by Thomas Enger
Henning nods to himself.
“And Yngve Foldvik came to you with this script?”
A pause follows.
“Yes?”
“Is that common?”
“What is?”
“Supervisors tipping off former colleagues about a script written by a student?”
“I don’t know, but why not? I don’t see anything wrong with it. If you’re planning on writing some crap suggesting that, you can—”
“Oh, no, I’m not going to write about it. I’m merely curious. It was my understanding that your coproducer, Henning Enoksen, wasn’t party to the discussions which ended up with you taking the option. Why wasn’t he?”
“Because we trust one another’s judgment. Have you any idea how many scripts are sent to us, Juul? Every day. How many meetings we hold, how much paperwork we have to plow through in order to make the films we want to, how hard—”
“I know,” he interrupts. “What was your impression of Hagerup?”
Henning hears Leirvåg take a deep breath.
“She was a really attractive girl. I can’t believe what has happened to her. She had such a zest for life. So open and hungry, so trusting. Not arrogant or pretentious.”
“I presume that you had meetings with both Foldvik and Hagerup, given that he introduced her to you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What was the chemistry like between them?”
“What you mean? Chemistry?”
“You know, chemistry. The way they looked at each other. Did you pick up any sexual tension between them?”
Another silence. A long one.
“If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, then you can fuck off,” Leirvåg says in a rising, braying Bergen accent. “Yngve is a decent man. One of the very, very best. He tried to help one of his students. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you ever go window-shopping, Juul?”
“Yes.”
“Do you always buy the things you like?”
“No.”
“No. Precisely.”
Henning isn’t put off by the irritation in Leirvåg’s voice.
“What happens to the script now?”
Leirvåg sighs.
“I don’t know yet.”
“But you still have your option, even though the writer is dead?”
“Yes. I think it would be sad if we don’t complete something she started. She would have wanted the film to go ahead.”
Nice PR point! Henning thinks.
“What does Yngve think?”
“Yngve? He agrees with me.”
“So you’ve already discussed it, then?”
“No, I, eh, we—”
Henning smiles to himself and wonders if this might have been what was on the tip of Henning Enoksen’s tongue. That Leirvåg was busy planning the film’s future life without Henriette—and with Yngve.
“Thanks for talking to me, Truls. I don’t have any more questions.”
“Listen, you’re not going to write about this, are you?”
“About what?”
“About Yngve and the film and all that?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Okay. But if you do, I want copy approval. You know, check quotes and so on.”
“I don’t know if I’ll be quoting you at all, but if I do, I’ll be in touch before it goes to print.”
“Great.”
Leirvåg gives him his email address. Henning pretends to be writing it down, but is in fact standing in front of his piano, wishing he could play it again. Leirvåg hangs up without saying good-bye.
52
His legs hurt. He has walked a lot in the last two days, much more than he usually does. I should start taking my Vespa to work, he thinks, then I won’t need to take a taxi if I have to go from one place to another.
He is amazed at how quickly the time has gone. Before he went back to work, he was grateful when only an hour had passed. Now he feels he is losing track of time.
He looks at the clock and wonders what to do with the rest of his evening. Now that he has had a nap, there is no point in going to bed. He might as well do something productive before night comes, before Jonas’s eyes bore into him again.
I could always go to Dælenenga, he thinks, but knows he won’t be able to sit still tonight. What can he do? Seek out the lion in his den by paying a visit to Omar Rabia Rashid? Or perhaps it’s time to call on the very obliging Yngve Foldvik?
Henning strangles a yawn and hears that Gunnar Goma is stomping up and down the stairs again. Henning pads across the filthy parquet floor and opens his front door. Goma is at the bottom of the stairwell, panting. More footsteps. He sounds like an elephant as he tramples upstairs at a slow but steady pace. He comes round the banister and catches sight of Henning.
“Oh, hello,” he says and stops. He is gasping and rests his hands on his knees to breathe more deeply.
“Hi,” Henning says, trying quickly to remember the number of the emergency ambulance. Is it 110, 112, or 113? He can never remember.
“You gave me a fright,” Goma says, exhaling deeply. He is growing a mustache.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Henning says and studies his neighbor. Goma takes a few more steps. Bare-chested again. The smell of acrid sweat is strong, even from a distance. He is wearing his red shorts.
“I was wondering about something,” Henning begins. He waits for Goma to stop, but he doesn’t.
“You carry on talking,” Goma says, and walks on. “I can hear you. Bloody good acoustics in here. I could screw one of my girlfriends and entertain the whole neighborhood, ha-ha.”
Henning isn’t sure how to phrase his question without giving away too much or sounding weird. And it’s not easy to concentrate with a frisky seventy-five-year-old elephant disappearing higher and higher up the stairs.
He opts for the direct approach.
“You’ve a spyhole in your door, don’t you?”
He already knows the answer, but asks nevertheless.
“Bet your life I do, ha-ha.”
Goma stops again and wheezes.
“Arne on the third floor, Hi Arne!” Goma shouts, before he continues: “Arne on the third floor gets so many lady visitors at night. Sometimes I watch them through the hole in the door, ha-ha.”
Arne? Arne Halldis!?
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m not going to be at home much tonight, but it’s possible I might get a visitor. I was wondering, if you’re in anyway and if you hear someone, please would you have a peek through your spyhole and take a good look at them?”
Henning closes his eyes while he waits for Goma to reply; he must sound like a teenager taking the girl of his dreams to the cinema for the first time. Goma is clearly questioning Henning’s sanity.
“What on earth do you want to know that for? If you’re not in, they’ll just come back another time, won’t they?”
“Yes, but I’m not entirely sure that I’ll enjoy the visit.”
Silence. Even the acoustically perfect stairwell is quiet.
“Lovesick woman, is it?”
“Something like that.”
“Not a problem. I keep my eyes peeled.”
Stomp, stomp.
“Thank you.”
The old man would have made a brilliant interview subject, Henning thinks. The only question is what would I interview him about? He also thinks, for some inexplicable reason, that the story would be subject to fairly heavy censoring by the news desk. Nevertheless, he leaves his flat certain in the knowledge that the stairwell is safely guarded for the rest of the evening.
He has a hunch that something might happen.
53
As he is wearing a helmet, it will be hard for anyone to recognize him, especially since he has pulled down the visor. He makes sure to pull his jacket high up under his chin.
The Vespa starts without problems and Henning feels
like a sixteen-year-old on his way to a secret date as he zooms up Steenstrupsgata and passes the School of Art and Foss College, still making good progress. The great thing about the small scooter is that he can go everywhere and, if a car were to chase him, he can always drive on the pavement, down a path or an alleyway.
It doesn’t take him long to reach Alexander Kiellands Square, where people are eating outside and he can see the gushing fountains on Telthusbakken. He crosses Uelandsgate and watches the homeless and druggies huddle up outside Café Trappa. It feels good to be back on the road. It has been a long time.
The Vespa is one of the few of his father’s possessions he has kept. It would be wrong to say that he has taken particularly good care of it. He tends to leave it exposed to the elements in the backyard, all year round, and it surprises him by starting contentedly every time.
He parks outside the Rema 1000 supermarket at the bottom of Bjerregaardsgate, hangs his helmet on the handlebars, and looks to both sides, before walking up the right-hand side of the street. He passes number 20. Yngve Foldvik lives at 24B.
He stops outside the red-painted door to Foldvik’s building and looks at the doorbells. The middle one says FOLDVIK. He presses it and waits for a reply. While he is waiting, he thinks about the questions he will ask and how to phrase them. He is starting to believe that Yngve Foldvik might be Harald Gaarder in the script after all. In which case, he plays an important part, but not one that makes a lot of sense. And that’s why Henning needs to talk to him.
He rings the bell again. Perhaps it doesn’t work? he thinks. Or they are simply not in? He presses it again, but soon realizes it is a waste of time. He swears, tries a bell that says STEEN, just to make sure that it isn’t the bell or the cables that are faulty. Soon he hears a crackling voice say, “Hello?”
“Hi, I’m from Mester Grønn. I’ve got a delivery for Foldvik. They’re not answering. Please would you let me in?”
He closes his eyes, knowing he is about to do something stupid. A few seconds pass. Then there is a buzz. He opens the door and enters. He doesn’t know why, Yngve Foldvik is obviously not at home. I’ll just take a quick look, he thinks, sniff around a bit, like Jarle Høgseth always told me to. Use your senses, Henning. Use them to form an impression of the people you’re interviewing.
He finds himself in a smallish backyard. Leaves, he presumes to be from last autumn, still cling to the ground like obstinate stickers. There is a strange absence of greenery. A potted plant, whose name he doesn’t know, is standing in the center. An unlocked bicycle is tilted against the wall.
There are two doors, one directly in front of him and one to the right. He checks the one to the right first, because it is nearer. There are no doorbells with Foldvik or Steen. He tries the other door, quickly finds both names and presses the bell saying STEEN. Without him needing to identify himself again, the door buzzes and he opens it.
Stairwells. The first impression you get of how people live. A pram blocks a door which must lead to the basement. There is a broken umbrella behind the pram. A stepladder, stained with white and navy blue paint, is leaning against the wall. The letterboxes are green. It smells damp. The residents are undoubtedly plagued by dry rot.
Upstairs, a door is opened. Perhaps Mrs. Steen wants to double-check that there really is a deliveryman downstairs? Damn, he says to himself. What do I do now? The door slams shut. He stays where he is. Footsteps approach. A woman’s shoes. He can tell from the sound. Should he turn around and leave?
That same moment, another door is opened. Henning suppresses the urge to look up.
“Oh, hi,” he hears from upstairs. “I’m just popping down to the shops, Mrs. Steen.” He detects a certain fatigue in the voice. Friendly, but long-suffering.
“Hi.”
How on earth do I explain my presence, he wonders, if the woman coming down the stairs wants to know who I am?
“Do you need anything?” she asks Mrs. Steen.
“Please would you get me a copy of Her og Nå? I’ve heard there’s a story about Hallvard Flatland today. I do like him.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Wait a moment, let me get you some money.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Steen. You can pay me later.”
The voices echo strangely off the walls.
“Thank you ever so much. That’s very kind of you.”
Click, clack. Her footsteps sound like a drumroll to Henning’s ears. He grabs the stepladder and starts walking up. The woman is on her way down. Henning holds the stepladder in front of him and keeps his head down. They are on the same floor now. She comes toward him, he can only see her feet, high heels, “hello” he mutters and carries on walking. She says hello, too, and he is overwhelmed by her perfume, which is so heady that he nearly gasps. She doesn’t stop and they both walk on. He hears her open the entrance door and leave. The door closes with a bang.
Henning stops and takes some deep breaths, letting the silence fill the space. Then he turns and walks softly down the stairs, praying that Mrs. Steen won’t hear him. Back on the ground floor, he spots a wooden sign saying FOLDVIK in a child’s asymmetrical writing on a dark blue door. The letters are burned into the wood. He puts down the stepladder and knocks, twice. After all, the doorbell could have been faulty.
He waits, listens for footsteps, which never come. He knocks twice more. No, they are not in.
He is about to leave when he notices that the door hasn’t been shut properly. Hm, he thinks, that’s strange. He looks over his shoulder, even though he knows there is no one around. Carefully, he prods the door. It swings open. Am I really about to do this, he thinks, should I go inside and have a look?
No. Why would he? He can think of no earthly reason why. And, as far as the law is concerned, it’s the equivalent of breaking in. And how would he explain his presence in the flat if anyone were to turn up? Like, for example, the people who live there?
Turn around, Henning. Turn around and go home, before it’s too late. But he can’t. He creeps in. It’s dark inside. The only light is coming from the stairwell. He doesn’t want to leave fingerprints, so he ignores the switch on his left, behind the front door. This is a really bad idea, he tells himself.
But he doesn’t leave. He isn’t sure what he is looking for. Is he hoping to find something that might implicate Foldvik? His computer? But he has no intention of touching it, unless he finds it already switched on and displaying incriminating documents.
He is in the hallway. Shoes, a shoe rack, coats on pegs, a wardrobe, and a fuse box. Smoke alarms in the ceiling. They have smoke alarms in their ceiling, thank God! He pauses. The green lights reassure him. His own private all clear signal.
He can smell cooking. Lasagne, would be his guess. Right in front of him, further down the hallway, is a door with a red felt heart. A door to the left leads to the kitchen. He sees a filthy white cooker. A saucepan with leftover spaghetti is resting on one of the hobs.
There are no boxes on the walls indicating that a burglar alarm has been installed, so he carries on. An arch leads him into a spacious living room. A television in the corner, a dining area. High-backed chairs and soft, embroidered cushions. He can see a large, square coffee table in front of a brown, distressed leather sofa further into the living room. There are three candleholders on the coffee table with creamy white candle stubs. The white flax curtains behind the sofa are closed.
Closed? Why closed so early in the evening?
A dark brown woven rug covers the floor and hides a scratch in the parquet floor. He notices it, because the scratch is so long that it carries on either side of the rug. The dining table is clear of objects. Clean and recently wiped, perhaps?
The Foldviks had spaghetti for dinner before going out. They must have been in a hurry, since they forgot to close their front door properly. There is another open door. It leads to the master bedroom. It’s dark. The curtains are closed there, too. A digital piano stands up against one wall. Henning nearly t
rips over some cables on the floor. A laptop with a mouse sits on the piano. There is another door in the room and very welcome light pours in from it.
An en suite bathroom. Henning enters. It’s small and has a floor of white tiles and a shower cabin in the corner. The sink is white, too. It is right in front of him and there is a mirror above it. The mirror is on the door of a wall-mounted cabinet. He can see the remains of toothpaste spit on the glass—tiny white dots. He opens the cabinet and takes a peek inside. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, dental floss, mouthwash, face creams, several pill jars whose labels face away from him. He turns one of them around. The label reads “Vival” and Ingvild Foldvik’s name is printed on it. The jar is nearly empty. But that’s not what catches his attention. Further inside the cabinet, to the far right, is a man’s deodorant. And though the wording on the label has partly worn off, he can see that the deodorant is called Romance.
Henning gulps as he recalls Thorbjørn Skagestad outside the tent at Ekeberg Common, how Skagestad entered the tent and smelled death and the deodorant for men that he rubs under his own armpits to attract the opposite sex. What are the chances of finding the same deodorant in Yngve Foldvik’s bathroom cabinet?
I’m reasonably well informed, Henning thinks, but my knowledge is somewhat limited when it comes to deodorants in general and the popularity of Romance, in particular. Did Yngve Foldvik kill his favorite student? Or could the deodorant belong to Stefan?
He closes the cabinet and decides to leave. He stops in the hallway, when he notices a door to the left of the lavatory. A piece of paper saying “Stefan” in black letters is attached with a pin. There is a sticker depicting a red skull on a black background underneath. He goes to the door. That, too, is ajar. He pushes it open. And that’s when he sees him.
Stefan.
He is lying under the duvet with his eyes open.
But his eyes are open because he is dead.
54
Bjarne Brogeland is in his office, staring into space. His hands are folded behind his head. He is thinking. And, for once, he isn’t thinking about Ella Sandland, stark-naked and free of inhibitions. He is thinking about Anette Skoppum, if she is in danger, who might be trying to hurt her and where might she be hiding. Brogeland jerks upright, picks up his telephone and calls Emil Hagen.