She sat and looked at that last sentence. Hadn’t noticed the resemblance herself until she wrote it.
The way he talks. Something about his facial expressions.
When was the last time any of us heard from Father?
Dad.
She put the notebook back in her bag. It felt good having it with her. Mailin’s notebook. Now it was hers. Maybe Mailin wanted her to write in it. The thought made her take it out again.
Why do I remember almost nothing from when I was a child?
I remember the way to school, a couple of the teachers, the names of some of the others who were in my class. I remember Tage coming to our house and that we hated him being there. I remember we sat on the sofa and watched Dad on TV and Mum went out and wouldn’t sit and watch with us. But I should have asked you about all the rest, Mailin. I have no memories of Dad from before the time he left. And yet I can picture him so clearly.
What happened to the memories? Are they gone, or just hidden away in boxes that can no longer be opened?
There is a policeman named Wouters in Amsterdam. I have tried to forget his name. If I manage that, maybe I can forget what happened there too. If I tell myself another story of what happened that night in Bloemstraat. Tell it over and over again. So many times that it turns into a memory and drives away what I see in front of me now.
She took the metro to Jernbanetorget, ran up the steps to Oslo Central. Another half-hour before the bus to Lørenskog. She slightly dreaded going out there. Her mother had made some attempt at putting up decorations. Hung the star up in the living-room window. Dug out the stable and crib she always put on the bookshelf at Advent. When they were children, Mailin and Liss were allowed to take turns each day putting a new figure into the display. Joseph and the asses, the wise men, the shepherds, the angels, Mary. The baby Jesus was saved until Christmas Eve morning. Her mother had carried on with the ritual after they moved out. Not for one moment had she ever believed what was supposed to have happened in that stable, yet the figures had to be displayed there, same ritual, year in and year out. And now it was as though she was putting them there to get Mailin to come home for Christmas, as she always did after the crib with the infant was finally in place.
Liss slowly crossed the pedestrian bridge to the bus terminal. Half turned. Couldn’t face the thought of spending the night at the house in Lørenskog. Headed back towards the railway station. Suddenly she caught sight of a figure over by a newspaper kiosk. He was thin and bony, with untidy black hair. She recognised him at once as the man who had turned up at Mailin’s office the first time she went there. He was wearing the same reefer jacket, with the anchor badge on the breast pocket. He was standing talking to a girl in a quilted jacket and dirty jeans.
Liss went straight up to him. – Do you recognise me?
The man glanced at her. There was a swollen scar on his forehead, beneath his fringe.
– Should I? he said, uninterested.
– I met you two days ago, at Mailin Bjerke’s office.
This time there was no sign of his previous unease.
– Dunno what you’re talking about.
But Liss had always had a better memory for faces than anything else.
– It was you. You stole something when you were there. What’s your name?
He turned his back and hurried away, the girl in the quilted jacket following. Liss ran after them.
– Why did you tear a page out of her appointments book?
– What the fuck are you talking about?
– I’ve told the police. They’re looking for you.
He stopped, took a step towards her. – If you say one more word to me, I will knock your teeth out.
He grabbed the girl by the hand and disappeared in the direction of the exit.
12
Friday 19 December
SHE CALLED VILJAM. Someone shouted something in the background when he answered. He didn’t hear what she said and she had to repeat it.
– I’m at a seminar, he said apologetically. – I’ve only got a minute before the break’s over. What is this about Mailin’s car?
– I need to borrow it.
– Borrow the car? Is that all right?
– Why wouldn’t it be?
– I don’t know. It might be evidence… Sorry, Liss, I’m just not quite with it. I’m sure it’ll be all right. I’ve got a spare key. When do you need it?
She had no deadline.
– I’m going out to the cabin this afternoon. I can come down and pick up the key. There’s something else I’ve got to do first.
The man who opened the door looked to be in his forties, slightly built and thin on top, with a widow’s peak. Though it was still quite early in the day, he was wearing a suit and a white shirt, although it wasn’t buttoned at the collar.
– Liss Bjerke, I presume? he said with the hint of a lisp. When she confirmed her name, he let her in.
– I am Odd. His butler, he added with a little bow before heading down the carpeted corridor and opening a door. – Berger, your visitor has arrived.
Liss heard a rumbling response. The man who called himself Odd beckoned to her.
– Berger will see you in the living room.
She almost burst out laughing at the absurd formality of his speech, but managed to hold it in.
The room was large and well lit, with wide windows and a balcony looking out on to Løvenskiolds Street. A man she recognised from pictures in the newspapers and on TV sat behind a desk by the window, tapping with two fingers on a computer keyboard. In the flesh he looked older, the face yellowish and sunken.
– Sit down, he said without looking up.
She remained standing. Never liked being ordered to do something, especially not by elderly men.
Finally Berger gave her his attention. – Quite all right that you remain standing. He smiled as he let his gaze roam across her. – A woman like you should never sit down until she has been seen.
He pointed to a sofa against the other wall. – You don’t look like your sister, he announced. – Not in the least. Coffee?
He stood up, dominating the room. There was a brass bell on the desk; he picked it up, rang it. Almost immediately, Odd appeared in the doorway.
– Bring us some coffee, would you, said Berger.
Odd addressed himself to Liss.
– Latte? Espresso? Americano?
His lisp seemed more pronounced than when she had arrived, and she suspected it might be an affectation.
– Espresso, she answered. – Preferably double.
Again the little bow before he disappeared. It seemed even more ridiculous this time, and Liss began wondering what sort of performance she was witness to.
– He introduced himself as your butler, she said as she reluctantly took a seat.
– That is precisely what he is, Berger replied. – As a matter of fact, a graduate of the best training school for butlers in London. I don’t know how I would manage without the man.
– Must be good for your image, Liss remarked.
Berger limped across to a chair on the other side of his desk. – Of course. That is what I live off. A butler’s salary is not so large and the returns are very quick.
He fished out a packet of cigarettes, French Gauloises, offered her one and a light from a gold lighter with the initials EB engraved on it.
– A present from my sponsors, he smiled as he noticed her studying it. – The closest I come to grace in this life is the way my sponsors treat me. I live on grace. By grace.
The door opened soundlessly and Odd appeared again, carrying a tray on which stood a silver pot, cups, saucers, sugar and a small jug of milk. He had pulled on a pair of thin white gloves, and this time Liss couldn’t contain her slight outburst of laughter. No one asked what she was laughing at, and after pouring their coffees Odd withdrew once more, as silently as he had entered.