I erased that, went to the kitchenette, filled the kettle, poked a spoon into the jar of freeze-dried coffee, loosened some clumps and sprinkled them into the cup, which I filled with boiling water straight afterwards. Then it was on with my outdoor clothes and out to the bench opposite the hospital across the street, where I smoked three cigarettes in quick succession while observing people and cars passing by. The sky was a dreary grey, the air cold and raw and the snow by the kerb dark with exhaust fumes.
I took out my mobile and tapped to and fro until I had written a verse I could send to Geir.
Geir, Geir, I have to say
That stiffy of yours has had its day
But fret you not
A child you begot
A girl who never says no to a lay
Then I went indoors and sat down in front of the computer again. The aversion I felt, along with the fact that there were three whole days until I had to be finished, made it difficult, if not impossible to motivate myself. What should I say? Blah, blah, blah, Out of the World, blah, blah, blah, A Time for Everything, blah, blah, blah, happy and proud.
The mobile in my jacket pocket went off. I grabbed it and clicked on Geir’s message.
Quite right, died in a car accident this morning. Didn’t know it was already news. You can have my porn mags. I won’t need them any longer. I’m stiffer now than I’ve ever been. Fine epitaph, by the way. But surely you can do better than that?
Certainly can, I wrote back. What about this?
Here lies Geir in his final abode
He was driving his Saab when it left the road
His eyes were extinguished, his heart beat on
Yet nobody knew he’d actually gone
Though his bones were smashed, his ribcage crushed
Talk of his death was always hushed
Till the coffin was lowered and all went black
As his soul took flight, that wonderful hack!
It wasn’t outrageously funny, but at least it helped to pass the time. And gave Geir a cheap laugh in his university office. After I had sent it I went to the supermarket and did some food shopping. Ate, slept for an hour on the sofa. Finished reading the first volume of The Brothers Karamazov, started the second, and when I had finished that it was completely dark outside and the house was filled with its early-evening sounds. I felt as I had in my childhood, when I also used to lie on my bed reading for several hours at a stretch, my head somehow cold, as though rising from a sleep, a cold sleep, in the afterglow of which my surroundings appeared hard and inhospitable. I rinsed my hands in hot water, dried them thoroughly, switched off the computer and put it in my bag, knotted a scarf around my neck, pulled a hat over my head, put on a coat and shoes, locked the door behind me, put on gloves and went into the street. I had just over half an hour before I was due to meet Geir at Pelikanen, so there was plenty of time.
The snow on the pavement was yellowish-brown with a fine-grained consistency like semolina, which meant it slipped when you stepped on it. I walked up Rådmannsgatan towards the Metro station, where it crossed Sveavägen. It was half past six. The streets around me were as good as deserted, permeated with that elusive darkness that is only found in the gleam of electric light and which here was reflected from every window, every street lamp, across snow and tarmac, stairs and railings, parked cars and bicycles, façades, window ledges, street signs and lamp posts. I could equally well have been someone else, I thought as I walked, there was nothing in me now that felt precious enough for it not to be taken for something else. I passed Drottninggatan, which at its lower end was teeming with dark beetle-like people, descended the steps beside Observatorielunden Park, along the part of the street where there was the repugnant sign outside the Chinese restaurant exhorting us to ‘guzzle’, and down the stair shaft to the underground. There were perhaps thirty to forty people on the two platforms, most on their way home from work judging by the bags they were carrying. I stood where there was most space, placed my bag on the floor between my legs, leaned against the wall with one shoulder, took out my mobile and rang Yngve.
‘Hello?’ he said.
‘Hi, Karl Ove here,’ I said.
‘I could see that,’ he said.
‘You rang?’ I said.
‘On Saturday, yes,’ he said.
‘I was going to call back, but things got a bit hectic. We had people round and then I forgot.’
‘No problem,’ Yngve said. ‘It wasn’t anything special.’
‘Has the kitchen arrived yet?’
‘Yes, it came today in fact. It’s right beside me. And I’ve bought a new car.’
‘Have you!’
‘I had to. It’s a Citroën XM, not very old. It was a hearse.’
‘You’re joking!’
‘No, I’m not.’
‘Are you going to drive around in a hearse?’
‘It’s been modified, of course. There isn’t any room for coffins in it now. It looks quite normal.’
‘Nevertheless. Just the fact that there have been bodies in it… That’s the creepiest thing I’ve heard in a long while.’
Yngve snorted.
‘You’re so sensitive,’ he said. ‘It’s a very normal car. And I could afford it.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said.
There was a silence.
‘Any other news?’ I asked.
‘Nothing special. How about you?’
‘No, nothing. I was at Linda’s mother’s yesterday.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Yuh.’
‘And Vanja? Has she started walking yet?’
‘A couple of steps. But it’s more falling than walking, to tell the truth,’ I said.
He chuckled at the other end.
‘How are Tore and Ylva?’
‘They’re fine,’ he said. ‘Tore’s written you a letter, by the way. From school. Have you received it?’
‘No.’
‘He didn’t want to tell me what he’d written. But you’ll find out.’
‘Right.’
From the tunnel the headlights of a train came into view. A light wind swept across the platform. People began to move towards the edge.
‘The train’s coming,’ I said. ‘Talk to you soon.’
The train braked slowly in front of me. I lifted my bag and took a few steps forward.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Take care.’
‘And you.’
The doors opened and passengers began to spill out. As I lowered my hand with the mobile someone nudged my elbow from behind and sent the phone flying into the crowd by the door — I didn’t see where, I had automatically turned to the person who had knocked me.
Where was it?
There was no clink as it hit the ground. Perhaps it had hit a foot? I crouched down and searched the platform in front of me. No telephone anywhere. Had someone kicked it further away? No, I would have noticed, I thought, standing up, and I craned my head towards those heading for the exit. Could it have fallen into someone’s bag? There was a woman walking with an open handbag hanging from her arm. Could it have landed in there? No, that sort of thing doesn’t happen.