Good Night, My Darling

by Inger Frimansson

  “It must have been something like that.”

  “I was out at the cabin the whole weekend. Otherwise I would have reacted earlier. Why, why the hell did I go out to the cabin!”

  He rubbed his fingers against his forehead.

  “I really don’t understand all this. I just don’t get it.”

  “I can imagine… You think you know a person. And then you realize you really don’t.”

  “That’s true; that’s really true.”

  Justine’s telephone rang. She got up.

  “Please excuse me!”

  Hans Peter, she thought. Kind, sweet, dear Hans Peter.

  But it was a different Hans, Hans Nästman.

  Chapter FOUR

  The wind had picked up. Clouds of dry snow were blowing through up there, like wisps of smoke. Her face got warm. “Good day again, Justine Dalvik. Do you remember me?”

  “Yes, of course I do. Why are you calling?… Is there any news about Nathan?”

  “No.”

  “All right.”

  “And no news about the murderer of that young girl?”

  Justine held her breath. Behind her in the room, Tor Assarsson was pacing about. He had opened the balcony door now and was lighting a cigarette. An ice-cold draft swept across the floor.

  “Just a minute!” she said into the phone. “Close it!” she hissed to Tor Assarson and pointed to the bird.

  “Do you have visitors?”

  “Yes.”

  “You had a visitor on Saturday evening, too, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would like to talk to you about that.”

  “Why? Don’t I have the right to have guests in my own home?”

  “Certainly you do, Justine, certainly.”

  “Then, well, I don’t understand…”

  The call was cut off, and she realized he was speaking on his cell phone, which had come into shadow. She regretted her reaction; she had gone straight to the attack. That was not good. She hung up the phone, bent down and got her jacket. Then she went out on the balcony with Tor Assarsson.

  “You have to be careful with the doors and windows. The bird can impulsively fly out.”

  Smoke streamed from his nostrils.

  “That’d be just fine!”

  “Absolutely not!”

  “A bird like that should be free.”

  “Yes, but he wouldn’t manage. He doesn’t know how to defend himself against wild birds, and other animals that might hurt him. He’s been with people his whole life, since he fell from his nest. He is imprinted by people, by me.”

  The ashtray was on the floor. She realized that she had forgotten to empty it. The gusts of wind made the ash swirl a bit. Tor Assarsson put out his cigarette among the many halfsmoked butts left by Berit.

  “Whatever. It’s really none of my business.”

  He left. At first he said he would call a taxi, but then he changed his mind a moment later.

  “I’ll walk along the route she took. I’ll go and take the bus. Do you know how often they go?”

  “Sorry, I never take the bus.”

  “No. You have a fine new car, I noticed.”

  “Yes, I just bought it. I have some things to do, or I would give you a lift to the subway station.”

  “No, no, I’d rather walk. As I mentioned before, I want to think my way into what Berit was doing last Saturday.”

  She followed him to the door, handed him his coat and scarf. Took his ice-cold hand into her two warm ones.

  “Tor,” she said, using his name for the first time. “We’ll cross our fingers as hard as we can. That Berit will show up unharmed. That she’s not hurt and everything will be like before. And if we think of her as hard as we can, it’ll certainly happen.”

  He cleared his throat.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  As soon as he left up the hill, she returned her jacket to its place. The telephone rang immediately.

  “Hello?” she called, but heard only static noise. “Hans Peter, is that you?”

  It was the policeman. He was muttering and swearing.

  The words came in bits.

  “Hello? Dammit all… I’ll soon… in Hässelby. In about

  … minutes.”

  She went up to the balcony, took the ashtray and emptied it into the toilet and had to flush four times until all the butts disappeared. Then she called for the bird, and placed him in the attic. A strange calm came over her. She put a pot of coffee on and set mugs on the table.

  Hans Nästman came alone. He parked right behind her car and walked up the gravel path. She opened before he rang the bell.

  He didn’t look like his usual self. He was a great deal thinner. “Good day, Justine. I haven’t forgotten you, as you see.” “I haven’t forgotten you, either.”

  “That’s a good thing.”

  “I’ve made coffee.”

  He nodded.

  They sat at the kitchen table, just as she had earlier done with Hans Peter. She had cleared off the surface and was filled with a physical longing, and then the phone.

  “You’ve changed,” she said.

  “So you noticed?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve been sick.”

  “It looks like you’ve lost a number of kilos. Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “A colon tumor.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s gone now. The tumor. And I hope it’s gone forever.”

  “This horrible illness, cancer.”

  “Yes, you learn to value life in a completely different way after something like this.”

  She poured the coffee.

  “I apologize. I don’t have any coffee cake.”

  “Wonderful! Too many cakes and cookies all the time in these situations.”

  “You’ve come here for a reason, I take it?”

  “For the sake of Berit Assarsson, your former classmate.”

  Her stomach turned to ice.

  “Berit, yes.”

  “Justine, now don’t get offended, but it seems that bad luck follows you around. People in your vicinity tend to disappear or die.”

  “This is supposed to be my fault?”

  “Your fault? I didn’t say that. But listen: First it was Nathan Gendser, your male companion. He just disappeared in the jungle and no one has heard from him since. Then Martina Andersson, a young and beautiful photojournalist with an open interest in this Gendser. She was found murdered in cold blood with a jungle knife. In your shared hotel room.”

  “An open interest?” she repeated.

  “Of course, I’ve been talking to the other people in your group. You must have noticed something like that.”

  “She was flirty, but that was mostly her way; young women like to do that. And Nathan was also flirty, and I have to admit that it was hurtful to me sometimes. And of course he was flattered by Martina’s attention. He was a real guy when it came to her.”

  “And now we have this woman Berit. Her husband has just reported her missing. It was in that context that we came across your name. She was with you right before she disappeared.”

  “And you somehow suspect me? Are you going to put me in jail?”

  He looked at her over his glasses.

  “I just want to talk with you about it.”

  “Is this an interrogation, or what?”

  “Don’t take it like that. I just want to ask a few questions.”

  She pressed her hands to her face. Her heart was pounding so strongly that she almost imagined that he could hear it.

  “OK,” she said in a low voice. “Nathan… I still haven’t gotten over it, if that’s what you think; every time his name is spoken… we were going to get married. I would have been his wife by now. It hurts me. I see him lying there in the rain forest, maybe hurt… dead… how the wild animals…”

  Hans Nästman waited patiently until she finished. He leaned back in the chair, and when she took her hands away from her face,
he gave her a friendly smile.

  She had to tell about Saturday evening; he wanted to hear every little detail. He let her show him exactly where they sat, what they said, what they ate and drank. He asked about her foot.

  “I fell when I was out running. I’ve probably sprained it.” “Her husband said that she felt some kind of regret. Her childhood seemed to catch up with her. She had apparently been a leader and had bullied many classmates. Including you. It seemed to weigh heavily on her mind.”

  “Yes, she… mentioned something along those lines.” “How do you remember that bullying?”

  “I told her all children do things like that; I wasn’t exactly a saint myself. I could be a bit nasty, too. Isn’t that part of childhood? I mean, think about it. How many kids did you hit on the chin when you were a boy?”

  “She looked you up in order to talk about it.”

  “Well, not just that. We were classmates; she was rummaging around in her roots, trying to make things fit together, so to speak.”

  “Hmm. But why would she disappear right now? What do you believe about it?”

  “Well, I don’t know… but it’s just Monday. Certainly, she’ll show up soon!”

  “She’d never done anything like this before, her husband says.”

  “Nora Helmer in A Doll’s House didn’t do anything like that either until the day she left husband and family.”

  “I haven’t read A Doll’s House.”

  “Ibsen.”

  “I know that.”

  “I said the same thing to her husband, who was here earlier. Berit is certainly depressed. She was seeing her life as one big failure: the marriage, the boys who didn’t want to have much contact with her any longer, and then all that with her job. Her boss was going to move the entire business up to Norrland. You can well imagine… She’s not young anymore, of course; she’s my age. But maybe you don’t know the value of a woman who is our age? In the job market… and other markets for that matter?”

  There was a noise from the attic. A screech and some thuds, as if someone had fallen over. The policeman jumped up.

  “What was that?”

  She sighed.

  “I have a bird. He’s up there. I usually let him fly free in the house, but I am so damned tired of explaining him to people who come here. So I put him in the attic before you arrived.”

  She went up the stairs and opened the door.

  “Hello?” she called. “Are you coming?”

  She didn’t hear him. She entered the darkness and saw a stack of her father’s old bound magazines, Arbetsledaren, which had fallen from a shelf. The bird sat in the middle of the books, biting the covers and giving her wrathful looks.

  “Leave those alone!” she scolded. “Pappa would have been furious!”

  “What is that?” asked Hans Nästman. He was standing right behind her now; he was holding the railing. If she kicked her leg backwards? The stairs were steep; he would lose his grip from sheer surprise and fall headfirst onto the landing. He was weak and fragile after his illness; he wouldn’t be able to resist.

  She didn’t do it.

  The bird flapped over their heads.

  “He’s angry,” she said. “He doesn’t like to be locked up.”

  “No,” said Hans Nästman. “Very few do. And still, crimes are committed.”

  She was finally alone again at four-thirty. She went straight to the telephone and dialed Hans Peter’s number. Still no answer. Maybe he’d already gone to work? What was the name of that hotel where he worked, something with roses? She got out the yellow pages and looked under Hotels, she found it right away, Tre Rosor on Drottninggatan. She wrote the telephone number in a notebook.

  She started the car. He couldn’t have reached the hotel yet; he didn’t start work this early. She drove toward Fyrspannsgatan and parked alongside the cemetery. It was a gray day. The wind ripped at her hair and clothes, made her freeze down to the marrow of her bones.

  First she went to the wrong building. After searching around, she finally found Hans Peter’s entrance. She realized that she had never before been inside a rented place. She stood outside for a long time and read on the board in the entryway the names of the residents. In the distance, she heard the dampened sound of footsteps, then the sound of running water. A vague, almost unnoticeable smell of marble and stone. She saw his name, too long to fit completely, H. P. Bergman, fourth floor.

  There was no elevator. She slowly walked up all the stairs. His door was directly on the right; she saw his name again.

  No, he wasn’t home. She rang the bell many times and when he didn’t come, she peeked through the letter slot. His smell, the smell of Hans Peter and everything that belonged to him. She called a few times but finally realized that the apartment was empty.

  Should she sit and wait? Or had he already gone into town? Maybe he’d done that. No sense in staying. She had her notebook with her, so she ripped out a page and wrote his name on it: Hans Peter, she wrote, I long for you so much, so very very much. Please forgive me if I hurt you. Justine.

  She folded the paper in the middle and stuffed it through the letter slot. It fell down to the welcome mat. She saw it lie there and caught a glance of the edge of his winter coat, which was hanging on a hook.

  She suddenly began to cry.

  Chapter FIVE

  The bird was in the kitchen. She’d forgotten to give him food. Where was it? Any frozen ground beef in the freezer? No, not even that. It was twenty to six.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. “I’m just going to do some shopping.”

  She drove to the shopping center. There was an incredible number of cars for a Monday evening, but she found a place next to the shopping cart storage.

  In the bank window to her right, she saw a photo of a house that was for sale. This is where the real estate agent wanted to place her house, too. She got angry just thinking about it.

  She hadn’t been here for a while. The library was being rebuilt; the personnel and the books were at another location for the duration. She stopped next to the pet store. A large guinea pig sat all alone in a big cage, displayed in the store front window. Once the store had been filled with all kinds of animals and was owned by a woman who called the animals her friends. They had been her whole life. Finally, she was forced to sell after contracting an allergy.

  Impulsively, she went into the pet store. A man was standing at the counter, pricing cans of fish food.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “That guinea pig.”

  She looked toward the cage. The animal had his front paws on the bars and sniffed at the air.

  “He looks lonely.”

  “He’s a she.”

  “She looks lonely, then.”

  “Yes, we’ve sold all the other small animals and birds. Just that guinea pig is left. We are going to concentrate solely on reptiles in the future. Snakes and lizards and the like. It’s very popular these days.”

  “Really.”

  “Do you want the guinea pig?”

  “When I was little, I really wanted a pet. A girl in my class had a guinea pig. They weren’t sleek like this one, but black and full of cowlicks. They had babies, I remember. They used to toddle around on the floor after their mamma.”

  “These little guys are pleasant and peaceful. They don’t need much.”

  “They don’t?”

  The man opened the refrigerator door and rustled a plastic bag. The small animal was ready and began to shriek with a heart-rending voice.

  “She thinks she’s getting some lettuce.”

  “Isn’t she then?”

  “I guess.”

  He held out a piece of lettuce to the guinea pig who elongated herself to grab it with her teeth.

  “It’ll be hard to lose her,” he said.

  “Are you fond of her?”

  “No, not really, but nobody seems interested. If someone doesn’t take her soon, I’ll have to feed her to the snakes.”r />
  “You can’t do that!”

  “Eat or be eaten, the law of the jungle.”

  “How much does she cost?”

  “Tell you what, if you really want her, you can have her.”

  “I can have her?”

  “Sure. You really seem to like animals.”

  “Well… thanks. I just need to get some groceries.”

  She bought raw liver and two kilos of ground innards at the meat section. She picked up a large package of eggs, some onions, and two packages of white tulips. At the produce section, she took lettuce and a whole heap of vegetables, cucumbers, carrots, tomatoes.

  The cashier joked with her.

  “If I didn’t see all that meat, I would swear that you’ve gone vegan,” she laughed. “Those militant vegans. I’ve read how they set sausages free.”

  “I’m on the side of the sausages,” Justine joked back.

  “And how is your mother?”

  “Well, it is what it is. Unchanged.”

  “Well, we all have our fate. To think that she was always so attractive and well-dressed. I used to admire her so much. I remember as if it were yesterday. She was so rich and distinguished, one would think, and yet she would come and shop here, a normal grocery store.”

  “Yes.”

  “There was something humble about her. She never acted stuck-up or superior. A wonderful woman, Mrs. Dalvik.”

  Justine packed up her groceries.

  “You probably go and visit her, right? Can you be so kind and say hi from Britt-Marie? If she’s able to…”

  “Oh, yes, I can say hi to her from you.”

  The bird flew toward her the minute she entered the house. He landed on the cage, tilted his head to the side, and looked curiously at the guinea pig.

  “This is the new member of our family,” she explained. “She was nearly fed to the snakes, but I saved her at the last minute. If you are nice to her, maybe she’ll be your playmate.”

  The bird plucked itself beneath one of his wings, apparently uninterested. A soft, downy feather fell onto the guinea pig’s back.

  She put liver and eggs into his bowl. He flew there directly. She carefully lifted the guinea pig, felt her small paws with her fingertips.

  “You look like a rat,” she whispered. “If you had a tail, it would be hard to tell the difference. I think I’m going to call you Rattie. Yes, Rattie’s the perfect name for you.”