“No,” she stammered. “I didn’t want the memories. I couldn’t bear to see the empty bed. And if we have another baby, we’ll get new stuff.”
Zita comforted himself that this was understandable. There was a wisp of fear there that he could not ignore, but it was not the time for confrontation. He took Carmen with him into the living room and they sat on the sofa. He put his arm around her shoulders, trying to console her.
“Don’t be angry,” he said quietly. “Don’t carry this with you through life as rage. Then you’ll never get over it. You have to forgive.”
Soon they heard the cars. Only a few minutes had passed, and they both went out onto the front step to meet them. They recognized Jacob Skarre standing beside the police car.
“I’ve already cut him down; he’s lying on the floor in the cellar,” Zita said. “We don’t know when it happened. He drove off last night around eleven o’clock and must have come back from his night drive at some point. It all happened while Carmen was asleep.”
She stayed in the living room when they carried Nicolai’s body up from the cellar, strapped onto a narrow stretcher. She followed the police’s advice and didn’t look at him. They said it was a terrible sight. Her father had told her in a firm voice that she did not want to carry the image with her; she had to remember Nicolai as he was. So she kept out of the way, even though she was aching with curiosity. In a strange way, the drama turned her on. But there was something in her father’s face, something ominous that she took seriously. Skarre came into the living room with all his questions. How had yesterday been, if he had shown any signs, if she had found any letters, if she had suspected that something was up. If he had a history of depression, if there had been other suicides in the family. No, he was just the same as always, Carmen said. I’m in shock.
Skarre went on for an hour, digging and asking questions. He wanted to know everything. He wandered around the house as though he was looking for evidence. What kind of evidence, she wondered in desperation. There’s nothing to find. What had happened was Nicolai’s final wish, and she couldn’t understand it. He had been willing to die, to put a noose around his neck and jump. Alone in the dark cellar. When he could have been lying safely in a warm bed, with her hand in his. The thought of it made her cold as ice. And she told Skarre the truth, that he’d left the house around eleven the night before and driven off in the Golf. He told her that he just wanted to go for a drive and stroked her cheek. For the last time. But how was she to know, she thought. She was used to him driving off; he was a loner. But now she remembered everything in detail. His breath on her face, the slim, warm hand on her cheek, the clear green eyes. His footsteps on the ground as he walked to the car, the engine starting. The red taillights disappearing around the dark bend.
Afterward, when they had left and taken the body with them, she went to Møllergata 4 with her father. She could scarcely walk on her own through the door. Everything felt cold and unreal and incomprehensible. She lay in her parents’ bed, flat on her back, without moving. And while she waited to feel like herself again, she watched a fly buzzing around the ceiling light. Her lower back ached, but she couldn’t be bothered to change position. She lay there as though dead. She could lie like that forever, without moving, watching the fly. It buzzed around energetically, furry, black, and revolting. Zita came into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. He grasped her hand and squeezed tight.
“You’ll stay here with us,” he said.
She didn’t answer, because she had nothing to say. She had no drive or willpower left. She wanted to get up, but something was holding her down. It felt like a wall. She knew that time was passing and that outside the door life went on. It was almost impossible to understand that people could laugh and joke. But it carried on, regardless, irrepressible life. Her father went back to Granfoss to pick up some clothes and her medicine. She asked him to bring her diary back too. It was at the back of the bottom drawer in the desk.
“Is it helpful?”
“Yes,” she said, “I write in it every day. It’s like everything is easier when I can write about it.”
She tried to sleep but couldn’t. She just lay there in bed and stared blankly. She wanted to get up and engage but felt that she was expected to lie there. At least for the first devastating twenty-four hours. She opened and closed her hands, as if she wanted to help the blood pump around her body. The fly didn’t stop; it was so caught up in its busy little life. A few longer spins around the room, but always back to the light in the eternal pursuit of light and warmth. Just like people.
36
Dear diary,
Today is the worst day ever. And I am writing to you in sorrow and desperation. Because Nicolai has hanged himself in the cellar, and the shock triggered a major epileptic seizure. It’s not strange at all that I finally collapsed. Dad has been sitting by my bed and I’ve been lying here ever since. The sustained cramps have left me exhausted. When I woke up and came to, I’d forgotten everything. Dad had to tell me the whole tragic story all over again. That Nicolai had gotten up on a chair and then thrown himself off. Is that cowardly or courageous? I don’t know. All I know is that now I am bitterly sad and disappointed that he left me. And angry. And one thing holds true and that is that I’m strong and resilient. No one will ever send me over the edge.
So I finally came around. And the fly that had been buzzing by the light had disappeared. Maybe it had found a crack in the wood somewhere in the bedroom where it could die a quiet death. It’s autumn, after all. It’s so strange that I remembered that detail but had actually forgotten that Nicolai was dead.
I know that I foam at the mouth when I have a fit. And sometimes I wet myself, which is just hideous. Of all the things that come with my condition, that embarrasses me the most. But Dad is tactful. Because obviously I’m proud and I worry about my appearance. But I’ve lived with this for so long that I guess I don’t care anymore. Right now, though, it’s too much, I’ve had enough.
Still, I’m lying here and I’m alive. Now I can start all over again. Everything is open in the years ahead, and I want to see this as a new chapter. After all, like the Chinese say, a crisis is a new opportunity, isn’t it? And outside the window the moon is still shining white. It’s hard to imagine that they’ve been up there with a rocket. I’ve tried to understand it, and I can to a point. At least you can see the moon. You just need to head straight for it, that shining white disc in the dark sky. But when it comes to Mars, I’m lost. Because you can’t see Mars, it’s so far away. How did they manage to get there? They just fired the engine. It makes me realize that people have endless potential. So I must be able to succeed in a few things. A new man, a new baby, a new life. And Dad will keep me going. Mom has made me some hot milk and honey. As if that would ease the pain. But I do what they say. I drink the hot milk and cry on Dad’s shoulder. Nicolai is dead. And no matter what they say, I have to see him with my own eyes to believe it.
37
Twelfth of October. Morning.
What sad times, he thought. The leaves are falling from the trees and rotting on the ground. Nature is freezing over and Nicolai is dead. As a rule, he only met his own eyes fleetingly when he looked in the mirror. There was an odd shyness; even though he was handsome, it didn’t make much difference. But now, today, the twelfth, he stood and studied himself with renewed interest. He stared at himself, searching for signs of weakness. And he certainly found them. The lines by the corners of his mouth were more marked. But how could I have prevented it, he asked himself. When someone has decided on it, it’s not easy to prevent death; it’s not easy to stop them falling out of time. And yet he was weighed down by sorrow at Nicolai’s death. No way back, once you’re hanging from the noose. A strong nylon rope was enough. But now perhaps he was reunited with Tommy, even though he didn’t believe that either. Death was cold and final, the cessation of life and nothing else.