Before I Burn: A Novel

by Heivoll, Gaute

  They took a break after the sun had gone down, and he joined two officers on the steps for a cigarette. It was still nice and warm; the air was sharp and clean after the short but intense downpours earlier in the afternoon. There was almost no traffic on the road, and there wasn’t a soul to be seen. Dag was offered a light by one officer; he leaned forwards, cupped his hand around the flame for a brief instant before inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs and letting it out through his nose as his eyes narrowed. They stood outside for five minutes, maybe longer. No one said much. They smoked. The officers didn’t seem to consider the possibility that he could leg it at any moment and disappear into the dense forest opposite the community centre. They smoked their cigarettes to the end, tossed them down and ground them into the gravel with the tips of their shoes. Then they all went back inside and resumed the interview.

  At just after half past seven there was a three-minute item on NRK news from the very south of Norway, the small region of Finsland, which in recent weeks had been beset by an arsonist. Tranquil images flickered across the screen. Viewers saw a peaceful wooded hamlet, the sun was shining, it was summer, there was a burned-out house in Vatneli, there was the house with a cracked window belonging to Anders and Agnes in Solås, and there was Sløgedal’s barn, with Alfred hosing it down.

  The whole business was incomprehensible.

  At approximately the same time, Bjarne Sløgedal went into hiding behind some bushes opposite his house at Nerbø. He carefully placed his rifle in the heather while he sat down. The rifle was loaded and he had taught himself how to flick off the safety catch. The sun was singeing the tops of the trees in the west, the air was full of insects, buzzing across the sky in all manner of unfathomable patterns. He had brought along a book, and settled down to read while it was still light; however, it was difficult to focus. The situation was too absurd. He, the cantor at Kristiansand Cathedral, trained at Oslo conservatory, the Juilliard School of Music in New York and the conservatory in The Hague, Holland, sitting hidden behind a bush facing his own home with a loaded rifle at his side. He, the man who, some days previously, had opened the International Church Music Festival in Kristiansand Cathedral with no less than Ingrid Bjoner, who sang Pergolesi’s heavenly ‘Stabat Mater’ with her sister to a packed audience, he was sitting here now and listening for God knows what. The evening before he had been in the cathedral, now he was here, in the heather and grass, not knowing what was going to happen. If a stranger appeared down by the house, what would he do? Oh yes, he would fire three shots in the air. Three shots. And what if no one heard them? That possibility hadn’t been discussed. It had been regarded as highly improbable that no one would hear the shots. And, anyway, the pyromaniac would be frightened and take to his heels. That was the plan. And there was a sheen of unreality over everything. It had turned cooler, and he pulled the anorak tighter around him. Every so often he raised his head. Was that a noise? A twig breaking? Someone coming down the road? No. Nothing. He looked down at the remains of the barn. Smoke was no longer rising from the ruins; however, small swarms of mosquitoes and other insects had collected and were dancing feverishly above the wet ash. Occasionally cars slowed and meandered past as the drivers ogled the destruction. No one saw him. No one knew he was sitting there. It was eleven and long past reading light. He had to strain his eyes to distinguish the ruins from the surrounding dark forest. He gingerly raised the rifle and placed it heavily in his lap.

  At the same time Pappa was putting me to bed at Kleveland. I slept soundly after the long, hot day; he stood for a moment gazing at my tranquil face, at the closed eyes and the tiny mouth with the lips slightly apart, then he tiptoed out, leaving the door ajar. He whispered to Mamma in the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee, went to the front doorsteps and sat there with the steaming liquid and Grandad’s rifle beside him as he listened to the night.

  Later, as the summer darkness well and truly deepened, Olav Vatneli got out of bed in Knut Karlsen’s cellar. He stood for a moment beside Johanna’s bed. He had been sound asleep, dreamless. How long he didn’t know to any degree of accuracy, but he remembered he had been screaming. But now he felt strangely clear-headed and perfectly calm. It was as though he had been far away, in another world, and now he had returned and saw everything through new eyes. He put on his trousers and one of the new shirts. He took the polished shoes, which were still stiff and unfamiliar on his feet, donned the new cardigan, placed the beret on his head and quietly left. He exchanged a few words with the policeman keeping watch outside. Then he continued down the slope to Odd Syvertsen’s house. From there he could see the remains of his house. Walking in these new clothes, he felt like a stranger, someone who had been away for a long time, someone no one knew and who had got lost into the bargain. That was how it felt, that he had got lost or couldn’t remember exactly where his house was, the house where he had lived for the last thirty-five years. He approached quietly and carefully, as if someone were slumbering in the ruins, someone who must not be awoken on any account. He made it to the road, stuffed his hands into his pockets and strolled on. Then he stopped, and there, around twenty metres away, he stood gawping. It was as if he could never have enough of the sight. He looked. And he looked. And he looked. He had said that he was going to see his fire-ravaged house, and that he was going to see it on his own, but he hadn’t imagined that it would be at night. Now here he was, and he felt nothing. He was just empty and strangely clear-headed at the same time. He moved forwards, and the new, stiff shoes crunched in the gravel at every step. Then he stopped again and just looked. It was as if he could see right through everything. And indeed he could. He stood there looking right through the living room, the hall, the staircase and the kitchen. Warily, he walked into the garden, drew near the front steps strewn with charred wooden boards, ash and crushed glass. He sat down. He sat for a long time on the steps outside his house, which was now no more than air. He didn’t have a thought in his head. There was dew on the grass, and mist hung over Lake Livannet, just as on the night of the fire. Then he caught sight of a hazy figure. He knew at once who it was. He rose slowly and deliberately, brushing the ash and glass off the seat of his trousers as the figure came into the garden and approached the stumps that were all that was left of the cherry tree. Olav was standing on the lowest step, but the figure didn’t come any closer. They stood motionless, looking at each other, but neither of them spoke. What could they say? It was about twenty years since they had last seen each other. After two or three minutes the figure blurred, dissolved, and ultimately merged into the night air. Olav tarried on the lowest step, waiting, but nothing happened. In the end he headed for the wood shed, which was almost unscathed. He opened the door and went in. It was cold and damp inside, from all the water that had been sprayed over it. The earthen floor squelched under his shoes, it was completely black and for a second he was in the stomach of a whale. Still, he knew exactly where he was. The bell rang cheerfully as he dragged at the bicycle caught in some junk that had accumulated by the wheels. It came free and he trundled it out. The bike was as good as ever, just a bit rusty and covered with dust, and both tyres were flat. He leaned it against the shed wall, as it so often used to stand when Kåre was sitting at the kitchen table doing his homework, as if ready to whiz down the hill to Kilen. He tried the bell, and it sounded as good and clear as ever it had. Now he would have to come and take it if he needed it, he thought. And the punctured tyres wouldn’t make any difference. For who needed air in tyres who himself was made of air?

  IV.

  THE DARKNESS LAY thick against the windows of the community centre, converting them into large, unclear mirrors. Everyone inside could look up at any moment and see a white indistinct face simultaneously peering up from another corner of the room, they could sit for a moment staring at this face that stared back with rapt attention before they realised: that’s me.

  The interrogation had gone on for several hours. The petrol cap was produced and placed on the
table before him. It was white, and FB had been painted along the side in black, somewhat wobbly letters. He didn’t bat an eyelid. Do you know what this is? he was asked. Yes, he replied. And do you know where it was found? No, he said. There was a silence. A car passed by on the road. He leaned forwards and had a sip from his cup. Do you know who found it? This time he didn’t answer, just gave a casual shrug. Something was beginning to happen to his face, it was stiffening and the features were hardening. It was as if it was going to crack, but it didn’t. It just got harder and harder.

  And then.

  Your father. It was your father who found it.

  That was the moment everything came tumbling out.

  It was 11.17 p.m.. The precise time was hammered in next to the confession. Suspect confesses. Interrogation provisionally terminated at 11.25 p.m.. Statement read and approved by the suspect. Police car requisitioned to transport prisoner to Kristiansand District Prison. There was a sudden atmosphere of departure in the council room. Officers went out for some fresh air. Dag joined them, but this time he was handcuffed and he wasn’t given a cigarette. NTB, the news agency, was contacted. NRK broke the news on its late-night programme with a brief item. This evening the arsonist recently spreading fear and panic through the small community of Finsland in Vest-Agder has been arrested by the police. Seconds later there was an avalanche of telephone calls from every newspaper. Knut Koland sat answering all the enquiries with equanimity. There was not a great deal he could say. It was still too early. Who is he? Who is the pyromaniac? It’s a young man from our region, he replied. Nothing else. The lad would be driven the thirty kilometres to Kristiansand, where he would be brought before the magistrates’ court on a charge of arson with intent to murder. He called him ‘the lad’ all the way through. There was nothing else he had to say. Four words, that was all.

  He has been arrested.

  Slightly after half past twelve the car arrived to take him to the prison in Kristiansand. Two officers entered the council room, one gave a brief nod, then Dag got up slowly and followed them into the night. It was chilly, as the nights had been of late, and he ambled down to the waiting vehicle. He could see Alfred and Else’s house at the end of the field, all the windows lit, the old shop beside the crossing dark and still, as was the chapel. The officers opened the rear door of the car; one officer placed his hand on Dag’s head and carefully but firmly pushed him inside. The last he saw was the mist which also this night had appeared from nowhere, and hung so strangely white and pure and unsullied a few metres above the fields.

  V.

  LENSMANN KNUT KOLAND is interviewed in the Wednesday edition of Faedrelandsvennen, on 7 June 1978, where he informs readers that the pyromaniac has been remanded in custody for twelve weeks. He says nothing about the identity of the suspect. Or the fact that he is the fire chief’s only son.

  In the same newspaper, at the very bottom of the first page, a short article about the motorcycle accident: Young Man Still Unconscious.

  Koland says in the interview that he hasn’t slept for the last three days, and that he is glad it is all over. While emphasising the enormous human tragedy it masks. ‘It’s very sad, the whole business.’

  In a way this is where everything begins.

  Later that morning a car started at Skinnsnes. It was a dark red Ford Granada. The bumper was a bit compressed, there were remnants of earth and bark in the chipped paintwork by the Ford badge and one headlamp was slightly off-kilter. Ingemann was driving, with Alma beside him. They were both silent. She sat quite still with a bag in her lap and her hands folded over the clasp as if afraid someone would take it from her. The car turned right, passed the disused co-op building where the balcony was empty and the flagpole bare, as it had been for as long as anyone could remember. They drove downhill past the chapel, past the community centre, which was now completely deserted and quiet, continued gently down round the bends to Fjeldsgårdsletta, and there he accelerated and they raced past the old garage at the end of the plain. Soon they saw Lake Livannet, which lay there as it always had, glittering jauntily in the sun, but inshore the water was black and still. They parked in the shade outside Kaddeberg’s shop, got out and mounted the five steps of the staircase you could access from both sides. They entered the chilly shop where Kaddeberg himself was behind the counter with a pencil stump behind one ear. He sent them a measured though friendly nod, and Ingemann nodded back. There was no one else inside, and Kaddeberg left them in peace. All they wanted was a card, with a picture of some flowers perhaps. Alma found a suitable one on the small stand by the till. It was plain, with a picture of a closed rose on the front and without any writing. She gave it to Ingemann and wandered back to the car while he paid. Before they set off she wrote: In our thoughts. Then the two names. Alma. Ingemann. That was all. Then they drove on. The car crawled up the hills past the post office. Alma gazed down at Lake Livannet glittering and quivering in the morning breeze. It was another radiant summer’s day. It was going to be hot. The sun was already high in the sky, and she could feel perspiration on her back. They passed Konrad’s light green house, continued past the road to Vatneli, and reaching the brow of the hill they turned right and into the yard of the little house with the splendid view of the lake and the dark blue hills to the west. The house belonged to Knut and Aslaug Karlsen. Alma felt dizzy. She put the card into her bag, then retrieved it and got out of the car. They stood for a moment in the hot sun, casting long, slender shadows. Ingemann took a comb from his rear pocket and swept it through his hair a couple of times, from the front to the back. She affected to adjust her hair, flicked some dust off her coat, checked her bag to make sure the card was there, but it wasn’t, it was in her hand. Then they walked to the door together. Ingemann leaned forwards and knocked three times. They waited; neither of them had said a word since they left home. Now Alma said: ‘I can’t do this. I can’t.’

  They heard footsteps inside, a blurred figure came into sight behind the frosted glass, the door opened. It was Johanna. She had washed her face; her eyebrows were still marked by the fierce heat. She had no teeth in. She looked at Ingemann, then Alma. Her face lit up strangely when she realised who they were, as if age and sorrow were erased for an instant, as easy as anything. There was almost a kind of smile. She said: ‘It’s good you’ve both come.’

  Then she opened the door wide. Inside, Olav was on his feet and waiting. They went in. Alma first, followed by Ingemann. He closed the door gently after him. Silence, apart from the birds.

  No one knows what the four of them talked about.

  I.

  IT EMERGED THAT THERE WERE three of him. It came out in all the letters he wrote to people in Finsland. He referred to himself in three ways.

  There was Dag.

  Then there was the lad.

  And lastly I

  The lad, that was what Ingemann used to call him.

  Perhaps it was the lad who lit the fires, and then Dag came along and put them out? I don’t know. Perhaps it was the other way around: the lad put them out? But who in that case was I?

  Letters streamed out of prison in the initial months. First and foremost he wrote to those people whose houses he had set alight. He wrote to Olav and Johanna Vatneli. He wrote to Kasper Kristiansen. He wrote to Bjarne Sløgedal. He wrote to Anders and Agnes Fjeldsgård.

  But also to others. To Teresa. To Alfred. And to more. It has not been possible to obtain a clear overview. Most binned the letter after quickly skimming it. It was as if it were dirty, an infection they didn’t want in the house. It was disposed of. Often the letters were extremely incoherent. Incoherent, yet somehow well written. When I asked Kasper what was in his letter, he had to give the question some thought.

  Mm, what did he actually write?

  Occasional reflections about God, about true believers and the godless. The godless, among whose number he counted himself. The days passed, and he sat writing on the top floor of the courthouse in the heart of Kristiansand. On 9 June
the boy involved in the motorcycle accident in Kilen woke up in the intensive ward at the hospital. It was night. Suddenly he opened his eyes. He had survived, but some cerebral matter had of course leaked through his ears and he was a different person.

  The weeks passed. On 25 June, after extra time, Argentina became the World Cup football champions at an over-crowded Mar del Plata stadium. He didn’t notice. He was elsewhere. From his window he could see the sea, and the planes that flew in at a low altitude over the town. He could see above the spire and the luminous clock face on the cathedral tower, he could see down into the market square and the entrance to the Mølle pub. On Saturday evenings he knew there were people from Finsland inside, and when he saw that some were smoking outside the entrance and laughing, he opened the window a fraction and shouted down to them.

  As the months went by the stream of letters slowly dwindled. In the end there were no more letters. In the end there was nothing. In the end you could wake at night and imagine it had all been a dream.

  Autumn came. The sites of the fires lay like blackened wounds, but in the course of the summer, bit by bit, the grass had begun to grow through the ash. In September Kasper demolished the massive chimney at Dynestøl; at Vatneli the foundation walls were broken up and carted off; at the bottom of the Leipsland ridge there were the four corner-stones forming a perfect square. Winter came. In January Johanna died. She was a model of composure during her last days. Exactly like her son. A few days later it began to snow, at night when everyone was asleep. Large, jagged snowflakes fell over the forest, over the houses, still and white, the snow swirled right down into your dreams, and when you awoke the next day the world was new.