour. The ball of wool on the bench beside her dances its rhythmic jig as she tugs at the yarn.
*
They say that Nelly Friis is blind.
That she’s been blind for more than thirty years. Her relatives, a son and daughter, say so. On a rare visit to Løkka, one of her grandchildren, sitting helplessly at her bedside and wringing her hands, says that Nelly Friis is blind. Sali Singh says so, too, and Dr Fischer and Sister Anna, but I have my doubts. I’ve heard that supposedly blind people can actually see quite a lot, movement and deep shadow, the brightest light. In addition, they can recognise smells, they can hear voices and register details and fine distinctions, they notice lots of tiny things that escape the sighted. Despite this, I often go to her room. I can’t resist it. She weighs a mere forty kilos, she’s as fragile and grey as paper and, in theory at least, shouldn’t see that it’s me, Riktor, who’s entered. I bend over the bed, take hold of the delicate skin behind her ear with my long, sharp nails, and squeeze as hard as I can. The thin, dry skin is punctured. She hasn’t the voice to scream, nor the strength to avoid me.
I listen to check if anyone’s coming along the corridor. If I’m feeling really bad, I’ll tug the hair at her temples, where I know it hurts the most. She hasn’t got much hair left, there are several bald patches on her scalp, and no one knows that I’m the one responsible. They think its age and decrepitude. No one notices the red sores behind her ears, no one washes that thoroughly, there are so many who require sponging and moving and turning and massaging and a whole lot of other things; old people take a lot of work. I torture her for a good while. I notice an artery pulsing in her neck, I notice her blind, gooseberry-like eyes are filling with liquid. And I don’t know how much she can see. If my face is merely a pale oval in a larger blackness without visible characteristics. If she recognises the smell of my Henley aftershave. It’s not easy to tell. But in the past, Anna and I have been into her room together, and she’d begin to flail her hands with the little strength she had. Anna ran off to fetch Dr Fischer. And he prescribed diazepam, and after that Nelly hadn’t the strength to be anxious. The torture that I inflict gives me a feeling of desperation and delight. A blissful mixture of guilt and superiority. And adrenalin, coursing hotly through my body. Pinching Nelly Friis behind the ears and giving her contusions where no one can see them, causes my own pent-up frustration, my own fear and sorrow, to drain out of my body like pus from a wound.
What a wasteland this world is.
What a misfortune that we live to be so old.
This thought constantly comes into my mind.
If only I had a woman, to soothe and comfort me.
Sometimes Anna follows me down the corridor in her quiet and careful way. Often, as she passes, she’ll put a hand on my shoulder and give it a squeeze.
‘Hi, Riktor, you all right?’ she’ll say, and hurry on without waiting for a reply. It’s only a friendly gesture in passing, a minute distraction. But so strong is the effect of her pleasant greeting, that I’ve known my eyes fill with tears. I am really, moved, and that doesn’t happen often. Anna does things like that and they cost her nothing at all. If only she knew, I think. Nelly Friis is not the only one who’s blind.
Chapter 9
ONE DAY AT the beginning of April, I went out for a walk near Lake Mester. Lake Mester is a small lake, and that day its surface lay ice-bound and covered with snow in the bright, sparkling weather. All was white and smooth like a newly ironed sheet. After several days of mild conditions, and a tentative promise of spring, the cold had returned. And as I was walking I caught sight of a skier working his way across the fields. He came on quickly, his modern, red, skin-hugging ski-suit so visible in that overwhelming whiteness, as was the little waist pouch that gave a hop with each tug on the poles. I stood there watching him as he came down the slopes. My imagination had free rein, each of the skier’s strides seemed like a race against time. It’s a question of holding age at bay, he was saying to himself perhaps, I’m on the offensive against death and decay, always one step ahead and as fit as a fiddle.
I went on a few paces as he rapidly drew nearer. He was a middle-aged man, probably in his fifties, the age at which they often begin these desperate remedies. To put it simply: he was being hounded by the demon of fitness. His arms would thrust forwards in almost aggressive lunges, his body seemed robust and firm in that red ski-suit. I ambled off slowly, inhaling the sharp air, and keeping my eye on the red skier. There was a speed and fluidity and forcefulness about him, and so it took me some time to register where he was going. He was heading towards the water, towards the lake with its covering of snow and ice, the lake in April. Can you credit it, I thought to myself, and followed him with my eyes. Naturally I assumed he’d keep to the shore. But to my astonishment I saw him swish out on to the ice. This daring manoeuvre flabbergasted me. Still I reasoned that he’d hug the land; after all it’s a golden rule, whether you’re swimming or in a boat. Or travelling across frozen water. I was thoroughly mistaken, however. He set out across the ice with gusto, using his poles with impressive force and pushing with his skis as hard as he could. I took a few hasty steps. I was drawn towards him, tense, expectant and horrified all at once. After a couple of minutes I was down at the edge of the lake. I stood there with my hand shading my eyes, watching that hazardous passage over the ice.