Arnfinn sank back on the sofa. He’d obviously finished his story and seemed tired.
‘Very good,’ I said calmly. ‘Is there a point to it?’
‘There certainly is a point,’ said Arnfinn. ‘That snake had escaped from one of the neighbouring houses, where a man had been keeping it as a pet. Then it got in through the open window and was attracted to the warmth under the duvet on the boy’s bed. Ever since that night, he’s found it extremely hard to sleep. He’s nearly sixty now, and he’s still got problems sleeping.’
Here Arnfinn paused for a while. He was waiting for me to say something; it was probably my turn.
‘So, was it you?’ I asked, and now my interest was genuine, because the story about the snake was both compelling and a bit exotic.
‘You asked me why I drink,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t take much. That’s all I’m trying to say.’
‘Did you find a snake in your bed?’ I wanted to know. ‘When you were a boy. Is it a true story?’
‘I have problems sleeping,’ he repeated mulishly.
He gesticulated with open hands. He’d clearly given me what he had to give, and now at last I went to the cupboard and fetched the bottle of vodka. I poured a stiff one and pushed it towards him.
‘It’s none of my business why you drink,’ I said generously. ‘And it’s none of your business why I do the things I do. But people always want to go round rubbing shoulders with each other. Confiding, understanding, explaining. Let’s skip all that, shall we? We’re grown-ups after all.’
Arnfinn raised the glass of vodka to his mouth, and now he looked blissful.
‘But you’ve probably got a tale to tell, too,’ he suggested. ‘About a small boy.’
I shook my head emphatically. At the same time I saw how Arnfinn’s face softened and turned gentle and friendly.
‘I’ve never been a small boy,’ I explained.
Arnfinn chuckled good-naturedly. His body had become loose and relaxed, and he rocked as he sat on the sofa. He was migrating into those bright, shining halls again.
‘Never been a small boy,’ he mimicked. ‘Now I’ve heard everything.’
‘I haven’t a single childhood memory,’ I explained.
He was a little taken aback by my obstinacy.
‘Were you ill or something?’ he wanted to know.
‘As I said,’ I reiterated, ‘I can’t remember very much at all. Apart from a little shit at school who called me a pike. Well, and I do remember my confirmation. And everything in between is missing. It’s simply missing.’
Arnfinn’s eyes opened wide in amazement.
‘But I do have a memory,’ I added. ‘Of my mother. A skirt with two legs. And a pair of big shoes. Everything further up passed me by. Hands. Heart. Head. I mean, they were there all right, but I never managed to get hold of them. D’you know what she used to say? You’re always strongest when you’re on your own. That was the way I was raised.’
‘Yes, it’s just one unending bloody struggle,’ Arnfinn opined, but his tone was jocular now, the vodka had made him happy and turned his cheeks red. ‘My bodywork’s in terrible condition,’ he went on, ‘ugly, dented and rusty. But my heart ticks over like an old Opel engine. I bet that when my chassis has fallen to pieces, that motor will still be humming along. I get my strong heart from my mother. My God, how it beats.’
He placed a hand on his chest and cocked his head.
‘And what do you get from your father?’ I wanted to know.
Arnfinn pondered the question for a long time.
‘This here,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘He drank himself to death. Mind if I refill my hip flask?’
Chapter 16
Naturally, I refilled his hip flask.
Naturally, I stroked and humoured him as if he were a lost dog. I listened to all his stories, both those that showed him in a good light, and those that showed him in a less flattering one, as a parasite. The narrative about the curse of alcohol, which I wanted to understand, the cold and the loneliness, the wide road to perdition. I wanted to make a difference, to mean something to this forlorn individual, because I was in a friendly state of mind, and time was running out. Naturally I acquired another bottle of vodka and put it in the cupboard. And I continued to visit the park near Lake Mester. I sat on my bench and waited for the others; gradually they came trooping up, like beasts to a waterhole: Ebba, Lill Anita, Miranda, Eddie and Janne. The huge, unhappy black man from the Reception Centre. The strange thing was, although Arnfinn and I could now be counted as friends, or at least acquaintances, he never seated himself next to me on my bench. And he never started a conversation when we met in the park. This was part of the ritual between us, that everything should be done in moderation. We both understood that. And we followed the unwritten rule that nothing should be too intimate, but remain in modest, decorous proportion. Come to my house and drink yourself to warmth and brightness, I thought, but leave when the bottle’s empty. I can’t carry you the entire time, I’ve got enough of my own black days. So he was an unassuming friend in a mad world, a friend who kept me engaged and enthusiastic, something quite new in my barren and austere life.
I went to work.
I watched Anna and all her doings closely, I pictured her aura: it was large and warm and red. I tried to enter it, but it wasn’t easy, she was out of reach, as I’d always known she was. But I had something she wanted, something she lacked, something very valuable. The truth about her drowned brother Oscar. It was my great secret. But I kept it close, because I wanted it to last.
Waldemar Rommen passed away. No one was with him when he drew his last breath, but Dr Fischer sat by his bed a long time mulling it over. The sad ending that overtakes us all. He was reminiscent of a mournful dog as he sat by the bed rubbing his temple. A few relatives eventually turned up to take their final farewell. One of them, a teenaged boy, seemed terrified by the thought of what lay in store. But there was nothing frightening about Waldemar. He lay like some ancient chieftain on his bed, with prominent cheekbones and a sharp, impressive nose. The undertakers took him away quite quickly, and we had an empty bed. A sixty-year-old woman with MS was admitted to the ward.
I paid a quick visit to the room to see to her. I had to assess her character and how I should behave towards her. She could speak, and she seemed orientated, so I couldn’t do anything to her. I don’t tempt providence.
Her name was Barbro Zanussi and she was in pain, every waking moment was a torture to her. Each time I entered her room, she raised her head with extreme difficulty and looked me right in the eyes. It was a powerful, luminous look. As if she wished to transfer some of her suffering to me, and I must say she succeeded. Her husband, a small, dark Italian, came only once, and then with a set of divorce papers. Anna had to help her hold the pen, so that she could sign her name to their final separation.
The days and the weeks passed, the summer grew warmer, light and airy, and this was all the excuse people needed to make them go barmy with joy. They threw off their clothes and went out, beguiled, their belief in life renewed. I frequently sat in the park by Lake Mester. I received Arnfinn, I listened, I filled up his hip flask. I went to work, I plunged hypodermic syringes into mattresses and wrote nursing notes, I discussed things with Dr Fischer and Sister Anna. Can we do anything for Barbro? asked Dr Fischer with a tormented twist of his lips. No, we couldn’t do a damned thing for Barbro. The disease took its course, it spread throughout her body with devastating effect. I went out to the kitchen to see Sali Singh, gave him a friendly pat on the back. He gave no visible reaction to this touch, he was a simple man who lived in his own world. Maybe his mind was away in Delhi, in the slums he’d frequented as a boy. I could imagine Dr Fischer as a young boy too, in shorts and patent leather shoes, and Anna in a blouse and pleated skirt. I’ve got plenty of imagination. I watch them and think my thoughts. Life is a gift, people say. Life is a challenge, a miracle, something God-given.