When the Devil Holds the Candle (8 page)

"No, no." Jacob shook his head. "Try to think of it like this. We encounter the Devil all the time. The question is, how do we handle him?" He fell silent for a moment. "I don't really believe in the Devil, but I have doubts now and then," he said, smiling.

"For example, when I saw the photo of Anita—what was left of her—or Robert's face through the bars sitting in his cell. He's a good person."

"All of us are both good and bad, Jacob," Sara said. "It's not an either-or."

"You're right. But some people are fundamentally good. Others are fundamentally cynical. I'm talking about a basic tone that exists in every person. And in Robert, it's good. Don't you agree, Konrad?"

Oh yes. He agreed. But he didn't understand it. He didn't go to bed—gave himself an extra hour. Sara and Jacob were going in the same direction, so they shared a taxi. He patted his leg, the signal for his dog to come and lie down at his feet. His thoughts whirled: Matteus, Sara, Jacob, Robert, and everything that happens. But life is not basically bad. The red wine had taken effect, he had to admit. He'd drunk his fill and a little more besides. Matteus would be fine, everyone was healthy, he was doing well in his job. And he would work out this thing with Sara. Later. He stared up at the picture of Elise. Since all was finally quiet in the building and anyway no one could see him, he drew her a little closer.

Ingrid Sejer was also still awake. She had put Matteus to bed at 8
P.M.
, sung him a song and tucked him in. Later on she went to get his school bag to check that everything was there: books and gym kit. She took it out to the living room and opened it. She glanced through his books, made sure his pencil was sharp, that his eraser and glue stick and scissors were there. A folded slip of paper fell out, blue-tinted paper, not a kind she recognized. perhaps it was a message from his teacher, intended for her.

I'M GONNA CUT THREE GASHES IN YOUR BACK AND I'M GONNA RUB SALT IN THEM SO THEY HURT LIKE HELL.

YOU FUCKING BLACK!

As I said, Andreas was handsome. He had a flawless complexion. Fair and smooth, with rosy cheeks. And clean. I've always been aware of the importance of cleanliness; it's something I learned early on. Nothing is ever left lying around at my house, either inside or out. I go out in the evening to check. The neighbors are not so meticulous—I've seen everything from bikini tops to dirty coffee cups on the patio table next door. Now, I don't mean it's a catastrophe, but I don't understand it. How can they stand at the window and see those dirty cups, and then go to bed and sleep soundly? For my part, I am always considerate. I think that's important. We're not alone in the world, after all.

I sit in the red chair in the dark and listen. Even though it's quiet, sometimes I think I can hear someone outside. A warning of everything that is to come. A silent stream of people coming to the house, curious. Ingemar won't miss me, but he will do his duty. Put a notice in the paper. Send word to my two sisters, who are far away. They always write at Christmas: Everything is fine. We keep in contact with other people.

We're not really afraid to die. We're only afraid of being forgotten. We know that we'll be forgotten, and the idea is unbearable, don't you agree? As time passes we become less frequent visitors in the minds of those left behind. The ones who clear
out the house, divide up the belongings, throw away the rubbish—and forget. If we knew that every evening someone lit a candle and sat down to think—think about us, if only for a few seconds—then we could depart this earth in peace. No one will light a candle for me. Who would do that? But I've arranged things so that when my name is mentioned it will be with horror and amazement. A picaresque story. Maybe my picture will be in the paper. I've got rid of all photos of myself except for one, which shows me almost young, forty or so. The worst thing about dying is not being dead and buried. Dead and buried: that's proper, that's final. It's the hours before, when you're still in the hands of the living. They're only human, after all. I can imagine some of the things they'll say. I won't repeat them here, but they'll be said. I know what they are.

***

Andreas sauntered along, taking long strides, with Zipp plodding diligently at his side. They were making for the river. Not because of its steady roar or the way lights flickered in the black water: those weren't things they thought about. Nevertheless, the water drew them. There was a raw wind, and Zipp stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets to warm them. They found a bench and there they sat, in silence. When water is flowing past, it's not necessary to talk. Each was lost in his own thoughts, fantasizing about falling in, struggling against the current and the cold of the water. A sense of solemnity came over them. Zipp was gloomily thinking about the girl in the striped jumper. Annoyed, he scratched his crotch.

"A nightcap right about now. That would be good."

Andreas nodded and squinted down at the river—a black, heavy thing that never really got going. They had spent all of Gina's money.

"If an old lady with a handbag came along, I'd fucking grab it," he said. "Just grab it and run."

"We've done enough for one day," Zipp said. "And by the way, all the old ladies are in bed by now."

They fell silent again. A low murmur could be heard from the square behind them. Laughter and curses: Lots of people were drunk. They'd been drinking all night, at last finding courage and self-confidence, and now they were bent on showing it. Ready for a fight, in other words. There were signs of a brawl in the taxi line, and they could hear a few words: "You ape." "Damn Turkish devil."

"Shit," Andreas said. "Let's mug someone."

"Mug who?"

"Anyone."

"Calm down!"

Zipp couldn't understand what was bugging Andreas. He wasn't himself; something was building inside him. They both turned around to look at the city, searching for a wounded animal, easy prey. Most people could defend themselves pretty well, and it was possible that the two of them could get beaten up instead. They craved a release but they were also frightened. Wariness of their plan chafed them; an intuitive sense of what it might lead to, as if they were coming to the end of a lengthy process that had begun long ago. Their fear gave them a dose of adrenaline, and it felt good. They headed up toward the taxi rank, passing the tent where beer was being served; in spite of the early autumn chill, it was still in use—the proprietors had installed a heater. They heard the glasses clinking and ground their teeth. They cut across the main street, went past the town hall. Zipp realized that they were approaching the church. Andreas led the way; Zipp jogged along behind. He didn't understand why they were going there. No one would be out tending the graves. No old women with pension checks in their handbags.
The church spread over a hill above the square and without a doubt commanded the best view in the whole city. That's where the castle would have stood if the city had had a king, Zipp thought. They walked among the gravestones, reading the inscriptions.
I AM THE WAY, THE TRUTH AND THE LIFE.
Andreas stood with his hands on his hips and stared at the words. Zipp kicked at the ground, puzzled.

"It ends here," Andreas said in a low voice.

"What do you mean?"

"All of it. Everything that we are."

Zipp looked around in bewilderment. They were enveloped in silence and darkness. "What's with you? Skip work tomorrow," he suggested. "We can catch a lift out of town. We'll think of something. We could go to fucking Sweden."

"I've missed enough days as it is."

His voice had a dejected tone to it, Zipp noticed. Something was definitely up. Zipp was suddenly nervous.

"I'm kind of in the doghouse right now," Andreas said. "I've got to watch my step."

"But your boss is a woman. I can't understand how you can let some bitch order you around."

"A boss is a boss. She's the one who pays my wages."

"What about buck naked?" Zipp said. "A screw for a day off!"

"You have to draw the line somewhere."

"And where would that be?"

"At varicose veins and a mustache."

"What about the Woman? You like them that way, don't you?"

Andreas didn't reply.

"Hey!" A devil had got into Zipp, but he was trying to cheer Andreas up. "Do you lie on a sheepskin rug, or what?"

Andreas gave him a long look. Zipp couldn't restrain his laughter. He could picture Andreas, naked on a sheepskin rug. And an old lady with a brush and artist's smock. He was hysterical at the idea. Maybe Andreas was holding a brightly colored ball in his hands. Maybe an orange. And then he laughed even harder. He roared into the silence among the graves, doubled over with laughter, then stood there in the grass, gasping. He snorted several times through his snub nose, let out a few hoarse squeaks, then more snorts. Andreas gave him a weary smile, pulled his hands out of his pockets, jumped forward, grabbed hold of Zipp's jacket, and started boxing him. Not hard, they were friends, after all, but Zipp almost lost his balance. He stumbled backward a few paces as he raised his hands in a halfhearted attempt to defend himself. But the comic image wouldn't let go, and he laughed so hard that tears poured down his cheeks while he fumbled to hold his friend at bay. Andreas lunged forward. There was turf underfoot and Zipp fell on it, but didn't hurt himself. He was still fighting to control his laughter when he caught sight of Andreas's face. His expression was almost demonic, as if he'd gone berserk. And now he was on top of Zipp. What the fuck! Andreas had made up his mind, his strength was based on sheer will, and Zipp was helpless, overcome by hysterical sputtering; he was gasping for air even while he wondered what was coming to him. A fist in the head or a knee in the stomach? Andreas looked so strange. Zipp waited for him to let go, but he didn't. While he stared at Andreas through tears of laughter, he tried to remember what he had said that could provoke such a fierce expression on the face he knew so well, that was now so close to his own—shining eyes, red cheeks, teeth gleaming white in the darkness, warm breath against his chin. Andreas had locked his hands so that he lay helpless on his back in his tight jeans. And then, slowly, Andreas began thrusting against him in a steady rhythm. Zipp stared at him in surprise, couldn't grasp what he was doing. Zipp wasn't very bright, and Andreas seemed somewhere far away as he kept thrusting and thrusting. Suddenly he stopped. His eyes could see again; they looked at Zipp with such vulnerability. He loosened his grip. Zipp stayed where he was as he struggled to understand. And then, before he managed to work it out, he felt a hand between his thighs. It began rubbing him, the slender hand, rubbing and rubbing. He was caught off guard. To his horror he felt desire seize him, and something struck him like thunder inside: a terror so great that he felt as if he would split in half. From the depths of his soul he managed at last to summon a scream. It came all the way from his feet, it sliced through his body and into Andreas's face, blasting him away, and with a mighty leap he was on his feet—still screaming, incoherently bellowing, in a voice that he didn't recognize. He clenched his fists, ready to strike anything, to crush and rip it, smash it to pieces!

Very slowly, Andreas got to his feet, without releasing his gaze. Zipp was like a raging animal, ready to attack. Andreas stood at a reassuring distance, keeping an eye on him and preparing himself. At that moment Zipp was the stronger one—strong enough to kill. One wrong move and he'd do it with his bare hands.

"Shit, Zipp," Andreas whispered. "I didn't mean to."

"Shut up! Shut up, you asshole, you fucking queer!"

"I didn't mean..."

"I don't want to hear it! I don't want to know anything. Don't touch me, God damn it!"

Andreas raised his voice. Zipp could hear anger behind his words.

"That's just the way it is! It's always been that way!"

There was a plea in his eyes. Zipp was thunderstruck. He had never guessed it, not in his wildest imaginings. Anything but this. So what if Andreas was particular about girls, if he preferred older women—that was all fine, appealing almost, it suited the way he was. But gay?

"What about the Woman?" he whispered, out of breath. "Was it all a bluff?"

"No." Andreas stared at his feet. "She's ... a cover."

"What the fuck! A cover?"

"You believed it, didn't you?"

"Do you sleep with girls or don't you?"

Zipp couldn't sort it out, his emotions were tied in knots. He'd been oblivious, hadn't suspected a thing, but now it was so clear. Andreas had never been interested in women, and Zipp, idiot that he was, had been blind as a bat. He felt such a fool.

"I sleep with her, but it's just a cover."

Now there was total silence. A floodlight near the church wall sent a white beam over the patch where they stood, facing each other with fists clenched. Zipp felt as if everything had been staged by some higher power. Someone had placed them here, someone had put the words in his mouth. And directed what he had felt—the desire when Andreas touched him, the urge to destroy him that followed. Confused, he stood there, stamping his feet. There was nothing to do but leave: this was too much for him. If only he had suspected something, thought it through over time, been able to prepare himself. But if he left now, everything would be over. Forever. He knew that, and Andreas knew it too. He was still waiting, fists ready, to attack or to defend himself. From now on, he would have to live with the knowledge that Zipp knew—and that he might tell others. And Zipp had to live with what Andreas had done. For several seconds, desire had swelled inside him. The hand had been like all other hands, like a girl's hand. His head couldn't control what was between his legs, God damn it! There was a difference, wasn't there? Was there a difference? He wanted to knock down all the headstones, rip up all the plants, smash the whole town!

"The fact that you..." Andreas stammered. "It doesn't mean anything that you reacted that way. It's normal. Everybody..."