You (52 page)

“How could you?” you hear him say.

And then you give up. You put your arms over your head and give up. Enough is enough.

The first bullet hits the back of Leo’s head, a bloody crater glistens where his eye used to be. Leo leans against the driver’s door, his shattered face pressing against the window, his other eye wide open and staring into the road. One hand lies on the steering wheel, as if he still had everything under control. You see the scars around his knuckles, his other hand rests on his knee, palm up. You’ve never seen Leo so motionless. No nervous twitching, nothing anymore.

The second bullet left a clean hole in the windshield.

It was the third bullet that caught Tanner from the side. It smashed two of his ribs and tore a pinhead-sized piece out of his heart and shredded his right lung. Tanner’s head has dropped back, his breath rattles, and he stares at the roof of the car. His right hand grips the door handle, his finger bones shine white through the skin. The smell of urine hangs in the air like a spilled perfume.

You hear footsteps, your son comes running round the car, blood on his face, that damned gun in his hand. He sees you standing on the driver’s side, he sees the boy at your feet. You hit him, one blow on the left, one on the right, then you grab your son by the ear, pull him around the car, and point at Leo.

“You see that, you little fucker? You see that?”

Your son pants, your son nods. The gun falls out of his hand; you should never have let him keep it. All this happened just because he was taken by surprise.

All this
.

You let go of him and go back to the boy. He hasn’t moved
from the spot. With his arms over his head he lies on the tarmac and shakes as if it is freezing cold.

What a fuckup
, you think and take your jacket off. You fold it and lay it on the backseat. Then you roll up the sleeves of your sweater and try to open the driver’s door. Tanner’s still clutching the handle. You tell him to let go. Tanner doesn’t react. So you knock against the glass. Tanner doesn’t look at you. His eyes flicker. You wait a few seconds and try again. Tanner’s grip has loosened, the door swings open. His pupils are dilated and moving, they try to settle on you, his head stays rigid. You lean into his field of vision, he sighs and looks at you. A tear dislodges from his left eye and flows down his cheek. The rattling in his lungs makes the hairs stand up on the back of your neck.

“What a mess,” Tanner says and coughs blood.

“Calm now,” you say, grabbing him under the arms and heaving him carefully out of the car. “Just be calm now, Tanner, I’ve got you.”

“What can I do?”

Your son’s there again. At least he has the guts to show up. He’s wiped the blood off his face. You tell him what he needs to do.

“And clean the seat and the window.”

You help Tanner to the edge of the road, ten yards away there’s a rock, you sit Tanner carefully down on the ground so that he’s sitting upright, with his back to the stone. Now no one can see him from the road. You sit down beside him and wipe the drool off his chin. The ground is soft and damp. It’s all wrong. You could be back in Berlin right now. You could be at the theater, chatting over dinner, lying in bed.

“It’s stopped raining,” says Tanner.

You feel a stinging in your eyes and press his hand.

It’s stopped raining, that’s right
.

“Typical Norway,” says Tanner quietly. “It would have …”

“I know, it would have been nice if I’d taken you along to the wedding.”

“… been better.”

“What?”

Tanner’s thoughts are already elsewhere, his eyes look for the road and the car, he knows why he’s sitting here.

“Leo?”

“Dead,” you say.

Tanner sighs again, his eyes close, the rattling grows quieter.

“Poor Leo,” Tanner says after a long pause. “Poor, poor Leo.”

You hear the trunk slamming shut. Your son’s footsteps.

“… to me,” says Tanner.

“What?”

“Bring Darian to me.”

You hesitate, then you get up and call your son. You leave the two of them alone, go back to the car and crouch down beside the boy, who hasn’t budged an inch from the spot. His arms are wrapped around his head, his knees pulled up to his chest. He doesn’t hear you when you say his name. You look at his body, trembling and quaking, one sneaker is missing, his jeans are damp at the crotch, he looks pitiful, and you think:
He’s someone’s son
. You also think:
Every man is someone’s son, you idiot!

A minute passes, then another.

You hear Tanner, his voice is a long way off.

Farewell
.

Your thoughts slip away from you as you study the boy’s shaking back. You’re no longer in the south of Norway, crouching by the roadside, you’re standing in a cemetery in Berlin, Charlottenburg. It’s drizzling and Tanner hasn’t a shredded lung, he’s talking to you and has to repeat his words three times before you really hear his voice.

“Ragnar, it’s enough!”

You flinch. A man lies curled up on the ground in front of you, unmoving, except his back is like a bellows, it goes up, it goes down. You spit and turn away. It’s spring 1993, and you’re at Flipper’s funeral, your son is nine months old, Oskar’s been married for a year, and Majgull sticks in your head like a tick that’s slowly but surely sucking out your brain.

Tanner passes you a cigarette, your hand is trembling. You thank him and ask for a light. The funeral’s over, and you still don’t know why all this is taking its toll on you. Last year went smoothly, even though you never had the feeling of being really present. A wife, a child, and you, somehow never quite part of the equation.

And now this funeral.

Tanner was quite relaxed when he heard about Flipper’s death, although he was close friends with him. You knew Flipper had specialized as a courier in precious stones over the past few years. No one was really surprised when the news came in five days ago that Flipper had died of an overdose in a hotel in Geneva. You know it was murder. The consignment of precious stones wasn’t in his luggage, and no one mentioned it. There will always be risks in this job.

The funeral is well attended for someone everybody thought was a junkie, and who wasn’t really at home anywhere. Anyone in this city who’d had anything to do with Flipper is here today. Grief hasn’t brought them together, they’re all taking advantage of his death and looking out for new contacts. Business is business. This is a meeting that’s all about profits. Businessmen among businessmen. Until five minutes ago one of those businessmen was still standing right beside you, saying that it served Flipper’s looks taking all those drugs over the years.

“He looks like a bloody mummy, you could probably make money by putting him on display.”

You asked the businessman to step aside from the others. Once he was lying on the ground, you kicked him until he couldn’t get up again. Apart from Tanner, no one intervened. Now your fist is sore, but you don’t regret losing your composure. It felt good. Tanner is completely clueless and doesn’t understand what happened. At least that’s what you think.

“What’s up with you?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“You’d only known Flipper for one day, so what’s up with you?”

The answer lies heavy and thick in your mouth. Spit it out.

“Was Flipper his real name?”

Tanner laughs a sad laugh.

“No, his name’s Felipe. He hated the name, even in kindergarten he called himself Flipper.”

“In kindergarten? You’d known each other that long?”

“We were neighbors, sometimes you just know people. But that’s not important. Ragnar, stop avoiding the issue. What’s your problem?”

You clench your aching fist, you try to sound as matter-of-fact as possible.

“He was like a father to me.”

“What?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but he felt like my father never had done. When I was out of it on New Year’s Eve, he wiped the puke off my face. He looked after me. Like a father, in fact. Not like you, you’re a friend; not like just anybody, do you get that?”

“Shit, Ragnar, you only knew him for a day.”

“I know, that’s the weird thing. Something strange happened on that day.”

“He slept over at your place, he used the toilet, what else have I missed?”

“Flipper showed me a way.”

Tanner laughs.

“You found this way by yourself. He gave you drugs to deliver. You delivered them. That’s all that happened.”

“He knew what he was doing.”

“Flipper knew a lot of things, that’s why he’s in that hole there.”

“That’s probably true.”

Tanner looks at you quizzically.

“You’re not going to have a breakdown on me, are you?”

“ ’Course not.”

“Flipper was a nice guy, that’s all.”

“But without him we’d never have met. You think that happened by chance?”

You smile. You know the answer, yet you want to hear it again. Tanner obliges.

“Chance is the sister of fate. And fate is a guy with syphilis and a hard-on, fucking you in the ass as soon as you look in the wrong direction.”

“I’ll remember that one.”

“You say that every time.”

You look across at the businessman. He’s clutching his stomach, supported by two of his colleagues. He doesn’t glance in your direction.

“You can be thankful you didn’t break any of his ribs.”

“Did you hear what he said?”

“I was standing beside you.”

Tanner waits; at this point he’s only known you for three years,
but he always knows when to wait and when to talk. You look over at the mourners who are on the way to their cars. Business cards are exchanged, conversations ended, hands shaken. Life goes on. Your funeral will be exactly the same. Pure business.

As you watch the procession, you realize what’s just happened. Your frustration is over a year old. It’s been fermenting away and now it’s looking for an outlet. It didn’t really have anything to do with Flipper or your father. Tanner was right not to believe you. These are all just alibis that are supposed to put your mind at rest. Open your eyes. Your problem lies elsewhere, and Tanner expects you to recognize that.

“Tanner?”

“I’m listening.”

“I’ve got to call her.”

“Oh, shit.”

That’s all either of you needs to say.

You call her two days later. It takes you two days, to understand what you’re actually doing. After you’ve jogged six miles through the forest and had a cold shower, after you’ve worked your body until your head was able to work properly again, you’re ready and you call her number.

She picks up after the fourth ring. You knew she was there. Anything else would have been unacceptable. Your voice sounds unfamiliar to yourself when you say in English, “It’s me.”

She breathes out.

She breathes in.

Nothing else happens.

You feel your jaw quivering, you listen out for background noises. Nothing. As if she were in a bell jar and you were her only contact with the outside world. At last she speaks.

“I know.”

As if everything inside you were suddenly blossoming.
She knew I’d call
. As if a previously hidden world were opening up. You know it’s ridiculous, you know it’s a cliché and irrational. But that’s exactly how it is. You’re twenty-eight, and that’s exactly how it is.

“I need to see you.”

“Where?”

“Can you get away?”

“I can.”

You name a hotel in Amsterdam. Amsterdam is the first city that comes into your mind. It could just as well have been Istanbul or Skopje. You couldn’t think of a city in Norway. Her reaction is like a surgeon’s first incision. Without hesitation.

“See you there.”

She hangs up. You look at your phone. The whole conversation took twenty-two seconds. No more, no less.

The same day you go to Amsterdam and wait for her. You leave your cell phone number for her at reception and wander aimlessly through the city. In the evening you eat in the hotel bar and read. She arrives on the third day, just before midnight. You look up from your book, and there she is. You don’t know how long she’s been standing there. She has no luggage, just a handbag over her shoulder.

You pull the bar stool next to you out a little way. She comes over and sits down. You don’t touch each other, you just look at each other, and then she asks in German how many coffees you’ve had already. You love it when she speaks German to you. From the very first moment there’s a special charm in the fact that you can switch languages whenever you feel like it. As if you had a very private connection that extends across continents. You look at the counter. There are four empty coffee cups sitting on it, and you can’t remember drinking even one of them.

“More than four,” you say.

She looks at the book.

“How’s the book?”

You push it away.

“Like all books.”

She smiles. She pretends to read the title. Her voice sounds as if she’s asking the time.

“I’m pregnant.”

And she says, “I’m in the sixth month.”

And you can’t think of a better answer than, “I’m glad.”