by Karin Fossum
He approaches the counter hesitantly, his sturdy body moving with a rolling gait. He’s uncertain about his voice as he hasn’t used it for a while, so he puts some extra force behind it.
“I want a mixed bunch,” he says, and the loudness of his own words makes him start. My feet are wet, he thinks. My boots aren’t watertight. Cold perspiration is trickling down my back, but my cheeks are boiling hot. I’m not certain this is real. Shouldn’t it feel different? Shouldn’t I feel more present within myself? I’m having so many strange thoughts. Am I losing control? No, I’m focused; I’m secure. I’ve made a plan and I’m going to stick to it. His chain of thought is interrupted by the girl speaking.
“Is it a special occasion?” she’s asking.
The voice is sweet and childish, slightly put on; she’s making herself sound younger than she is, protecting herself, so that he’ll treat her gently. It’s what women do and he forgives her for it, but only because she’s young. Grown-up women should behave like grownups. He can’t abide the same affectation in older women, making the most of their reputation as the weaker sex, when they’re really tough, resilient, clever, and more calculating than men. It makes him think of Inga Lill. She did it frequently, especially in the beginning. She would make her voice sugary sweet, ingratiating herself and hiding behind all that femininity. It made him feel boorish because he was simple and direct. Inga Lill, you’re dead now. You don’t know what’s happening, and thank God for that. I’m losing the plot, he realizes; I’m getting hung up on details. I must get to the point soon. How old is she? he asks himself, studying the girl. Could she be eighteen? She’s older than Julie, who’s sixteen. It doesn’t matter. I don’t know her and we won’t ever see each other again. They’ve got so many customers here, and she’ll hardly remember any of them because she’s young and lives like all young girls, in a dream for much of the day, a dream of all the wonderful things in store for her.
She pulls up her sleeves and comes out to stand among the flowers.
Her sweater is tight-fitting and deep red; she’s like a flower, a slender tulip, fresh, taut, and vivid. Oh yes, it’s a special occasion all right. Good God, if only she knew! But he doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want to reveal more of himself than necessary. Buying flowers is a normal daily activity and can hardly be linked to the other thing he’ll be doing later on. What is it he’s about to do? Where will it end? He doesn’t know. He’s heading for the edge of the precipice to find a solution. A transition to something else. He looks around the place. The business has a good reputation. A large number of customers come in every day; he imagines a steady stream of people in and out. An infinite number of faces, an infinite number of orders, bouquets of many colors. He’ll hardly stand out in his green parka. He’s careful to lower his eyes, drawing the girl’s attention away from himself. What blooms there are in the large buckets! He can barely believe they emerge from the damp, black earth. To earth shall you return, he thinks, and out of the earth come the flowers. Dandelions or nettles. It’s precisely the way it should be: death isn’t as bad as its reputation, on that point he’s quite decided. The girl waits patiently. She’s a floral designer and has professional pride. She’s an artist with flowers. She can’t just throw something together, any old mixture. It’s all about creating a composition, about shape and color and scent. She never makes two bouquets the same. She’s got her own signature, but she needs something to get her started. A little inspiration, an idea. It’s not forthcoming. Charlo is taciturn and uncooperative.
“For a lady?” she probes. She notes his unwillingness and can’t comprehend it. It makes her feel uncomfortable. He seems disinterested, as if he’s running an errand for someone. He seems awkward and nervy. He appears to be pouring sweat. His body sways gently and his jaw is clenched. Perhaps he’s going to visit someone who’s ill, she thinks. You never can tell.
Charlo nods without meeting her eyes. But then he begins to realize that if he’s helpful and pliant, he’ll be able to leave the shop sooner. He must clear his head now, he mustn’t become preoccupied; he’s got to see the plan through. My nerves, he thinks, are as taut as wires. He knew it would be this way. Once more he focuses on his objective.
“Yes,” he says, “for a lady.” Again his voice has too much of a bark about it, and on a sudden whim, which he feels is wise, he adds: “It’s her birthday.”
Relieved, the florist’s assistant begins working. Everything falls into place and the slight frame gathers itself. The shoulders relax, the delicate fingers pick up a pair of tongs, and she bends over the buckets and picks out the flowers, one by one. Her fingers hold the stalks so gently. She seems to have a plan; there’s no more hesitating, no uncertainty. Her eyes survey the buckets. It’s a professional gaze, self-assured now. White lilies, blue anemones, sweet peas, and roses. Slowly a plump, pastel spray takes shape in her hands. She begins in the center of the bunch with a lily, around which the other flowers cluster, nodding and dipping. But they are still held firm, each flower protecting and supporting the other. It’s an art. He watches this, becoming deeply fascinated and falling in love with what’s being created. But he shivers when he recalls that the flowers are to serve an evil purpose.
He stands waiting edgily. His heart is thudding hard under his parka. He wants to pacify it but can’t. His heart won’t listen to him anymore. Oh, well, he thinks, let it beat as much as it wants. I’ve still got a mind, and that’s working all right. I’m the one who decides; I’m the one who orders my body to do things. It’s still my decision. He sighs so heavily that she hears and glances up. She’s wise to him, knows that something’s afoot, but she can’t interpret the meaning of his behavior. Instinctively she retreats into her craft, the thing she knows. Arranging flowers. Charlo breathes easily again. Pull yourself together, says the voice inside him. Nothing has happened, not yet. Nobody’s got anything on you. You can still turn back. You can pull out and life will go on, go on until death. He throws quick glances at the bouquet. His thoughts wander far away again; he’s only half there. He’s a cipher, a nobody. Now at last he wants to set himself free. Mentally he thinks he knows something about how the whole thing will come off. He’s been through it again and again. He’ll take charge of the moment, direct all that takes place. There is no room for unforeseen circumstances, so he brushes them hastily aside. He stares out of the window, noticing that sleet is still falling fast. Tracks, he thinks, and feels in his pockets. He wants to check that he’s remembered everything. He has—he’s thought of the whole lot. He’s thought about it for weeks. He’s practiced mentally and, sometimes, in his sleep, he’s cried out in fear.
The bouquet grows.
The shop bell chimes brightly in the silence, and he starts. A woman enters, dressed in a green coat with a black fur collar, her shoulders covered in sleet. She brushes it off with a hand in a beige-colored glove and regards him with hard, painted eyes. She’s weighing him up, isn’t she? A sharp old trout who takes everything in, Charlo thinks. All the details, a personal trait that she may later be able to describe. But he has no personal traits—he’s sure he hasn’t—and he simmers down again. She leans over one of the buckets, draws out a rose, and studies the stalk intently. He quickly turns his face away. The face that feels so large, as if it’s hanging there, proclaiming itself like a pennant. He stands looking out at the sleet. It’s most visible under the streetlights, a thick, grayish-white drift cutting across the darkness. He feels miserable. Because of his terrible destiny. I don’t deserve this, he thinks. I’m a kindhearted man. But dread destroys the soul. He’s in the process of losing himself. The girl works on. Will she never be finished? The bouquet is big and becoming expensive. He thinks about the time that’s passing, how he’s standing in here exposed and susceptible. About how it could be dangerous for him. From now on, everything will be dangerous. He’s prepared for this fear. It’s physical, but he can keep it at bay if he can control his breathing.
“The bouquet’s two hundred
and fifty kroner at the moment,” the assistant says. She looks up at him, but just as quickly looks away, still uncertain because of his sullenness.
He nods and says, “That’s fine.” In a clumsy attempt at sociability, he adds, “It looks lovely.”
She sends him a smile of relief. There is something nice about him after all, she thinks, and rejoices.
I ought to have chatted and smiled, Charlo thinks. Charmed her, because I can when I want to. Then she would have forgotten me with all the others.
“Will it be long before they’re put in water?” she asks.
Now her voice is brighter, more open.
He stands there cogitating dumbly. Will they be put in water at all? He doesn’t know. It’s coming up to eight o’clock and he realizes the shop will shut in a few minutes. He’ll have to wait awhile before setting his plan in motion. Until the traffic dies down in the streets. Until people have got home and he can wander past the houses unseen.
“About an hour or two,” he replies, and watches as she packs the stems in damp tissue. She wraps them in cellophane, which crackles ominously, then in white paper.
Charlo has turned away once more, and when he turns back, he sees that she’s putting the bouquet in a cone-shaped shopping bag. The bag has the words “Tina’s Flowers” prominently printed on it in blue and red. He gets out his wallet to pay, his hands shaking slightly. The girl avoids looking at him and instead stares at his wallet, which is brown and tattered. Her young, alert eyes notice that the zipper is broken, the leather is worn, and the seams are gaping. She sees the little red-and-white sticker announcing that he’s a blood donor. He pays, replaces his wallet, and gives her a little smile. She smiles back, noticing that his left front tooth is chipped, and that he’s never bothered to repair it. It makes his smile rather charming. Charlo glances quickly at the elderly woman who’s waiting. The snow on her shoulders has melted and the wet patches shine in the light. She looks at the time. She’s in a hurry and marches up to the counter. Her nose is sharp and red in her long, lean face. Deep creases at the corners of her mouth, blue bags under her eyes. He knows that he’ll always remember this face. At last he can leave. The door bangs, the bell jingles.
The air outside seems strangely fresh. He walks through the streets carrying the bag. He’s visible under a streetlight for a few seconds and then gets swallowed up by darkness, only to become visible again under the next. The bag swings in his hand. All that trouble she went to over the bouquet, all that skill and experience, all to no purpose. The flowers are merely an entry ticket. That’s how he’ll get into the house.
And right into Harriet Krohn’s kitchen.
2
SHE LIVES IN Fredboesgate, Hamsund.
It’s a seventeen-kilometer drive. Harriet’s house is one of a cluster of listed timber buildings dating from the middle of the nineteenth century, and is situated on a very quiet street. They are small, pretty wooden houses with beautifully framed windows. Most of the inhabitants are elderly, and most are well off. In summer, the frontages are decorated with flourishing window boxes full of geraniums, nasturtiums, and marguerites. The house is only a few minutes away from the railway station. There are twelve houses in all, six on each side of the street. Harriet lives in number four. The house is lichen-green and the sills and bargeboards are painted yellow.
Charlo approaches Hamsund. It’s still sleeting heavily, and he concentrates hard on keeping the car on the road. He doesn’t want to end up in the ditch, not tonight. On the seat next to him is an old Husqvarna revolver, which isn’t loaded. It’s only for show, he thinks. She won’t be uncooperative. She won’t dare to be; she’s elderly. He also has a pair of black leather gloves and a cotton bag for anything he finds of value. It is rolled up in his pocket. He’s on the E134, driving by the river, which is surging along on his left, rough and black. He knows the river is full of salmon, but he’s never bothered to fish. When he thinks about fishing, he remembers his boyhood. He remembers his father, who always wanted to go fishing, while he sat there getting bored, his rod dipping lethargically over the water. Fishing was too slow for him, too dull. This was something he never articulated. He didn’t want to hurt his father; he didn’t want to complain. I used to be a considerate boy then, he thinks. And what am I thinking about my father for, he’s dead now and at peace. People pass away, just as I’ll pass away, and that’s good. It certainly is good, he decides, and squints at the road ahead.
The markings in the middle of the road are only just visible. The sleet is settling like gray porridge on the tarmac, and the windshield wipers struggle with the slush. But the Honda doesn’t let him down; the Honda is matchless and reliable. He’s already worked out a good place to park. He’ll do the last bit on foot, as it’s only a couple of hundred meters. There’s an old, derelict hotel at Hamsund, and a car can be parked in the courtyard there, out of sight of the street. He’s aware that the car could give him away and that he must conceal it. He turns to the right and onto the R35, catching sight of the floodlit Hamsund church and its gravestones. He passes an Opel showroom and a couple of shopping centers, and cruises slowly past the railway station on his right. It’s a really elegant building, like a great layer cake covered with icing. How strange, he thinks, that his mind is running on cakes. Everything seems odd this evening, as if he’s playing a part in a film. There’s hardly any traffic. People are indoors.
Now he sees the hotel; it’s called The Fredly. A handsome white timber building with much fine ornamentation and dark, unseeing windows. He turns into the courtyard and parks; there are no other cars there. A notice on the wall facing him announces that unauthorized vehicles will be towed away, but he knows that no one will come here tonight. Everyone is sheltering from the weather. Then he hears a noise. A sort of click and something ringing faintly. He heaves himself around in his seat and looks through the windows. Is someone coming after all? Has someone seen the car? Again he has an acute attack of nerves. I don’t have to do this, he mumbles into the darkness. I’m not quite myself. Can’t anybody stop me; isn’t there another way? But nobody comes, and there is no other way. The voice within him is frail and attenuated.
He looks back on his life, how wretched it’s been. Guilt and betrayal, weakness. Lies and deceit. Promises he hasn’t kept. Has there been anything good about it? Inga Lill was good. Julie is the most precious thing he has. He tries to breathe evenly. He believes he’s thought of everything, but he knows it’s easy to overlook a crucial detail that might give him away later on. But this “give him away” doesn’t seem so terrifying. It’s in the future, and he hasn’t arrived there yet. It’s almost as if he doesn’t believe in it. He’s living for the moment, doing what he has to do, and time is running out. That’s what he’ll say if they catch him. I had to do it. I saw no other solution; it was a matter of survival. He turns off the ignition. Sits in the car around the back of the abandoned hotel, listening to the surrounding darkness. He hears his own breathing; it’s rapid and rasping. He looks at his watch, the dial glowing green in the darkness of the car’s interior. He pulls the flowers out of the shopping bag and lays them in his lap. The bouquet is heavy, but otherwise nondescript, packed in white paper. What if she has visitors? he thinks. There are lots of things that could go wrong. But he doesn’t believe Harriet Krohn has many visitors. He’s studied her, followed her. He’s listened in as she sat in the café with her best friend. She’s a lonely old woman and will certainly hesitate to open her door. But I’m armed, he thinks, with these irresistible flowers and a World War II revolver. She’ll have to do what I say. He pulls on his gloves and gets out of the car. Locks up. He pushes the revolver into the waistband of his pants. Once again he listens. He hears nothing but the sound of his own boots splashing in the slush. If I can just get inside, he thinks, as he walks through the darkness. Getting inside the house will be the trickiest bit. Old people are frightened of everything.
Harriet Krohn walks around her living room.
H
er thin ankles carry her body’s modest forty-nine kilos, and her calves arch like bowed sticks. The veins are right under her skin and look like knotted branches, despite her thick stockings. This is her last day on Earth, her last hour. She hears the ticking of the wall clock. The street outside is quiet. She sits down by the coffee table and eats a slice of bread, spread with liver pâté. She has dressed the open sandwich with beetroot; she’s fussy about what she eats. She has a cup of lightly sweetened tea with it. The fresh tang of the beetroot combines with the sweetness of the tea. Now she pauses. A grain of wholemeal from the bread has got stuck between two molars and is pressing like a wedge. She tries pushing one of her nails between the teeth to work it loose. It’s no good; the nail is too thick. She needs a toothpick, but she’ll finish eating first. Then she’ll tidy up. There’s nothing out of place in her home. Everything is cleared away at once. She chews long and thoroughly because it’s good for the digestion. When she’s finished, she carries her cup and plate out to the kitchen, brushes the crumbs into the sink, and rinses the cup. After that she fills a bowl with licorice allsorts and places it on the living room table. It’s mainly for decoration; she likes the colors.