What is Mine (14 page)

T
here was now a sea of flowers to mark the spot where Emilie Selbu’s bag had been found, on the quiet path between two busy roads. Some of the flowers were withering, others were already dead. And in among them all, fresh roses in small plastic containers. Children’s drawings fluttered in the evening breeze.

A group of teenagers cycled by. They were shouting and laughing, but lowered their voices as they cycled around the flowers and letters. A girl of about fourteen put her foot on the ground and stood still for a few seconds before swearing loudly and clearly, then shook her head and pedalled frantically after the others.

The man pulled his hat farther down over his eyes. He slipped his other hand into his trousers. Did he dare get even closer? The thought of standing on the spot, the very place where Emilie was taken, exactly where she was abducted, made his balls burn. He lost his balance and had to press his hip against a tree to stop himself from falling. He groaned and bit his lip.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Two people appeared behind him. They popped up out of nowhere, from behind a dense bush. Surprised, he turned toward them, his penis still in his hand; it went limp between his fingers and he tried to smile.

“Noth . . . nothing,” he stammered, paralysed.

“He . . . he’s
jerking off, for Christ’s sake!
”

It took them two minutes to render him harmless, but they didn’t stop there. When the man dressed in paramilitary gear stumbled into the police station, pushed by a newly established group of neighborhood vigilantes, his right eye was already swollen and blue. His nose was bleeding and it looked as if his arm was broken.

He said nothing, not even when the police asked him if he needed a doctor.

T
WENTY-THREE

A
re you sure you don’t want to speak English?”

He shook his head. There were a couple of times when he didn’t seem to understand what she said. She repeated herself in different, simpler words. It was hard to say whether it helped. His expression didn’t change. He didn’t say much.

Aksel Seier had ordered a filet mignon and a beer. Johanne was happy with a Caesar salad and a glass of ice water. They were the only guests at The 400 Club, a rural mix between a restaurant and a diner, only seven minutes’ walk from Ocean Avenue. Aksel Seier had walked toward his pickup, then shrugged and gone on foot when Johanne insisted. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner. The kitchen was working on half steam. Before the food arrived on the table, Johanne had told him all about Alvhild Sofienberg, the old lady who was once so interested in Aksel Seier’s case, but then forced to drop it. And now, many years later, Alvhild wanted to find out why he had been sentenced and then released so suddenly nearly nine years later. Johanne described the futile search for the case documents. And finally, in a kind of casual postscript, she explained her own interest in the case.

The food arrived. Aksel Seier picked up his knife and fork. He ate slowly, taking time to chew. Again, he let his hair fall over his eyes. It must be an old trick; the coarse gray hair became a wall between him and her.

Uninterested,
she thought.
You seem completely uninterested. Why did you bother to come here with me? Why didn’t you just throw me out? I would have accepted that. Or you might listen to what I’ve got to say and then say thank you and good-bye. You could get up now. You could finish your food, accept a free meal from a past you had hidden and forgotten and then just go. It’s your right. You have used so many years trying to forget. And I’m ruining it all for you. I’m crushing you. Go.

“What do you want me to say?”

Half the meat was still on the plate. Aksel put his knife between the teeth of the fork and drank the rest of his beer. Then he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

I was expecting some enthusiasm,
she thought.
This is absurd. Here I am thinking I’m an angel, a messenger bringing good tidings. I want . . . what do I want? Ever since I read your story—from the moment I realized that Alvhild was right—I’ve seen myself in the role of the fairy godmother who would right all wrongs. I would come here and tell you what you already know: that you’re innocent. You are innocent. I want to confirm that for you. I’ve come all the way from Norway and you should be . . . grateful. Damn it, I want some gratitude.

“I want absolutely nothing,” she said quietly. “If you want, I can go.”

Aksel smiled. His teeth were even and gray and didn’t suit his face. It was as if someone had cut out an old mouth and sewn it somewhere it didn’t belong. But he smiled and put his hands down on the table in front of him.

“I’ve dreamed about what it would be like to have . . .”

He searched for the right word. Johanne was unsure whether to help him or not. There was a long pause.

“Your name cleared,” she said.

“Exactly. To have my name cleared.”

He looked down at his empty glass. Johanne signalled to the waitress to bring another. She had a thousand questions, but couldn’t think of a single one.

“Why . . .” she started, without knowing where she was going. “Are you aware of the fact that the media was highly critical of your sentence? Did you know that several journalists mocked the prosecution and the witnesses they brought against you?”

“No.”

The smile had vanished and the lock of hair was about to fall again. But he didn’t seem aggressive nor curious. His voice was completely flat. Maybe it was because he wasn’t used to the language anymore. Maybe he really had to summon up his strength to even take in what she was telling him.

“I didn’t get the papers.”

“But what about afterwards? You must have heard about it afterwards, from other people, from your fellow inmates, from . . .”

“I had no friends in prison. It wasn’t a very . . . friendly place.”

“Didn’t any journalists try to talk to you? I’ve got the clippings with me, so you can have a look. Surely some of them must have tried to contact you after you were sentenced? I’ve tried to trace the two journalists who were most critical, but unfortunately they’re both dead now. Can you remember if they tried to get an interview with you?”

The glass of beer was already half empty. He ran his finger around the rim.

“Maybe. It’s so long ago now. I thought everyone . . . I thought every . . .”

You thought that everyone was out to get you,
thought Johanne.
You didn’t want to talk to anyone. You walled yourself in, both physically and mentally, and didn’t trust anyone. You mustn’t trust me, either. Don’t think that I can do anything. Your case is too old. It won’t be taken up again. I’m just curious. I’ve got questions. I want to make notes. I’ve got a notebook and a tape recorder in my bag. If I get them out, there’s a risk you’ll leave. That you’ll say no. That you’ll finally realize that I’m only looking after my own interests
.

“Like I said . . .”

She nodded at the beer glass. Did he want another? He shook his head.

“I do research. And the project I’m working on at the moment is trying to compare . . .”

“You’ve already told me.”

“Right. I wondered if . . . is it okay if I take notes?”

A large lady slapped the bill down on the table in front of Aksel. Johanne snatched it up a bit too fast. The waitress tossed her head and waddled back out to the kitchen without turning around. Aksel’s face darkened.

“I’ll pay,” he said. “Give me the bill.”

“No, no . . . let me. I’ll expense it . . . I mean, it was me who asked you out.”

“Give me that!”

She let go of the bill. It fell to the floor. He picked it up. Then he took out a worn wallet and started to count the bills.

“I might talk to you later,” he said, without looking up from the money. “I need to think about all this. How long are you here for?”

“A few days, at least.”

“A few days. Thirty-one, thirty-two . . .”

It was a big pile of worn bills.

“Where are you staying?”

“The Augustus Snow.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

He pushed back his chair and got up with heavy movements. Gone was the man who had climbed up a rickety ladder to switch a weathercock for a pig earlier in the day.

“Can I ask you something?” said Johanne quickly. “Just one question before you go?”

He didn’t answer, but made no effort to go.

“Did they say anything when you were released? I mean, did they give you any explanation as to what had happened? Did they tell you that you’d been pardoned or . . .”

“Nothing. They said nothing. I was given a suitcase to put my things in. An envelope with one hundred kroner. The address of a hostel. But they said nothing.
Except,
there was a man, a . . . he wasn’t wearing a uniform or anything like that. He just said I should keep my mouth shut and be happy. ‘Keep your mouth shut and be happy.’ I remember that sentence well. But explanation? Nope.”

Again he bared his teeth in the semblance of a smile. It was horrible and made her look down. Aksel Seier walked toward the entrance and then disappeared, without waiting for her, without making any further arrangements. She twisted her water glass in her hand. She tried to formulate a thought but couldn’t.

There was something in Aksel Seier’s house that didn’t belong there. She had seen something. She had reacted to something, afterwards, when it was too late, something that was part of the bizarre interior, but that stood out all the same. She closed her eyes and tried to recreate Aksel Seier’s living room. The galleon figure. The battlefield. The sad Sami in a faded jacket. The knight on the wall. The wall clock with horseshoe weights. The bookcase with four books in it, but she couldn’t remember any of the titles. An old coffee jar with small change in it by the door. The TV with an indoor antenna. A lamp in the shape of a shark, with its teeth in the floor and a light in its tail. A lifelike labrador in black painted wood. Absurd, intriguing objects that belonged together in some indescribable way.

Plus something else. Something she had reacted to, without paying attention before it was too late.

Aksel Seier walked fast. His thoughts turned back to that spring day in 1966, when he saw Oslo for the last time. The fjord was covered in a blanket of fog. He stood by the railings on the MS
Sandefjord,
sailing to the U.S. with a cargo of artificial fertilizer. The captain had nodded briefly when Aksel explained his situation, honestly and without any embellishment. That he had served a long prison sentence and it looked like nothing would work out for him here in Norway. The captain didn’t need to worry; Aksel Seier was an American citizen. The passport that was thumped down on the table was genuine enough. All he wanted was to make himself useful during the voyage over the Atlantic. If he could, that was.

He could help out in the galley. Before they reached the Dyna lighthouse, he had peeled nine pounds of potatoes. Then he went out on deck for a while. He knew that he was leaving for good. He cried and didn’t know why.

Since then, he had never shed a tear, until now.

He ran home. The bolt in the gate was difficult and gave him problems. The mailman stuck his head out of the car window, pointed at the pig, and laughed. Aksel Seier jumped over the low fence and rushed indoors. Then he locked the door carefully behind him and climbed into bed. The cat meowed loudly outside the window; he paid no attention.

T
WENTY-FOUR

A
nd you’re wasting time on this?”

Adam Stubo rubbed his face. The palm of his hand rasped against the dry stubble. It was past two in the morning on Wednesday, May 24. A cluster of around twenty-five journalists and nearly as many photographers huddled outside Asker and Bærum Police Station in Sandvika. They were being kept out of the red-brick building by a couple of police cadets, who had resorted to brandishing their batons in the last fifteen minutes. They paced back and forth in front of the entrance, angrily smacking their batons into their hands, like caricature policemen from a Chaplin film. The photographers pulled back a step or two. Some of the journalists started to look at their watches. One guy from
Dagbladet,
whom Adam Stubo recognized, yawned loudly and obviously. He barked at one of the photographers before shambling over to a Saab that was parked illegally. He got in, but the car didn’t move.