Three days of freedom.
Reading the death notices in the paper, I see that Barbro Zanussi has finally died. It says that she passed away peacefully, but I have my doubts on that score. No one talks about the unpleasant aspects. The rattling and gasping, the disgusting metallic smell from deep within the lungs as they empty for the last time. But at least now she’s at peace, the pain and despair are over, I almost feel relieved for her.
Poor, unfortunate Barbro. A myriad of emotions well up, and for a brief moment I’m filled with compassion. It’s dreadful that things can turn out so badly, that life can be so unbearable.
I like reading death notices. I relish them like I would a sweet. And Barbro’s relatives have chosen a moving poem.
All is bestowed on mankind
Merely as a loan.
All that’s mine is owed, soon to be withdrawn again.
For everything is subject to reclaim:
The trees, the clouds, the earth on which I pace.
And then I’ll wander lonely, without trace.
I start my new job, and manage really well. I’m not especially friendly, but then I don’t have to be. I do my job and no one complains. People come in and out; it’s a busy place. One day, Eddie and Janne come into the shop, hand in hand, as if conjoined like Siamese twins. Inseparable from the waist down. They look just as happy as ever, and this surprises me greatly. Because I’d imagined that, like Romeo and Juliet, they’d suffer some terrible death in each other’s arms. I’d thought that Janne would find another man sooner or later, better-looking, stronger. And that Eddie would kill her with his bare hands. Throttle her with a vice-like grip, and crush her larynx. Only to take his own miserable life afterwards, because things like that do happen. But I seem to have been wrong. They’re still together, and they buy a bag of buns, before wandering out into the sunshine again, ensconced in their bubble of contentment.
It really worries me the way things are going so well for them. Because I can’t understand what they’ve found, that I’ve never found. But I’m working on it, and I’m moving in the right direction. I count the days just as I did when I was inside, I’m counting down to payday. August is glorious in all its verdant beauty. One day I go to the park by Lake Mester. An unknown woman has taken my bench, and for an instant I’m indignant. She obviously doesn’t know the rules, and she makes no attempt to move when I arrive. She sits rocking a pram. She’s about my own age, probably a grandmother, I think, and find another seat. I perch on the bench that Arnfinn always used. It’s good to sit here again, by the fountain, I sit for an hour listening to the tinkling water. The dolphins are so familiar, so smooth and lithe and wet. On my way home I stop by Woman Weeping. I place my hand on one of the rounded breasts, and think about Margareth. Margareth occupies my thoughts entirely, everything else is blotted out by these dreams, and the castle I’ve built in my mind. I go back to the house. I potter about, gradually adjusting to my new existence as a free man, working for Shell with a regular wage and pleasant workmates. They know nothing about why I was in prison. In fact, they don’t seem interested in me very much anyway, and I feel relieved about that. I can hardly expect everyone to see what’s unusual about me.
To realise that I’m wholly exceptional.
At last it’s silent in my bedroom at night.
There’s no chugging diesel engine, no one whispering from the corners of the room.
Ten days of freedom.
Free in the morning, free at midday, and still free in the evening.
One day I make the trip to the cemetery.
I imagine that Anna’s brother is likely to be buried here, by Jordahl church, but as I begin to work my way through the headstones, I realise it’s going to be hard to find him. The cemetery is large. I wander amongst the gravestones, reading the odd inscription, halting occasionally to look about me. I catch sight of a man. Presumably he’s a cemetery worker, he’s clipping away at a hedge. The clean snap of his shears, with its even and persistent rhythm, is carried on the still air. I hesitate, but decide to approach him. He starts when I enter his field of vision; he must have been immersed in his own thoughts. He’s wearing a blue cap with a visor and a Honda logo on it.
‘I’m searching for a grave,’ I say. ‘It’s rather important that I find it, but I’ve no idea where to look. Would you happen to know your way about here?’
‘Searching for a grave?’ He gives an unenthusiastic toss of his head, as if I’ve disturbed him in something important. Presumably I have. ‘Well, it’s not easy to say,’ he adds curtly and lifts the shears again. The sun catches the metal blades. He’s both reluctant and ill at ease, but I’m on an important mission so I don’t give up.
‘He went through the ice on Lake Mester,’ I explain. ‘Last year. April it was. Took them forever to retrieve his body, it was found by some amateur divers, almost by pure luck. His name was Oscar. It was an important case, in all the papers. Help me!’ I suddenly implore, beseeching him like a child.
He lifts his shears and clips a few twigs. Pushes his cap back on his head, the weather’s hot and sweat glistens on his hairline. A few dark hairs stick to his skin.
‘Oscar,’ he repeats. ‘Yes, I remember the case. A skier, wasn’t he? I remember his grave, too, it’s a lavish affair. Yes, I know it. There were three hundred people in the church, many more had to stand outside. Go down to the stone wall over there, and look in the furthest row.’
He points with a bronzed hand. I look in the direction indicated. I thank him and start walking. By the stone wall, in the furthest row, the man who fought and lost. And here am I, the sole witness. I feel a kind of importance as I walk along the gravel path between the gravestones. All these dead people. All these silent souls. And only a few of them are granted the privilege of being ghosts, like the sister at the sanatorium. I want to be a ghost too, I think, as I slowly cross the cemetery. I want to stand there and rumble like a diesel engine. I want to whisper in corners. Then, at last, I pull myself together. I remember that I’ve changed, that I’ve served my time. That from now on, my motives will be good, and I move on amongst the graves, until I arrive at the black stone with its gold lettering. The one belonging to Anna’s brother Oscar. Died at the age of fifty-three. The gravestone has a nice inscription.