Blackwater. Part 19

His hatred was hopeless. Once she had said, 'Your father had a strong character.' He had been dead for fifteen years then. But she remembered the rapes, of course. Sometimes Birger had heard them through the wall in his bedroom. Still she bothered with the euphemism so as not to humiliate herself. Father's silly National Socialism had also been a euphemism, perhaps for a hatred the strength of which he never understood.

Rinsing the dishes. Putting them in the dishwasher. Putting away the gla.s.ses and never taking them out again.

Having people to dinner.

Finishing off with a small whisky. Two.

Never again talking with his lips to an ear, a warm ear.

When he had finished the dishes, he went out, cutting across the hay meadows. It was almost dark, but he could see the linseed field in all its degradation, rotting heaps of tough stalks soaked from the rain.

He realised that Karl-ke and he now had a reason for their mutual enmity. It was one of those absurd, far-fetched reasons that lay behind every village hostility, manufactured according to a pattern as complicated as crochet work. Yes, absurd to the point of childishness, almost imaginary. But the hatred was real.

Gudrun Brandberg drove her son in the Audi up towards Steinkjer. She was looking angry. He glanced sideways at her, but he didn't get the sense that she was angry because he had run away. He himself was pretty angry, but as usual she scarcely noticed that.

She hadn't driven up to the guesthouse, but had phoned from the Statoil petrol station on the outskirts and said he should come and meet her there. When he explained that he could hardly walk and had nothing to put on his feet, she'd told him to take a taxi.

Taxi!

He had paid the landlady with Ylja's money and got a lift to the petrol station. He hadn't really wanted to touch the money. Gudrun didn't ask him how he had been able to pay, and not until after driving quite a while did she ask him what he had done to his foot.

The Audi was going much too fast along the hot strip of asphalt. Gudrun's profile remained the same and it occurred to him that it wasn't anger. It was absence, an absence so total, he was grateful they were not heading for Grong. She might have driven off the road on a bend and aquaplaned straight out into the Namsen.

She hadn't come the previous evening. At about eleven, she had phoned to say there was a lot to do. He had gone to bed and tried to sleep despite the pain. She'll regret it when she sees my foot, he thought.

'Don't phone anyone,' she had said in a small, sharp voice. 'Do you hear? Don't talk to anyone.'

At the Statoil station the Audi was there, the back seat full of stuff bags, cardboard boxes and loose objects. He saw to his astonishment that his ice-hockey skates were there, and his club. She was drinking apple juice from a carton, and he noticed that her lips were dry and she was very thirsty.

'Do you want some?' she said, handing him a fiver to go and buy some juice. He didn't take it. She had on the same floral dress she had been wearing on Midsummer Eve, and the same white cardigan was folded up on top of one of the bags in the back. It looked as if she hadn't been out of her clothes since, or as if time had stopped over there in Blackwater.

'I saw in the paper . . . there was a murder. By the Lobber.'

'Get in,' she said.

Once they were out of Namsos, he asked who had been murdered. At first she was silent for a long time, as if she didn't want to answer, but then she said they were tourists. Foreigners.

'Has it been cleared up?'

'It never will be.'

He couldn't understand how she could say that. He said he didn't think it was right.

'What do you mean, right?'

Proper, he had thought of saying, but he didn't. She must have noticed how peculiar it sounded, because she tried to explain.

'I only meant that it's almost hopeless. An evening when there were so many tourists around. And foreigners.'

'Aren't people scared?'

'I don't want to talk about it. We've had enough of that back home these last few days.'

She sounded as if she were reproaching him for having gone off when things were at their worst.

'I went off because I was furious,' he said. 'Per-Ola and Pekka were s.h.i.tty, and so were Vaine and Bjorne. They went too far. They followed me up to Alda's.'

'I don't want to know anything about that. And you're not to knock Bjorne. If it wasn't for him, you'd really be in trouble now.'

She was angry with him after all. And she didn't ask where he had been. Only whether he'd talked to anyone. What did she think that he'd hidden in the forest?

'Why have you brought all my things?'

He could hear how whiny he sounded as he said it, but it was too late to make his voice any deeper. Her voice was at least kinder when she answered.

'We've got to arrange something else for you. The atmosphere at home isn't good.'

'Was Torsten furious?'

She didn't answer directly and he felt sick inside at how unfair it all was. He wasn't allowed to tell her, either. She simply didn't want to know.

'It'll go to court,' she said. 'Vidart's been raving about a rake handle. But that'll all get straightened out. Anyhow, we'd better arrange something else for you. I thought of Langva.s.slien.'

The name caused a soft jolt inside him. A wave of blood, throbbing all the way out into his ears, into his lips. And he waited. He even imagined what tone of voice she would use when she at long last told him. Low and confidential, a little embarra.s.sed. Or half angry and defiant, as if to emphasise it was her business what she had done, not his.

Should he say he had had some idea all the time? Guessed that he was really Oula Laras's son. Not Torsten's. Or should he pretend not to know, to make it easier for her?

She didn't go on. Not just now, he thought. It'll come later. She's ashamed. It's as hard for her as it would be for me to tell her about Ylja. Impossible. But she must. Before we get to Langva.s.slien. Probably before Steinkjer, and that couldn't be more than ten kilometres now.

When they drove into Steinkjer, she said they were to stop and get something to eat.

'I've got to go to the hospital,' Johan said, realising she was never going to suggest it. She didn't seem to be interested in his foot.

'Is it that bad?' was all she said.

When they got to Emergency, he took off his sock as they sat waiting, and she gasped.

She probably hadn't reckoned it would take half the day. They had agreed to meet at the cafeteria when he was ready and there she was, looking exhausted. As usual, he felt guilty. Then he was angry. He couldn't help it that she had had to wait for so long. She could have asked the doctors. He told her that his shin bone was broken and the ligaments in his ankle torn. He was in plaster. He had been given some crutches so he could move, but they had to pay for them because they weren't Norwegian citizens. She went off to reception and told them that he was to start senior high in Steinkjer in the autumn and that he lived in Langva.s.slien and could bring the crutches back when he came for a check-up.

Saying he already lived in Langva.s.slien was a bit much, but the woman behind the counter accepted it without comment and asked for the address.

'He's living with Per and Sakka Dorj,' said Gudrun. 'Post Box 12, Langva.s.slien.'

Sakka. His aunt. Gudrun's older sister. He didn't ask if what she had said was true until they got in the car.

'Am I going to stay with Sakka?'

'Yes, of course. What did you think? Who else lives in Langva.s.slien?'

That evening the rain came. To begin with, the wind brought clouds of thin, chilly vapour, which settled like a membrane on the gra.s.s and across their faces. It turned dark and the wind got up. By the time they were all inside with Petrus and Brita, it was raining hard.

The kitchen was transformed. Once no sunlight fell on the slate slabs, the brick wall of the fire place appeared to grow and the window framed the dark greenery behind the broad belts of rain.

Now she saw them for the first time without the strong sunlight. In the dim light, their faces looked worn and grey, except Dan's. His face was relaxed; he was calm, playing with a strand of hair. The skin on Bert's face was too loose. He must once have been much fatter. His cheeks were scarred and pitted. Perhaps it was the memory of his spotty youth that had made him so repulsive.

Enel's face was taut under her kerchief, her skin sunburnt and tight over her cheekbones. Perhaps they had all grown thinner thinner except onis. She had told Annie that walking up to Starhill had given her sores between her thighs, so she was reluctant to go down to the village. She was biting her sore, swollen fingertips. Mia had screwed up her face and was watching her.

Brown shadows flitted over Brita's face, and her eyes were hollow. She was very heavy despite her thinness, almost as if the foetus were on its way down. She held on to it with her hands, not listening while Petrus talked about cooling the milk. Lotta sat curled up on the floor below her, like a child, her face the colour of well-worn linen.

Even Sigrid had this worn and weary air, and she was only nine. All of them had it, except Dan. Admittedly, they were dressed up. But with no electricity, no dissembling was possible. You can't just pretend; you bear it. An existence devoid of irony slowly twisted their joints, stretching their sinews thin and hard. Annie felt a fierce longing for town; for trying on clothes, people and rooms the way you try out a quotation in your mouth. Starting. Driving fast. Touching on terror or desire. Turning and forgetting.

They had come to the time for criticism. Petrus avoided the word, but she recognised the set-up. On the first evening, he had used the word 'problem'. Now he just asked whether they had anything.

'I've got something.'

His face was bearded; hairy, rather, soft grey-brown hair swirling down from his temples and untidily uniting with the stiff beard. His lower lip was red and full. But it was never easy to see his expression beneath all that hair. She thought his gaze had become fixed, rather than attentive. He reckoned she was going to make a fuss.

'I'd like to apologise to Sigrid,' Annie said.

The girl flushed scarlet. What a child she was her skin so easily suffused with blood, her eyes defenceless against this, which would surely be of no joy to her. Annie had an impulse to drop it and just say, 'I was mistaken when it came to the milking rota.' But instead, she said: 'Sigrid has observed that the way the work rota has been written down is wrong as regards the milking. I wouldn't listen to her. But she's actually quite right.'

Brita wasn't bothered, indeed didn't seem to be listening, her eyes following the runnels of water streaming down the window. Lotta was sunk into herself, and onis kept biting and tearing at her already bleeding cuticles. Petrus and Dan were the attentive ones; Bert, too, to some extent. Difficult to say with Enel, her expression not easy to fathom.

'Perhaps we could look at it,' said Annie.

'Is there something you object to?' said Petrus.

He was hostile. What had she expected? I'm making myself unpleasant, she thought. How stupid of me. And just like me, Dan would say. Nevertheless she went on. But she had to fetch the work rota herself. Petrus had put it on the sideboard when they had gone through the tasks for the following day and he made no move to fetch it back.

'According to the rota, Dan was to do the milking on Midsummer Eve and Midsummer Day because he was on his own here. But it must have been Petrus.'

She handed the rota over to Petrus, who read it without touching it. She then handed it on to Enel and it went round without arousing any interest. Only Sigrid was eager, her cheeks still scarlet.

'Uh-huh,' said Petrus. 'It's possible. Not that I understand why you sound so sure. Mistakes happen. Does it matter?'

Annie took the milking record out of her pocket, unfolded it and smoothed it out.

'I'm perfectly sure,' she said. 'Sigrid is, too. First, Dan can't milk, anyhow not well enough to be able to manage on his own.'

'He wasn't on his own.'

'Wasn't he?'

'He was here with Barbro Torbjornsson.'

She didn't want to look at Dan, but she could sense he was sitting absolutely still. Then onis and Lotta both began talking at once.

'She wanted to see Starhill.'

'She might move up here.'

'It's a chance for us. She weaves and has sold lots of her stuff. So Dan had to show her.'

He doesn't even have to defend himself, she thought. He was leaning back with his eyes closed.

'Maybe so,' said Annie. 'But it was Petrus who recorded the quant.i.ty of milk on Midsummer Eve.'

He took the piece of paper and read.

'So,' he said. 'Good. Isn't it, Sigrid? Are you satisfied now?'

She was childishly triumphant and flushing.

'That's that, then.'

'No.'

Annie avoided Dan's eyes as she went on.

'It was wrong when the police were here. You referred to this erroneous work rota. They were given wrong information.'

'I think we'll call it a day now,' said Petrus, getting up. 'Dan, explain to Annie what the situation is. Once and for all.'

But Dan explained nothing. He went out ahead of her and when she entered their room he was lying in silence on his bed. Annie thought that was because Lotta had come too. She had been allowed to move back again with her cat pictures and the two bags containing all her possessions. Mia liked her and enjoyed her things. She used to sort out the faded T-shirts and cotton pants, then line the rest up on her bed while Lotta, in her slightly hoa.r.s.e voice, told her the story of the things. She had an electric hair dryer and a radio that could not run on batteries, and three pairs of shoes with heels impossible for walking at Starhill. A hairpiece of dull, coa.r.s.e, light-brown hair and a chocolate box of photographs. A plastic bag containing a coral necklace and Indian jewellery of blackened silver with bloodstones and dull turquoises. A teddy bear made of synthetic plush. A wallet packed with snapshots, bus tickets and cards with addresses on them.

They were playing pelmanism at the table with a pack of dirty cards from the days of the fishing club. Lotta seemed to realise that Annie and Dan wanted to be on their own. Annie lay down on her bed and waited. The room was full of the energy coming from the immobile body on the bunk above.

Annie couldn't talk to him, nor could she say anything to Lotta. Her strength was trickling away like the rain on the window. It was possible to be mute or immobile in dreams, but she was awake and presumably could move. If she gave way to this sense of powerlessness, she would never be able to go on. She took the radio off the chair beside the bed and switched it on. It crackled and the sound of a voice reading the news billowed back and forth with fading strength. The batteries were running out.

Mia got a card she didn't want and shouted angrily. Annie turned up the volume. In a capricious wave, the power came back and a voice boomed that the reuter news agency reports that sources from hanoi before she could turn down the volume. The bunk above swayed and creaked. Dan jumped down to the floor and momentarily she saw his torso cut off by the upper edge of the bed and his hands held out with the fingers splayed as he shouted, 'for christ's sake, stop it!'

He was out of the room before she had time to do anything. Nor was there anything to do. The volume was already turned right down. Mia sat without moving, a card in her hand. For a long moment nothing could be heard except the abundant splashing of the rain out of the broken drainpipes.

'You know he doesn't like the news,' Lotta said. 'Dan's not interested in politics.'

'He used to be,' said Annie. 'He was the only one involved at college.'

'Not exactly politics. I mean the party. All that came to an end two years ago.'

She talked about him with a confidential officiousness and sounded as if she were imitating someone. Dan had explained, 'She doesn't know how we live. Not what an ordinary life is like. Everything has to be learnt. She has lived in something you can't grasp.'

'I'm going to Mats.'

Mia flung down the cards she had been holding and went out. The door slammed and shook in its frame. Annie had wanted to remember herself as a quiet child, not submissive but brooding on the injustice of having to live as a lodger in Enskede with no right to yell and scream. But now and then there was something familiar about Mia's awkwardness and angry outbursts. She had left because she didn't want to hear anything said about Dan, Annie thought, and she turned cold, although she had really known that for a long time.

'I know he's left the party,' she said to Lotta. She couldn't really remember which of the minor parties it was, but didn't want to reveal that. She realised how foolish it was, the two of them trying to outdo each other in their knowledge of Dan's life.

'He didn't leave it, he was thrown out,' said Lotta. 'They were a group that had broken away and he was the leader. But another guy came along and took over and then Dan had to do some self-criticism. They hung out in the Nacka woods, by Nyckelviken, on a hill.'