by Karin Fossum
“Sometimes there’s a flickering in front of my eyes,” he confesses.
“Really?” She studies his profile and he meets her gaze.
“Can you see anything in them? Sometimes I think they look strange.”
He stops at a red traffic light and seeks her eyes. She looks hard.
“Strange how?”
“There’s something about the pupils. They look odd.”
She leans forward a little and examines him carefully. Then she begins to giggle.
“Go on! They’re completely normal.”
He blinks several times with relief.
“It’s good to be free,” he says, and puts the car in gear again.
She turns to look at him.
“What do you mean, free?”
“That I don’t owe money anymore, I don’t gamble. The other day I walked past a Twin Runner and didn’t even touch the money in my pocket.”
“Was it hard?” she asks teasingly.
“Yes,” he says seriously. “You don’t understand these things, but it was hard. It cost me a lot. But afterward it felt good. A victory over myself.”
“We’re on an even keel,” she announces, and looks at the road again, her green eyes shining. He nods. He needs a cigarette, but doesn’t want to subject her to the smoke and goes without.
“And you?” he asks, looking at her. “What are you most scared of?”
She shakes her head in resignation. “I think that’s a silly question, under the circumstances. I’m frightened of losing Crazy. I want to be where we are now, forever.”
Charlo nods in agreement.
“We can both drink to that,” he says contentedly.
He’s more relaxed now, because with Julie at his side he feels protected. He can’t imagine anything bad coming to ruin it because what they have together is great. After all, I’m a caring person, he thinks, and what’s growing between us is precious. But his crime is inconceivable. It was a false step.
“What will you do while I’m riding?” asks Julie.
“I’m going to put up some mangers,” he answers. “They’re blue. That really worries me.”
She laughs at him. “Why?”
“The stables are red and the box doors are brown. The mangers ought to be black. Or possibly green. It’s a matter of aesthetics. Møller can’t see it. He knows about horses but not about colors.”
“He’s obviously bought the ones he could afford,” Julie remarks matter-of-factly. “I bet the blue ones were the cheapest.”
Charlo gives a deep sigh. “Yes,” he says, “it’s the bottom line that counts. I know all about that.”
A silence falls between them, and Charlo can’t think of anything to fill it. He concentrates on his driving and listening to Julie breathing next to him. He catches the scent of the mild soap that fills the car’s interior. It’s enough just to sit next to her; it’s good to be two against the rest of the world. But he always has to think before he opens his mouth. Consider what’s safe. He attempts to recall the time when he could simply talk off the cuff, quickly, without thinking, and saying anything that came into his head. The time before he began to gamble, when everything was easy between him and Inga Lill. He tries to imagine an interrogation. He’s seen plenty on television. He believes he’d get through one. Simply because he’d have to, if he didn’t want to lose what he’s finally gained. That cost him blood. At the same time, he envisages the legal system as a mill, grinding incessantly, and that sooner or later he’ll be picked up. But that’s for later, he thinks. For now I’m sitting here with Julie. She’s quiet in the seat next to him, looking forward to the work. I’ve given her what she desired. That’s all I wanted.
“What was it like for you when things were at their worst?” he asks, throwing her a look. “I mean, as regards the gambling.”
She thinks about it and lowers her head.
“Well,” she says, “it was so embarrassing. You were always parked in front of those slot machines. And everyone could see you. A grown man standing there playing like that, completely hooked. I didn’t understand it. The people in my class saw you, too, standing there day after day, shoving in money. Mom often used to send me out to fetch you. Because you never came home from the shops. And when you finally did come, you hadn’t got what she’d asked for. You’d always gambled away most of the money.”
He’s silent, letting it sink in. He feels an ache of shame within him.
“But the worst time,” she continues, “was when we went to Øvrevoll. And the people you rubbed shoulders with there. And the money I’d saved. The way it suddenly disappeared.”
Charlo clears his throat. “Can I say something really stupid?” he pleads.
She makes no reply, just waits.
“My earnest desire was to double that money. I felt so lucky that day—it’s impossible to describe. A certainty that the winnings were there waiting for me. That’s how it is sometimes. I could hardly believe it when I lost. Julie,” he says intently. “It’s an illness.”
She nods again, not wanting to be serious. Looking at him, she smiles warily. “But what if you have a relapse?”
He shakes his head emphatically.
“It won’t happen. I’m certain of it.”
“But how can you be so sure?” she says, wanting more assurance, more security.
“I’m in a different place now,” he says. “And I’m not looking back.”
His great fear is that the horses will panic when he starts the drill. He looks at the huge animals doubtfully and thinks of all that bone and muscle and all the things that could happen. Those thin, delicate legs.
“It’s just a matter of getting on with it,” Møller says. “Sometimes they rear and jostle and make a real mess. But I can’t empty the stable, Charlo. We’ll have to take what comes.”
He takes his courage in both hands. He’s marked out where the manger is to go; the old one has been taken down. He makes no comment about the color. It’s so quiet in the stable that he can hear his own breathing and his thumping heart. Then he starts the drill. It doesn’t make much noise before it touches the wall, and then it drones through the entire building. The horses listen with pricked ears. Nothing happens. He stops, has a rest, and looks down the passage. Møller stands, legs apart, and signals that he can continue.
“They’re calm because I’m standing here,” he explains. “I can stay until you’re done. When Julie’s finished riding, you can do the wood shavings in the ring. It’s mucky now. The tractor’s in the outbuilding with the key in the ignition.”
Charlo carries on working and hangs up the four mangers. The bright blue color clashes with the rest of the interior, just as he’d imagined it would. It irritates him. Green would have looked lovely. Afterward he decides to clean out the box for Julie. He wants to be useful. He gets hold of a wheelbarrow and shavings fork; it’s plastic and some of the tines are broken, but he works hard and manages it. The muck is heavy. He sieves the wood shavings through the tines and shovels until he’s hot. He fills up the wheelbarrow and empties it down the hatch. He fetches fresh shavings and gives it two barrowsful. When he’s finished, the box is pleasant and dry. He goes down to look at the tractor. It’s a John Deere. He gets in and turns the ignition key, feeling like a small boy. He walks into the ring to look at Julie. He borrows the yellow blanket and sits down in a chair. He’d like to sit like this forever, watching the two of them at work. Things are good now, Inga Lill, he thinks. We’ve found each other again, and now we’ll always be together. He notices that Julie is practicing reining back. She does it over and over again, sitting back hard in the saddle with a firm touch on the reins, spurring gently. He never tires of watching them.
Will she have dinner with him?
With a smile, she agrees. She covers Crazy with a horse blanket, gives him carrots, and kisses him on the muzzle. Afterward she hangs around in front of his box. She can hardly tear herself away.
“Well,” says Charlo. “He
’ll still be here tomorrow.”
Julie goes out to the car with him. They visit the shop and Charlo gets some frozen lasagna. As they drive to Blomsgate, Charlo thinks, I can’t bear to be alone again. When Julie’s with me, I forget about other things. Unpleasant things. Surely I deserve someone. Perhaps there is some justice in this world after all, and I’m no good on my own.
They stamp the snow from their feet on the doormat. Julie pulls off her riding boots and Charlo sets about making the food. Julie isn’t often at his house. She moves around the living room, studying the pictures on the walls and standing at the window looking out.
“Why did you lose your job?” she asks all of a sudden.
Charlo drops what he has in his hands.
“I thought Mom had told you,” he says in an undertone.
“No. For your information, she used to protect you, in spite of everything.”
He can feel his heart again, racing beneath his shirt. He has no choice but to come out with it. Her gaze is inquiring. She’s practically an adult, he thinks, and she has rights.
“I misappropriated money,” he says finally. “A small amount, but they discovered it.”
Julie doesn’t look surprised. Just very serious.
“I was lucky,” Charlo continues and begins slicing bread. “They never reported me. But I was sacked on the spot. It was humiliating,” he adds, “and I’d lost so much of my pride already. It was worse for Mom. I thought it was going to kill her.”
“It did, too,” Julie says tersely. She regards him keenly.
The knife slips out of Charlo’s hand. He gulps.
“Mom died of leukemia,” he says. “They couldn’t do anything.”
“Sorry.” She looks down at the floor with her arms folded.
“I haven’t got much to be proud of,” Charlo says, getting two plates out of the cupboard, “but I am proud of you. You’ve a perfect right to ask questions. I’ll answer them as best I can.”
He opens the oven to look at the lasagna. It’s turned golden on top.
“You are the only thing I’ve produced in my life. A wretched person like me fathering a daughter like you.”
She smiles her bashful smile once more.
“Help me now,” he says. “You can set the table. The meal will be ready soon.”
They eat the hot lasagna in silence. Julie has a Coke with it and Charlo drinks water. He’s going to drive Julie home and he won’t have any alcohol in his blood when he does. From now on, he’s not going to transgress in any way whatsoever. Not as long as he lives. This resolution makes him feel good; it’s like an atonement.
Afterward they do the washing up together. Standing side by side. Charlo enjoys the silence. He gets a chocolate bar out of the cupboard, breaks it into pieces, and puts them in a bowl. They each take a chair and watch the falling snow. Julie picks up the newspaper and starts leafing through it. And Charlo suddenly realizes that she must have read about the Hamsund murder. That she has opinions about it. He’s filled with a sudden curiosity. What kind of expression would she assume if he were to mention it? Quite at random, just in passing. Have you heard about that murder at Hamsund? He clenches his teeth. Hold your tongue! a voice inside him says. It’s as if the murder is pressing inside him. The pressure is rising in his chest and all the way up to his mouth, where his tongue lies ready to form words. Julie skims on. Charlo sits watching her. She’s so like Inga Lill, but her features are softer. Even so, she displays the same acuteness that her mother had, a need to get to the bottom of things. Suddenly she looks up at him.
“Have you seen this article?” she asks, holding up the paper. “This Inspector Sejer, the policeman who’s leading the Hamsund murder case, hasn’t had a single unsolved murder in his whole career. And he’s over fifty. What about that?”
Charlo turns pale. He certainly hasn’t read the article and he can’t understand how he missed it.
“Oh, really?” he says doubtfully. She looks down at the text again, and he’s glad she can’t see his face because now it’s as rigid as papier-mâché.
“That would be funny,” she says. “If the people who did it read the paper. Think of the panic. Not a single unsolved case.”
Charlo slumps in his chair. He searches for words, but they stick in his throat. Suddenly she looks up at him. Takes a piece of chocolate, chews it with her sharp teeth.
“You’re looking tired,” she teases. “You’re not used to real work, Dad.”
Charlo runs a weary hand across his face. Yes, he’s tired. He’s got to watch out the whole time, forever guarding his words. He clings to this smidgeon of tenderness, that she’s noticed he’s tired. Yes, he’s tired. He feels a lot older than he actually is. It’s like walking on thin ice: he hardly dares put his feet down, or make sudden movements, or raise his voice, for fear that someone might notice him and single him out in the crowd. Not a single unsolved case. It’s disturbing. Julie puts the paper down.
“I must go back and do some homework,” she says.
He nods, looks surreptitiously at the paper, and thinks about getting ready to drive. She vanishes into the hallway and returns with her riding boots.
“You’ve got all that shoe polish and stuff in the kitchen. I’ll just go over my boots before we go, and then it’ll be done. Is it still in the chest?”
He finds himself nodding. He hears her go out to the kitchen and raise the lid of the chest. He gets up heavily from his chair, but his whole being is rigid with fear. He’s remembered something, but he can’t move quickly enough. At last he makes it out to the kitchen. Julie is looking at him in astonishment.
“This is my old gym bag, isn’t it? Whatever have you got inside it?”
He makes no reply, trying to think clearly, but his brain is foggy. She opens the bag and peers into it.
“Jewelry?” she says in surprise.
He starts nodding vigorously, still searching for words, for some kind of explanation. But no words come. There’s only his thudding heart and the feeling of unreality, like in a film. She picks them up in turn, one by one. Harriet’s bracelet and rings, and the brooches and string of pearls. She places them on the table. Again she looks at him uncertainly, as if she’s suddenly been given a clue. It makes her face darker. Charlo twists his mouth into a stiff smile, his mind in an uproar.
“Yes, they were Grandma’s,” he says, and feels his head moving heavily up and down.
“But Grandma isn’t dead,” Julie says. She lifts the largest brooch, the cameo. Turns it this way and that in the light.
“Well, no. But she gave them to me. I got her old silverware, which I told you about, and which I sold. And these bits of jewelry.”
“But I’ve never seen them before,” she says probingly.
Charlo curses the physiological processes that are turning his cheeks red.
“They’re things she’s never worn,” he explains in a panic. “That’s why you’ve never seen them. So she gave them to me. As an advance on her estate. They’re not worth anything,” he adds quickly.
“But why have you got them in the chest?” she asks. “In my gym bag?” In his confusion, he shakes his head. He finds no explanation. He thinks he can hear the sound of cracking ice that he really has fallen through badly. The damage must be repaired, but he doesn’t know how.
“Well, you know,” he says, attempting a self-deprecatory laugh, “I’ve always been a scatterbrain.” His laughter seems to reverberate around the room.
She nods in agreement. But something has made her uneasy. He can see that quite plainly. He doesn’t know what to do about it, but he knows that he’s got to smooth it over and make her forget.
“Here,” he says, diving into the chest. His hand emerges clutching a tin. “This’ll be good for your boots. I’ll find you a cloth.”
She sits down on the floor with the boots, still silent. The jewelry is on display on the table. He can’t bring himself to touch it. He feels he’d like to talk the entire thing away, a
s he rummages in the cupboard for something she can use as a cloth. He finds an old pair of worn-out underpants and cuts them in half. Hands her the cotton material. She takes it hesitantly.
“It’s a long time since I went to the nursing home,” she says. “I feel bad about it. Perhaps I’ll go and visit her.”
“Don’t mention the jewelry,” he puts in quickly. “It’ll only make her really confused.”
“Will it?”
She dips the cloth in the polish.
“You know she can’t remember things from one minute to the next. What she’s said or done.”
She’s still taciturn. She polishes the boots until they shine, but there’s a troubled furrow between her eyes. Charlo tries to joke and laugh, without really succeeding. But she listens and responds. It’ll all be fine now. No solemnity, no suspicions, no deceit.
11
HE READS JULIE’S needs and desires before she can give them voice. He’s always an instant ahead of her, watchful, ready. When she rides, he anticipates the precise moment when she begins to get too hot. Before she says anything, he runs out and takes her jacket. He notices when Crazy is tired or uncooperative, and then he’ll scamper out with a whip, so she can ginger him up a bit. Whenever she’s thirsty, he knows and brings her something to drink. He sits on a chair at the far end of the ring with the yellow rug across his knees, like some faithful, aged crone. But he does his own work first. He repairs and renews and paints. He mends broken panes and removes loads of horse muck with the tractor. He gets feed from the outbuilding and checks the water troughs and the lighting. He changes light bulbs and sets mousetraps. He sweeps the stable passages and clears the snow away from the yard in front of the ring. He spreads a broad path of gravel from the stables, so the horses won’t slip and break their legs.