When the Devil Holds the Candle (24 page)

"It's impossible for anyone to hold on to anger for a prolonged period of time. It's driven by hormones, and that's not something you can control. It can shoot up like a geyser. You're at that age. In time you'll stop feeling what you feel now and slip into something else..."

"Shut up!" Zipp was shaking violently. "You can't touch me!"

Sejer smiled sadly. "Are you so sure of that? Don't you read the newspapers?" He lowered his voice. "If you only knew how angry I can get." He stood up, pushed back his chair, straightened his jacket, and looked at Zipp. His smile grew almost jovial. Zipp tried to steel himself.

"You can go home now."

He stayed where he was, gaping. There must be some mistake. If he got up and walked across the room, maybe Sejer would stick out his foot to trip him.

"G-go home?"

"Lie down in your warm bed. Send Andreas a kind thought."

Zipp tried to be happy that he'd managed to keep his mouth
shut, but he didn't feel happy, just empty.
What about the baby?
he thought. Evidently they didn't know anything about that. That was something, at least. The minutes passed. He was still whole. He slipped past the man. He reached only as high as his lapels, but he saw the pin. It was actually a little gold skydiver.

Anna Fehn opened the door and looked at Sejer. She liked what she saw, but at the same time she felt anxious. The painting of Andreas stood on the easel, half finished. And now a policeman had come here to ask questions. How much should she tell him? What would he think? He didn't sit down when she pointed to the sofa.

"Why are you here? How did you find me?"

He smiled briefly. "This is a small town. I'm just curious: would it be possible to see the painting of Andreas that you've been working on?"

She led the way into another, bigger and brighter, space. The easel stood to the right of the window so that the light fell on it from the left. Sejer didn't recognize Andreas, because the boy had posed with his face tilted down, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. The hair, maybe, the wild curls. But it was his body that she had wanted to portray. Sejer was struck by just how naked he was, more naked than he would have looked in a photograph. The body seemed in violent motion and was more defined than his age would indicate. He was painted in blues and greens; except for his hair, which was red.

"Does he like it? Posing?"

She nodded. "He seems to. He's good-looking, and he knows it." She laughed softly. "The first time he saw it, he said: 'Shit, that's fucking awesome!'"

Sejer stuck his face close to the canvas. "It must take a certain kind of person—to pose like that."

"Why so?"

He shrugged. "I'm trying to imagine myself in the same situation, how uncomfortable I would feel."

"Maybe you take yourself too seriously."

She noticed his eyes, which weren't brown, as she'd thought at first, but deep gray. His hair must have been raven black at one time. She guessed that he was a practical type: his hair was cut very short and he carried himself with controlled grace, without being ostentatious. Mature, she thought.

"Do the two of you do anything else besides pose and paint?"

She had been afraid of the question, yet she was unprepared for the speed with which it came. Was he being impudent or just unusually acute?

"Sometimes," she said evasively.

"Have a bite to eat together, or sometimes a beer?"

She coughed. "Er, yes. Sometimes."

"Sometimes what?"

He stared her down. A tiny smile took the sting out of his dark gaze. She began fidgeting with a brush sticking out of a jar, stroking her chin with the soft bristles.

"We sleep together."

"Who took the initiative?"

"I did. What did you expect?" Her reply was followed by dry laughter.

Sejer looked at the painting again, saw the enthusiasm in every stroke. The young body, in which everything was tautly in place. And the force in it, the youth. Anna Fehn was in her early forties and Andreas was eighteen. Well, it was a familiar story.

She looked at the floor. "To be honest, he never really seems to like it. But he does it anyway. As if he thinks it's expected of him, or that it's required—I'm not really sure which. I often wonder—why he puts himself at my disposal like that."

Sejer could understand perfectly why a young man like Andreas would grab such a chance if it was offered to him. Anna Fehn was not a dazzling beauty, but she was very attractive, blond and voluptuous.

"Do you know his friend? Zipp?"

"Andreas has mentioned him. In a patronizing kind of way, as if he's impossibly hopeless."

"They've been friends for years."

"Yes. And I wonder whether his dissatisfaction is just a cover, whether it's actually hiding great emotion. An emotion so great that it bothers him."

"What are you getting at?"

She went over to the window where the pale light fell across the naked body on the canvas.

"Call it woman's intuition, but I think that Andreas ... There's no passion in him. You can feel ... a certain lack of interest. I think he prefers boys. I think he's in love with Zipp."

Sejer stared at her in shock.

"Forgive me if I'm starting a hare. But I think I'm no more than a cover for him. Something he can brag about to others."

To Zipp, for example?
Sejer wondered. Aloud, he said, "He doesn't spend time with anyone else except Zipp."

"I know."

"But you're not positive about this?"

"At times it's quite blatant. I've had lots of models over the years, and many of them have been homosexual."

"What are the signs that make you think so?"

"I think women can see it faster than men. Think about it. I look at you. You look at me. We each think our own thoughts. We do this in a split second, before anything else. We appraise one another: would I make love with this man, with this woman? Yes or no? When we've decided that, then we can put the tension aside, move on and attend to whatever is our real objective. But that tension is always there to begin with, only we get so used to it throughout our lives that we don't even think about it. Until one day we're confronted with a man, and the tension isn't there. That's a strange experience: it makes us relax. Women enjoy the company of homosexual men," she said. "Men evidently don't feel as comfortable in the company of lesbians. Isn't that strange?" She suddenly looked a bit hostile. He listened, astonished, even as he retreated into himself. Was that the first thing he thought about when he met a woman? Surely that couldn't be true. Except for Sara, when he met her. And, first of all, Elise. Very rarely, Mrs. Brenningen on reception. But other times? Yes, if the woman was beautiful. But what if she wasn't attractive in any way? Then he rejected her. After first ... He stopped what he was thinking. "Will the painting be finished soon?" He nodded at the canvas and the face that was still missing a nose and mouth. The eyes were only indicated, two green shadows beneath the red shock of hair.

"It will be a while. But I'm not going to do anything more with the head. I promised him that no one would be able to recognize him, and I'm going to keep that promise. Where is he?" she asked.

"We don't know. All we have is Zipp, and he's not very informative. What will you do now?" he asked. "He's missing, and you won't be able to finish the painting."

She shrugged. "I'm sure he'll turn up. And if not, then he'll never be more than a sketch. Would you consider posing for me?"

Sejer was so taken aback that he almost choked.

"I thought I made clear what my feelings on that score were."

"It's important to break down barriers," she said. "To take off your clothes and let someone study you, to allow yourself to be properly seen through someone else's eyes—it's hugely liberating."

Stand in front of this woman, he thought, without a stitch on. With her eyes everywhere, analytical eyes examining him
until all that was left was an impression—not what he really was, just the impression he made on her, which was unique to her. What would she see? A fifty-year-old, sinewy body in good physical shape. A trace of eczema in a few places. The line at his waist where his skin was paler than elsewhere. A scar running down his right thigh, shiny and white. Hour after hour, until he was fixed on the canvas for all time. And someone would own it, hang it on a wall and look at it.
But why is that so much more frightening than being photographed?
he wondered.
Because the lens is dead and can't judge?
Was he afraid of being judged? Would he overcome something if he agreed to pose? And if so, what would that lead to? Sejer decided he could live with his own curiosity.

When he thanked her for her help, his expression was polite and proper.

***

Andreas opened his eyes. The look on his face, when he finally understood, how shall I describe it? A tiny light that suddenly goes out.

"You didn't go there," he said, exhausted.

"Yes, I did!"

I wrung my hands and felt ashamed. I had failed him. But I was also furious at all the prejudiced people who don't really see us. Who just give us a quick look and jump to conclusions.

"I was there. But he didn't understand a thing. A young man, I don't think he's worked there long. I tried to explain, but he just asked me whether I needed a lift home—as if I were a foolish old woman. And you know what the funny thing is? I've seen him before, but I can't think where. It's so odd!"

Andreas uttered a whimper. He must have still had some hope, but now it was gone, the very last bit of it.

"Shit. You mean you went to the police station and then you just left?"

He started wheezing, as if his throat were full of mucus and he couldn't cough it up.

"Get out of here!"

"I'll leave when I feel like it. I tried to tell them."

"No, you didn't! My God, you're so pathetic!"

"You're the one who's pathetic. Just look at you! Don't provoke me; I can't take much more."

"Poor Irma. The world has been so unfair to you. No one understands what it's like for you, is that it?"

He was crying, but his tears were mixed with laughter. It wasn't attractive.

"Be quiet, Andreas."

"I'll talk as much as I like. It's the only thing I can do."

"I won't give you any more water."

"Do you enjoy this, Irma? Tormenting me? Where do you feel it? Does it turn you on?"

"Leave me alone," I snapped. "If you only knew what I might do."

"But I do know. It's the same for me."

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Go to bed. I want to be left in peace."

"You want to be left in peace? You should have thought of that earlier. You know what? I do, too. But did you take that into consideration?"

"No," he said mildly.

"You weren't counting on Irma!"

"I didn't know that you were the one who lived here."

"Liar!"

"I didn't recognize you until it was too late."

"Don't give me that! Because if you'd noticed it was me, you would have gone to the next house! And stuck your knife into someone else's face. Some stranger. Because that would have been easier!"

I was trembling with anger, and it felt wonderful, those fierce emotions burning my cheeks. I was a live human being, justifiably shaking with indignation: I was standing at the front, fighting one of my most important battles. And best of all, he had to listen to me! He couldn't even lift his hands to block his ears. Then his face went blank. He had closed me out again, but I knew he was listening.

"You're a spoiled child."

He didn't answer, but I could see his eyelashes flickering.

"What did you ever do for your mother? Tell me that. What obligations have you ever had?"

His smile was weak. "I took out the garbage. Every day."

"Oh, how marvelous. You took out the garbage! I'm so impressed, Andreas."

"How long have I been lying here?" he whispered.

I counted to myself. "Three days. Do you want to get out of here? Try to find my weak points. My maternal instincts: the key to your freedom. I've had a child, so I must have them. Try to see if you're a good judge of character."

"I am a good judge of character," he sighed. "But it's not necessary in this case. Even a child could see yours a mile off. You're totally insane."

I stood up and shook my fists. I wanted to howl out loud, show him how furious I was.

"You damned little brat!"

Surprised, he stared up at me with his light blue eyes. "Your cheeks are burning, Irma!"

I spun round and left. This time I turned off the light, wrapping him in thick darkness.

"Call them, for God's sake!" he shouted. "You fucking bitch. Call for help!"

I knelt down and shoved the trapdoor shut. I opened it and closed it, over and over. It banged and slammed like an earthquake through the house. Worn out, I sank to the floor.

September 5.

Mrs. Winther called. Skarre tried to explain.

"No, Mrs. Winther, that's not possible. We're not unwilling, but I'm speaking from experience. The TV news doesn't report this kind of case. Only if we think it probable that a crime has been committed. And in this case ... Yes, Mrs. Winther, I realize that. But I know the man in charge, and he's not easily persuaded. You can call them, if you like, but I'm trying to spare you the disappointment. Only very special cases. Of course Andreas is special to you, but people disappear every single day—between two and three thousand a year, to tell you the truth. A girl of ten would get more attention? Yes, that's true, that's how things work. We managed to get a photograph in the local paper, and that was difficult enough. The head of the news section? Of course you can call, but I don't really think ... Yes, of course we'll call you at once, but there's a limit to how much we can do here. Actually, we've already done much more than we would usually be able to. I realize that you don't see it that way. But we can't rule out that Andreas may have left because he wanted to. And in that situation ... Yes, I know you don't think that's possible, but no one ever does. The thing is, if we do find him, we have no right to tell you where he is if he doesn't want us to. Unfortunately, those are the rules. He's an adult ... Good-bye, Mrs. Winther."