Marco carefully highlighted the number on the screen. So the girl who had put up the notice was apparently sick, her name was Tilde Kristoffersen, and her stepfather had gone missing. Gone missing because Marco’s own father…
It was so dreadful he couldn’t pursue the thought to its conclusion.
A gleam of light from the entrance door at the other end of the room filled him with a sudden rush of adrenaline, prompting him to look up from the screen. A man wearing long robes came in, and Kasim, the café’s owner, greeted him warmly. It was a false alarm, thank God.
Marco stood up and approached the two men. “Kasim, would you have a mobile phone I could buy?” he asked. “I’ve lost mine.”
The elderly Indian said nothing, indicating to his friend with a gesture that he would be back in a moment.
Kasim led Marco into a back room that in many ways seemed atypical for an Indian: bright walls, rather than white; IKEA furniture, rather than massive, dark-stained wood; a green office chair with yellow flecking, and a radio playing classical music. No cold light emanating from hand-chased brass lamps or a flickering TV screen with old Bollywood movies.
“Take one of these,” Kasim said, pulling out a drawer. “I’ve a couple of old ones you can have for nothing, but you’ll have to pay for the SIM cards. If you want a scratch card for foreign calls you can buy one of them, too.”
“Maybe just a SIM card and a two-hundred-kroner pay-as-you-go card.” Marco put his hand in his pocket and produced a note. “I’ve only got fifty for the moment, but you know you can trust me, don’t you?”
The sun-seasoned man studied him with a look that all too clearly showed how these were words that had proven to be empty on far too many occasions.
“Of course,” he said, after a few seconds of thought. “All in all, with the Internet time, you owe me three hundred and fifty kroner.”
“Thanks. Is it OK if I go back to the computer again? I need to look up the phone numbers of some people I know. I can’t remember them offhand.”
“I’d already figured that one out,” Kasim replied.
–
The calls he made were dispiriting. The greengrocer, the shopkeeper, and the guy who supplied him with posters were furious. What was he up to that prompted such suspect individuals to be looking for him? Was he some kind of criminal?
Their disappointment was worded most succinctly by the man from the bicycle shop: they were sure as hell having nothing more to do with a boy involved in crime. Was he a member of the mafia, or what?
All of them had been threatened with having their businesses burned to the ground if they refused to spit out what they knew about Marco, so they did. The mini-mart’s counter had been smashed and the manager punched in the face.
Marco was on his own again.
He picked up the piece of paper on which he had written down the number of the girl, smoothed it out on the desk, and dialed.
After a few seconds there was a jingle, then a woman’s voice at the other end. “The number you have called is unobtainable. Please try again.”
In other words, the number no longer existed.
–
The doorway across the street from Eivind and Kaj’s ground-floor apartment was one preferred by the youngsters of the area when they needed a place to hang around smoking, making out, or just messing around. Bicycles no one knew who owned were abandoned for no apparent reason against the wall, and the ground was littered with enough cigarette ends to make any bum more than happy. Marco now stood there as well, hugging the wall, his face turned toward the darkened windows.
He had been there an hour and would stay another hour or more, if necessary. As long as the lights didn’t go on in the living room and he couldn’t see the figures of Eivind or Kaj, he dared not step into the street.
Amorous youngsters kept hassling him, telling him to get lost when they realized he wasn’t going of his own accord. But Marco didn’t care. His only thoughts were for Eivind and Kaj and his belongings inside the apartment, and how to get in touch with the girl named Tilde, whose phone number was no longer in use. He wanted to know more before he went to the police with the posters he’d stuck inside his shirt.
Perhaps the girl or her mother could help him establish some connection between William Stark and Zola and his father. And if he couldn’t get hold of the girl, at least he knew where they used to live. He had the address. Maybe there was someone at Stark’s house he could talk to, someone who might know something.
He heard the drag of footsteps before he saw the figure coming along the street, outlined against the sinking sun. The man had a slight limp, as though his knee were unable to bear his full weight, and at this sedate tempo he crossed the side streets that knitted the district together. In his hand were two plastic bags from the dry cleaners. He used them for receipts and invoices when the books needed doing. So Eivind had gone to the shop after they had been to the hospital. But why wasn’t Kaj with him? Was he so ill they’d kept him in? Was that why Eivind’s gait seemed heavier than usual, or was he just tired?
Marco frowned. It was good that Eivind was coming now, but there was something about it he didn’t like. Maybe Zola’s people were inside the apartment. So he decided to step forward into the light of the street lamps.
The smile that lit up Eivind’s face when he saw Marco was worthy of any father. But his expression changed to perplexity when he realized something was afoot.
“What are you doing standing here, Marco?” He looked up toward the apartment. “And why isn’t there anyone in?” he wanted to know, as the unlit windows and Marco’s silence made his smile wither.
“Why isn’t Kaj with you, Eivind?” Marco replied.
“Isn’t he home?” Eivind’s smile vanished completely.
“I don’t know. I’ve haven’t been in yet. I thought the two of you were together.”
“Good Lord!” Any second now, Eivind was going to go charging into the apartment, driven by apprehension. Suddenly the feelings for the man he loved had been converted to anxiety at the prospect of unexpected loss. Marco could feel it, too.
“Wait!” Marco blurted. “You can’t go in. There might be someone waiting in there. Someone who’s after me, Eivind. Someone you don’t want to meet.”
Eivind stared at him as though of all the disappointments life could inflict, he was standing face-to-face with the greatest. And then, in spite of Marco’s warning, he let go of his bags, rushed across the street, and entered the apartment building. Seconds passed and a light went on in the window, accompanied by Eivind’s wails of distress.
Marco hugged the wall. At the slightest sound of a scuffle inside he would have to make himself scarce. It was cowardly, but if the front door was flung open he would have to disappear in a flash. These were his thoughts as his heart pounded in his chest, aware that Zola’s evil had now spread to these two people’s lives through him. And then he thought of his savings, hidden away behind the baseboard, realizing shamefully that they were foremost in his mind.
“MARCO!” Eivind shouted from inside. It wasn’t a cry for help. This was rage of the kind Marco had so often seen followed by violence in Zola’s world. He had never heard Eivind yell like this before.
His eyes scanned the street. All was quiet.
So he crossed over and stepped through the front door, which was still open. Even from a distance Eivind’s indecipherable ranting could be heard from within.
As in all the gay homes he had broken into, the hall was an overture to the dwelling’s contents and character. This narrow passageway provided clues enough to identify the passions of those who lived there. In Eivind and Kaj’s case it was actors, and especially actresses, of old, all presented in the most exclusive of mahogany and silver frames, adorning the walls like icons in the churches of northern Italy where Marco had once tried to find solace. Now these idols lay strewn across the floor amid shards of glass and broken frames. And beyond the alarming disarray, two feet in familiar slippers protruded from the doorway. Marco’s heart almost stopped.