Mailin, I miss you.
I miss you too, Liss.
Why didn’t you clear out the fireplace before you left?
I can’t tell you that.
There are only five more days to Christmas. I want you to come home.
She wrote down in detail what Mailin might have done at the cabin on that last visit: cooked some food, sat with a glass of wine and stared into the fireplace, or worked on her computer by the light of the paraffin lamp. She wrote down what her sister might have been thinking before she fell asleep. How she packed the next day, suddenly in a rush because she had to meet someone and didn’t have time to clean the fireplace. She hurried through the trees and down to the car. Drove out of the parking space.
Liss couldn’t imagine what happened after that.
15
Tuesday 23 December
THE COMMUNAL KITCHEN was sparsely equipped. A fridge, a table and five chairs, a small cooker, a microwave. On one wall hung a poster of Salvador Dali’s melting wristwatch.
A guy in a hoodie came in, gave Liss a quick look, took something out of the fridge, it looked like liver pâté. He cut himself a slice of bread, buttered it and hurried out again with the bread in his hand.
Just then Catrine returned from the toilet.
– Promise me you’ll never move into a student village, she warned her. – The moment I can afford something else, I’m out of here. She scowled in the direction of the kitchen surface, which was covered in dirty dishes and leftovers. – You’ve no idea how tired I am of people not tidying up after themselves. The guy that was just in here is one of the messiest pigs I’ve ever shared a kitchen with, and that’s saying something.
When they were living together in the commune in Schweigaards Street, Catrine had often been annoyed by the same things: pigs, usually of the male variety, who never cleaned up. Liss refreshed her friend’s memory, and Catrine had to concede that there had been a couple there who were almost as bad.
– If I ever move in with a guy, it’ll be a male nurse, she said now. – At least they know how to keep things tidy.
– I can’t actually see you with a male nurse, Liss observed.
– Don’t say that. I don’t mind if he’s a bit of a wimp. Maybe even gay. As long as he tidies up after himself.
It had been more than three years since Liss had last seen her. Catrine had let her hair grow, and dyed it black. She’d changed her way of dressing, too. From baggy pullovers to tight-fitting tops with low necklines trimmed with lace from the push-up bra beneath. From wide unisex jeans to skinny jeans that gave her a better-shaped bum than she’d ever had before. When Liss asked, she had to confess that she’d starting going to the gym as well. She was still into politics, but it was a long time since she’d last squatted in a house or fought in a street battle. She was studying political science now and sat on the board of some student body.
– How are things at home?
Liss didn’t think of the house in Lørenskog as home, but she let it pass.
– I’m sure you can imagine what it’s like.
Catrine nodded. – It seems so unreal to me. For you it must be completely…
She couldn’t finish the sentence, and Liss didn’t respond. She had visited Catrine for a break. Not to have to talk about all the things that were troubling her. Catrine obviously understood this. She stood up, fetched coffee, apple juice and biscuits.
– I see you’re still on a negative calorie budget, said Liss when she saw the packet.
– Yep.
– You don’t eat meat either?
– Now and then. But not wolf or bear.
Liss had to smile, a moment’s light relief, and then the thoughts began again.
– What does death by water mean to you? she said as she tipped three rounded spoonfuls of instant coffee into a cup. – Got thousands of hits when I googled it. I think it must be the title of a film. Or a novel.
Catrine was better read than she was and went to see a lot of weird movies.
– Has a familiar ring to it, she agreed. – How about the name of a rock band?
She popped out to her room, returned with a computer, got online. Almost immediately she exclaimed:
– Of course. The Waste Land by T. S. Eliot. I did actually once read it.
Liss peered over her shoulder.
– I like that. A drowned Phoenician.
– Why the sudden interest in poetry? Catrine wondered. – You’ve never been much of a reader.
She read the rest.
– It might have something to do with Mailin, she said. – She wrote Ask him aboutdeath by water on a note and pinned it to her noticeboard.
Catrine clicked forward to a commentary and read aloud:
– The Waste Land is a journey through a kaleidoscopic world labouring beneath a curse of sterility. Few who appear in that desolate landscape see any hope, almost all are blind.
She turned to Liss. – Do you think this has something to do with Mailin’s disappearance?
– Very unlikely. But every trace of her I come across seems to have some kind of significance for me. Everything that might tell me something about what she was thinking, what she was doing.
After the coffee, Catrine brought out a bottle of Southern Comfort. She’d always liked sweet-tasting things. After a couple of drinks she suggested that she and Liss take a trip into town. Liss didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know whether Catrine really wanted to spend the whole evening with her. Felt herself surrounded by a membrane that protected her but also certainly made her inaccessible.
– I’m not exactly a bundle of laughs right now, she said.
– Get a grip, Liss Bjerke. Catrine sounded offended. – If you really think I’m out for a bundle of laughs, then…
– Well I could certainly do with having something completely different to occupy my mind, Liss said, interrupting her as she emptied her glass. She couldn’t face the thought of going back to Lørenskog and spending the night before Christmas Eve with her mother and Tage.
Despite having a pretty limited wardrobe of clothes, Catrine took almost an hour to decide what to wear. Liss was given the job of stylist, for which Catrine asserted she was extremely well qualified, adding, with appropriate irony, that she had read in Dagbladet’s magazine article that she was on the brink of a career as a top model. Liss didn’t mention that she herself had spent less than ten minutes getting ready to go out. She had chosen one of the pullovers she found in Mailin’s dresser. Her leather jacket was finally dry, but it had some disfiguring stains on the lapel. Catrine ended up with a short, clinging satin dress. She lay down on the floor and struggled into a pair of sheer tights without knickers. She had arranged to meet a friend from her political science course. Her name was Therese, and she had something going with a footballer. – He plays in the First Division, Catrine revealed as they sat on the metro heading into town. – A premium quality piece of beef, I believe.
Therese was standing outside Club Mono doing something with her phone. She was short and dark, with intense black eyes. An unlit cigarette dangled from her narrow lips.
– Where’s the fillet steak? Catrine enquired.
– On his way.
Liss was only mildly interested in the codes they spoke in, but Catrine had clearly decided that her friend wasn’t going to feel left out of things this evening.
– Therese and I have developed a system of classification for our dates, she explained.
– Simplicity itself, Therese added. – The same as they use at the meat counter. That’s to say, shoulder and rump are ziemlich schlecht.
– Offal is worst, Catrine said with a grimace. – I can’t stand liver.
– OK, liver and offal are worst, Therese conceded. – Next comes shoulder and rump and so on. Cutlets and ham aren’t bad.