– So you are Karsten’s sister, said the man.
Synne nodded. – And you must be Jasmeen’s father.
He smiled with cracked lips and tried to reach a glass of water on his bedside table. She stood up and got it for him.
– Thank you, he murmured, and took a couple of small sips, swallowing with obvious difficulty.
He handed the glass back to her. She put it down and remained standing beside the bed, about to ask if there was anything else she could do for him.
– Sit down, he repeated with a smile that was barely visible. – If I had known you were coming, I would have arranged a proper welcome for you.
He looked towards the door. – My wife is probably more bitter than I am. Why do you want to meet Jasmeen?
She had rehearsed what she would say, told him she wanted to write about her brother.
He nodded at this information. – Words cannot bring anyone back. But they can be a comfort nonetheless.
– I think you understand me, she said, looking out of the window.
A little later, he was the one who broke the silence.
– I want to tell you a story. It is my story. Maybe it won’t mean anything to you, or maybe it will.
She turned to look at him again.
– I came to Norway in nineteen seventy-four, he began, and as his story progressed, he seemed to come to life. His voice became stronger, and he reached out for the water glass himself and didn’t need help. As he spoke, Synne sat listening and wondered why he wanted to tell her all this. And somewhere along the way she had the idea that she might need a story like this to give direction to what she was struggling to write herself. Maybe she had to distance herself that far from her material in order to be able to get close to it again.
Jasmeen’s father paused and nodded towards the framed black-and-white photo on the bedside table. Synne took a closer look at it. Two young boys and a man standing in front of a house made of stone. All of them wearing tunics and baggy pants, sandals on their feet. The man was in his forties or fifties; his tunic was white, with embroidery on the collar, and on his head was a turban in a darker colour. He was looking down at the two boys with a very serious expression. One of them had a similar look in his eyes, while the other had his arms around a cow’s neck, a broad grin on his face.
Jasmeen’s father’s reasons for wanting Synne to see this photo, and to hear his story, remained unclear, but she had a feeling that he was getting there. Khalid Chadar had worked and lived on a farm in Nittedal. Something had happened there, Synne wasn’t quite clear what, but at a certain point the people on the farm had turned against him and he was literally thrown out. He was given no explanation and simply had to accept it. He described some of the less salubrious places in which he had been obliged to live, the hostels and the damp basements. At one point he was holding down three jobs. Cleaning the toilets in schools and cafés, delivering newspapers, and driving a taxi, having earned enough to get his driving licence. The money he didn’t send back home he saved to pay for his return and his marriage to the woman he would share his life with.
Back in Norway, he opened his own shop, worked there day and night until it began to show a profit, and then started another and worked twice as hard. After seventeen years in this country, he was able to lead his Zainab up the short driveway to a newly built house, the one they were now in.
This was what he had lived for, so that his children might enjoy the sort of opportunities he never had. So that they should be able to grow up in this unfathomably rich country, put down roots and live here without being foreigners, become Norwegian without abandoning the things that made them good people: a belief in God, in justice, in purity, in family.
Shahzad, the oldest, was now a highly respected lawyer and politician. His youngest had also done well. But Jasmeen, who had been the apple of his eye, who was even more intelligent and strong willed than her big brother, had had a difficult time of it. It was because she had developed a weakness for Synne’s brother, and because that brother had exploited her weakness. And here he had reached the point of what it was he wanted to say to her.
He drank more water. Slightly larger sips now.
– It destroyed so much for her. More than you could possibly understand. We were very angry with your brother. But at the same time I, who had spent so long in Norway, knew that this was what went on between the young people here, that this was how the Norwegians raised their sons and their daughters.
He looked directly into her eyes. – We decided to do nothing. And then your brother disappeared. We were truly sorry for your family. But because of what had happened with Jasmeen, we never expressed our sympathies.
He had to stop and catch his breath a couple of times.
– There was a collection in the class. They were going to buy a wreath for the memorial service. But we didn’t contribute.
Again he looked directly at her.
– I shall meet Allah, and I know this is something we should have done. This is what I want you to take with you when you leave here. After all these years, I want there to be nothing left outstanding between our two families.
He half turned towards her and held out a bony hand.
8
Janus knew that she would be coming. At least Synne liked to think that. And Åse, who ran the stables, firmly believed in that kind of thing. She reckoned Janus behaved differently in the hours preceding Synne’s arrival, was restless in his box and pricked up his ears.
The animal Erika usually hired was called Sancto Spirito. He was a quiet gelding who stood alongside Janus, rubbed his head against his flank and had no difficulty in accepting that Janus was boss. According to Åse, Sancto Spirito was more concerned with the spiritual side of things.
In the same way, Erika accepted that Synne was boss when they were out on the horses. Before they met, she had never sat on a horse’s back. It made up for some of the inequalities in other departments, and Synne could experience Erika’s keenness to emphasise this as irritating: I’m just a novice, you need to teach me everything.
They let the horses trot up through the valley. The afternoon was fine and still, the sun flickering between the branches of the spruce. When Synne rode alone, the thoughts could come streaming out of her, away on ahead into the trees until they disappeared. But now Erika was right behind her, commenting on everything she saw, turning it all into language. Some days Synne didn’t mind too much, but on this bright afternoon she would have preferred to ride alone.
Up on the forest track, Janus picked up speed in the slush. Somewhere behind her Synne heard Erika squealing with pleasure and had to laugh. Only when they reached the tarn above the moor at Tuftemyra did she slow down and wait. When Erika caught up with her, she jumped down, slipped off the bridles and replaced them with halters, then let the two animals wander on long tethers and graze in between the patchy snow.
Erika snuggled up against Synne on the blanket in front of a big rock by the edge of the water. – And when am I going to be allowed to read what you’re writing?
Synne peered into the sun between the branches of the pines. It shone directly above the hill, uneasily, as though it wanted to come nearer but was afraid it would destroy her.
– I thought we were agreed you wouldn’t go on about it.
– I’m not going on about it.
Erika seemed genuinely curious, and finally Synne relented and told her about the trip to Lørenskog.
– I’m noting down as exactly as I can what people who knew Karsten tell me. I can’t just keep going over my own vague memories and feelings.
Erika couldn’t resist. – Is it distance you’re looking for? Finding a passage that’s safe?
– I just don’t want to drown in sentimentality.
Erika turned her head away and sat looking across to the opposite bank of the tarn.
– Don’t you like the idea? Synne exclaimed.
It took a frustrating amount of time before Erika resp
onded.
– I’m sure it will be quite interesting. It’ll be like something any of the dozens of clever girls whose books will get published this autumn could have written.
The moment they dismounted, they had resumed their familiar roles, with Erika as the mentor and Synne as the pupil.
– You’re trying to protect yourself from what pains you.
– You don’t understand, Synne snapped.
– Do you understand that yourself?
Synne got to her feet. Janus stretched his neck and looked at her. There was a divide down the centre of the bridge of his nose, with one side as pitch black as the rest of his body and the other a greyish white.
– Might just as well talk to you, Synne muttered, her mouth up against his muzzle.
The horse made a deep murmuring sound.
– At least you listen.
– Come and sit down again when you’ve finished sulking, Erika suggested, lighting a cigarette.
Synne gave up, slumped down beside her again, took the cigarette from her mouth and inhaled, drawing the cloud of hot fog as deep into her chest as she could bear.
– That’s where you have to begin, Erika insisted. – With the evening your brother disappeared.
She was right. Frustratingly and obviously.
– Tell me what happened.
– What can I say that I haven’t said before? Synne said. – It’s turned into a jumble of threads, some things I remember, other things I’ve imagined, and all mixed up with what other people have told me.
She’d had to spend the night in the hospital. Her parents sat with her until the doctors had carried out their first examinations. Concluded that it was not serious. It wasn’t until the following day that they discovered Karsten hadn’t come home. Again and again the psychiatrist had returned to this. She was not to blame. It was all an unfortunate coincidence, something wholly beyond her control. But she had always thought there was something else. There was something else; the words ran through her every time she approached the subject. Like a child inside her standing up and shouting: there was something else, there was something else, there was something else. Not even words sometimes, just the rhythm, loud and harsh, and then it was like the screeching of gulls. Compulsive thoughts, the psychiatrist ended up calling it. There were ways of getting rid of such thoughts. She’d discovered some of her own. One required not thinking about that evening, and it worked after a fashion. Then a few days ago she had seen Tamara sitting on a step in Dronningens gate. And afterwards she had started writing about Karsten.
– Perhaps you shouldn’t be concerned about the objective truth of what happened, Erika suggested.
Synne picked a blade of grass, held it fast between her teeth and jabbed her tongue hard against the pointed end. It had helped to stick to the version of events they had agreed upon all those years ago. She had been at Tamara’s house. On the way home she had suffered an attack, the first in over a year. She had fallen off her cycle and hit her head. It happened right outside Karsten’s school. Luckily someone came by, some bloke who found her by the side of the road. She was lifted up and placed in the back of a car. Did she remember this, or was it something she had been told? The man spoke to her. There was a strong smell inside the car. She was certain she remembered that. And something the man said: I know Karsten. He had driven her home and then disappeared. And by that time she was almost fully conscious again.
– There’s something that occurs to me, said Erika, and Synne couldn’t face asking her to please not talk about it any more. – That evening we drove to Lillestrøm and you showed me round. The place where you were found isn’t on the way home from your friend’s.
Of course the same thing had also occurred to Synne. But it took Erika to ask the question:
– If you cycled straight home, how come you were found outside the school?
9
Why do you write? Erika asks as a way of provoking. And when I don’t answer, she thinks it’s because she’s found me out. I write because something is shattered, I could have told her, but I don’t want to share that kind of thought with her. I write because something was crushed that evening when I had my last attack. Since then there have only been scattered fragments. I write to gather up those pieces, even if they no longer fit together.
She reached out and released the roller blind. Sat for a while staring out. The sun appeared and disappeared behind the clouds, now just visible behind a grey veil, and now as though completely extinguished. – Isn’t this supposed to be about Karsten? she muttered to herself. – This is his story, not mine.
Through the closed window she could hear the rain trickling along the gutter, and behind her, from inside the house, Maja’s flute. She stood up abruptly, strode out into the corridor, knocked on the door. The sound of the flute stopped.
– Does my practising disturb you? Maja exclaimed as she opened the door.
Synne shook her head. – No, I’m the one who’s disturbing you.
– Doesn’t matter. Want some coffee?
That was what Synne wanted. To drink coffee with her, think about something else.
– What have you written today? asked Maja as they sat out on the little veranda.
– I’d rather talk about you, said Synne.
– What about me? Maja had a funny look on her face. – Okay, I’ve met someone, she confessed, and had to take a look round, even though there was no one else there.
– Really?
– Really really.
– Who is he?
Maja looked a little ashamed. – He’s wonderful.
– Stainless charabanc?
They both laughed.
– He’s very manly.
– That’s good, said Synne without being quite sure she meant it. – Where did you meet him?
– On the metro. We got talking. He’s very interested in music and Poland and everything.
It almost sounded as though she was about to burst into song. – And it turned out we were both getting off at the same station and he asked me to go for a coffee.
Synne liked stories like that. – Is he … I know it’s not important, but do you think he’s good looking?
– Very, Maja confirmed. – Not so tall, but very strong. She bent her arm and showed her own biceps, which wouldn’t have scared a moth. – We’re going out tonight, she went on. – To eat and enjoy ourselves.
Synne leaned over the table and gave her a hug. Talking to Maja was an antidote to the despair she was feeling about what she herself was trying to do and would never get right.
Back in her room, she stood in the doorway looking at the writing desk. The words she had written before the coffee break looked like tiny insects on the screen. If she approached any closer, they might take off and fly away.
Her phone rang.
– Synne? asked a woman’s voice.
She confirmed it.
– You’ve been asking about Jasmeen.
She sat on the side of the bed, picked up a pen lying on the floor, with no clear idea of what she would do with it.
– There’s something I want to ask her about, she began.
– You don’t have to explain. The woman at the other end spoke with a very slight accent. – Do you still want to meet her?
Synne stood at the bus stop down on the ring road, glanced at her watch. Five past five. She had decided she would wait until ten past. Just then a dark green car indicated and pulled up at the kerb alongside her. The window slid down. Synne walked forward. In the grey afternoon light she recognised the woman from the house in Lørenskog, the young one with the chubby face who had come running after her. She wasn’t wearing the hijab now; her hair was short and the collar of her jacket turned up.
– Come with me, she said.
Synne got in. The woman pulled out on to the ring road again.
– My name is Rashida. Jasmeen is my cousin.
– Where are we going?
The woman pulled into a
nother lane. – To somewhere where it’s safe to meet.
– Safe?
She drove on without answering. Not until they turned off in the direction of Vestre Aker did she say:
– I was stupid enough to tell Jasmeen about you coming to see us that day. I warned her, but she won’t listen. If certain other people get to hear about this, things will happen that mustn’t happen. It’s been painful enough as it is.
Synne didn’t know what to say. – Why does she want to see me?
– Why do you want to see her?
– I’m trying to find out about my brother.
Rashida shrugged her shoulders. – I can’t tell you any more.
Sometimes in the summer Synne went out to Huk to bathe in the fjord. Now the grassy beach by the bay was deserted and grey. There was a car at the end of the parking lot. They pulled up a hundred metres away. Shortly afterwards, the lights in the other car were switched on and then off again.
– All clear, said Rashida.
Synne stepped out into the light rain and they walked together across the car park. The other car was a black Mercedes, possibly the one she had seen outside their house.
Rashida opened a rear door. – Get in.
There was a woman in the driver’s seat, and in the back seat another wearing a black hijab. It occurred to Synne that she should have talked to someone before coming out here, Erika maybe; made sure someone knew where she was. She dismissed the thought and slipped into the back seat.
The woman in the hijab sat half turned away, She extended a gloved hand. – I am Jasmeen.
Synne tried to recall the large dark eyes from that school photograph taken more than eight years ago. – I’m glad you’ve agreed to meet me, she managed to say.
Jasmeen looked straight ahead. – Karsten talked about you a great deal. He loved his little sister very much.
Synne peered out through the raindrops running down the windscreen, towards the bay and the greyness that hung over the fjord. – He did.
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