Professor Andersen's Night (10 page)

Actually, he was glad the other had gone out. Henrik Nordstrøm, as he probably was called. It meant he was in
for
a quiet New Year’s Eve. At any rate, until well after midnight, he could with certainty bargain on that. Indeed, why make plans for some imaginary hour after midnight? He definitely didn’t need to sit up waiting for him to come home. He wouldn’t vanish for good tonight; possibly tomorrow, or the day after tomorrow, but not tonight, he wasn’t dressed for that. So New Year’s Eve passed quietly. He laid the table in the dining room, and savoured his meal at about half past eight. Afterwards he sat down in his study with coffee and cognac and Edvard Hoem’s translation of Shakespeare. He got out his English version of Shakespeare, along with a previous translation of the same play into Riksmål, in addition to the most recent translation into New Norwegian prior to Hoem’s, and then compared Hoem’s translation, or adaptation, to the others. To his great relief he was soon engrossed in this. He noticed a few doubtful things that Hoem had done, and pondered for a long time as to what he meant by them; in fact, his solutions impressed him a little, but he
did
wonder how the poet himself would explain them, and to what extent his explanation would stand up. Indeed, it would be interesting to meet Hoem one day and discuss Shakespeare translations with him, thought Professor Andersen, in as satisfied a mood as one might reasonably demand of him. When it was approaching twelve, he got up from his comfortable armchair and decided to go out, in order to hear the ships’ sirens from the docks and watch the fireworks display.

Soon afterwards, he was on Drammensveien. It was a wintry night. The snow was frozen and hung on solitary city trees under the street lamps. The pavement was slippery, dirty white, and the night was, of course, dark. It was cold, but he had dressed warmly, apart from his head, which was bare. He didn’t own a hat and he would rather not wear a cap, therefore he could feel the tips of his ears beginning to get cold. He walked briskly towards Tinkern Park, and followed the paths around it and over to the footbridge which stretched across the motorway between the sea and Skillebekk. Up there was a thick crowd of people, who were all out on the same
errand
as he was. He positioned himself in their midst, and soon the town-hall bells could be heard as they sounded twelve, followed by the sirens from all the boats in Oslo docks, and all the car horns from the taxis in Oslo city centre. The fireworks exploded in the sky in a powerful and entrancing spectacle. He heard people wishing each other Happy New Year, and champagne corks popping. From this footbridge over the motorway which passed right through Norway’s capital city, one had a very good view of the fireworks which were sent up from most parts of town, from both Skillebekk and Frogner, as well as from Aker Brygge and the docklands. They sparked and whined in the dark winter sky and the rockets whizzed off into boundless space, only reaching the edge of it right enough, but seeing them whine upwards, small red and yellow shots of lightning, gave one a good impression of the boundlessness of space, even here where it began, before they exploded, and unfolded themselves in glittering harmonious formations, a real
fire-work
display, with lots of bangs and beautiful colours against the bleak and cold night sky. It was a joy to behold, not least because all the others thought it was so joyful, thought Professor Andersen with a little smile. He stood there for a while among all the festive people, before he retraced his steps. By then the time was half past twelve, and up in his apartment he had a good glass of cognac, both in quantity and quality, he thought, before sitting down in his comfy armchair for a little quiet reflection. He had another good glass of cognac, both in quality as well as quantity, he thought, and then another. It had turned half past one, and Professor Andersen had no wish to go to bed. So he decided to go for a night-time walk.

Professor Andersen went out for the second time that evening. He wandered in the streets round Skillebekk, where there was no longer anyone firing up rockets. It was cold and he noticed that he had too little on his feet. He really ought to have worn his boots and not ordinary shoes, even if they were thick-soled. Inside the apartments a surprisingly large number
of
lights were still on. ‘This is one of the biggest party nights of the year,’ thought Professor Andersen, ‘now that champagne plays a part, people neither want to go home nor go to bed. Cheerful,’ he thought. He arrived at Drammensveien, and began to follow it out towards Skarpsno. It was gone two now, and taxis continually drove past him, and the whole of Drammensveien became quite crowded with people who were walking home because they hadn’t managed to hail a taxi. He walked along Drammensveien and passed a number of embassies. The Russian, the French, the stately English residency, the Egyptian, the Iranian, Israel’s, Venezuela’s, Brazil’s. Had they also sent up rockets tonight? Professor Andersen wondered about that, and hoped so, for that would cast a reconciliatory light over everything, wouldn’t it? ‘Which I appreciate more and more as the years pass,’ he thought. He turned immediately after reaching the park out at Skarpsno, and walked back again. He passed more people, who hurried home while they glanced sideways and back-wards, on the look-out for an empty taxi. But the taxis which passed, and there were many, were
all
engaged. Outside his own building he remained standing for a while, relishing the fact that it was half past two in the morning and, although it was cold, he enjoyed being out so late. Then a taxi came to a halt by the pavement right in front of him, and
he
got out. The other. The murderer, who had now returned home. He walked straight past him, and Professor Andersen was able to see him up close for the first time. It lasted only a few seconds, before he bustled off across the street and unlocked the door in the gleam from the lamp outside the main entrance to the building where he lived. He fumbled a little with the keys, Professor Andersen noticed, but he wasn’t unsteady on his feet. ‘He’s neither drunk nor sober,’ Professor Andersen thought. And he didn’t seem unlikeable, but neither was he the opposite, in other words, instantly likeable. ‘This whole thing is strange,’ he thought, but no more than that. Somehow it was a bit empty. But he noticed all the same that his knees were shaking as he walked up the steps to his own apartment.

Happy New Year, Professor Andersen!
It’s
delightful to wake up to the New Year Concert from Vienna and the ski-jumping competition at Garmisch-Partenkirchen on 1 January in a new year. All of it on TV. Soon it will be work days at the university and slowly the days will get lighter. His name was Henrik Nordstrøm. He didn’t leave his apartment with, for instance, two heavy suitcases, early in the morning, not on 1 January nor 2 January nor 3 January, there were lights in the windows over there, he lived there, permanently. It was his home. Henrik Nordstrøm. On 3 January Professor Andersen was back in his office at the university at Blindern, after the long Christmas break (at least as far as the university staff were concerned). Greeted colleagues, and received visits from the first master’s degree students to arrive. He prepared his first lecture, which he was to give as early as 9 January. He noticed that the newspapers hadn’t reported any woman missing whom he might have connected to the murder he had witnessed. He did observe Henrik Nordstrøm now and again when he left
his
apartment and stood at the tram stop and waited for a tram going towards the city centre. Professor Andersen had got into the habit of glancing across at the apartment on the other side of the street, but he had stopped standing concealed behind the curtain, and he had long ago gone back to normal lighting in his living room. But he had noticed that it was only in the morning that Henrik Nordstrøm stood at the tram stop and waited for a tram. Otherwise he got into a car, in the mid-range category, as they say, and drove off, or he took a taxi. The car he left standing parked outside the building where he lived, although rather a long way down the street, as a rule, on account of trouble finding a parking space, he presumed. As the weeks passed Professor Andersen grew more and more surprised. For there was still no woman reported missing who could be connected to the murder. The woman who had been killed was not missed. Evidently no one noticed the absence of the young, fair-haired woman. Why not? Was it possible that one could just disappear without further ado, and no one would notice? Professor Andersen thought that sounded strange, and concluded that the woman probably had been married to Henrik Nordstrøm or in some other way related to him, so he had been able to keep her disappeareance concealed. In that case, it would just be a question of time before the net tightened around him, as they say. And he must know that himself: the arsenal of excuses and explanations as to why she wasn’t around any more, for instance, to family and friends, colleagues at work, if she had had any, would one day come to an end, or be worn so thin that they would unravel and suspicion would be aroused, for instance in the minds of the young woman’s parents or of her brothers or sisters. It was just a question of time before he was caught. It occurred to Professor Andersen that
that
had been an assumption that he, Professor Andersen, had made the whole time. It was something he had reckoned with, as a certainty, and which had been lying there under all the emotions this case had aroused in him, and all the questions he had asked himself, regarding himself and his motives, in connection with it. He was dealing with a person in distress,
someone
fleeing from his misdeed, but one who knows that he will soon be caught. However, at the end of January and beginning of February there was still no one in the murderer’s closest circle whose suspicions were strong enough to have had any kind of consequences for Henrik Nordstrøm.

Right from the start Professor Andersen had assumed that it wasn’t Henrik Nordstrøm’s wife he had seen at the window on the night before Christmas Day, but a casual female acquaintance, a girfriend of his, or suchlike. That was his assumption, on impulse, something he had never questioned before now, when it turned out that no woman was reported missing. He had expected that the description of this woman would be issued after a few weeks, fourteen days after Christmas Eve at the latest, in other words during the first or second week of January, and that he would then follow the newspaper reports about the search for this woman, how it slowly closed in on this apartment at Skillebekk, where Henrik Nordstrøm was sitting and tensely following the
same
hunt as he himself, Professor Andersen, in his spacious apartment on the other side of the street. But where was the body? Actually, Professor Andersen had imagined that one day, from his observation post, he would see two policemen entering the main door of the building on the other side of the street and ringing the doorbell at Henrik Nordstrøm’s place. If the light was on in the window, he might be able to see all three moving about in there, the two uniformed men and the unfortunate Henrik Nordstrøm. But where was the body? Sooner or later suspicion would lead them to Henrik Nordstrøm but what could they do without the body? Probably very little. He, Professor Andersen, was the only person who had
seen
what had happened, and his lips were sealed. Why? ‘And why did I leave the Britannia Hotel in Trondheim, head over heels, when I feared that he might simply disappear from here, for good?’ Professor Andersen asked himself, yet another time, over and over again.

But as time passed what was most probable was that it hadn’t been a casual
female
acquaintance, a girlfriend, who had been standing at the window, but his wife, whom he had murdered. That made the whole thing much more difficult for Henrik Nordstrøm, who, once suspicion had been aroused over the disappearance, would only have one opportunity to avoid being caught: if he himself reported her missing. If others reported her missing, Henrik Nordstrøm would, in reality, be finished. Even without the body. For as soon as she was reported missing, then it would turn out that she was, in fact, missing, and why hadn’t Henrik Nordstrøm reported it? Viewed in that light it was now just a question of time before he was finished, and Professor Andersen’s failure to report what he had seen wouldn’t be of any consequence. He was finished, whether Professor Andersen opened his mouth or not didn’t matter.

Between the months of January and February this had become quite clear to him, and it eased a little of the strain he had been living under recently. He now managed to concentrate fully on his duties as a professor of literature at the University of Oslo. True enough, Professor Andersen practised this calling in a context which didn’t make him feel
light
-hearted. Indeed, the context in which he now found himself had darkened his existence, his mind even, for several years, and to an ever greater extent. When all was said and done, Professor Andersen had a strong suspicion that he had spent his life on something that was doomed to perish. He was a professor of literature and he could no longer say that there was as great a value attached to literature as he had thought at the time when he chose it for his course in life. At any rate, not the literature he had applied himself to in performance of his duties, but also for pleasure. He did research on Ibsen. He had completed an enthusiastically received doctorate on
The Pretenders
as a fairly young man, but in recent years had been preoccupied solely with the plays Ibsen wrote in the 1880s and 1890s, that is to say, with the great Henrik Ibsen. There could scarcely be any doubt that if Ibsen had died in the year 1880, at fifty-two years of age, he would have been forgotten as a playwright today.
Peer Gynt
and
Brand
would scarcely have been performed on any stage in the
twentieth
century, except perhaps in Norway.
A Doll’s House
would also have been considered out-dated, if it weren’t for support from plays like
Ghosts
,
The Wild Duck
,
Rosmersholm
,
Hedda Gabler
,
The Master Builder
,
John Gabriel Borkman
and
When We Dead Awaken
. His own doctorate on
The Pretenders
would have been regarded as a curiosity, and he would probably have been warned not to start on it, mainly due to the fact that a study of Norwegian drama around 1860 which took Bjørnson’s historical dramas as a starting point would be much more rewarding, from both a historical and a literary perspective. So for that reason, throughout the past ten years Professor Andersen had been preoccupied solely with studying the great Ibsen, the Ibsen who made possible his doctorate on the (relatively speaking) forgotten work,
The
Pretenders
, and in consequence made his position as professor of literature possible, he thought, with a smile tainted by malevolence.