Only Human

by Kristine Naess

  I wish I could ring Tuva. Not because I want her to come over, but because it reminds me that I am a mother. That Tuva is my child, whom I have protected and loved. Hearing her voice would be enough for me to understand how things ought to be handled. You need to do something, Mum, Tuva would have cried if she was still a child standing barefoot on the floor in her nightdress, her long hair down her back, upset.

  Hurry, there’s an animal out there we need to rescue. It’s in pain, Mum. Mum!

  An hour goes by and the sun is on the verge of coming up. The whimpering is still audible, but coming at longer intervals, weaker, I think, perhaps it is dying for me. I stand at the window looking out, listening, to see if someone is there, waiting, watching, spying on me? No one, I do not see anyone. Tears run down my face. Finally I go out.

  Between the bags of firewood and the old snowblower lies Emilie’s dog. I knew it, knew that was what it was. But I was so afraid of what I would find. A dog with broken paws? With its eyes put out or brutalised in some other way? What I see before me is bad enough but not in that league. Its paws are bound together and its collar is tied to a short length of rope knotted so tightly to the snowblower that it cannot move. Skee, I say, and cry, lovely little thing. He snaps at me but is weak. Thin too, cannot have had much food in the last couple of weeks. You’re just scared, I say, there, there, you’re just scared is all, don’t be afraid, it’s okay now. I cannot manage to undo the knot in the rope so just remove the collar, whereupon his whole body twitches, I lift him up, hold him close, and he pees. There, there, I say, there, there.

  Walking up the steps to the veranda I spot the man in the baseball cap, standing at the gate talking on his mobile. I hug the shivering, pee-soaked dog close to my chest with one hand, run inside, lock the door after me, pick up my phone from the living-room table and make it into the kitchen. The card with the northerner’s number is fixed to the fridge door by a magnet. I am not wearing my glasses, and have to stretch my neck and squint to make out the digits. The fingers of my free hand feel slow and podgy, I cannot move them fast enough, and I have to punch in the number with the mobile lying on the worktop. As it slides a little across the surface a couple of times, the tears begin to flow, making it even harder. When I lift my head and bring the phone to my ear, I can see the gate and the man in the baseball cap. He is also holding his phone to his ear, but has his back turned to the house, I see him hunching over a little as he speaks.

  The morning sun lights up the kitchen worktop and the brown ceramic jug where I keep ladles and hand whisks, a yellow streak of grease on the top of the cooker, the green glass jar with dry crumbs of cake.

  The northerner does not pick up, naturally, it is not quite half past five in the morning, so I speak in a clear, slow voice to the answering machine. The dog, I say. The man in the baseball cap.

  I then ring the main number for the police. It’s about the Emilie case, I tell the duty officer, I’m a witness, I’ve found her dog. In the garden.

  I see, he says.

  It’s frightened, I say. I’m frightened as well. There’s a man at my gate. Every night. He’s standing there right this minute. I know who he is, he lives in the neighbourhood. You probably know him too, he looks like a psychiatric patient.

  I see, says the officer. Okay, there’s a patrol car already on the way.

  Already. Dispatched before I rang. I thought as much. He was at my gate ringing the police. Making up some lies. I will have to watch my mouth now. I must not let them realise that I know he has called. But maybe it is even stranger not to ask how they could be on the way before I got in touch. It is closing in, getting complicated.

  Hello, the policeman on the other end of the line says, hello, are you still there?

  Yes, so, I’m calling to report that a lunatic has been hanging around my gate every night since Emilie disappeared.

  Emilie? I didn’t think you knew her. Well, you can take it up with the officers when they arrive. I’ll make a note of it here.

  Everybody says Emilie, Jesus, the whole country knows who Emilie is. Which officers are coming?

  Like I said, a patrol car first of all. Then we’ll see.

  I’ve tried to call Bjørn Eriksen, I’d very much like to speak to him.

  Right, well, we work in shifts, we couldn’t have one man on the same case twenty-four hours a day.

  But he gave me his phone number.

  Listen, I’ve made a note of everything. You take it up with them when they arrive, okay?

  Okay, I feel I’m getting pretty short shrift here, I have to say.

  Well, you’ll have to live with it.

  Yes, obviously, I say and hang up.

  Fucking arsehole.

  I find the scissors in the kitchen drawer, sit down on the floor with the dog on my lap and carefully cut the rope holding his legs together. He whines a little but does not get up.

  Maybe you’re thirsty, sweetheart, I whisper, holding him to my chest so he can feel it rise and fall and hear my heartbeat.

  I fill an old ice-cream container with water but he will not drink. So I get a teaspoon from the drawer, lift him onto my lap again and, forcing his mouth open, tip a spoonful of water in. He tries to wriggle free and stand up but his legs give way. My eyes are so filled with tears that I can hardly see, but I manage to pour the water into a little saucer that I place beneath his snout. Then his tongue comes out and laps up a little. I stroke and pat him, cry and speak softly as I carry him around the kitchen, open the fridge and take out a tin of pâté. I sit back down and let him lick at it straight from the tin, he manages a tiny bit then tries to get down but I do not want to let go. You’re so scared, I say, lie here, I’ll look after you. With that he deposits his inky black diarrhoea in my lap. When the police car pulls up in front of the gate, I have just taken off all my clothes and placed them at the foot of the stairs. There is no time to do anything other than wrap the blanket from the sofa around me, like a sari. Then I pick up the dog again, holding it close, his muzzle to my throat.

  The policemen are suspicious. They have not observed any man in a red cap, they say, and ask why I am not dressed. One of them wants to take the dog from me, but luckily he pees again, shivers and whimpers, wetting the blanket and giving me the opportunity to explain why I am not dressed. They offer to hold the dog while I change, but I will not let go of Skee, he’s too frightened, I say, and go out with him into the garden as I am. They want to know everything in detail, and I have to explain twice what has happened, how I had been up late drinking red wine because I was depressed, how I was afraid of the man at the gate, had heard sounds outside, come across the dog and tried to call Bjørn Eriksen. I cannot tell what they are thinking by their expressions. One of them walks a little way off, stands by the old playhouse and speaks on the phone. While he is talking, he looks in the window, but must not see anything, because he just continues speaking. The other one takes a walk around the garden, moves a few things, looks behind the stacks of firewood and berry bushes, but does not find anything either. The man in the baseball cap suddenly appears at the gate again. Hey, I shout, there, look, quick. The dog, in my arms, gives a start. The man in the cap opens the gate and comes into the garden.

  Do you see? I say to the guy on the phone. Yes, I see, he says, pocketing the phone. Come on, he says, as though to a child, you and I can go inside for the time being, my colleague will take care of this.

  He tells me that both forensics and Eriksen are on the way. I look down at my bare feet. One step at a time up to the veranda, sand and the odd piece of gravel beneath my soles. The policeman holds me gently by the elbow. I walk slowly. He asks if I want to get dressed. I turn and look out over the garden. The light seems dusty, it must be due to the haze, a veil across the sky, and the wind perhaps, maybe there is something in the air that the wind has raised up, small particles, pollen. I look at the two figures down by the gate. The man in the baseball cap is gesticulating. The policeman taking notes.

 
; I’ll wait, I say, and sit down at the living-room table, holding the dog close, it no longer shows any signs of wanting to get down, I’ll wait.

  The other policeman comes in.

  What did he say, I ask, what does he think he’s up to?

  He does not answer me but says he thinks I should get dressed.

  Christ, I say, you must be able to tell me what he wants, he’s terrorising me. I’m going to report him, I’ll report him.

  Let’s just take it easy, he says, this will all be fine.

  But now I have started crying.

  I am handed a glass of water but I place it on the table. The dog is warm in my arms, his breathing regular. I bury my face in his fur. After a while he turns his head and licks my ear. I pick up the glass and take a sip.

  You haven’t been charged, Bjørn Eriksen later informs me, as he sits across the table, his mobile and notebook in front of him.

  The two other officers have driven the dog home to Emilie’s parents. His weight, fur, warmth, I can still feel it in my arms, that was love, but now it is gone, I am alone with Eriksen and God knows what he is thinking, nothing to do with me in any case, with the person I feel I am.

  I can understand your confusion, Eriksen says, but you just need to relax. We’re interviewing you as a witness and cannot provide you with any more information about the investigation than we release to the media.

  But I might be killed, I say. Have you considered that, have you considered why exactly my garden was used?

  What do you think yourself, Eriksen asks, what’s the reason? he says, in his thick northern accent.

  I do not know why. Maybe it has nothing to do with me, even though it feels as though it does, as though it is my fault.

  21

  She finally found a job. Stylish ready-to-wear garments for ladies. Well, there is stylish and there is stylish, it was, for the most part, nylon stockings and brassieres. And, true enough, it was part-time, but together with the sewing at home and the financial contributions from Hartvig, things went fairly well. The shop was close to Storgaten, she took the tram from Frogner plass in the mornings, but walked home in the afternoons, in spite of her swollen feet, she needed the air so desperately. Oh, standing like that the whole day smiling tired her out, and was so exceptionally hard on the legs, her varicose veins throbbed so. Even though it was not a full working day. Fortunately they went out of business after two years. So she was spared from handing in her notice, from the defeat of having to tell Hartvig, of seeing that smile of his, the one he so loved looking at other people with: what did I say, it meant, what did I say. Spared because she would scarcely have held out much longer. Mrs Rugstad was the worst thing about it. Old bag. Oh, she hated women. Always wearing those knowing expressions, coming up with little remarks. Mrs Rugstad! No, she had no intelligence to speak of, she was easily knocked off her high horse, did not understand Cessi’s sarcasm at all. But Miss Espeli did, she tittered, and Mrs Rugstad went red in the face. But working there was not pleasant, no, it was not. Having to dance attendance on crabby housewives from the east side of the city. Who would have thought that Cessi could end up in such a desperate situation. You’re courageous, Mama said. Mama, so kind, coming over to them in the afternoons back then, preparing supper and stroking Cessi across the cheek. My child, Mama said, and to think she has been in the ground ten years already. So strange, because it did not seem long ago, she and Mama sitting on the balcony drinking coffee and chatting while the girls, still small, ran around in the warm summer evening. Cessi was darning socks and the sky in the east was red as the sun was setting, she harboured hopes of things somehow improving. She was hardly meant to end up here, in a tiny little apartment in the city, she and the girls, who were almost grown, crammed together in these little rooms and her providing for them on the pittance she earned from a rotten little shop. She, who had once had a garden, run a household and been married to a barrister, there she was all of a sudden, being treated as though she were backward by some fat matrons. For shame. But rather them than have old neighbours or acquaintances as customers, having to stand there knowing full well they would backbite her afterwards, laugh maliciously. The way her friends in the club would no doubt do. Oh, she had such a lovely time with them, but they did talk, about one person after the other, and it was not always gracious, no, it was not. So why should she be spared, it was unlikely she was. Her with all her problems. She did not try to conceal them after all. They knew all about Finn, how it was her lot in life to have such a difficult boy, how worn out she was by him, yes, frankly, did he not contribute directly to her marriage to Hartvig falling apart?

  Her dear, darling boy, her beloved Finn.

  As he grew older his troublesome nature had become obvious to everyone. They had done what they could. Professionals had taken care of him at times, that sort of thing had to be worked on, agitation such as that, and his wildness, temper and jealousy were completely beyond the pale. Oh, how jealous he was. To say he was difficult was an understatement, so they had sent him to the boys’ homes, on several occasions. Good, decent places they were, and the periods he spent there were not so very long. Finn makes it sound as though he was gone for years, but his longest stay was barely a school year. Minus holidays and a few weekends. She was so tired back then, tired, and angry into the bargain, about everything and nothing. Hartvig, the girls, the house. Everything just built up, merely thinking about it gave her anxiety.

  But it kept happening. All the time he was at school and afterwards when he started working, he just was not able. She had not been completely off the mark when she said he was unruly and there was something not right about him. He began to find it hard to sleep, grew listless and her heart bled for him. She would have liked so much to care for and coddle him, he could have lived with her, if only he had not been so angry. Not that he wanted to, oh no. Besides he drank too much, at least he said he did. Standing there so defiant in the middle of her living room, of course he never took off his shoes. I’ve gone and got drunk, he might say, I don’t remember where, don’t remember what happened, but I woke up in Frognerparken. She did not know if he was telling the truth or not. Anyway it was a long time ago now, in his younger years, before he met Linda and they had that child. He might well still be at that kind of thing, and he probably does drink too much, she had a feeling he did, but fortunately it was no longer her concern, as it had been when he was young. Oh, she was so afraid then, because she thought of Papa, his drunkenness, his bad behaviour that went beyond all boundaries. She knew her fear was not unfounded. She and Finn, they had something in them, and that something came from Papa. Mean, nasty genes.

  But she limits herself, she does. Even though she has no intention of covering up the fact that she is fond of a drop. It is for her nerves, and she does not care a straw about what Dr Vold said that time. Avoid stimulants, he said, alcohol, caffeine and nicotine. For God’s sake, it was twenty years ago. He would probably have said the same thing today, but she could not care less, she knows herself what she needs, and it is not semolina and long walks, she needs to calm her nerves, turn down whatever it is that works itself up within her, the feeling of intense hatred. Of herself. You cannot live with feelings like that and she has never been in any doubt that she will live to the bitter end. If for no other reason than that sherry tastes good and makes the world wonderful. Yes, sherry is the best, because it warms your cheeks and your chest as it goes down, unfortunately it is much too sweet, so she can only manage two small glasses. Red wine, on the other hand, she can drink more of. She does not really care for white wine, it makes her feel sick and does not have the same soporific calming quality as the red. She does not mind beer, but preferably in the summer. Cured pork chops, potato salad and beer, they taste lovely together. She invites Finn, and it is a pleasure to see him eat. He comes on his own, she hardly needs to invite everyone, does she, just because she wants to see her son? She cannot face preparing for so many people, having to be bright and warm
and keep the conversation going, that exceeds her energy. They do not understand how tired she is, and neither does she. Besides, Linda hardly wants to, you notice that kind of thing. So all in all it is best that way, for everyone concerned. It has always been easier with Finn when it is just the two of them. Her firstborn. He likes her food. He likes beer as well. That is something they share, a taste for food and drink, not that they talk about it of course. She does not know if he knows, if he notices that sort of thing. He is probably too busy with himself, too busy blaming her. Finn always has his guard up. But it is hardly all her fault. On the contrary. She has no control over nature. Or her finances. Or Hartvig, that wearisome person.

  They sit on the little balcony. He tells her about his cars. It is like when he was a child. He has always told her lots about what he is making and how he is doing it. Which small parts he needs for the different things, where he gets hold of them and how he solves the technical difficulties that arise while assembling. When he was a boy, a lot of his chat revolved around his bicycle and the trips he took on it. He went off on expeditions on his own, with his sleeping bag on the rack. Then it was quiet in the house for the duration. Her inventive son, all the things mended and made. He was good with his hands. Steam motors, crystal sets and tree houses. Yes, he was practical, like her. She liked listening to him talk about it. Well, up to a point. This talk of motors could go too far. Now he had bought a car for parts, in order to fix up the other cars he owned. Yes, they rather, I should say. Finn, Linda and the little girl. The little one was adorable. A little shy, perhaps, and plump. But Linda, no, she was not easy to like.