Anotherwasp stung the boy on the neck. The pain was so great that he let out ahalf-stifled sound from his mouth. The soldier immediately froze – andlistened. The boy breathed through his open mouth. He breathed in a wasp andcrushed it between his teeth. The gun barrel went from bush to bush. Suddenlythe soldier cursed out loud and grabbed his cheek. The wasps were attacking thesoldier, who let off another volley into the air, then retreated up the slope.The boy instantly crawled out. He brushed the wasps off him and again was stungin the neck. He gasped with the pain. Wasps were all over his bare hands. Theystung him. He cut himself on the sharp stones. His whole body ached. Hewriggled his way under the branches and away, out of danger from the insects.But the soldier was still standing up there somewhere. He and the others. Theywere longing to get back to their bunks. The sooner they shot him, the soonerthey would be able to get some sleep, food and cigarettes. They hated him. No.They didn't hate him. But he annoyed them. His being alive made them angry.
KarstenJespersen paused in the story. It was a natural place to pause. Benjamin waslooking at him with big eyes. He had both arms round his little giraffe and allof its neck in his mouth. Benjamin was waiting for the next part. But at thispoint in the story most of the excitement was over and Karsten was not sure howto go on.
Hewondered why, and formulated an answer in his mind. His story was about theboy, with no specific characteristics, but the boy had been a young man. Infact the story had been about his father – Reidar Folke Jespersen.
Whatreally happened was that the young man had escaped from the soldiers and runacross bogs and heathland until he came across a smallholding surrounded bytrees, a smallholding where there lived a young logger of his age who helpedReidar to get safely across the border into Sweden. It was easy enough to makethe escape exciting, but Karsten was more interested in allowing himself a fewliterary liberties. He was planning to add another part about desperaterefugees being led across the border by Harry Stokmo. A group of wretchedfigures between trees listening to twigs cracking, and creeping under coverwhile trying to prevent their children from coughing or tiny sobs from escaping- and then it would turn out that it wasn't a patrol cracking twigs underfootbut the little boy crawling out from under the brush.
Karstenthought that with a small child as the protagonist the story would be timelessand universal. It would catch Benjamin's imagination, he thought. The storydidn't need to be about the 1940-45 war in Norway, it could just as easily be amodern war, in Kosovo for example.
Karstenhoped that Benjamin would identify with the boy in the bushes – as Karsten haddone when he was first told the story, imagining himself behind the bushes withthe Alsatian sniffing around a few metres from him. It was now, at this verymoment, while reflecting on the first action in the story that Karsten became alittle unsure of himself. He remembered that he had been told the story by hisfather, as a first-person narrative. But he also remembered how he hadidentified with it. This fact, that he had enjoyed the story to the full eventhough it had been a first-person narrative, told by his father, rendered himpensive, distant. At this moment, while his gentle fatherly eyes rested onBenjamin's engrossed, impatient features, he realized that his edited story wasnot just unnecessary, it was also a little suspect. There had to be a deeperpsychological motive for him to edit the story, he began to think. Andhe had palpably concealed his father's role. At some point in Benjamin's lifehe would be bound to realize that the protagonist of the story was his owngrandfather. Then the natural response would be to ask himself why his ownfather would conceal this fact from him. Benjamin would wonder about hisfather's, Karsten's, motives in concealing the truth. And it wouldn't be longbefore he found an answer. He might not find the correct answer, the oneKarsten considered to be correct, that the story had been edited to give ita literary lift. Benjamin might find other answers – for example thatKarsten changed the story in order to sweep the truth under the carpet. PerhapsBenjamin would think that Karsten begrudged his father the hero's role. At thismoment while Benjamin was waiting with bated breath for him to go on, Karstenhad felt ashamed and fallen into a trance. And he didn't snap out of it untillittle Benjamin started shifting in his bed with unease. Karsten found himselfsitting beside him with a distorted expression on his face.
'Daddy,'Benjamin said, impatiently waiting for him to go on. 'More.'
Karstengave a start. 'It's late,' he said and got up. The curtain in front of thewindow was illuminated by a car coming up the drive. He went to the window andlooked out. The headlamps blinded him, like two evil eyes, he thought, as thecar parked a few metres from him and the lights were switched off. The evilgaze of two eyes hung on his retina as he watched the car doors open. Theletters on the car door were unmistakeable. He read POLITI and it was like adeja-vu experience. It reminded him of something he had dreamed. They'recoming, he thought. He listened to Benjamin's congested breathing andwatched two dark silhouettes coming towards the window. They're coming to takeme away.
Chapter 51
AfterFrølich had parked the car, they sat looking up at the windows in IngridJespersen's flat. 'Third from the left,' Frølich said. 'There's a hole in theglass.'
'Ican't see anything,' Gunnarstranda said.
'Asingle shot,' Frølich said. 'A round hole in the pane. Those boys are prettygood.'
'Andher?'
'Theyhad to sew up her hand. Five stitches.'
Gunnarstrandanodded towards the building on the other side of the street. 'There they are.'
IngridFolke Jespersen and Eyolf Strømsted walked out of the front door. They went overto a brown Opel Omega parked on the opposite side. Ingrid started the car whileEyolf waited in the passenger seat. Ingrid got out and scraped the ice off thewindscreen when the engine was running. She scraped with her left hand. Theother one was swathed in a bandage.
Thetwo detectives stepped out.
'Oh,hello,' Ingrid said on catching sight of them.
'Haveyou got five minutes?' Frølich asked.
Shelooked at her watch with a frown.
'It'llbe very quick,' Frølich said.
Thepassenger door opened and Eyolf Strømsted showed his curly head.
'Juststay inside,' Gunnarstranda said quickly. 'We need to have a few words with fruJespersen.'
'Here?'she asked.
Frølichmotioned towards the police car.
Gunnarstrandaopened the rear door for her to take a seat and he sat next to her. Frølichtook a seat behind the steering wheel. Some people on the pavement were huddledtogether. The engine of the Opel opposite them was running. Eyolf Strømsted wassitting with his head facing the front.
'Thatwasn't very nice,' she said.
'What'sthat?' Gunnarstranda asked.
'Beingbundled into a police car like that. Look at the neighbours.' She pointed totwo middle-aged women who had stopped to stare at the police car. 'I hope youknow what you're doing.'