The Man In The Window [Mannen i vinduet - no]

Gunnarstrandagave a jump when he heard the echo of the front door slamming downstairs. Hegot to his feet and scuttled out to the staircase. There he saw a head herecognized. It was Karsten Jespersen and he was pushing a sack trolley.Jespersen had not seen the policeman. He was pushing the trolley in front ofhim and didn't stop until he reached the back of the warehouse. There he parkedthe trolley and began to manoeuvre a wardrobe covered in carvings. 'Hello!' thepolice officer shouted.

Jespersenstarted and spun on his heel.

'Whatare you up to?' Gunnarstranda shouted.

'That'swhat I was going to ask you,' Jespersen said calmly. 'This is privateproperty.'

Gunnarstrandashook his head. 'Out,' he ordered.

'Whatdid you say?'

'Thisarea will be sealed off and searched in a little while. We're looking forevidence. You will have to wait. What are you doing with the trolley?'

'Pickingsomething up,' Jespersen said unhelpfully.

'What?'

'That'smy business.'

'Whatwere you going to pick up?'

'Somethingthat was mine.'

'Right,'the Inspector said, still annoyed. 'I'm not going to get mixed up in yourinheritance rows. But you are kindly requested to wait.' He descended thestairs with authority. 'Out.'

Jespersendid not move. A swathe of antique objects separated them.

'Comeon,' the policeman said, impatient now.

Jespersencoughed. 'My father gave me this wardrobe,' he said after a pause.

'You'llhave to take that up with others, not with me. Don't touch anything. Justleave. You and the other beneficiaries will be informed when this property canbe released.'

'Butsurely it doesn't matter…'

'Out!'

KarstenJespersen's chin quivered out of control. His mouth was contorted in a grimace.'You can't treat me in this way,' he hissed as he slunk towards the exit.

'Takethe sack trolley with you,' the inspector said tersely.

AToyota van stood outside with the motor running. Someone was sitting in it.Gunnarstranda went closer. A strapping woman sat in the passenger seat. Sherolled down the window. 'The wardrobe,' she shouted to

KarstenJespersen. 'Where's the wardrobe?'

Thedetective officer bent down to the window and reached in his gloved hand.'Susanne Jespersen?'

She didn'tseem to register his existence. Her head was bent towards Karsten. 'Thewardrobe?' she said to her husband as he opened the sliding door and lifted thetrolley in. Her next outburst was drowned in the noise of the side door beingslammed shut. Her head moved as her eyes followed her husband. 'Can't you doanything?'

'Wouldit suit you to appear at Police HQ tomorrow morning at eleven to give astatement?' Gunnarstranda said to the back of her head. She had twisted herwhole body round to face Jespersen who was sitting in the driver's seat. 'What?Are we going to leave here empty- handed? Answer me, you oaf!'

Jespersensat sullenly with his body bent over the steering wheel. He ignored her and putthe van into gear. 'Eleven o'clock!' shouted the Inspector as the van droveoff. His shout was drowned in the roar of the engine and the cursing andswearing from the cab. Gunnarstranda peered up at the sky. Snow was falling. Asnowflake landed on the left-hand lens of his glasses, but didn't melt. He lookedat his feet. The snowflakes lay on the tarmac like down. It was the kind ofsnow that did not stick and form drifts, the kind that fluttered away when youtrudged through it, the kind that would disappoint all the children withsledges. Inspector Gunnarstranda walked back to the warehouse to wait forforensics.

Twohours later Gunnarstranda met Tove Granaas in

CafeJustisen. After coming through the tinkling door, she stood scouring the caféfor him. Gunnarstranda rose from his seat in the corner. Tove returned hissmile. She was wearing a grey-white woollen poncho and a beret of the samecolour. He was about to say she looked elegant, but it didn't come out. Insteadhe waved to a waitress. He ordered another beer for himself and a coffee forher. They sat chatting about inconsequential matters; he knew this was apreamble. Tove Granaas would never be satisfied with talking about the workingday; sooner or later she would home in on them.

Hehad been waiting for quite a long time when the question finally came.Gunnarstranda raised his eyes and looked up at the row of pictures by theOslo-born Hermansen as he examined his emotions. That particular question wouldhave annoyed and alienated him if it had come from anyone else. He was somewhatsurprised not to feel annoyance. He straightened the tablecloth and downed thelast of his half-litre before making his reluctant admission: 'Yes, I think itis difficult to talk about Edel.'

Toveraised her cup and swirled the dregs of her coffee around and up the side; thenshe leaned back in her chair. The hands holding the cup were slim, the nailsshort and unvarnished. She wasn't wearing any rings. A small gold watch on aslim band adorned her left wrist. She took her time, studying the tablecloth,until she looked up and waited for them to have eye-contact again, and asked:

'Why?'

Tohis surprise, Gunnarstranda heard himself say: 'I find it difficult to come toterms with this kind of sentimentality.'

'Sentimentality?'

'Herdeath has become something which we shared – it is very private. In a way, itwould feel like a betrayal to change or modify anything of what we shared.'

Tovestudied the cloth again. 'Who said you should change or modify anything?'

Hesent her a weak smile. 'Taboo may be a better word. It feels like ataboo to evaluate or… re-work what she and I had together.'

'Talking?Is that re-working?'

Hereflected before answering: 'I would have to search for words, weigh them.Talking about her is bound to be an evaluation.'

'Whereis the boundary?' she asked with a lop-sided smile. 'Somewhere this sensitivityhas to stop, doesn't it? Some of your past must be your own. Some of it must beprivate enough or sturdy enough to be… evaluated. After all you're sitting herewith me,' she said.

Helooked up. She wasn't smiling any more, but looking into his eyes.

Hecleared his throat. 'What do you mean?'

'Well,you don't invite me out to avoid getting to know me, do you?'

'You'revery direct.'

'Ofcourse.'

Itwas Tove who broke the silence. 'You are also very direct.'

'ButI'm not sure where you're going.'

Sheput down her cup and leaned forward. 'You say you don't want to betray your latewife,' she said. 'Betrayaclass="underline" that was your word. Are you betraying her byinviting me out?'

'Ofcourse not.'

'Ifyour late wife is hanging over us, is there a chance you will betray her thenext time we meet?'

'No,you misunderstand,' he said. 'I mean the years – the time I had with Edel – theyears and the things I experienced with her are not something I can easilyshare with others. You and I…,' He stopped with a wry smile on his face.

'What'sthe matter?'

'Nothing,except that I am well over fifty and that…' He shook his head from side toside.

'Andthat I'm also over fifty and we're talking like two teenagers?' Tove suggested.

Henodded. 'Yes, perhaps that's it.'

'Whatabout your husband?' asked the Inspector.

'Doyou mean my ex-husband?'

Henodded.

'Hethinks birdsong is edible, and that he will be happy if he can eat it.'

'Really?'

'He'scrazy,' she explained.

Theyexchanged looks. 'Are you disappointed?' she asked.

'Am Idisappointed?'

'Yes,you seem disappointed.'

'I'mnot disappointed,' he said. 'But you don't need to paint a negative image ofyour ex-husband, not for my sake.'

Tovesmiled. 'I'm good friends with Torstein. He is thus far in my life the bestfriend I have and have had. And I'm the first to complain that he's crazy.'

'Inwhat way is he crazy?'

'He'sa realist, a mathematician – very talented as well – perhaps a little tootalented. What I call crazy – apart from such cracked ideas as eating birdsong- is that he's trying to develop a theory about super-sensory phenomena.'