When the Devil Holds the Candle (7 page)

"Matteus?"

He heard the voice the instant the door slammed. He promptly reached for the bag of sweets in his pocket. Wanted her to notice it and clap her hands.

"Yes," he said in a low voice, rustling the bag. His mother came in from the living room. She pressed his cheek to her breast.

"Did you meet someone on the way home?"

"No, but my jacket was under all the others," he blurted out.

"Grandpa is here."

Matteus rushed into his grandpa's open arms. And then he flew up in the air, flew like the wind, almost up to the ceiling.

"Watch out for your back," Ingrid said to her father.

And then she smiled. After so many years alone, he had at last pulled himself together and grown from three feet tall to six foot six, or so it seemed. Because of a woman.

"You're seventeen minutes late," Sejer said, looking at his grandson.

"My jacket was underneath all the others," Matteus repeated.

"I see," said Sejer, smiling. "With all the buttonholes tangled up in each other?"

A network of delicate lines appeared on his face as his smile grew. Nothing gave him as much joy as this child with the chocolate-colored skin. He felt overwhelmed, tender, almost weak in the knees. It was unsettling, considering what life was like and everything that could happen. And that was something about which he knew a great deal. The boy slipped under his arm and grabbed his hands from behind.

"Teach me the police hold!" he begged eagerly.

"I'll give you a police hold," Sejer said, laughing, as he spun the boy around, bundled him up, and carried him to the sofa. "Do you promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"

Matteus squealed with glee. Ingrid stood leaning against the door frame, watching them. Sejer looked up. Her back curved in a certain way that reminded him of her mother.

"You forgot about the time because you were having so much fun!" he guessed, looking into the boy's brown eyes. "You forgot your promise to your mother."

"No," shouted Matteus, wriggling on to his stomach.

"You met a stray dog on the street. You sat on the curb to stroke him, while you tried to work out how to get your mother to let you keep him. A scruffy-looking mutt. Am I right?"

"No, no!" he shouted again. He grabbed a pillow and put it over his head.

"You met a gang of bullies, and they wouldn't let you pass."

Silence. Ingrid looked at her father in surprise, and then at her son, who had curled himself up into a ball of corduroy and denim.

"They were sitting in a car."

"Who?"

Ingrid was at his side in an instant.

"Relax," Sejer said swiftly. "He's here, isn't he?"

"What did they do? Tell me!"

"Nothing."

He was talking into the upholstery.

"Don't play games with me!"

"I don't like my name! Matteus is a stupid name!" he shouted, throwing the pillow to the floor. He wasn't crying. He almost never cried. He had soon realized that he was different, that people expected other things from him. That it was best if he moved quietly and didn't make too much noise. With his kind of coloring it was almost too much for them.

"I want to know what they did," said his mother again.

"Ingrid," said her father, "if he doesn't want to tell you, he should be allowed to keep it to himself."

Matteus cleared his throat. "They asked me how to get to the bowling alley. But they knew where it was. Afterward they came back. They didn't do anything."

He took out the bag of sweets that he had been clutching in his hand, lifted it up to his nose and sniffed at it. It contained sour balls, jelly worms, and marshmallows.

"I'm sorry," his mother said softly. "I was just so worried."

Chief Inspector Konrad Sejer picked up his grandson and sat him on his lap. He buried his face in the boy's curly hair and thought about the years yet to come. Tried his utmost to decipher the shadowy images that lay ahead, far in the future.

"They said I had a cool jacket," Matteus said, grinning.

"What's inside is even cooler," Sejer said. "Walk me to the door. I have to go home."

"No, you don't. I know Kollberg isn't alone."

"I have to go home to Sara."

"Is she going to move in with you? Where am I going to sleep when I come to stay?"

"She's not going to live with me. She lives with her father, because he's sick. But she comes to see me, and sometimes she stays overnight. If she's there when you come over, you can sleep on the floor. All by yourself. On a foam mattress."

Matteus blinked his eyes in dismay. He stood there holding his grandfather's hand, tugging at it. Ingrid had to turn away to giggle.

"She's not fat, is she? So that there wouldn't be room for all of us?"

"No," Sejer said, "she's not fat."

He patted his daughter rather awkwardly on the arm and went out into the courtyard. Waved to Matteus in the open doorway. He drove slowly toward his apartment building. Later he would remember that in those few minutes it took him to drive home from his daughter's house life had seemed so orderly, so predictable and safe. Lonely, perhaps, but he had his dog. A Leonberger that weighed a hundred and fifty pounds and was lacking in any manners. He was actually ashamed about that. Sara had a dog, too, a well-behaved Alsatian. Sejer didn't like surprises: he was used to always being in control. He had almost everything. A good reputation. Respect. And, after many years as a widower, he had Sara. Life was no longer predictable. She was waiting for him now. They had invited Jacob Skarre to dinner, a younger officer whom Sejer liked and in an odd way counted as a friend, even though he was old enough to be Skarre's father. But he enjoyed being with someone who was still young. And, he had to admit, it was good to have someone who listened, who still had a lot to learn. He had never had a son. Perhaps that was why he was so fond of Skarre.

He braked gently for a red light. Sara is standing in the kitchen. She's dressed up, but not too much. Probably put on a dress, he thought. She has brushed her long blond hair. She's not stressed. Her movements are measured and gentle, like the way I drive my car through town. The nape of her neck. A shiver ran down his spine. Those short blond hairs against her smooth skin. Her wide shoulders. She looks at her watch because she's expecting me home, and Jacob could turn up at any moment. The food is ready, but if it's not, that doesn't make her nervous. She's not like other people. She's in control. She's mine. He started humming a tune by Dani Klein—"Don't Break My Heart"—and then he glanced in the rearview mirror. For a moment he was shocked at how gray his hair was. Sara was so blond and slender.
Oh, well. I'm a grown man,
thought Konrad Sejer as he pulled into the garage. He used the stairs, even though he lived on the thirteenth floor. He was trying to stay in shape; he took them at a run, without getting out of breath. Maybe he'd have a shower. As he pushed down the door handle, he heard his dog making a racket, bounding up to greet him. He opened the door a crack and whistled. Once Sejer was inside, the dog stood on his hind legs and pressed him against the wall. Now Sejer was wet all over—he definitely needed a shower. The dog sauntered into the living room. Sara called hello.

That's when he noticed the smell. He stood still for a moment, breathing it in. There were several different smells: nutmeg from the kitchen, and melted cheese. Bread baking in the oven. He could also still smell the dog, who had nearly devoured him. But the other smell! The unfamiliar smell coming from the living room. He took a few steps, peeked into the kitchen. She wasn't there. He kept going; the smell got stronger. Something wasn't right. He stopped. She was sitting on the sofa with her feet propped on the table. Soft music reached his ears from the stereo: Billie Holiday singing "God Bless the Child." She was wearing lipstick and a green dress. Her hair gleamed, blond and shiny, and he thought,
She's beautiful. But that's not it.
He glared at her.

"What is it?" she asked gently. There was no trace of anxiety in her voice.

"What are you doing?" he stammered.

"Relaxing." She gave him a radiant smile. "Dinner's ready. Jacob called, said he'd be here shortly."

It smells of hash, Sejer thought. Here, in my own living room. I know that smell, it's not like anything else, I can't be mistaken. He was dumbstruck, a mute beast, a fish out of water. The smell was thick in the whole room. He cast a wild glance at the balcony door, went over and opened it. He was so unbelievably surprised, so completely bowled over.

"Konrad," she said. "You look so strange."

He turned to face her. "It's nothing. Just ... something occurred to me." His voice didn't sound normal. He tried to think. Jacob could be there any second. Sara didn't look stoned, but maybe she would be soon. Jacob would think he condoned it, and he didn't. What on earth should he do? She's a psychiatrist, she works with people who are very sick, many of them destroyed by drugs—heroin and Ecstasy—and here she sits, getting stoned. On my sofa. I thought I knew her. But I suppose, after all, that I don't. The crease on Sejer's forehead was deeper than it had ever been.

Sara got to her feet. She placed her hands on his chest and stood on her toes—even then, he was taller than she was.

"You look so worried. Please don't be worried."

The only thing he smelled was the caramel scent of her lipstick. He swallowed hard, and there was an audible gulp in his throat.

Why do I become a child in the arms of this woman?
he wondered. And then, his voice hoarse, he asked her, "What's that strange smell?"

She laughed slyly. "I put a whole nutmeg in the mousaka by mistake, and I haven't been able to find it."

He stared at his feet. He certainly didn't have time for a shower now. Jacob would soon be at the doorbell. The fresh September air came streaming into the room. Billie Holiday was singing. He didn't know if the smell was still there as the room gradually cooled off.
Norwegian law,
he thought.
In accordance with Norwegian law.
It sounded ridiculous. He could say anything to her, but not that. It occurred to him that this woman had her own laws, and yet she had higher moral standards than anyone he knew. He felt like a schoolboy: there was so much he didn't know, so much he had never tried. He was curious about
people, he wanted to know about them, who they were and why they were that way. But right now he felt something wavering inside him.

The doorbell rang. Sara went to open the door. Jacob was sharp, though he looked like a schoolboy. Was the smell still there? His eyes stopped at the picture of Elise on the wall in front of him. She smiled back: she had no worries. For an instant she disappeared, seemed more dead than usual, it was harder to summon her back, her voice, her laughter. He felt a new kind of grief that she was about to leave him in a different way. Would it never end? He went out to the balcony. He liked this time of year better than the summer, liked the crisp autumn air and the bright colors. He took several deep breaths. He thought he ought to work out more; he wasn't getting any younger. There was plenty of life left. Matteus would grow up, black in a white world; he had to be there for him. Sejer shook his head, bewildered by his sudden gloom. And then, there was Jacob Skarre, standing next to him.

"Smells good!"

"What do you mean?" Sejer asked, on the defensive.

"From the kitchen," Jacob said.

They ate and drank and talked about their jobs. Sara told stories from the Beacon psychiatric hospital, where she worked as a doctor. She wasn't the least bit stoned, at least not that Sejer could see. But now and then he would glance at her surreptitiously, and he scrutinized Jacob more closely than usual. One of the things about Jacob was that he was so tactful. If he noticed anything he would never say so. Should he mention it himself when they were alone? He brooded over this as Jacob talked about a shooting incident. It was a bad case but an old story, one that repeated itself with few variations. Jacob was determined to confer with his God, to find some meaning in something which had no meaning. There wasn't any meaning or purpose; what had happened wasn't part of any higher plan that would lead to anything good. Sejer was convinced of that.

"It was a bunch of kids who were going to have a party. It happened the same way it always does. The guys bought the alcohol and then picked up the girls. One of the boys, called Robert, had a rented room and a stereo system. The landlord was gone, it was perfect timing. The idea was to get drunk, get laid, and then brag about it the next day." Skarre looked up at Sejer with the bluest eyes in the world. "Somebody also brought along some dope. They weren't really drug users. It's just considered decadent to smoke a little hash at a party, and it's not exactly a major crime anymore, not these days. To keep it short, the whole thing ended in great misery. They got drunk and they fought. Robert took out a shotgun and shot his girlfriend right in the face. Her name was Anita, eighteen years old. She died instantly."

He paused and stared into his glass of red wine. Held it by the stem, not wanting to leave any fingerprints on the bowl of the glass. It was amazing, Skarre's attention to detail.

"They were ordinary boys," he said to Sara. "I know it sounds as if they were nothing but the dregs of society, but they weren't. They all had jobs or were students. They came from decent homes. Had never done anything criminal."

He started swirling the wine in his glass. "In a way it's impossible to understand, don't you think? Except to suppose that something took over. Something from outside."

"You can't blame the Devil," Sejer said with a smile.

"I can't?"

"Hasn't he been officially excluded from the Norwegian church, as being nonexistent?"

"That's a great loss to humankind," Skarre said pensively.

"Why so?" Sara wanted to know.

"If we don't believe in the Devil, we won't be able to recognize him when he suddenly shows up."

"Blame the Devil? For heaven's sake. That would cut a lot of ice in court."