The Murder of Harriet Krohn (21 page)

“I could eat a horse,” Charlo says.

She gives him a mock hurt look, and they both laugh. At last they’re laughing. He relaxes and thinks, it went well. I did all right. They know nothing. It was just a shot in the dark. Things must be proved beyond all reasonable doubt, and there’s a lot of damn doubt there. Even so, it’s quieter than usual between them while he’s driving. He thinks that maybe she’s tired. It’s hard work dealing with a horse, and she’s got her homework as well. No, it’s more than that. The silence is palpable. He has the feeling that she’s mulling something over, but doesn’t dare ask the question. Well, it’ll come out sooner or later. If she has questions, he’ll answer them.

Later on, they’re having their meal in Charlo’s kitchen. Julie is seated on the green chest, chewing. Charlo lifts his glass of Coke and proposes a toast.

“To the new record,” he says. “One meter thirty. Congratulations, Julie. You’re a real star.”

She raises her glass, too, and they look into each other’s eyes as they drink. Julie takes a new slice of pizza, bites into it, and chews. She seems distracted, Charlo thinks. Our conversation isn’t flowing like it usually does. What’s coming between us? Why do I feel on edge? Julie’s green eyes seem so dark, so anxious. It’s as if she’s keeping something back. Charlo puts his piece of pizza down on his plate, leans forward, and looks straight at her. Attack is the best form of defense, he thinks.

“So,” he says, and smiles. “You’re very thoughtful today. Tell Dad all about it.”

She swallows. Gives her head a slight shake.

“You’re so quiet,” he goes on. “Have you got a lot on your mind?”

She nods and pushes her plate away. Leans back against the wall. Her shoulders are tense. Her white neck is so thin, he can see the veins, the fine blue lines.

“Come on, tell Dad,” he repeats. She peers up at him and purses her mouth.

“I’m thinking about Grandma,” she says at last.

She lowers her gaze immediately and tosses her head. Charlo’s heart misses a beat.

“About Grandma?”

He looks at her in surprise and tries to understand. Licks his mouth because his lips are so dry.

“I went to visit Grandma yesterday.”

She shoots little glances in his direction the whole time, as if gauging his reaction.

“She must have been pleased to see you,” he says hastily, helping himself in his confusion to another piece of pizza that he definitely doesn’t want. “I mean, even though she’s very muddled, she’d have been glad of your visit.”

Julie puts her elbows on the table. She looks at him hard.

“Grandma’s only muddled sometimes,” she says. “In between, she’s quite lucid. Then she can remember everything.”

“Really?” Charlo says. He takes a bite of his pizza and chews for a long time.

“I asked about those bits of old jewelry,” Julie says. “But she’s never given you any pieces of jewelry. She’s never had a cameo. Or any silver.”

Charlo manages a smile. He shakes his head with forbearance.

“I’m sorry to have to say it, but I’m afraid she’s lost her grip on reality, Julie.” He leans forward, not knowing where he gets the strength from. “Something’s troubling you. Tell me what it is now.”

Suddenly she looks tormented.

“It’s just that I’m so scared. I find bits of old jewelry in your chest, and I don’t know where they come from. And today, you’re picked up by the police. I don’t know what to think.”

Charlo gives her a horrified look.

“But,” he exclaims, “are you sitting there worrying about me, my darling?”

She makes no reply, only stares at him.

“I’ve told you what that was all about, Julie.”

He pushes his plate away and summons all his powers of persuasion.

“What is it that you’re scared of really?” he asks.

She squirms slightly, feeling awkward.

“I’m scared you’ll get caught up in something.”

Charlo grins.

“There. But I can put your mind at ease. Now listen to me. This is important—this is something you’ve got to believe. For the first time in my life, I’m in control. For the first time in a long time, I’m doing things right.” He clutches his glass and gulps at his Coke. “I’ve kicked my bad habits. I’m working hard for Møller. I’m looking after you and managing fine. The last thing I want is for you to start worrying about me. Because now I’m really on top of it all. And God knows that I’ve wasted half my life in madness and bad habits. But I’ve thrown all that off. I’m the world’s most respectable man now. I don’t fiddle with my taxes, I don’t drink, I’m not violent. But I understand that you find that hard to believe because you’re not used to it. You’re used to looking for relapses. But there’s no more backsliding. I’ve finished with that. D’you understand?”

She lifts her head and looks at him, giving him a shamefaced smile.

“Sorry,” she says faintly. “But it’s all a bit much for me. The way you suddenly turn up with everything ironed out, just like that. Paid your debts and bought me a horse. It’s almost too good to be true.”

He’s sitting with both his hands wrapped around his glass, and now he assumes a sympathetic expression. He’s lying, lying through his teeth. He’s laying it on with a trowel, and it’s as easy as winking. He thanks God for his special talent for dissimulation. People have to feign things or they wouldn’t survive, and he’s good at it because he has to be. She relaxes once more. She sighs heavily and shakes her head.

“Grandma’s very old,” he says softly. “She’s lost the thread completely.”

“I know,” says Julie.

“She still thinks I’m twenty-two. She still believes that Mom’s alive.”

“Yes.”

“Old people are so frightened,” he explains. “And fear creates confusion.”

“But occasionally her mind is crystal clear.”

“For a few short moments. But you mustn’t be taken in. Did she recognize you right away?”

“Not until I said something.”

“There. That’s what I mean. She recognizes voices. Have I managed to put your mind at rest? Tell me.”

She smiles bravely, looking ashamed.

“It’s only because I’m scared,” she says. “I’m scared of losing what I’ve finally got.”

He looks at her hard. “That’s never going to happen!” he says, wringing his hands in his lap all the while. He feels like a bull charging toward a cliff. He’s running straight ahead, refusing to look to the side, running as far as he can. They sit there for a long time, fingering their glasses.

GRADUALLY SHE’S COMFORTED
by his assurances. She leans on him trustingly once more and concentrates on the present. On all the work that must be done. She receives his support and help and comfort, and she begins to believe that it will last.

Time passes and nothing happens. Charlo hears no more from the police. But he looks over his shoulder continually and trawls through all the papers for any news. Peace slowly returns to his life. He knows what he has to do hour by hour, and the days pass rapidly. He gets fitter. He lifts and carries and toils. The blood pumps through his body. He’s always so warm, so strong. He eats well and sleeps well. His nights are dreamless or, rather, he can’t remember his dreams at all. He wakes with a sense of bewilderment at the fact that he’s been given yet another day. That it’s lying there before him to do with as he pleases. That he’s still a free man. He’s managing financially and he has no expensive tastes. He buys food and a little tobacco now and then, and no longer drinks. This is how things should be forever, he thinks. Julie and me together. Hard work and harmony. He’s out of the shadows now. His turn has come at last.

In March, Julie takes part in her first competition with Crazy. She enters Intermediate B and comes in second. Charlo is in the stand with tears in his eyes. He’s so proud he almost bursts out of his shirt. She rides in white tie and tails, with a small black top hat and white gloves. She has braided Crazy’s mane and sprayed him with coat shine. None of the other horses glow like he does. This was what we were aiming for, Charlo thinks. We deserve this. But sometimes he gets irritated because his sight falters. Everything gradually goes hazy, or he starts seeing double. Then he has to blink a few times, and after a while his sight returns to normal. Oh well, he thinks. Maybe it’s time for glasses. Everyone has them, even small children. So why should I be any different? Time is passing and I’m gradually deteriorating. It doesn’t feel frightening, just a little irksome.

Eventually he gets around to booking an appointment with an optician. Arrives at the appointed time, sits down, and does everything he’s told. The optician is a young woman. She’s sitting on a chair with wheels and comes right up close, into his lap. She is so incredibly near that he can smell the scent of her skin. He begins reading from the board. But today his sight is fine. He can see everything quite clearly. He’s annoyed and relieved at the same time.

“It comes and goes,” he explains.

“Yes,” she says, pushing her chair back again, “sight is often variable from day to day, or hour to hour. That’s completely normal. But as things stand, I don’t think you need glasses.”

He looks at her and steels himself. “But apart from that,” he asks, “do my eyes look normal?”

She hesitates. “Do they look normal? Yes, I would have said so. Are you unhappy about them?”

She sends him a bemused smile. He laughs it off and shakes his head. He leaves and feels relieved. Presumably it’s nerves, he thinks. I’ve begun listening to my body in a different way now.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table distractedly fiddling with a pepper mill. He’s keeping an eye on the traffic outside to see if anyone comes. On a sudden whim, he unscrews the top of the mill and shakes the peppercorns out onto the table. They’re as brown and dry as mouse shit and scatter in all directions. He gathers them into a little pile. He thinks back over his life and all the things he’s done. Suppose these peppercorns stand for his deeds, both the bad and the good, and that there were some scales on the table. Could he get them to balance? He thinks of the years with Inga Lill, of the time when he was in control. Of the time when he could support her, when he still had a job. Aren’t those years worth a few peppercorns? He counts out ten and places them in an imaginary scale on the left, for the good things. Then there was the embezzlement at work. It wasn’t a large amount, but he’s forced to place ten peppercorns on the right, for the bad deeds. He stops for a moment and considers. His big deceit with Julie, gambling her money away, was unpardonable, and must be worth ten peppercorns. The scales are out of balance already. But then he remembers that he’s just bought her a horse. Pleased, he places ten peppercorns on the left. That looks better. But the worst thing of all remains. The murder, how much does that weigh? Is thirty enough? Forty?

He starts counting peppercorns. He wants to be truthful when it comes to his crime. So he takes forty peppercorns and places them on the right. He sits there for a long time, staring at the two piles. Is there any chance at all of righting this, of living with it? Yes, time will take care of everything. Much of his life is still before him. Maybe forty years, maybe more. If he does good every day for the rest of his life, couldn’t he earn forty peppercorns to go on the left, and pay his debt? Immediately he begins to count peppercorns again. You can’t judge a man’s life before it’s over. He pushes the peppercorns over to the left and leans back contentedly. Time will work in his favor, and his pupils are perfectly fine.

He sleeps well that night. Curled up in bed like a child, with his hands beneath his cheek. He drops into a light, shimmering sleep and dreams about Julie and Crazy. They’re galloping along a beach and the water flies around the horse’s hooves. His great body glints in the sun and Julie’s gorgeous hair billows like a red pennant in the wind. Fast, graceful, and unconquerable, they’re on their way to an adventure. He wakes with his head completely clear. For a while, he lies staring up at the ceiling. He follows the wire with his eyes, from the lamp and down to the plug in the wall. He throws the duvet aside, puts his feet on the ground, and stands up. He’s unprepared for what happens next. Both his legs buckle under him. He pitches forward with all his weight and bashes his head on the bedside table with tremendous force and falls flat. He feels a stab of pain, and a moment later the cold floor against his cheek. He lies there for a while, groping like a blind man. His temples are hammering. He can’t believe this; it’s past surely. There’s nothing the matter with him—the doctor said so, his blood said so. His blood is as pure as spring water. All the readings are normal. He tries to rise but can’t control his legs. This is more than he can bear. A great fury grows within him, and he hauls himself up awkwardly in a mixture of anger and tears. He sits on his bed again and punches the mattress, cursing quietly and bitterly.

He looks at his kneecaps. What the hell is wrong with them? he thinks. He stays like this for a long time. He bends his knees and wiggles his toes. His fingers, too. They’re working fine. But they’re so sensitive. He’s never felt them so sensitive before. His vision is blurred again and he can see only the vague outlines of furniture and other objects in the bedroom. He blinks repeatedly, but it makes no difference at all. He sits there immobile, not knowing what to do. Filled with anxiety, his feet planted on the cold floor. Help me, Julie; I’m fading away! But she’s not there. He’s a lone man on the edge of his bed, and he’s helpless.

Finally he gets to his feet again. His legs are just about able to carry him, and he walks haltingly across the room. He is no longer capable of trusting his own body. It’s seven-thirty, so no one will answer if he calls the medical center now. He’ll have to wait. He finds an old dressing gown. Sits in a chair by the window and listens to the ticking of the wall clock. There’s an Opel driving past, and shortly after a BMW. He keeps massaging his thighs the whole time. He wants to rub some strength back into them and make them his own legs, the ones he’s always had. Legs that do as he wants. Fear tingles down his spine. He bites his lip hard and recognizes the taste of blood in his mouth. I must call the doctor, he thinks. I must get help with this. What is lurking inside his body? He curls his fingers again. There’s nothing wrong with his fine motor control and his vision has almost returned to normal. Could it just be that he’s careless, not concentrating? Did he get up too quickly? Was he giddy? No, that couldn’t be right, because he lost all strength. It hit him suddenly. He leans on the table. The idea of a virus crosses his mind. It could be that. He’s heard so much about it. He’s heard of people who wake up paralyzed and a week later they can walk again. Most likely it’s harmless, and the doctor will find it. Something microscopic that is affecting him, certainly not dangerous.