When the Devil Holds the Candle (4 page)

The impulse came unexpectedly. She was not prepared—she had never planned it. Dreamed about it, maybe, but who wouldn't? One evening, as she worked, he seemed to fall into a reverie. He was no longer holding the pose, and his gaze was lost in one of the big paintings on the wall. Something of the tension in his body dissolved. She wanted to point this out, but changed her mind. For a long time she was able to study him unobserved. She held her breath and stood still with the brush in her hand. She knew he wasn't thinking about her; if he had been, she would have sensed it. She walked over to him. He pulled himself together, moved back into his original position. But she had seen him, caught him unawares. He didn't like that. She wanted to tell him that it didn't matter; she gave him a quick smile and patted his cheek. But when she felt his skin under her hand, she couldn't stop. He had high cheekbones that were beautiful and prominent beneath his white skin. He did not turn away, but stood still and allowed her to caress him. The sharp light, which came from a lamp to the left, was meant for her work. She could see every pore of his skin, and the thin veins in his temples. And his eyelids, like tissue paper. His skin smelled like skin, his hair like hair. He acquiesced and let her have what she wanted. Her body had been asleep for a long time. She was overwhelmed by everything that awoke in her, that trickled and flowed. She wanted to surrender, to make love as if it were a matter of life and death, to shriek and scratch, but she controlled herself—she didn't want to frighten him away. After he left the house, she came to her senses. He lacked fire. She had thought that he would feel a flood of passion, because he was so young. It must be in him somewhere—but she never found it. Still, they continued. As soon as she had finished her work, they would go to bed. He never took the initiative; she was always the one who did that.
May this painting never be done!
she thought. She felt no shame: they were adults. Deep inside, she hoped that he bragged about it to others.

I sell curtains and bed linens and fabric in a very respectable shop. I'm home each day by 5
P.M.
The rest of the evening I spend indoors, puttering around. Hardly anyone comes to see me—once in a while my friend, or perhaps my son. Ingemar. I listen politely to whatever he says. He never asks me to visit or anything like that: it's too difficult for us. His visits are more like an obligation, an opportunity to check up on each other, make sure that everything is all right. It's nice to be able to say at work now and then, Ingemar was here for coffee yesterday: So reliable, so proper. Socializing, spending time with other people, noticing their smell or being certain that they notice my smell is more than I can bear. I go shopping at regular intervals and buy what I need. Never more than that. Sometimes I go to the library, where I borrow biographies. Or I look through the newspapers. It doesn't cost anything, you know. I go there right before closing time, when it's quiet and there's never a line at the checkout desk. The librarian is a man; he looks sad. What a burden it must be to have to read everything.

I don't talk to my neighbors. If they say hello over the fence, I say hello back, but keep walking. I'm not unhappy, but I'm not happy either. I don't know anyone who is. A doctor whom I see once a year says that I'm as healthy as a horse. He says this in a
stern, admonishing way, and I know what he's getting at, but he can't possibly understand. I don't feel like explaining. He's not being malicious or pretentious when he just sits there and looks at me. I know he wants to offer me something but doesn't really have the strength to do it.

People are so different. It's easier to love things, or tasks, or animals maybe, but animals smell and they leave hair everywhere, or something even worse. I spend the evenings tidying up the house. I wash and put things away and wipe and dust until everything is clean. I finish by splashing bleach in all the drains. It kills bacteria and removes odors. Behind the house I have a beautiful garden and a small gazebo. When I sit outside in the summer, I put up a windbreak made of canvas. If anyone were to stand behind the hedge and look in, they wouldn't be able to see me. Not that I sit there wearing nothing but my under-wear—that would never occur to me. But I like this enclosed space. I've never bothered anybody, never made big demands or behaved unreasonably. I don't cheat on my taxes, I don't shoplift, I pay all my bills a day or two before they're due. On Saturday evenings I sometimes drink a little wine, but never too much. I watch television. Read the newspapers. I know what's happening out in the streets and in Algeria and Rwanda. I sleep well, I rarely dream, and I'm not afraid of dying. In fact, I often wish I would die: suddenly, while I'm sitting in the red chair, without being aware of it, next to the window, with the sun on my face. The last thing I'd feel would be a faint warmth. How sad it will be when I'm not here anymore!

In short, I fulfill my obligations. What's wrong with obligations? Aren't they what holds society together? I'm not ashamed. Every night when I go to bed, I can cross off one more day. That's a relief. When I wake up in the morning, I'm always amazed that I'm still here. But I think that's great, and I do what I'm supposed to do. You mustn't think that I'm unhappy or any thing like that; I'm doing fine—or was, until the incident with Andreas happened.

I was sixteen when I left the yellow house. All the rules had closed around me like a cage. I hadn't let anyone in. Behind the bars, I had constructed a life, a state in which I could survive, consisting of order and regulation, discipline and control. My parents regarded me with doubt and relief. There was something clearly legible in their eyes: Don't blame us, their eyes said, if anything goes wrong. They didn't wave when I left; they wanted above all things to be left in peace. And I never acquired a faith in God.
There are more things between heaven and earth,
my mother would say, with her back turned. They passed on to me what they had learned themselves, the best way to make it through life. So I left with the rules as a weight on my shoulders, and from behind the bars of my cage I observed the world. Everyone around me was vacillating and without purpose and disgustingly impulsive. Human beings have a tendency to just drift along, and that makes me nervous.

I have a friend. Did I mention that? Runi. She rarely visits me; usually I am the one to visit her, and that's what I prefer. A guest in my house makes me feel like a prisoner—I can't get up and leave when I want to. Runi talks a lot and has all sorts of worries, although no more than I do, but I'm not as eager to talk about them. Except for now, to you. Runi's a beautiful woman—in appearance, I mean. Modern without going over the top. She knows she's attractive and that's important to her. Most of the time she's gentle and talkative and lively, but she cackles wickedly about everything that's troublesome, and sometimes she's a downright nuisance. It wears me out. Occasionally there are things that I'd like to tell Runi, but I don't. Like when I use her toilet. I go into the tiny room, lift up my skirt and pee. Wipe myself thoroughly. Wash my hands. It costs me nothing. I can't tell this to Runi, because she wouldn't understand. You wouldn't, either. Of course she's charming, but she lacks any connection with herself and with the ground she walks on. She never thinks things through. When something happens, she's never prepared. That childish attitude, thinking that nothing will ever harm her, where does she get that from? She's an adult now. And she is a terrible liar.

One time—well, I have to confess what I did was done in a fit of drunkenness—I was sitting in her living room, eating cake with icing and green gumdrops on top. She started talking about how vigorously she always did the Friday cleaning, and how much her back hurt afterward. I had my own thoughts on the subject. I could smell the dust in the room—I have a very keen sense of smell. When she went out to the kitchen to get something, I grabbed a gumdrop from the cake and tossed it under the sofa. And I waited. At first for a week, but I put my heart and soul into it and waited another week. And then, to make it a real test, I waited one week more. Finally, I paid her a visit. When she went to the bathroom, I bent down and found the gumdrop. It wasn't green anymore, and it was furry. I never confronted her with the furry gumdrop; I'm not a mean sort of person. I try to offer her something, since we're friends, for God's sake. And what is a friend? Someone to spend time with, without too much discomfort? Because I don't really care for her that much. If she died I'd be extremely upset, but at the same time a lot would be over and done with. Grief for her? That's not what I'd feel. It's good to be done with things.

She encourages me to go out, sometimes to a restaurant, sometimes to the theater. It takes an effort for me to do that. To sit there in a crowd of people, so close that you can hear what they're saying, is very stressful. Once, because it was Runi's birthday, we went to Hanna's Kitchen. That was a long time ago. We were sitting at a table right next to two young women, well, young compared to us, but definitely adults. They were howling and carrying on, giggling like a couple of teenagers. And they drank too much and got very drunk. I realized after a while that they were actually two streetwalkers. I'm no fool. Some of their conversation can't be repeated, it was so vile. And having them so close like that—to be unable to get away from them! Runi makes all the arrangements if we're going to do something together. Sometimes I feel quite moved, when I hear her voice on the phone, asking me if I'd like to come along—her anxiety that I might say no. She doesn't have anyone else. Life isn't easy for anybody.

If I'm ever brought before a court, they'll probably declare me guilty by reason of insanity. But I'm of sound mind. I remember everything, so I should be held accountable, shouldn't I? And you can see that my thoughts are coherent and orderly, can't you? That I'm a normal human being and not mentally deficient? I'm sure of that.

I've pulled a plastic tarpaulin over the body. I don't plan on moving him—how could I manage that? He weighs a ton, so the most I could do would be to lug him into a corner. I've hung an old potato sack over the window. A bare bulb hangs from the ceiling. He's lying on his back with his arms at his side. He's no longer handsome. As I've said so often, physical beauty is a fragile gift. I myself have little to lose. I know that I'm ugly. No one has ever said as much out loud, but I can see it in people's eyes when I meet their gaze: that dead look they give me. "Why can't you fix yourself up?" Runi asks me, annoyed. It scares her that I don't fight back. Let the young people be sleek in peace, is what I think now. Like Andreas—he's young and sleek. Well, not anymore. My thoughts are with him; it's not as if he's been forgotten. He'll never be forgotten. But as for myself, I'm not so certain.

Andreas smoked Craven A cigarettes, not Prince or Marlboro, like other people. Every time he was out of smokes he'd go to a kiosk, lean forward and say "Craven." And behind the counter they would nod and search the shelves. Not many people bought that brand. He sought attention wherever he went, but as soon as he got it, he rejected it. Zipp himself was not fussy, in fact, he had no specific preferences about anything. He couldn't really tell the difference between a Prince and a Marlboro, or between Coke and Pepsi. He had to look at the name on the label. He wondered if other people were lying, or if they actually were more canny than he was. Maybe even Andreas was lying—he wasn't altogether trustworthy. Something was lacking. He could never say "One time last year" or "Last Saturday" or "Dammit, Zipp, guess what happened yesterday!" He never talked about anything in the past. Only about the present moment, or what was to come. And it wasn't because what had happened in the past was too awful to talk about; that wasn't it. Zipp ought to know—they'd been hanging out together for eleven years. But had he ever heard Andreas say: "Do you remember that time?" No, and that would never happen.

"In 2019," Andreas said, "we'll be thirty-nine years old. Have you ever thought about that?"

Zipp shrugged. No, he hadn't, and he didn't feel like doing the arithmetic, but it was probably about right. Almost forty.

"So what?"

Andreas studied the pavement ahead. "By then human beings will have colonized several of the planets. All of the animals on earth will be extinct. The air will be lethally polluted, and the first replicants will be living among us without our knowing."

"You've been watching too many videos," Zipp said. "We need money, man!"

Andreas read aloud what it said on a poster on a wall: "Saga Sun Trips. Clean air, crystal clear water. I know," he said. "Drive over to Furulund."

He issued the order in a gentle manner, as if Zipp were many years his junior. It did not occur to Andreas that Zipp might contradict him, at least not with any seriousness.

"Furulund? Why there?"

"It's quiet out there."

"But what about the money, Andreas!"

"Just so," he said calmly.

Zipp made a U-turn, and Andreas pulled a comb out of his pocket and started grooming his unruly hair.

"Out to get the ladies?" Zipp teased. "Someone younger for a change?"

Andreas struggled with his curls. "Shut up and drive."

Zipp drove the Golf as fast as it would go, past Dynamite Industries and along the fjord. Andreas remained alert. After five minutes he told Zipp to slow down. A cyclist was coming in the other direction, a man on a racing bike. He wore a touring backpack, a helmet, and cycling gloves, and he was moving at quite a speed. Andreas dismissed this possibility and stared through the windshield. They were approaching a public park, made up of a decent swimming area, tables and benches, and several large permanent barbecues that were always in use during the summer.

"Turn right," Andreas said.

"There's just a lousy kiosk down there, and it's closed for the autumn," Zipp objected.

"There are people here," Andreas said. "It's a tourist area. If we're lucky, we'll find an old lady with a handbag."

Zipp maneuvered the car cautiously down toward the sea.