Yngve opened the door and we went into the living room. There were bottles on top of the piano and bags full of them below. The kitchen door was open. That was always where she sat, as indeed she was doing today, by the table, eyes downcast and a smoking cigarette in her hand.
“Hello,” Yngve said.
She looked up. At first there was no sign of recognition in her eyes, but then they lit up.
“So it was you boys! I thought I heard someone coming through the door.”
I swallowed. Her eyes seemed to have sunk into the cavities; her nose protruded and looked like a beak in the lean face. Her skin was white, shrunken, and wrinkled.
“We came as soon as we heard what had happened,” Yngve said.
“Oh, yes, it was terrible,” Grandma said. “But now you’re here. That’s good at least.”
The dress she was wearing was discolored with stains and hung off her scrawny body. The top part of her bosom the dress was supposed to cover revealed ribs shining through her skin. Her shoulder blades and hips stuck out. Her arms were no more than skin and bone. Blood vessels ran across the backs of her hands like thin, dark blue cables.
She stank of urine.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asked.
“Yes, please,” Yngve said. “That wouldn’t be a bad idea. But we can put it on. Where’s the coffeepot?”
“Damned if I know,” Grandma said, casting around.
“It’s there,” I said, pointing to the table. There was a note beside it, I craned my head to read what it said.
BOYS COMING AT TWELVE. I’LL BE DOWN AROUND ONE. GUNNAR.
Yngve took the coffeepot and went to empty the grains in the sink, where there were piles of filthy plates and glasses. The whole length of the counter was covered with plastic trays, mostly from microwave meals, many still containing leftovers. Between them bottles, mostly the same 1.5 liter ones, some with dregs at the bottom, some half-full, some unopened, but bottles of spirits too, the cheapest Vinmonopolet vodka, a couple of half-liter bottles of Upper Ten whisky. Everywhere there were dried coffee dregs, crumbs, shriveled food remains. Yngve pushed one of the piles of packaging away, lifted some of the plates out of the sink, and put them on the counter before cleaning the coffeepot and filling it with fresh water.
Grandma was sitting as she had when we entered, eyes fixed on the table, the cigarette, now extinguished, in her hand.
“Where do you keep the coffee?” Yngve said. “In the cupboard?”
She looked up.
“What?” she said.
“Where do you keep the coffee?” Yngve repeated.
“I don’t know where he put it,” she said.
He? Was that Dad?
I turned and went into the living room. For as long as I could remember, it had only been used on church holidays and special occasions. Now Dad’s huge TV was in the middle of the floor and two of the large leather chairs had been dragged in front of it. A little table swimming with bottles, glasses, pouches of tobacco, and overflowing ashtrays stood between them. I walked past and examined the rest of the room.
In front of the three-piece suite by the wall lay some articles of clothing. I could see two pairs of trousers and a jacket, some underpants and socks. The smell was awful. There were also overturned bottles, tobacco pouches, dry bread rolls, and other rubbish. I slouched past. There was excrement on the sofa, smeared and in lumps. I bent down over the clothes. They were also covered with excrement. The varnish on the floor had been eaten away, leaving large, irregular stains.
By urine?
I felt an urge to smash something. Lift the table and sling it at the window. Tear down the shelf. But I felt so weak I could barely get there. I rested my forehead against the window and looked down into the garden. The paint had almost peeled completely off the overturned garden furniture, which seemed to be growing out of the soil.
“Karl Ove?” Yngve said from the doorway.
I turned and went back.
“It’s fucking disgusting in there,” I said in a low voice so that she couldn’t hear.
He nodded.
“Let’s sit with her for a bit,” he said.
“Okay.”
I went in, pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table from her, and sat down. A ticking sound filled the kitchen, coming from a thermostat-style device that was intended to switch off the burners on the stove automatically. Yngve sat at the end and took his cigarettes from his jacket, which for some reason he had not taken off. I had my jacket on as well, I discovered.
I didn’t want to smoke, it felt dirty, yet I needed to and rummaged for my cigarettes. The fact that we had joined Grandma seemed to give her a boost. Her eyes lit up once again.
“Did you drive all the way from Bergen today?” she said.
“From Stavanger,” Yngve said. “That’s where I live now.”
“But I live in Bergen,” I said.
Behind us the coffeepot crackled on the stove.
“Oh?” she said.
Silence.
“Would you like some coffee, boys?” she asked suddenly.
I met Yngve’s glance.
“I’ve put some on,” Yngve said. “It’ll be ready soon.”
“Oh yes, so you have,” Grandma said. She looked down at her hand, and with a start, as if it were only now she had discovered she was holding a cigarette, she grabbed a lighter and lit up.
“Did you drive here all the way from Bergen today then?” she said, puffing on her cigarette a few times before looking at us.
“From Stavanger,” Yngve said. “It only took four hours.”
“Yes, they’re good roads now,” she said.
Then she sighed.
“Oh dear. Life’s a pitch, as the old woman said. She couldn’t pronounce her “b’s.”
She chuckled. Yngve smiled.
“It would be nice to have something with the coffee,” he said. “We’ve got some chocolate in the car. I’ll get it.”
I felt like telling him not to go, but of course I couldn’t. When he had gone I got up, left the barely smoked cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and went to the stove, pressed the pot down harder so that it would boil quicker.
Grandma had sunk into herself again, stared down at the table. She sat bowed in the chair, shoulders slumped, rocking back and forth.
What could she be thinking?
Nothing. There was nothing in her mind. Couldn’t be. It was just cold and dark inside.
I let go of the coffeepot and looked around for the coffee tin. Not on the counter beside the fridge, not on the opposite counter either, beside the sink. In a cupboard perhaps? Or not. Yngve had found it, hadn’t he? Where did he put it?
There, for Christ’s sake. He had put it on the stove’s hood where the old spice jars were. I took it down, and pushed the coffeepot aside even though the water hadn’t boiled yet, opened the lid and sprinkled in a few spoonfuls of coffee. It was dry and seemed stale.
Glancing up, I saw that Grandma was watching me.
“Where’s Yngve?” she asked. “He hasn’t left, has he?”
“No,” I said. “He just went down to the car.”
“Oh,” she said.
I took a fork from the drawer and stirred the mixture in the coffeepot, banged it on the burner a few times.
“It’ll brew for a bit and then it’s done,” I said.
“He was sitting in the chair when I got up in the morning,” Grandma said. “He was sitting quite still. I tried to wake him. But I couldn’t. His face was white.”
I felt nauseous.
I heard Yngve’s footsteps on the stairs, and I opened the cupboard to look for glasses, but there weren’t any. I couldn’t bring myself to think about using the ones in the sink, so I leaned forward and was drinking from the tap when Yngve arrived.