Liss wept. Didn’t understand what was happening, had to touch her cheeks to feel. Mailin, if this is my fault … she murmured. It is not your fault. You couldn’t do anything about what happened. I must turn myself in. I killed him.
She pulled on the head lamp, picked up the two buckets and walked down through the trees. Followed the little stream down to the rock. It was as steep as a cliff. Deep below it. In the summer they could dive in from it. Had to dive far enough out to clear the shelf. Below the rock there was a channel in the ice. If it was glazed over, the ice was thinner than cut glass. The current from the stream kept the water open, no matter how cold it got. Old trees decomposing in the depths of the water released gases that also hindered the formation of ice. She threw one of the zinc buckets in, kept a tight hold on the rope, it fell almost three metres before it hit down below. She hauled it up, eased it over the outcrop, then did the same thing with the second bucket.
Further away on the left, there was a little bay. Our beach, they called it, because it was covered in rough sand. It was just big enough for both of them to lie there and sunbathe. Naked, if they were alone out there. Above it, between the trees, an old boathouse that contained a rowing boat and a canoe.
She returned via the beach. Put one foot on the ice, tested her weight on it; it would hold if she walked straight ahead. If she headed right, towards the rock and the stream, it would break, she would go through, sink down into the icy water. Death by water, she thought. If Mailin had gone this way … She hadn’t. The car was found in Oslo. Could someone have driven it there?
She got the wood stove going, boiled water. Went out on to the steps and lit a cigarette. Mailin didn’t allow smoking indoors. The stink lingers for years, she said, and Liss would never break the rule.
After a bowl of minestrone soup, she had a thorough look through the living room, the kitchen and the two bedrooms. She examined the cupboards, used her head lamp to look under the beds. Lifted up the mattress on the upper bunk bed, where Mailin used to sleep. Apart from the ashes in the fire, everything appeared to be as it should be.
She put on two more logs, curled her legs up under her in the corner of the sofa. Let her gaze wander. The antlers on the wall, next to the barometer. They were absolutely huge and must have belonged to a giant of an elk. She was the one who had found them. Down by Feren Lake. In summer they used to take the canoe out and carry it between the waters. Searched for beavers’ dams. Spent the nights out under the open sky. Woke at dawn and crept over to the place where the grouse fought each other in mating duels. All this she could remember; she was twelve and Mailin sixteen. But from the time when she was younger, there were just stray memories and diffuse recollections. When Mailin spoke of things that had happened when they were children, she was always surprised at how little Liss remembered of it. Don’t you remember how you nearly drowned in Morr Water? Liss didn’t. You were in your first year at school and thought you knew how to swim. I had to jump in with my clothes on and rescue you.
Her gaze stopped at the photo albums on the shelf. They were Father’s. At home, there was nothing that had belonged to him, but because it had been his cabin before he gave it to the two of them, he had left the albums here. She took one of them down. Hadn’t flipped through any of them since she was eleven or twelve. There was a certain thrill about it, almost forbidden. Father’s past. There had always been something about that side of the family. Something that was never talked about. Liss could just about remember her grandfather, huge and white bearded. Mailin said he always wore a suit and could imitate all sorts of bird calls. Cuckoos and crows and tits, of course, because you heard them there all the time. But, strangely enough, vultures too, and condors and flamingos. Not easy to say where he’d picked these up from, because he never travelled anywhere and hardly ever watched television.
Her father looked seriously out at her in one of the photos. Tall and pale and long haired, he was standing outside his parents’ house on the edge of the forest. It was pulled down years ago. Now there was an institution for difficult children there. In another photo her father was skiing somewhere in the mountains, wearing an anorak with the hood up. Liss turned to the picture she liked best. She was sitting on his shoulders, holding on to his long brown hair as though she were riding a horse. She felt a prickling in her stomach as she looked at the photo, and suddenly she remembered: he stumbles, and she shrieks as she falls towards the ground, but he recovers just in time. And then he does it again. She sobs for him to stop, put her down, but he realises she wants him to do it again, and then again.
The brown photo album was older. From Father’s childhood. He was helping out on one of the neighbouring farms; Mailin had pointed it out to her once. Father helped to round up the cows in the evening. Or to hang the hay out for drying. His body was thin and angular, like hers. She was standing in the doorway. His mother. You look exactly like her, Liss. Can you see that? Her father’s voice saying this. She could recall the timbre of it. Maybe they had been sitting here in the cabin, on this sofa. They’re flipping through this album together when he says this about how alike they are, as though it were a secret that she mustn’t tell anyone … The photo of Grandmother was black and white, but Liss was certain that even their colouring was the same. That tall, skinny woman in the blouse and the long skirt, pale and with a strange look in her eyes, half there, half dreaming. The hair pinned up in an old-fashioned way. In one of the other pictures she was standing out on the steps, smiling and looking even more like certain pictures Liss had seen of herself. Everything she knew about her came from Ragnhild. Grandmother had had her own studio where she spent the days painting, although nothing ever came of it apparently. She had left the family when Father was ten years old, but Liss didn’t know where she’d gone. Maybe Father had never known either. According to Ragnhild, she was ill in some way and ended her days in the mental hospital at Gaustad.
Liss took out the notebook. Mailin’s book.
Why do you remember everything, Mailin, and I’ve forgotten?
She sat for a while, considering the question, before she continued writing.
All the things I want to ask you about when you come back.
There is something in Viljam’s eyes that reminds me of these pictures of Dad, have you noticed? Something around the forehead too. And something about the way he talks. But the mouth is different.
Mailin, I miss you.
I miss you too, Liss.
Why didn’t you clear out the fireplace before you left?
I can’t tell you that.
There are only five more days to Christmas. I want you to come home.
She wrote down in detail what Mailin might have done at the cabin on that last visit: cooked some food, sat with a glass of wine and stared into the fireplace, or worked on her computer by the light of the paraffin lamp. She wrote down what her sister might have been thinking before she fell asleep. How she packed the next day, suddenly in a rush because she had to meet someone and didn’t have time to clean the fireplace. She hurried through the trees and down to the car. Drove out of the parking space.
Liss couldn’t imagine what happened after that.
15
Tuesday 23 December
THE COMMUNAL KITCHEN was sparsely equipped. A fridge, a table and five chairs, a small cooker, a microwave. On one wall hung a poster of Salvador Dali’s melting wristwatch.
A guy in a hoodie came in, gave Liss a quick look, took something out of the fridge, it looked like liver pâté. He cut himself a slice of bread, buttered it and hurried out again with the bread in his hand.
Just then Catrine returned from the toilet.
– Promise me you’ll never move into a student village, she warned her. – The moment I can afford something else, I’m out of here. She scowled in the direction of the kitchen surface, which was covered in dirty dishes and leftovers. – You’ve no idea how tired I am of people not tidying up after themselves. The guy that was just in here is one of
the messiest pigs I’ve ever shared a kitchen with, and that’s saying something.
When they were living together in the commune in Schweigaards Street, Catrine had often been annoyed by the same things: pigs, usually of the male variety, who never cleaned up. Liss refreshed her friend’s memory, and Catrine had to concede that there had been a couple there who were almost as bad.
– If I ever move in with a guy, it’ll be a male nurse, she said now. – At least they know how to keep things tidy.
– I can’t actually see you with a male nurse, Liss observed.
– Don’t say that. I don’t mind if he’s a bit of a wimp. Maybe even gay. As long as he tidies up after himself.
It had been more than three years since Liss had last seen her. Catrine had let her hair grow, and dyed it black. She’d changed her way of dressing, too. From baggy pullovers to tight-fitting tops with low necklines trimmed with lace from the push-up bra beneath. From wide unisex jeans to skinny jeans that gave her a better-shaped bum than she’d ever had before. When Liss asked, she had to confess that she’d starting going to the gym as well. She was still into politics, but it was a long time since she’d last squatted in a house or fought in a street battle. She was studying political science now and sat on the board of some student body.
– How are things at home?
Liss didn’t think of the house in Lørenskog as home, but she let it pass.
– I’m sure you can imagine what it’s like.
Catrine nodded. – It seems so unreal to me. For you it must be completely …
She couldn’t finish the sentence, and Liss didn’t respond. She had visited Catrine for a break. Not to have to talk about all the things that were troubling her. Catrine obviously understood this. She stood up, fetched coffee, apple juice and biscuits.
– I see you’re still on a negative calorie budget, said Liss when she saw the packet.
– Yep.
– You don’t eat meat either?
– Now and then. But not wolf or bear.
Liss had to smile, a moment’s light relief, and then the thoughts began again.
– What does death by water mean to you? she said as she tipped three rounded spoonfuls of instant coffee into a cup. – Got thousands of hits when I googled it. I think it must be the title of a film. Or a novel.
Catrine was better read than she was and went to see a lot of weird movies.
– Has a familiar ring to it, she agreed. – How about the name of a rock band?
She popped out to her room, returned with a computer, got online. Almost immediately she exclaimed:
– Of course. The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot. I did actually once read it.
Liss peered over her shoulder.
– I like that. A drowned Phoenician.
– Why the sudden interest in poetry? Catrine wondered. – You’ve never been much of a reader.
She read the rest.
– It might have something to do with Mailin, she said. – She wrote Ask him about death by water on a note and pinned it to her noticeboard.
Catrine clicked forward to a commentary and read aloud:
– The Waste Land is a journey through a kaleidoscopic world labouring beneath a curse of sterility. Few who appear in that desolate landscape see any hope, almost all are blind.
She turned to Liss. – Do you think this has something to do with Mailin’s disappearance?
– Very unlikely. But every trace of her I come across seems to have some kind of significance for me. Everything that might tell me something about what she was thinking, what she was doing.
After the coffee, Catrine brought out a bottle of Southern Comfort. She’d always liked sweet-tasting things. After a couple of drinks she suggested that she and Liss take a trip into town. Liss didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know whether Catrine really wanted to spend the whole evening with her. Felt herself surrounded by a membrane that protected her but also certainly made her inaccessible.
– I’m not exactly a bundle of laughs right now, she said.
– Get a grip, Liss Bjerke. Catrine sounded offended. – If you really think I’m out for a bundle of laughs, then …
– Well I could certainly do with having something completely different to occupy my mind, Liss said, interrupting her as she emptied her glass. She couldn’t face the thought of going back to Lørenskog and spending the night before Christmas Eve with her mother and Tage.
Despite having a pretty limited wardrobe of clothes, Catrine took almost an hour to decide what to wear. Liss was given the job of stylist, for which Catrine asserted she was extremely well qualified, adding, with appropriate irony, that she had read in Dagbladet’s magazine article that she was on the brink of a career as a top model. Liss didn’t mention that she herself had spent less than ten minutes getting ready to go out. She had chosen one of the pullovers she found in Mailin’s dresser. Her leather jacket was finally dry, but it had some disfiguring stains on the lapel. Catrine ended up with a short, clinging satin dress. She lay down on the floor and struggled into a pair of sheer tights without knickers. She had arranged to meet a friend from her political science course. Her name was Therese, and she had something going with a footballer. – He plays in the First Division, Catrine revealed as they sat on the metro heading into town. – A premium quality piece of beef, I believe.
Therese was standing outside Club Mono doing something with her phone. She was short and dark, with intense black eyes. An unlit cigarette dangled from her narrow lips.
– Where’s the fillet steak? Catrine enquired.
– On his way.
Liss was only mildly interested in the codes they spoke in, but Catrine had clearly decided that her friend wasn’t going to feel left out of things this evening.
– Therese and I have developed a system of classification for our dates, she explained.
– Simplicity itself, Therese added. – The same as they use at the meat counter. That’s to say, shoulder and rump are ziemlich schlecht.
– Offal is worst, Catrine said with a grimace. – I can’t stand liver.
– OK, liver and offal are worst, Therese conceded. – Next comes shoulder and rump and so on. Cutlets and ham aren’t bad.
– And your date tonight is fillet steak, Liss interjected, to show that she understood. – What about sell-by dates?
– Of course, Catrine exclaimed. We’ll start using that. Best-before dates.
– Use-by, Therese added.
They found seats on an old-fashioned sofa in the back room of the café. Catrine leaned towards Liss and shouted above the music that flooded from the speakers in the ceiling.
– I’ll tell Therese, just as well she knows … Liss is Mailin Bjerke’s sister.
Therese stared at her. Liss liked her dark eyes.
– The woman who … oh shit. Sorry about that.
Liss gave her a quick squeeze on the arm. – It’s quite all right. Catrine invited me out so I’d have something else to think about. But tell me about your footballer.
Therese recovered quickly. – Hello, Catrine, thought I could tell you things without the whole town having to know about it.
– Only told Liss, cross my heart. You can trust her.
The first beer was gone and another round ordered. Liss had hardly eaten and guessed she was going to be drunk before the evening was over.
– No one’ll hear it from me, she swore and crossed herself. The atmosphere of secrecy had a calming influence on her.
– He’s so sexy I might even end up going to watch a football match, Therese shouted. – It’s about the most brain-dead thing I can imagine, but if he’s gonna be rushing about in skimpy little shorts, then …
– Footballers wear enormous shorts, Catrine corrected her. – They probably need all that space for their family jewels. Handball players are the ones with the tight little shorts.
Liss had to smile. Catrine had always been interested in the male anatomy and ever since primary school ha
d conducted her own studies in the field.
– What did you say his name was, the fillet steak?
– Jomar.
Catrine gaped. – Are you going out with a guy named Jomar?
– That’s exactly what I’m doing.
– You could always call him something else, Liss suggested. – Jay, for example.
– And you better start reading up on football too, Catrine teased her. – Study the sports pages, all the league tables from Germany and Belgium.
Therese put down her glass. – He’s not like that. He can talk about other things. He studies.
– At the sports academy, Catrine added with a meaningful look over at Liss.
Therese scoffed. – Well, would you go out with one of those political science wimps?
– Pas du tout, Catrine confirmed. – Not if I was looking for sex.
– Which you are.
– I don’t go home with somebody on a Saturday night to talk about the Norwegian welfare state with him, if that’s what you mean.
– Bad guys are for fun, said Therese, – good guys for …
– Study groups, Catrine interrupted.
Liss burst out laughing. The membrane around her was invisble, and maybe the others hadn’t noticed it. She thought she would be getting in touch with Catrine again. And she felt she wanted to put her arms around Therese with the dark eyes and squeeze her tight.
It was past 11.30 by the time he arrived. For some reason or other Liss knew straight away that the guy standing in the doorway of the room they were sitting in was the footballer. He was tall, so she could see his head above the others hanging around him. He had tangled fair hair that looked bleached. Therese caught sight of him and waved. He came across with another guy, who was black and wore his hair in dreadlocks.
Therese introduced everybody. – Catrine, this is Jomar Vindheim.
He was wearing a suit beneath his leather jacket, a white scarf with gold threads running through it tied around his neck. Catrine gave him a sort of sour smile, probably reacting to his name.
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