– Why are you showing me this? he asked without a hint of a tremor in his voice.
He met her gaze for a second, maybe two seconds, before looking back down at the newspaper with the photo and the interview. There were places into which she must never catch even the merest glimpse.
– You mentioned back then that you knew Karsten Clausen, she said.
– Did I? Her gaze was still on him; he couldn’t ignore it. – I met him a couple of times maybe, with Adrian.
– Never without Adrian being there?
He shrugged. – It was eight years ago.
– You’ve always had a good memory.
What he should have done was give an exasperated shake of the head, maybe express some irritation and ask what she was trying to say.
– If I had anything to tell you, I would have done it a long time ago, he said, hearing himself how hollow it sounded.
But then she, who noticed every sign of unease, every slight alteration in his voice, patted his arm, folded the newspaper and stood up.
– I’m thinking how that family must have suffered, she sighed. – If there was perhaps something we could have done for them.
She looked so unhappy, and he wanted to comfort her. But what he might have said would only make things worse, for her too. So much so that she would never get over it.
The moment she went into her own apartment he got dressed and headed down to Studio Q. He felt as though people were staring at him but blocked the stares out, did five kilometres on the treadmill, rowed even longer, pumped iron for an hour. By the time he returned, Elsa’s windows were dark and the car wasn’t there. He let himself into her apartment, took a look round the living room, then the kitchen. The newspaper was in the cupboard below the sink. He tore out the page with the interview and took it back to his own apartment. In an envelope in the top bureau drawer he had a number of newspaper cuttings plus some printouts from the internet. He quickly went through them. Eighteen-year-old missing, and Still no sign of Karsten (18).
Abruptly he stuffed everything back into the envelope, stood there for a while with it in his hand, as though weighing it before putting it away. Then he undressed and walked naked into the bathroom. He turned on the shower and let the warm water plaster his hair to his head. They’d never found Karsten Clausen. No one knew shit about what he had found out before he disappeared. Not the police, not the family, not this little sister who had started going through his possessions. All the same, an idea had started to grow on him. He isolated it. Suddenly he uttered a low laugh, and somewhere in that laughter the sister’s face appeared, the way it looked in the photo, and with it came an idea of the kind that demanded to be worked on.
He sat at his computer and logged into Facebook. Found her there. Her information and pictures were open to everyone. Showed that she wasn’t exactly up to speed in regards to online security. Unless, that is, she actually wanted to be seen by as many people as possible. He took out the interview again. Even her eyes were round, as though there were something she was wondering about the whole time. On one of her Facebook pictures she was leading a horse.
On the yellow pages website he found three people called Synne Clausen. Only one of them lived in Oslo. If it was her, she lived in a student village. It took him fifteen seconds to trace her email address, and four minutes to prepare a Trojan. If she was naïve enough, that should be enough.
He stood up, stepped into the kitchen, opened a Red Bull. The page was still in his hand. There was something else about that article, something he’d seen but not actually noted earlier in the day. Now he knew what it was. The name of the journalist who had done the interview. The Pentecostal who lived in the house in Erleveien. There were connections out there, little pieces that fitted into a bigger picture. The journalist and his pregnant wife, and the child that was always thirsty in the night. In the eight years since that business with Karsten, he had stayed away from that street. He realised that he was standing there and saying this out loud to himself.
The sky had cleared outside, the heavens a bluey grey above the river. He opened the window, stood there sniffing the gentle wind.
– Hibernation time is over, he murmured.
5
This story will do everything in its power not to be written. I will circle round Karsten, my brother Karsten, who is gone. He is there when I write; not him, but the empty space that remained. Emptiness is a gateway to something else, and I can’t manage to pass through it.
Synne pulled out her earplugs and closed the lid of her laptop. The sounds in the house were turned on. People out in the corridor talking to each other, the sighing of the water pipes, and Maja practising the flute in her room next to the kitchen. She sat listening for a few moments before she went online to check her mail. Loads of Facebook messages. All about the piece in Romerikes Blad. She had been furious when she saw it. When Dan-Levi called the day after she had been to see him and asked if he could write something about the book she was working on, she had been stupid enough to let herself be persuaded. He assured her it would be no more than a brief paragraph in a far-off corner of the culture section. She suspected the worst when he called her again that morning and apologised that the piece had turned out the way it did – there had been a misunderstanding with the editor, and the desk, which always went its own way, but above all it was he who had screwed up. She was only mildly annoyed and forgave him, if not wholeheartedly then at least half-heartedly. That was before she saw the piece on the net. And in the paper edition it covered a whole page, with a picture of herself and the most awful headline imaginable.
Her phone vibrated and she saw it was Erika.
– I slept badly last night, she complained, and wasn’t sure that was actually correct. It was the kind of thing she said to Erika.
– Because of that piece in your local paper?
– I didn’t see that until this morning. If I’d known what they were going to write, I would’ve stopped it.
– Is it that bad?
– Log in to Romerikes Blad and see for yourself, Synne groaned, and summarised what Dan-Levi had written. – I don’t want anyone to have the slightest idea what I’m doing, and now I’m completely snowed under by so-called friends on Facebook.
– Maybe that’s exactly what you do want without realising it, Erika suggested. – You want people to know about your book project.
Synne’s anger flared up again. – Spare me the patronising pseudo-Freudian bullshit, she hissed. – Are you trying to shine floodlights on my subconscious?
She flew off the handle completely and ended up blaming Erika for the interview and the write-up and everything else that was wrong with the local paper. She laid it on so thick that in the end Erika burst out laughing, and then she couldn’t go on being serious herself.
– I’ll come over later, Erika decided. – Then we can talk more about this.
– I’m going out with someone, Synne told her.
– And who is someone?
– Sounds like a cross-examination.
– Cut it out. That foreign girl?
She was about to say that it was none of Erika’s business but desisted.
– Her name is Maja, I’ve told you that several times.
Erika didn’t respond for an unusually long time.
– All right, she said finally. – You’re free to go out with whomever you want.
– Thank you very much.
– Look, you mustn’t take it like that.
Obviously she had only now realised what she had said. Synne permitted herself a smile of satisfaction, closed the conversation and checked her mail again. More Facebook messages. She didn’t open them, mostly to disprove Erika’s irritating theory. There was also something from an unknown firm offering free help in making her computer run faster. Synne had heard about Trojan horses and the shit they left behind: worms and viruses that were impossible to get rid of. She did not open the attachment, glanced at her watch, went out into
the corridor and knocked on Maja’s door.
Maja poked her head out, wearing a towel, her hair wet.
– Just need to chuck a few things on.
– Do you do your flute practice in the nude? Synne exclaimed with an amused smile, and Maja blushed.
A few minutes later she came in and sat down at the little table in the corner of the kitchen.
– Have you been working out again? said Synne, attempting to sound exasperated.
– The last time was two days ago, Maja excused herself, these roles being a part of their relationship, with Synne acting even more of a couch potato than she really was, and Maja even more of a workout junkie. In fact it was part of a routine intended to help her control a serious case of diabetes.
– You know I’m not like you, Maja flattered her. – You’re pretty. And famous and intelligent. You can get anyone you want.
Synne had to laugh, both at what Maja said and at the strange rhythms of her Norwegian speech.
– Neither fame nor intelligence is advantageous for a woman who’s looking for a man.
– What does ‘advantageous’ mean? Maja wanted to know. She had been less than a year in Norway but was a quick learner. Synne didn’t mind at all helping her out on some of these finer points. She poured coffee for them both. They had ten minutes before they had to go for the bus.
– What sort of man are you actually looking for?
She had discovered that she liked talking to Maja about men in this way. It didn’t work with Erika. – Do you want a strong but silent Norwegian who takes his turn at doing the washing-up, or a passionate Greek who satisfies you sexually but sleeps with all your friends too? Or a Muslim who wants you to hide your face every time you step outside the door?
She offered up these caricatures with a little grin, but Maja appeared to take the questions quite seriously.
– First and foremost, he must have a stainless charabanc.
Synne stared at her uncomprehendingly for a few moments before she realised what she was trying to say. It took quite a while for her to compose herself sufficiently to explain why she was laughing. And then Maja laughed too. She disappeared to her room and returned with a notebook. In addition to Polish, French and German, she spoke fluent English, but they had agreed to stick to Norwegian for the sake of her education.
– So then it’s character, she noted, and Synne agreed that it might be a good idea to ask a man for a character reference before a first date.
6
The lights went out in Synne Clausen’s room. Kai glanced at his watch: twenty past five. Four minutes passed before she emerged from the main doorway. She was not alone, but with a small, dark-haired woman who didn’t look Norwegian. They headed for the gate into Sognsveien. He followed them, so closely he could hear their laughter, Synne Clausen’s light, the other’s deeper. Once he was certain they were heading for the bus stop, he turned and ran through a short cut that brought him out higher up on Sognsveien. He sprinted round the corner, reached the next stop just as the bus came crawling down the hill from Kringsjå.
He picked a vacant seat somewhere in the middle. Saw them standing on the pavement as the bus approached. The small, dark one boarded first, then Synne Clausen. Her gaze passed over him; he half turned, peered out into the dusk. They sat a few seats in front of him. Her hair was longer than in the picture in the paper; it suited her, he noted, made her face seem less round. In the interview she said she’d found several of her brother’s things. She’d obviously started digging around. After eight years, the chances of anything with a connection to him cropping up were minimal, but he wasn’t the kind of person who dealt in odds. He intended to find out exactly what she was up to. The thought had obsessed him ever since Elsa showed him the interview. It was as though this was what she had been trying to awaken in him without even realising it. It thrilled him, lifted him up out of the soporific state he’d drifted in throughout the winter. He’d laid out bait on the net. Maybe she’d taken a sniff at it, maybe taken a bite, or maybe sensed the danger.
They were getting off at Majorstua. He waited until both of them were out before jumping to his feet and following them, remaining at the bus stop until they had crossed the street. He saw them disappear into the Colosseum cinema, followed, located them in a ticket queue. At one point Synne Clausen turned and looked around, her gaze holding his for a moment or two, perhaps recalling him from the bus. Suddenly he felt cheerful. Something inside him that had been dormant all winter had begun to stir. A frail, still frozen flame. Welcome back, Kai, he murmured to himself.
They had chosen the film in Theatre 4. Typical student film, not exactly a stampede for tickets. He glanced around. The place was only a quarter full. Synne and the dark girl had seats in the middle of the fifth row. He sat three rows behind them, slid down in his seat as far as he could, studied the outline of the two women in the light from the screen. After a while, Synne leaned her head towards her friend, but not to say anything, as far as he could see.
They had called the week after Easter. A sergeant who explained that they were going through the call lists on Karsten’s phone. They’d found a call from Kai’s phone on Maundy Thursday and now they wanted to know if he had any information that could be of assistance to them. Afterwards he kept waiting for something to happen. For them to call again, summon him for an interview, confront him with something or other that could be used against him, a pattern of circumstantial evidence, irrefutable proof. He lay awake at night, always ready to run. Until after a month he began to realise they had nothing on him. But a tiny insecurity continued to nag away at him. It was still there, like a seed, and something the sister had said in the interview had wakened it to life again.
On the way out to the car, he had an idea, called in at a hairdresser’s in Bogstadveien. It had something to do with Synne Clausen. She’d seen him twice, and he didn’t want to be recognised if it happened a third time. But it was more to do with the fact that he’d let everything go. Let his body swell up. In the mirror, when the barber asked him to bend his head, he could see the faintest signs of a double chin. So welcome back, he said to himself again.
There were lights on in Elsa’s apartment. He didn’t ring the bell but knocked on the door a couple of times before going in. In the hallway he called her name. For a moment he thought she might be up in the tarot room, in which case there could be no question of disturbing her. But her voice replied from the living room, and he pulled off his trainers and went in. She was sitting in a corner armchair with a book, a steaming cup on the table beside her. She raised her reading glasses, looked up at him.
– You’ve been to the hairdresser’s, she exclaimed.
He listened out for any sign of whether or not she liked it.
– Had to do something, he told her.
– It’s very fair.
– I used to have it like this, he reminded her. This was exactly what his hair had looked like that Easter eight years ago. – Have to get going again.
She nodded, as though that was exactly what she had been expecting him to say.
– Are you hungry? There’s a pie in the fridge.
He’d popped in somewhere for a hamburger while he was out, but an offer from her could not be refused. As he sat in the kitchen munching away, she came in.
– Where did you go tonight?
– Went to the cinema.
She joined him at the table. Why did you come in and show me that interview? he should have asked her, but he didn’t take the chance.
He was the one who had told her Karsten had gone missing that time. He remembered how distressed she had been. She had met Karsten a few times and obviously liked him. She’d been away on a course that Easter weekend, and when she came back, he went out into the yard, pretending he had something to do in the garage. That was when he’d told her. At first she wouldn’t believe him. What do you mean? He could recall how sharp her voice became. How long has he been missing?
She insis
ted that he tell her everything he knew. Forced him to answer that he knew fuck all. She studied him, could see deep inside him, could see there was something he wasn’t telling. Suddenly she’d said: Whatever it is you’ve been up to, Kai, you’ve got to stop it.
For once, he’d got angry with her. There were places even she didn’t have access to. He turned and walked away, because she mustn’t know about that anger. Afterwards she had never spoken like that to him again. But he could feel the same penetrating gaze on him every time Karsten’s name came up. He couldn’t bear it.
In the early part of the summer he had rejoined the army. There were wars in the world. He wanted to go to Afghanistan; tried the Telemark Battalion, but they wouldn’t have him. They used his sick note against him, offered him office work instead, computer work. Adrian was in Iraq with the British forces. Elsa boasted about him the whole time, as though it was Adrian who was leading the battle to save civilisation. And when he took over one of his father’s firms and began doing security work in Basra, that was clearly just as heroic in her eyes. In reality it was about making a helluva lot of money out of a lost war. Adrian was always one step ahead.
One day in April the previous year he had called and asked if Kai wanted to come out and try his luck there. Kai suspected that Elsa had put him up to it but said nothing. He worked for the firm for almost five months. Working round the clock for peanuts, doing all the dangerous jobs. And a single mistake was enough for him to get squeezed out. He hadn’t slept for four days, was told to clear a foyer, fired shots. Adrian claimed he needed treatment.
When he came home early in the autumn, Elsa seemed glad at first to have him there. She invited him in to her place some evenings, made dinner, served wine. But what she really wanted was to talk about Adrian. Lionheart, she still called him that. She wanted to know why Kai wasn’t working for him any more, as though his mission in life was to serve his little brother.
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