Yours Until Death (23 page)

A cement lid had been screwed tight over the city and it was abnormally dark. The rain would come soon now.

I walked quickly down to Sandkaien and into the building where my office sits when I’m not there. When I went past the cafeteria on the second floor a strong smell of coffee assaulted my nose. But I didn’t fall for it and kept going.

I let myself into the office. It smelled of dry radiator air, old dust, abandonment, and it was like a tomb. ‘Hello, grave. Here comes the body,’ I said.

But nobody answered, not even the echo of my own voice.

I took off my jacket and sat behind the desk. A calendar hung in the middle of the wall. It still showed February, but I knew I wasn’t going to stand up, walk over there, tear off the sheet and turn the year ahead to March. Besides, I liked
February’s
picture better. It was a photograph of the harbour with a drift of snow over the roofs and mountains and the kind of sky a six-year-old would have painted: pure and blue.

I swivelled the chair and looked through the window. An angelic hand had splashed a handful of water against the pane. It was pitch-black outside now. The cars of Bryggen had their headlights on as if the drivers had forgotten to turn them off after the Eidsvåg Tunnel.

I could see the grocers down at the market hurriedly
stretching
tarpaulins across their stands, people scurrying to shelter with their umbrellas on guard.

Then the sky split down the middle. Lightning ripped the darkness. The thunder sounded as if Mount Fløien and Ulriken had collided and now were exploding into thousands of fragments. The thunder rumbled and rolled between the mountains like boulders. An invisible hand dashed a flock of chalk-white gulls against Ask Island and they protested loudly as they vainly tried to brake with their wings. A pigeon with black button eyes landed on the cornice outside my window and hurried into the corner where it stood with its head cocked and waited for the voice of doom to fall silent and the wheat to be separated from the chaff.

And then the rain came.

It was as if the sea itself loomed like a wall over the city. The raindrops were huge, heavy and grey, and they fell in cascades. They burst on the pavements and streets, in seconds turned the tarpaulins in the market into bulging hammocks. They turned the gutters into spring-crazy mountain brooks, sent brown water seething into the drains with the speed of a hurricane.

The streets emptied in minutes. People sheltered against walls, under gateways, in doorways and entrances to the public toilets. The shops filled with people just looking around and in cafeterias four or five strangers sat at each table.

I sat in my office and watched that violent drama. New bolts of lightning struck the city like fountains of fire. New thunder claps rolled over us like water rushing into a basin. A deluge washed the city clean for the forthcoming week and flooded away all traces of the weekend.

It was almost half an hour before it was over. The
lightning
died away over Fana like distant distress signals from a flashlight with a fading battery. The thunder weakened to a distant rumbling. The rain tapered off and lay like shining silk
on the rooftops, the trees on the mountainsides and farther out on Strandkaien. It glistened on the colourful umbrellas of people leaving their hiding places, one by one, with their white upturned faces and eyes like newly lit suns. The storm was over and life could go on.

I flipped through the phone book, found the right number and called Richard Ljosne. When he answered I said, ‘Ljosne? This is Veum.’

‘Oh? Hello again. Thanks for – the last time.’

I listened to his voice and I could see him. The Wolf.
Wolf-grey
hair. On guard behind his desk. Steel in his arms and legs.

‘I’ve just been talking to Wenche. She said not to give you her best.’

‘What do you mean?’ he said.

‘She said not to give you her best.’

‘No?’

‘No. She wasn’t exactly pleased by what you told me.’

‘That I … But did you tell her …?’

‘You lied, didn’t you, Ljosne? You didn’t sleep with her last Tuesday, did you? You didn’t get that far. For once you had to pass, didn’t you?’

I listened to the silence. The sky was already getting lighter. It had stopped raining. ‘Well? Ljosne?’

‘Well, perhaps I didn’t,’ he said slowly. Reluctant.

‘Why did you lie, Ljosne?’

I would have liked to see him but I didn’t have time to travel that far just to look at the stupid expression on his face when he said, ‘You know – how it is, Veum. Between us men.’

‘No. No, I don’t know how it is. Tell me about it. You’re the one who’s seen the world. You’re the expert on women.’

‘Listen, Veum. You don’t have to be a smart-arse. I know I
– I know it was stupid. A person ought to keep his mouth shut now and then.’

‘Not just now and then,’ I said. ‘All the time. But you still haven’t told me how it is between us men.’

‘Well. Well. No, I didn’t sleep with her. That’s true. But sometimes you say more than you mean to. Am I right? And I’d already said plenty – about all the other women. And I told you Wenche turned me on. How could I go on to tell you about my biggest rejection? Just like that? I couldn’t do it, Veum. I couldn’t. I’m too much of a man to admit I was turned down.’

‘So she said no?’

‘So she said no. Simple and direct. No. I asked if I could come in. And she said no, absolutely not, Richard. And that was that. She said no and I went home and slept with myself instead.’

‘And was that so hard to tell me?’

‘Damn right it was, Veum.’

‘As hard as the other thing?’

‘The other thing?’ Long pauses between the words.

‘About your son. The Man Without a Country. Johan
Pedersen
. Joker. Your son by a woman named Hildur Pedersen. A son you’ve kept track of and helped all his life but always at a distance. Why didn’t you tell me, Ljosne?’

‘I … I … I don’t see what this has to do with anything. A man’s entitled to some secrets.’

‘As long as he’s not hiding a murderer.’

‘A murderer? That’s ridiculous, Veum. You can’t mean that Johan had anything to do with …’

‘No, Ljosne. I don’t mean that. I know he didn’t. But we’re dealing with a murder and the more secrets, the harder it is to get to the truth. If there is any, other than –’

‘Veum.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘I’ve got money, Veum. I can pay. If you’ll just keep my name out of it. So people won’t know about Johan. I can –’

‘What’s wrong with an illegitimate child these days, Ljosne?’

‘It’s not that. But people will know and they’ll say I let him down. That I made him what he is today.’

‘Maybe they’d be right.’

‘Listen. I don’t know who’s paying you for what you’re doing. But I doubt it’s Wenche. I’ll be glad to pay my share of your fee, Veum. So you can help her. If you’ll just …’

I stared at the ceiling. This was the moment just before somebody knocked a hole in it and started pouring gold pieces on to my head. People promised me money right and left, but it never made it to my letter box for some reason. Maybe there was something wrong with the delivery.

‘My fee
will
be paid, Ljosne. Any more secrets for me before we hang up?’

‘No. No, but –’

‘So long, Ljosne. See you some time at the old folks’ home. Or at a truss sale. Run today, Ljosne, but stay off my roads. OK?’

‘I –’

I didn’t wait to hear the rest. After I’d hung up I realised he could have got me some bottles of aquavit cheap. But then I realised they wouldn’t ever taste good.

I had a very important call to make. The bright patches of sky had grown. Maybe we’d get a glimpse of blue before it faded and got dark.

I called the Pallas Advertising Agency and asked to speak to Solveig Manger. ‘One moment please.’ The voice was bored.

I waited, looked at my watch. The display worked under the
broken crystal. Already after two. Somewhere behind that
grey-white
wool blanket the sun had fallen two degrees closer to the horizon. Like the ghost of a distant summer it was sneaking quickly and guiltily across the sky without ever showing itself.

I heard her voice. It sounded anxious as if she hadn’t heard much good news recently. ‘Hello? This is Solveig Manger.’

‘Hello. My name’s Veum. Varg Veum. I’m a private
investigator
, and I –’

She interrupted. ‘If this is a joke, then –’

‘No, no, Fru Manger. It’s no joke. I’m sorry if it sounds like one, but –’

‘I’m sorry. I’m a little – sensitive just now. I’ve never talked to a private investigator before.’

‘No. Right. You haven’t,’ I said. Relieved. ‘Not a lot of people have. Until I call them. But I – I’d be exaggerating if I said I knew Jonas well, but we – we got pretty close late one evening before he … And he talked about you in a way that … Well, you might want to know what he said, and maybe you could tell me something about him. As a matter of fact, I’m trying to find out what really happened.’

‘Find out what really happened? I thought the police … I … OK, just a minute.’ She’d been interrupted and I could hear her saying, ‘No, not just now. Could you give me five minutes? OK. Close the door if you don’t mind.’ And then she was back. ‘Hello! You said you wanted to talk to me?’

‘I would really like to,’ I said. ‘If it’s not too much trouble. I thought a lot of Jonas, as a matter of fact, even if I didn’t know him well. I –’

She interrupted again. ‘Let’s get one thing straight – Veum. That is your name?’

‘It is.’

‘My husband knows all about Jonas and me. At least he does now. The police were kind enough to tell him. I suppose they felt they had to.’ She sighed so you could have heard her all the way across Vågen. ‘So there’s no money in case that’s what you were thinking. Not to insult you, but –’

Now it was my turn to interrupt. As calmly as I could I said, ‘People have the wrong impressions of private detectives, Fru Manger. They see too many American films. They get the idea that we’re broad-shouldered, dark-haired studs with a bottle of whisky in one pocket and a sexy blonde in the other. If we’re not dirty little grease-balls with egg on our ties who comb our greasy hair over bald spots and make a living
blackmailing
naughty housewives, the truth is …’ I looked around the office.

‘The truth is,’ I said, ‘that we’re little grey non-entities who hang out in shabby little offices with a stack of unpaid bills we’ve let go so long that they don’t bother us any more. And we own calendars we haven’t the courage to tear February off. And we look like encyclopedia salesmen.’ I drew a deep breath. ‘When can we meet?’

‘Tell me,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘do you usually talk like this?’

‘Only when I’m sober,’ I said.

‘I don’t know if I see the point in –’ she said.

‘Don’t let my nonsense scare you, Fru Manger. I get carried away, and then I’m not responsible. But face to face with a lady under sixty? I’m as lovesick as a thirteen-year-old and as dangerous as a wingless fly.’

‘There’s a tea-shop in Øvregaten behind the Maria Church,’ she said.

‘Right. I know where it is.’

We could meet there. About three-thirty?’

‘Great. I’ll be there.’

‘It’ll have to be quick. I’ve got to be home by four-thirty. My husband …’ She didn’t finish the sentence and I could
understand
why. Manger’s patience was bound to be a little strained.

‘No problem,’ I said. ‘See you then.’

I hung up. ‘Good lord,’ I said to myself. I’d done it.

I stood up, walked around the desk and over to the calendar and raised my hand. Stood there. ‘No, not yet,’ I said. ‘Not just yet.’

Then I locked up and dawdled the two floors down to the ruination of everything man considers edible. Ate my dinner as slowly and carefully as a condemned man might. But no
condemned
prisoner could ever have deserved that punishment.

The Bergen Electric Ferry Company owns and operates the little ferry which crosses Vågen between Nykirken and
Bradbenken
. The company’s logo – B.E.F. – is painted on the sides of the boat.

We called her
Beffen
when we were kids and made that endless journey across Vågen to practise gymnastics in the Viking Hall.

Later we took
Beffen
to go to dances in that same hall. The ferry stopped running just as the dance was over. And those of us who couldn’t find a girl to see home ‘somewhere out in Sandviken’ because all the girls worth seeing home lived ‘somewhere out in Sandviken’, or in the opposite direction from where we were headed – we, who didn’t have a girl to see home, had to
walk
all the endless way around Vågen.

They’ve changed
Beffen
since then. The old brown-
and-white
wooden boat is now fibreglass. Orange-and-white. She rides higher in the water now and her engine sounds different.

For old times’ sake, I walked out to Gågaten, bought a paper at a news-stand and then walked down to take
Beffen
across Vågen to Dreggen.

Those years in Nordnes always seem clearer when I travel this way between seasons. It gives me time to think about those days.

I can’t remember that the trolley went all the way out to Nordnes. But I do remember my father getting off the bus
up in Haugeveien with his conductor’s satchel over his
shoulder
and his cap not exactly four-square on his head. His face was ruddy in the summer and a sort of greyish-red in winter. It was a strong face. Round, with a fullness in his cheeks on either side of his mouth. His mouth was always tense. As if he were just swinging off or on to a trolley that hadn’t stopped or started yet.

He’d come down the steps from Haugeveien and I’d come running, calling him. Saying hello. He’d ruffle my hair, look at me with his pale clear eyes and ask if I’d been a good boy. And then he’d go home to his books and newspapers. And a quarter of an hour later my mother’d come up from the alley and call, ‘Varg! It’s dinnertime!’

I can close my eyes and see her face to this day. Always pale, but a face of gentle contours – like the rest of her. Her mouth belonged to a prettier – or maybe a younger – face than hers. Her eyes were warmer and darker than my father’s, and her voice was always welcoming.

I can remember the checked tablecloth. I remember the salted cod one day, haddock in white sauce the next. Fish dumplings one day, fish chowder the next. Potato dumplings and salted meat one day, hash the next. Dessert on Sundays. Jelly with a synthetic taste and warm vanilla sauce. My father at one end of the table, my mother at the other. I sat in the middle, facing the window. The window was the fourth person at the table because time and the seasons were out there:
brilliant
sunshine, pouring rain, or snow and glittering hoar-frost. Once – and an eternity ago.

They’re dead now. And it’s been a long time since I sat at a dinner table with as many as three people around it. And there’s almost nothing left of the Nordnes I knew.

I boarded
Beffen
and walked aft. Looked back at Nordnes, at the tall ugly brick buildings that edge Vågen now, at that infinite variety of misbegotten architecture that stretches like the Great Wall from the market to Nordnesbakken.

Suddenly it hurt. As if
Beffen
were taking me away from my own promised land, from my childhood. I thought of those I’d left behind. Of the dead I’d escorted to their graves. Of the faces I’d never see again. Of the houses I’d never again run between. Neither as a little boy nor as a grown man. Because all those houses were gone. Not one was still standing.

We chugged towards Mount Fløien and Dreggen, and the parts of Bergen that were still relatively unchanged. Small wooden houses still defended their turf up on the
mountainside
. Old buildings still stood along Bryggen. And Mount Fløien still surveyed the whole, its contours as they always had been, contours nobody could change. Or could they?

I walked through
Beffen
and on to dry land.