By that time they had almost finished their grouse, served with a delicious savoury sauce, and the aforementioned Russian peas. And at this point in the meal Nina, their hostess, disclosed to the dinner party that she now had begun to wonder if it hadn’t been a mistake to serve Rioja with the grouse, after all. Though, for that matter, it couldn’t have been totally wrong, but maybe it would have been better with a burgundy. But no, on the other hand, a good burgundy costs so much that it would almost seem a bit ostentatious to serve it, wouldn’t it, and as for the cheap wines, are they really so good that they … well, anyway, here we are drinking Rioja at any rate, and it’s too late to regret it. Skol, she laughed, and everybody skolled with her and assured her that the Rioja was quite excellent, and definitely better than serving a mediocre burgundy with the grouse. Jan Brynhildsen told them an amusing tale about why the State Wine Monopoly had to change its old logo, which was pretty similar to King Olav V’s insignia (V in Vinmonopol and V in King Olav V), and that prompted Per Ekeberg to tell an equally amusing tale about why it had altered the label on the popular cheap, house red wine, which in previous years had had a drawing of the bridges over the Seine in Paris, right until Sonja became Queen of Norway. Bernt talked eagerly, partly assisted, partly contradicted by Nina, about how Christmas Eve had passed in their home this year, with pork ribs, lutefisk, electricity cuts and twelve people in all, counting children and adults, with hard-of-hearing grandparents from Bernt’s side of the family and half-blind ones from Nina’s side, recounted in a typically doctorly fashion, by both Bernt and his partly reluctant Nina. The atmosphere was loosening up, and Professor Andersen sneaked a discreet glance at his watch. Cloudberry cream for dessert. The cloudberries, too, were from Valdres, where Nina and Bernt had a cottage in the mountains. Trine Napstad was in a lively mood, and her piercing voice contrasted well, and rather mercilessly, with Professor Andersen’s eternal deep rumblings, or so he thought. He really would have liked to rise to the occasion, to the same level of bonhomie and cheerfulness, but despite assiduous efforts it was beyond him. After the dessert they continued to sit at the round dinner table, drinking wine. Professor Andersen wished they would move over to the sofa, as then it would have been easier to leave without one having to think there would be a great, gaping hole at the table. But the coffee, too, was served at the round table. A small glass of cognac. Bernt uncorked another few bottles of wine, and put them on the table, where he had also placed the bottle of cognac in case anyone wanted to drink cognac rather than wine from now on. Professor Andersen looked at his watch. Gone eleven. He was amazed it was so late already, because he desperately longed to go home. He had to go home now, before night fell. He went to the toilet to gather his thoughts. When he returned to the others, he said, addressing Nina and Bernt, that he thought he had to leave now. The other guests looked at him in surprise, but not Nina and Bernt. He said that he had been feeling slightly unwell all day, he wondered if he was about to get a bout of the flu, and he asked Bernt to phone for a taxi. Bernt got up and went to the phone. He nodded goodbye to Jan Brynhildsen and Judith Berg, to Per Ekeberg and Trine Napstad, and went into the hall, followed by Nina. He put on his overcoat and apologised to her for having to leave so early, before Bernt came out and said the taxi was on its way, and he apologised once again. ‘Perhaps it isn’t even influenza,’ he said, ‘perhaps I’m just worn out by my own thoughts. I’ve been thinking so much recently, about literature and how time breaks it down, perhaps they are new thoughts, but at any rate they are heavy,’ he said. They said that they understood, it was nothing to worry about, of course one should leave early if one was weighed down by heavy thoughts. Oh, he felt so indescribably sad at heart, face to face with Nina and Bernt, because he didn’t have the peace of mind to stay there any longer now that it was just past eleven. Indeed, he felt dispirited by his own behaviour. Through the glass in the outside door he could see the taxi arriving and stopping in front of the driveway. Professor Andersen opened the door and went out to the waiting car, and sat down in the back seat, while he waved to his hosts, who were standing in the doorway waving back.
He gave the address to the driver, who drove him through the snowy streets of Oslo all lit up with Christmas lights. It had stopped snowing, but the road conditions were terrible. The taxi drove slowly through the streets, which were impassable except by means of two deep tyre tracks down the middle, and on meeting another car, one of them had to reverse. But he could observe snowploughs everywhere and other snow-clearing vehicles, which were working flat out with loops of yellow lights in all directions. They gave off a roar. The driver was from Pakistan and drove safely and carefully through the almost snowbound but lamplit streets. There were few people to be seen, even in the main streets which they crossed, such as Bogstadveien. Professor Andersen was sitting in the back seat, feeling tense. He couldn’t get home soon enough. Eventually, the taxi drew up at the building where he lived at Skillebekk, and he paid and got out. He quickly unlocked the main door, went up the stairs and let himself into his own apartment, where he put on the light in the hall and hung up his overcoat. Then he went into the living room, without putting on the light, where he moved over to the window and stared across at the building on the other side of the street. The curtains were drawn back. The light was on. Finally! Now he would be able to see. Professor Andersen stood in the pitch dark in his own living room, half-hidden behind the curtain, and stared out. He noticed a figure walking through the room. Professor Andersen stared as hard as he could, but the whole thing happened so fast that he couldn’t quite grasp what he had seen, even though the figure hadn’t walked particularly quickly through the room. He thought it was a man, but he wasn’t absolutely certain. Professor Andersen waited. The silhouette had disappeared, probably sitting somewhere out of sight, but Professor Andersen waited. Eventually the silhouette turned up again. The figure walked through the lit-up room and went over now towards the window. A face stared out and Professor Andersen saw the murderer’s face. Not all that clearly, not to the extent that he would have been able to recognise the person on the street later on, but he saw that it was a youngish man.
Was he disappointed? Had he hoped that the figure which passed through the room had been a woman after all, and that the young woman with fair hair would be standing at the window now? Professor Andersen didn’t know. If he had been hoping this, and it had been keeping him glued to this window, and to this view, both in reality and in his thoughts, then his hope had been unrealistic and actually a prayer for a miracle. Or rather a prayer that he, Professor Andersen, might not be able to trust his own senses, his own eyes, in decisive situations, and that what he thought he saw might equally well be a fantasy or a hallucination, had he cherished such a hope? Even, when all is said and done, if it meant his reason was threatened? Or was what he saw now exactly what he had hoped to see: the murderer’s face? Professor Andersen didn’t know, and suddenly he started to cry, not with tears, but with words. ‘I’m crying,’ he said, and gave himself over to this simple sentence, which he repeated several times while he stood at the window, long after the youngish man in the other window had turned away, walked through the room and retreated out of sight, to somewhere from which he didn’t reappear.