Intrigo

by Håkan Nesser

  I will end with this request, it’s time to go out with the dogs for their evening walk; there are two of them, you see, slender, frisky Rhodesian ridgebacks, I still haven’t decided if I’m going to keep them – we’ve had them for almost five years, I like them a lot, but they undeniably demand both time and attention. Like now.

  But as I said, Henny, be in touch again soon. I’m waiting eagerly!

  Warmest greetings

  Your Agnes

  The school is called the Wallman School after one J. S. Wallman, who died in war 150 years ago. There are twenty-five of us in the class; I and a nervous boy whose name is Dragoman were new when the autumn term started, but two had moved so Miss Zimmermann said it was good that we came and filled in the gaps.

  Henny and I are best in the class along with Adam, who has glasses thick as milk bottles. He started reading in the crib and in that way ruined his eyes. Henny and I associate a bit with him and with his cousin Marvel, who is also in the class. Marvel is one of those who always does worst on tests, especially in mathematics and spelling, but he is big and strong and good to have around when it comes to fighting.

  I am doing really well in school, last Christmas I got the lead role in Everyone Stranger, Miss Zimmermann said that I had theatrical talent, and I am trying not to think so much about my father and my brother off in Saarbrücken. During the whole autumn and winter I wasn’t there on a visit more than two times, and my brother has been with us in the apartment a few hours one afternoon when he was in transit to a scout camp in Ravensburg. It feels a little strange that we have so little contact, but perhaps it is even stranger that I really don’t care.

  My mother is working quite a lot. Maertens the dentist has his practice on Gerckmarkt, I’ve been there too and had two cavities filled. I don’t like him; he is sarcastic and incredibly hairy, his eyebrows are black and bushy and when you are sitting in the chair you see that his nostrils are so overgrown that it’s surprising he can breathe through them at all.

  Henny’s mother has been sick a bit the past few months and we have taken care of her little brother Benjamin on some afternoons. He is a snot-nosed six-year-old who whines and is unhappy almost all the time. One time we lost track of him in Minde Park. It was cold and rainy and we searched for him for several hours. When it got dark and we still hadn’t found him, Henny started crying and said that she would never forgive herself if Benjamin died. She babbled on a lot about how she would put an end to it all by throwing herself in front of the train or into the Neckar, but when she was on her knees in the sandbox on the playground where we last saw Benjamin – and prayed to God – he suddenly showed up again. Benjamin, that is, not God. He was more snot-nosed and whiney than ever and had torn his shirt, which was clean that day.

  If you simply do your best and place your fate in God’s hands, everything will work out in the end, Henny said, and hugged her wet and dirty little brother.

  I didn’t say anything; thought that basically it was good that he turned up, there would have been a lot of trouble otherwise, but in all honesty I can’t maintain that I would have missed him if he’d gone and died in some way.

  In the middle of May – two weeks after my twelfth birthday and two days after I got my first period – I discover something dreadful.

  My mother has a relationship with her boss, Maertens the dentist. I happened upon them by pure chance when they came out of the Pomador restaurant on Glockstrasse hand in hand. I ran right into them, practically, and they looked frightfully embarrassed, the both of them. We just said ‘hi there’ and ‘bye’, and then I continued over to the library on Wollmarplatz that I was on my way to – but when I came home two hours later my mother told me what was going on. She said that they had started associating a little bit; she used just that expression, ‘associate’, and I think it sounds both old-fashioned and silly. She’s not that old yet.

  I tell my mother that I think Maertens the dentist is disgusting, and point out that she must be at least thirty years younger than him. My mother gets angry, says that Maertens is a very sympathetic and cultivated man, and that he hasn’t turned fifty yet.

  And that she certainly needs a little security after having thrown half her life away on a libertine like my father.

  I repeat that I consider Maertens repulsive and lock myself in my room. When my mother knocks on the door half an hour later I turn off the light and pretend to be asleep.

  It is decided that Henny and I will spend a good portion of the summer holidays together. Henny’s uncle and aunt have a big house by Lake Lagomar, and we will have a separate room up in the attic. Besides her uncle and aunt there are also three cousins there, a pair of twin boys our age and a girl about five or six. I don’t know if I actually have any great desire to go to Lagomar, but from what I understand I have no choice. I don’t protest either, and Henny seems to look forward to the arrangement. When we compare our grades on the last day of school it turns out that we have exactly the same average. Adam is a couple of paltry decimal points better, but we agree that it’s because he’s a boy and wears glasses.

  On the evening the day before we are going to take the bus to Lagomar I smoke my first cigarette together with Henny, Adam and Marvel. We are lying behind some bushes in Minde Park and Henny gets so nauseated that she vomits on Marvel’s dress trousers. Marvel smokes two cigarettes by the way, says that tobacco makes him feel great and that he doesn’t care if every one of us pukes on his pants. He has the worst grades in the whole class and is going to summer school to avoid repeating a year. When Adam has gone home, Marvel asks if Henny and I want to see his peter. Henny says that it’s all the same to her if he shows it or not, and I say OK then. He unbuttons his fly and takes it out, explains that it looks the way it does because he is circumcised, and Henny and I thank him for the peek.

  To:

  Agnes R.

  Villa Guarda

  Gobshejm

  Grothenburg, 12 October

  Dear Agnes,

  Thanks for your letter, which I read with great interest. It makes me happy to hear that you are content with your occupation and it makes me happy that you seem to be taking your husband’s death with equanimity. I know of course that you always used to keep a cool head, not get dragged down into maelstroms of emotion, and it seems like you have retained these good qualities. To what degree I myself have changed over the years that have passed I can of course not judge completely one hundred per cent, but sometimes I get the idea that deep down I am the same person as that twelve- or fifteen- or eighteen-year-old. If by and by we go so far as to meet again, you will surely have no difficulty deciding if I am right or wrong in this. Likewise I will have the opportunity to discover the same young girl in you, won’t I, Agnes?

  But I have no desire to see you face to face yet, dear friend, and to explain this I must now touch on that special errand I had when I started this correspondence – and to the highest degree still have. You did urge me not to hold back this reason from you unnecessarily, but instead get to the point immediately, so therefore I will now take the bull by the horns and two deep breaths. Just hope you don’t get upset, but I must take that risk; it can’t be avoided.

  As I mentioned, this concerns David. You know that we have been married for almost eighteen years at this point. He proposed only a few weeks after King Lear, we got engaged in June and were married in November the same year, yes, you’re hardly unaware of this. And we have had good years together, David and I; when I look back I understand that it’s been that way . . . at least the first ten. I know – you don’t need to deny it, dear Agnes – that sometimes you thought I was an unacceptably naive and gullible person; I still remember many of our conversations and differences of opinion, and that you never believed in Providence and the good currents in life as I did. That we can’t do much more than act according to the best of our ability and then accept the consequences, whatever they are.

  That we must put our trust in the good. David and I also ta
lked a lot about these things when we were first together, and when we swore each other eternal fidelity those were not just empty words and watered down ritual. It was serious; we decided to live together with each other and our future children our whole lives; love may not be conditional, neither on events nor on the tooth of time. It’s that simple, and that hard.

  But now it has happened. Through circumstances that I don’t need to go into here and now, I know that David is seeing another woman. I don’t know who she is, and I don’t care about that either. But David has betrayed me, our children and our love pact, and I don’t intend to accept that. How long this so-called affair has been going on I’m not really sure of, but it’s been at least six months and probably at least twice that long. David, naturally, is keeping it secret and I respond in kind; I do not reveal by a word or an expression that I know about what he’s up to behind my back. It’s not through confronting him or trying to convince him – performing that whole ancient, sad act with the exposed husband and the injured and betrayed wife – that I intend to attack the problem. I have thought through all possible and impossible solutions over the past few months – with my own and the girls’ best interests in mind – and, dear Agnes, there is simply no doubt. David must die.

  I will understand very well if you now gasp for breath and with rising pulse reread the last few lines. Perhaps you push the letter from you and stare vacantly ahead. Shake your head and rub your right temple that way you always did before when you were thinking intensely about something.

  But it doesn’t help. The words are there and I am rock solid in my decision. My husband must die. He no longer deserves to live, and whatever you do, Agnes, do not try to argue with me about this point.

  As far as the next item is concerned you may however – obviously – have any number of well-articulated opinions. It is namely the case that I want your help.

  No, don’t put the letter aside, kind Agnes! At least do me the favour of reading it all the way to the end. Completely regardless of how you react, I am going to see to it that David dies within the not too distant future. One way or another. A year or so ago I read a crime novel, I don’t remember the author’s name but I think it was an American – the book was about two strangers who meet on a train, and when they start talking with each other they discover that both of them would benefit greatly from the death of a close relative. Each separately and two presumptive victims, that is. Simply getting the relatives in question out of the way somehow cannot be done just like that, however, because they would immediately be suspected of the respective murders. But then the idea pops up that they could change victims with each other. Crisscross, they call it. A undertakes to murder B’s wife, B will take the life of A’s rich relation.

  Do you follow me, Agnes? It was when I started brooding about David’s treachery and connected it with the crisscross idea, that I happened to think of you. True, I can’t help you in a corresponding way (I assume), but the point is that David must be murdered by someone who is not in my circle of acquaintances, while I myself am at another place and have an airtight alibi. That’s the whole thing. And I promise you that I can pay a substantial sum for your efforts. In your most recent letter you mention that you are a trifle worried about how you will be able to stay in Erich’s house – believe me, Agnes, a hundred thousand is no problem for me, and if it’s the case that you need more, I’m sure we can discuss the matter.

  I notice that I’m starting to get verbose again; without a doubt you have by this time understood what it is I’m asking you for. So far I haven’t thought about the approach and such – we’ll cross that bridge later, I like to think – but I await, as you understand, your response with a butterfly or two in my stomach. I truly ask you to give yourself a couple of days to consider my offer – and if you give me a preliminary yes, which I hope with all of my heart, that doesn’t mean of course that you can’t change your mind later on. Not at all. The only thing I ask for the moment is that you agree to discuss the matter. Hypothetically and with an open mind, as they say.

  So, dear Agnes, have a good think about it, and then let me know the answer. Completely regardless of how you react I am and remain

  Your faithful friend

  Henny

  To:

  Henny Delgado

  Pelikaanallé 24

  Grothenburg

  Gobshejm, 19 October

  Dear Henny,

  I have now read your most recent letter ten times and still don’t know if I should believe my eyes.

  What you propose is so horribly repugnant that I am at a loss for words. I doubt, seriously speaking, that you are in your right mind, and I’ve thought all evening about how I should actually formulate my response – without arriving at any acceptable alternative.

  For that reason I ask you instead to send a clarifying letter, where you either distance yourself from your proposal, or explain what in the world you mean – and why you imagine for a second that I would make myself available for something so completely absurd as what you outline.

  With kind regards

  Agnes

  The summer house by Lake Lagomar turns out, in reality, to consist of three buildings. The whole thing is located in a clearing at the edge of the forest with a lawn sloping down towards the lake and a private golden sandy beach. True, no more than thirty or forty metres long, but still.

  Herr and Frau Karminen and six-year-old Karen sleep in the main building. Herr Karminen’s first name is Werner but he is generally called the Chocolate King or simply the King – he has a company that manufactures chocolate pralines and after just two days we feel stuffed.

  Herr Karminen is only there on weekends, evenings and nights; early in the morning he takes his blue-black Rover into Schwingen and gets the chocolate show started. Frau Karminen is named Sofie, she is a so-called mournful beauty, I think, with a willowy slim waist and long, thick hair in almost the same shade as the Rover. She basically sits all day in the shade in a reclining chair reading books, smoking skinny cigarillos in a gold holder. Karen gets a visit every day from another six-year-old from a farm in the vicinity, they stay down by the edge of the lake for hour after hour and soil themselves as best they can.

  Henny, I, and some kind of relative whose name is Ruth stay in a smaller house up to the right. Ruth is in her thirties and I think she is a trifle retarded, the only thing she does is prepare food and clean up. In the evenings, when the Chocolate King has returned from Schwingen, the whole bunch have dinner together at a long table outside the middle house, and it is always Ruth who has cooked every single dish and who takes care of the dishes afterwards. But she isn’t sad about that, she sings languorous ballads without words the whole day – except during mealtimes – and seems generally content with existence.

  In the house to the left – which just like ours consists of a room and a teeny-weeny kitchen – the twin cousins Tom and Mart sleep. They are thirteen years old and right from the start I understand that they are the ones who are going to make the summer bearable.

  They are almost identical in appearance; tall, bony boys with short dark hair and insolent eyes. The first few days I mistake which one is which, but then I learn that there is something in Mart that is not found in Tom. Something inside; I can’t really formulate what it is, but one evening when they tell us that Mart is twenty minutes older than Tom I understand that this is where it is. He is the big brother, simply, presumably weighs a quarter of a kilo more and is half a centimetre taller too. Not just this summer but throughout their whole lives; I cannot understand why such petty things should be so significant, but at the same time I understand that they actually are. I have started to learn a thing or two.

  ‘Which one do you like best?’ Henny asks one evening when we have gone to bed but Ruth has not yet come and turned out the light. ‘Tom or Mart?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say.

  ‘You have to answer,’ says Henny. ‘If you were forced to marry one of them, which o
ne would you choose?’

  ‘Mart,’ I say then.

  ‘Mart is mine,’ Henny says. ‘You’ll have to be content with Tom.’

  ‘Is that so?’ I say. ‘Well, for my part you can gladly marry both of them.’

  I don’t mean a bit of what I’m saying. On the contrary, this is for life and death, I know that, and I lie awake for over an hour, making plans.

  A couple of days later I get Mart to myself when we are out looking for worms for a fishing trip. I tell him that Henny revealed to me in confidence that she is extremely fond of Tom, but that she doesn’t like him very much.

  Mart does not reply, but he gets a bullish, slightly watery expression in his eyes and I see that what I said touches him deeply. We continue hacking with our spades in silence for a while.

  ‘But I like you better,’ I say. ‘Much better.’

  He stops and observes me squinting.

  ‘Come here,’ he says, throwing aside the spade.

  Then he kisses me hard and brutally so that I am almost out of breath.

  Later, in the boat, Henny notices that I have a swollen sore on my lip, and she asks where I got that from. I say that I have no idea, but it’s enough that I glance at Mart for her to understand. I notice it on her, it’s as if her body becomes stiff and uncomfortable. My body on the other hand feels fine; a little jittery and a little sweet. I stick the tip of my tongue out and carefully lick the sore.

  We spend all our time together, all four of us. The Commotion Quartet, the Chocolate King calls us. ‘Now, what has the Commotion Quartet been up to today?’ he asks every evening when we come to the table.