Before I Burn: A Novel (23 page)

In seconds she was in the porch, where she grabbed a jacket and ran to the front steps. She just caught sight of the car headlamps turning off the main road, they dazzled her for a brief instant, before they were dipped and the car drove into the yard. One of them was obviously broken because it was pointing up into the sky. She didn’t know who it was until the door opened and he got out. She was at once reassured.

‘Ah, it’s you,’ she said. ‘I thought you were driving the fire engine.’

‘It’s in Vatneli,’ he answered. ‘We need it to put out the fire, so I had to use my own car.’ He approached her, rubbing his hands. It was obvious he was cold.

‘I thought you might want to hear the latest,’ he said.

‘The latest?’

‘Yes,’ he said, coming closer.

‘Well then?’

‘The pyromaniac has struck in Solås.’

‘In Solås? Where in Solås?’

‘Agnes and Anders’s house,’ he replied in a quiet voice.

She froze, the blood turning to ice in her veins, until it slowly thawed again.

‘Anders and Agnes,’ she repeated, as though she didn’t believe what he had said. ‘That’s not far from here, is it.’

‘He poured petrol through a window and lit it,’ he said.

‘And there’s me sleeping on the sofa,’ she muttered.

‘It’s dangerous to sleep tonight,’ he said.

‘But this is just sheer madness,’ she whispered. ‘This is the work of a madman.’

‘Yes,’ he said, coming even closer. ‘This is the work of a madman.’

She saw his face clearly in the light from the outside lamp. His eyes were shiny and bright. His hair was dishevelled. He had soot over his face and on his shirt. It struck her that he looked much as he did when he was a child. She remembered him, of course, from the days when he used to run across the field and she would give him juice in the kitchen. Alma and Ingemann’s well-behaved, clever son.

‘Have you hurt yourself?’ she asked.

‘It’s nothing,’ he answered. ‘Just a few scratches.’

‘Wouldn’t you like to come in and warm yourself?’

He gave a slight shake of his head.

‘The person behind this,’ he started, ‘the, the…We’ll catch him sooner or later. He won’t escape.’

‘It’s hard to believe, all these things going on,’ she said.

She pulled her jacket tighter around her and looked up at the unlit windows where the children were asleep. When she turned back he was staring at her; it was as if he had changed in the few seconds she had looked away.

‘The worst thing that can happen now, do you know what that is, Else?’

‘No,’ she quavered.

‘It’s a fire breaking out here.’

‘Here?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Here.’

‘Don’t say things like that, Dag,’ she said.

‘Now that all our equipment’s in Vatneli,’ he continued. ‘So if something were to happen, then…it would take ages to move it all.’

‘Let’s hope there are no more fires tonight,’ she said.

‘Right,’ he said, without averting his eyes.

‘I can’t take any more fires,’ she said.

‘Well,’ he said nonchalantly. ‘We’ve had enough of them now.’

‘I pray to God that nothing will happen.’

‘Yes,’ he said slowly, before turning and walking to his car. ‘That’s the best thing you can do, Else. Pray to God.’

Alma was sitting by the kitchen window, fully clothed; the coffee pot stood on the stove, cold and gleaming. She had sliced a whole fresh loaf, one of those she had baked on Sunday morning while all had been peaceful. She had set out jam and cured sausage and some Prim cheese spread in case Dag had time to sit and have a bite, if he came home at all.

Ingemann had stayed with her in the living room for a few hours, but then he had gone upstairs to bed. Shortly afterwards the alarm had gone off. He had sat there, fully dressed, in the dark blue overalls that still smelt of fire, but as he was about to go he had experienced stabbing pains in his chest.

‘It’s my heart, Dag,’ he had said. ‘It’s my heart.’

Dag set off in the fire engine. Alma and Ingemann sat in silence, listening to the sirens wailing past the house, watching the blue lights flashing across the living room walls, over the piano and the trophy shelves. They sat there as the sirens slowly became fainter, but neither of them had said anything, not a word, and in the end Ingemann had gone upstairs, leaving the entire living room smelling of fire.

A few hours later Dag returned home. He stood for some seconds in the hall, telling them between gasps about the two fires in Vatneli, and about the motorbike accident in Fjeldsgård, then ran to the door and Alma was left in the hall with the blood pounding in her temples.

That was when she realised: he smells of petrol.

Now she got up from her chair, crossed to the window, but there was nothing to see, only the hazy reflection of her own face. Went to the front steps. The mist hung like soft silk above the fields, and little by little day was breaking, but it wasn’t possible to see the main road yet. She was about to go in when she heard the car. It was coming from Brandsvoll, getting closer, moving slowly, changing gear, and turned into the drive. The headlamps caused the mist to gleam curiously. She saw who it was, but the car didn’t stop in the yard, it continued slowly up the hill to the fire station.

She made a sudden decision. She went and put on Ingemann’s windbreaker, the one with pockets and zips on both arms, then she went outside into the grey morning light, crossed the yard and scampered up the hill. When she saw the car outside the fire station she was neither relieved nor surprised. As she approached she slowed down so she was walking at normal speed. The car was there, the door was wide open, but Dag was nowhere to be seen. The hot engine was ticking. There was a smell of exhaust and wet earth, forest and summer darkness. The fire station door was locked. There was no light apart from the single bulb above the gateway. He wasn’t there. She stood weighing up the pros and cons, but then continued up the road anyway. It wasn’t far up to Nerbø, where Sløgedal’s house was. She had the constant sensation that Dag was walking ahead of her in the grey dawn. She visualised it: he was ahead of her, and she was following. Or vice versa: he was walking behind her, he could catch her up at any moment, and put his hands over her eyes as he had done in the kitchen that time. She thought she heard footsteps, but whenever she stopped there was complete silence. She pictured his face and she heard him talking to himself upstairs in the house. His voice was much higher than usual, as though he were a child again. She pictured the weird, stiff face that he had put on over his old one, that stayed for fleeting seconds, then cracked and was gone.

She walked faster and faster until she was running, all the jacket zips jingling. Then she caught sight of the house. It was completely isolated. All the windows were black. The walls grey. Slightly to the left was the barn, also grey with hazy contours, like an ancient ship on a foggy sea. She slowed down again. She wasn’t used to running; her heart was beating painfully and she had a taste of iron in her mouth. Clambering down from the road, into Sløgedal’s garden, she stopped under the old fruit trees and listened. Nothing, just her heart racing in her chest. She held onto a tree until her breathing steadied. Then she moved a few steps closer to the barn, and that was when she saw him. There were no more than ten, perhaps fifteen, metres between them. She gave a little start, even though, deep down, she had always known he would be here. He was bent over in a strange position as though studying something on the ground by the barn wall. Then he put the white can down on the grass. She both heard and saw everything with total clarity. She seemed to have acquired an animal’s hearing. It was like the first days after she had given birth: all of a sudden her senses had been heightened. For several months she saw and heard with greater precision than at any other time in her life. Now it was occurring again. She half-opened her mouth, her lips moved, but no sound came out. It was like a large flower opening somewhere in her chest. It thrust out petals, it hurt so much she wanted to scream, but the scream wouldn’t come, her lips moved, but still there was no sound. She heard the last drops of petrol slopping around in the can. She heard the rasping of the matchsticks. She heard the flare of the matchsticks. Then his face was lit up. She thought of all the times she had sat at his bedside while he was asleep. She had never said a word to anyone, but she had often sat at his bedside crying soundlessly. She hadn’t been able to help herself. It just came. He had been lying there so peacefully, his face both open and closed; he was very near and he was unapproachable, and then the tears had flowed in torrents. And she hadn’t known if it was with happiness or sorrow. The little boy had come to them as a miracle. They had been allowed to keep him for a while. But then they would lose him. It had hurt so much. She hadn’t been able to think of anything else except that they would lose him. A wave surged up from her stomach, it rolled through her chest, hot, washed through her throat, but came to a halt in her mouth. She had learned to cry without making any noise at all. She was standing perhaps ten metres behind him, but now she was incapable of crying. She just stood there and saw his face merge into the darkness as he lowered his hand and threw the burning match. The flames burst into life. It was like an avalanche of fire. At once everywhere around them was lit up. It was a restless yellow light that made all the shadows tremble. He staggered backwards a couple of paces while she remained motionless. The flames were already licking high up the wall. She saw the closest trees, the spruce forest, strangely illuminated, like a gathering of old people – wise, mute and sombre with all they knew – a weeping birch nearby, almost rigid with terror, and the fruit trees around her with their white flowers raised high against the sky. She was numb, yet felt as if she were sinking. Her feet, ankles were sinking slowly into the earth. At first it hurt, thereafter it was no more than faint discomfort. In the end, she felt nothing. The pains in her chest vanished. The flower was there, but it no longer hurt. Within seconds the whole of one barn wall was ablaze. From it came a sort of wind that was both freezing cold and burning hot. The wind drove the flames, goaded them, not allowing them any peace. She felt the wind on her face, on her cheek, on her brow.

Then he turned.

It was as though he, too, had always known that she was there. That they had gone up there together. That she had been standing behind him in the dark garden. That she had been sitting at his bedside and crying as he slept. He had always known. For two, perhaps three, seconds their eyes locked. He did nothing, said nothing, just looked at her with his hands hanging limply by his sides. She didn’t do anything either. She saw his shadow, long and alive, stretching almost to her feet. His shadow was also full of a desire to free itself, become at one with the darkness and leave him standing alone. The wind from the fire was so strong that it made his shirt flap. A firestorm was building, it seemed to have been waiting in the barn for all these years and had now finally been let loose. Everything was being let loose. And she crumpled. And in a way this was good. In a brief glimpse she saw him catch fire, first his shirt, then his hair, then all of him. He went up in a blaze and stood before her, on fire, without turning a hair. She heard the sound of tiles cracking and falling to the ground like heavy, lifeless birds. A swarm of sparks tore itself away from the rest of the flames and soared at great velocity into the sky, which was completely lit up now. A high, singing tone arose from somewhere in the barn. She had never heard anything similar; it was a lament that was reminiscent of a song, or a song that sounded like a lament. She saw that he was smiling, and she was the only person in the world who could receive this smile. Then she turned and walked the short distance home.

I.

THE FIRST ICE ON LAKE LIVANNET. Suddenly one morning it is there. Sunrise: 9.22. The black water glistens. Later that morning a lighter channel stretches from the middle almost to the shore. Birds land. Seen from afar, they are entirely black, virtually impossible to tell apart; they approach the open water with caution, perch for a moment, irresolute, the boundary isn’t clear, then it cracks beneath them.

The same afternoon I let myself into Finsland Church.

Inside the door I was in total darkness, I had to grope my way forwards, eventually finding a door handle, and then I was in the hall, which was light, and there was the priest’s office at one end. At the other was the door that led into the church. The door was low and creaked as I opened it. I entered the church directly behind the altarpiece. There was something written, quite high up, which was illegible. I stepped forwards, stood by the altar railing and looked down the nave. It was a bit smaller than I remembered it, yet more or less the same. It was quite cold inside. I had been advised to come just after a service or a funeral because the heat lingered for a long time afterwards. I made my way down the central aisle on the soft carpet, and when I reached the door I turned and went back. Then I sat down on one of the pews. I recognised the dry creak I first heard when I was a baby, and the same smell of wood and age and grief. I tarried awhile. I saw the hole in the vaulted ceiling where the old stovepipe had exited. I looked up at the four beams forming a square under the high roof, and remembered my fantasy that all the dead were sitting there, dangling their legs while listening to the priest. That was just after Grandad had died, so I had a need for him to be there still. For him to be sitting up there, dangling his legs. Also during the prayer.

I sat there for about ten minutes. Then I got up, walked down the aisle and into the vestibule. The stairs to the church tower were on the left. There was a solitary light bulb glowing on the first landing, but the higher I ascended the darker it was. The staircase tapered, at the end it was like a steep ladder. At last I was at the top. The black bell hung above me in the darkness, black and heavy. I tapped my knuckle on it. The sound was the same. Deep, while bright and free. I recognised it from all the times I had heard it chime. From the time Grandma died, and Pappa, and Grandad, and from the June day and the nine strokes while I lay in Mamma’s lap with her little finger in my mouth.