Emmanueltook another look at the photograph, shook his head and placed it on the pileof books on the table with care. 'No,' he said with a deep sigh and stroked hischin. 'Such a good-looking lady would have stuck in my memory.'
Gunnarstrandagave a weary smile. 'Perhaps you know why your brother became an antiquedealer?' he asked without bothering to conceal a certain forbearance.
Aftergrabbing a good wedge of his trousers, Jespersen finally succeeded in crossinghis legs. With one hand resting on his knee, he stole a furtive glance at thepicture.
Gunnarstrandabent forward across the table and played with the photograph.
'Ithink Reidar was carrying around a great void inside himself. Perhaps that waswhy – he went for antiques. If he didn't own things he was… he was nothing.'Jespersen threw out his arms as if to emphasize: 'A void. Reidar was obsessedwith collecting.'
'Trophies?'
'Yes,I suppose you can call them trophies. I think he almost lived through objects;he was the objects he owned.' Jespersen glanced down at the picture and said:'I think it was Reidar's greatest nightmare – almost as though he was trying tojustify his existence through possessions. I think that deep down there was aforbidden area, perhaps a wound from some blow, event or experience – at anyrate something which caused his life to take the course it did.' Emmanuelclosed his eyes and went quiet, as though deep in reflection, then went on: 'Onthe other hand, Reidar may not have been unique in this respect. I've oftenthought that we're all like that, that we all have a fundamental suspicionof ourselves. Do you understand? If we dare to put morning routines andwork to one side – in other words, the ritual side of life: cleaningteeth, job, meals, celebrating Christmas and Easter, and as far as I amconcerned, the time we spend in the freemasons' lodge, conversations with otherpeople too – we probably all find ourselves being brought up short at somepoint, don't we? Wherever – in a shop or at home in an armchair. We may hearsomething said or recognize something from our childhood, a smell or a sound oran atmosphere – and we stop and realize – or can see at a deep level what wehave become – the unvarnished truth – and we have to close our eyes and repressthe realization – because we can see right through the shield we hide behind,the bonds of friendship, our social life. We stand there with closed eyes andwant to flee, perhaps because it is painful to come to a halt, to turn round orto get a grip on this hurt. We soldier on with life as it is, without broodingany further – without – without grabbing the chance we have to make a changethere and then. Do you think I'm waffling?'
'Notat all,' Gunnarstranda said. 'I think you're right. Many people will have to confronttheir dreams sooner or later – hold an annual general assembly on themselves,if we can put it like that. But I suppose some get round to it quicker thanothers. Many may never experience it.' He straightened the photograph andbrushed down his trousers. 'Go on.'
'Well,watching your brother like this – as a victim… you have to remember thatReidar was my big brother, my model, a person with an aura of irrefutableauthority – watching him like this…'
PoliceInspector Gunnarstranda waited politely as Jespersen searched for words.
'Itwas very difficult because he understood what I was thinking. Perhaps he didn'tnotice the concern behind it, but he noticed the change. He understoodintuitively that he had been seen through, that he had been unmasked.But I'm not sure that he understood what I had found out in specific terms. Hejust noticed the change in the atmosphere between us – he noticed that I feltsorry for him. Which he was incapable of forgiving.'
'Forgiving?'
Jespersennodded. 'Forgiving.'
'Whycouldn't he forgive?'
'Perhapsit was something to do with his internal void, whatever it was he was fleeingfrom by building this armour around himself. But also because the balancebetween us had been upset. When he was unmasked – the word isappropriate here – I saw through this somewhat abnormal urge to be fit andactive, to own – to build a fortress of objects around himself, he wasunable to maintain the same hold over me as a brother, of course. He just didnot like dealing with me.'
Gunnarstrandasupported his chin on his bony index finger and said: 'You must have had yourown ideas about what this collecting of objects and feverish hyperactivity wasmeant to redress, I suppose. Was there some ulterior ideology? Was it trauma asa result of horrendous experiences? Was it repressed memories of some kind?'
'Well,yes, I have thought about it a bit…'
Gunnarstrandabent forward in his chair. The cat, sitting on the sofa next to Emmanuel FolkeJespersen, twitched its head. It purred softly, stretched its rear legs andreposed on the cushion like an Egyptian queen. Its eyes were open but it wasn'tawake; it blinked and slowly lowered its head onto its front paws. 'Tell me,'Gunnarstranda whispered in his excitement.
'Atfirst I thought he was tormented by memories of people who were asleep when heblew them into smithereens.'
'Sabotagemissions?'
Jespersenstared into the distance without speaking. 'God knows, he must have had a lotof terrible things on his conscience. Death and…' He faltered. 'But I found outit couldn't be anything like that.'
Ontenterhooks, the policeman cleared his throat.
Jespersenwas breathing heavily and leaned his head back. The cat blinked again – andJespersen gazed at the ceiling and stroked his chin with a low rasping sound.'What is it they say…?'
'Whosays?'
'TheFrench. What is it they say when they're looking for the key to a mystery…?'
Gunnarstrandalooked down at the photograph on the blue encyclopaedia. The winter sun,shining through the window onto the table, fell onto the picture and made itgleam like an old, matt mirror. 'Cherchez la femme,, hewhispered.
Emmanuel,his eyes still on a point on the ceiling, drew a deep sigh and repeated: Cherchezla femme.'
Gunnarstrandaswallowed, took the photograph and held it up. 'OK.' He sighed and took theplunge: 'What's her name?'
Chapter 36
Themost knowledgeable person in Police Inspector Gunnarstranda's circle ofacquaintances was his brother- in-law. The problem was that it was getting moreand more difficult to talk to the man as the years went by. For one thing, itwas difficult to meet him without thinking about Edel. And for another, theconversation dragged for both of them as it seemed the distress of meeting wasmutual. It always cost the Inspector quite some effort to get in touch. But nowhe had an excuse. Shortly after lunch he picked up the receiver and dialled thenumber.
Hisbrother-in-law asked for time to think. For some unknown reason he seemed to bein a positive frame of mind; he almost seemed glad to hear the policeman'svoice.
Theyarranged to meet after work.
At halfpast three the Inspector took his swimming things from the cupboard by thedoor, went out and caught the tram to the pool in Oslo West. Gunnarstrandaalways wore a bathing cap in public baths. If he didn't, his hair would trailafter him like a wet sail after a boat. Tove Granaas had not yet commented onthe way he combed his hair. But he knew a comment was not far off. He hadbought his swimming trunks fifteen years ago, on Fuerteventura. He bought newgoggles and a new nose-clip every year.
He stoodfor a few seconds looking at the green surface before bending his knees anddiving in. He glided through without moving his legs – and noted with surprisethat the water was not so cold – until his bathing cap, goggles and nose-clipemerged into the air. Then he swam 2.5 lengths, backwards and forwards, breaststroke, concentrating on his breathing and every single turn. Once that wascompleted, swimming leisurely on his back, he looked up at the clock to checkhis time. Two minutes faster than the previous swim, but still four minutesslower than his personal best.