“Don’t worry, that’s really not necessary,” said Johanne quickly. “I’ll manage myself. But thank you very much for your help. Thank you.”
Johanne started to stride toward the gate, so that the woman with the chiffon scarf would not have time to change. A child screamed loudly in the kindergarten. The carpenter on the scaffolding over the road swore loudly and threatened to sue a man in a suit who was waving his arms and pointing at a cement mixer that had fallen over. A car rolled over a speed bump as Johanne came out onto the road; she jumped and stepped in a puddle.
The small town was already starting to lose some of its charm.
“But I’m still not entirely clear why you want to know all this.”
Harald Hansvold knocked his pipe against a large crystal ashtray. A fine shower of burned tobacco sprinkled over the sparkly surface. The old, well-dressed man obviously had problems with his eyesight. A matte gray film blurred the edges of one of his pupils and he had given up using glasses. Johanne suspected that he only saw shadows around him. He had let her, a complete stranger, get some sparkling apple juice and cookies from the kitchen. Otherwise he seemed healthy; his hands were steady when he refilled his pipe with fresh tobacco. His voice was calm and he had no problem remembering Agnes Mohaug, the neighbor with the less than fortunate son, as he chose to put it.
“He was easily led astray. That was the main problem, as I remember. Of course, it wasn’t easy for him to make friends. Real friends, I mean. You have to remember that times were very different then… people’s tolerance of others was different…”
He gave a tight smile.
“… not like it is now.”
Johanne didn’t know whether the man was trying to be ironic. She had a pain in her chest and took a large gulp of the apple juice. It was far too sweet, and in a fluster she let most of it run out her mouth again and back into the glass.
“Anders was not a bad boy,” Hansvold continued, not noticing. “My wife used to invite him in every now and then. It worried me sometimes. I was away a lot, travelling. I’m a retired train driver.”
The fact that Harald Hansvold was so consistently polite was perhaps not so strange, given his age. But there was something unexpectedly refined about the old man and his apartment, with books from floor to ceiling and three modern lithographs on the walls. Somehow it didn’t jive with a lifelong career in the state railways. Afraid that her prejudices would be too obvious, Johanne nodded eagerly to show interest, as if being a train driver was something she had always wanted to know more about.
“When he was very young, it wasn’t a problem of course. But when he reached puberty… he grew to be a big man. Good-looking chap. But, you know…”
He made a telling movement with his finger at his temple.
“And then there was that Asbjørn Revheim.”
“Asbjørn Revheim?”
“Yes. No doubt you’ve heard of him?”
Johanne nodded, confused.
“Of course,” she mumbled.
“He grew up around here. Didn’t you know that? You should read the biography that was published last year. Incredible man. Very interesting book. You know, Asbjørn was always a rebel, even as a young boy. Dressed strangely. Behaved in a bizarre fashion. He really wasn’t like the others.”
“No,” said Johanne, uncertainly. “He never was.”
Harald Hansvold chuckled and shook his head.
“One Sunday, it must have been in 1957 or ’58… It was ’57! Just after King Haakon died, only a few days after. The country was in mourning and…”
He sucked on his pipe, which didn’t seem to want to light up properly.
“The boy organized an execution outside the kindergarten. That is, the kindergarten wasn’t there then. It was a scout hut at the time.”
“An… execution?”
“Yes, he caught a wild cat and dressed it up in royal clothes. Ermine and a crown. The cape was an old rabbit skin with spots painted on. He’d made the crown himself as well. The poor cat meowed and tried to get away and had to pay for it with its life on some homemade gallows.”
“But that… that’s… animal torture!”
“It certainly was!”
But he still couldn’t repress a smile.
“It got very lively, I can tell you! The police came and the ladies down the road here screamed and made a fuss. Asbjørn made a big number of the whole thing too and claimed that it was a political demonstration against the royal family. He wanted to burn the dead cat and had already built a fire when the authorities got involved and stopped the whole thing. You can imagine, when our beloved King Haakon had just died…”
Suddenly the smile disappeared. The gray eye became even duller, as if the old man was looking into himself, back in time.
“The worst thing was,” he said quietly, his voice completely changed. “The worst thing was that he’d gotten Anders to dress up as the executioner, with a bare torso and a big black hood on his head. Agnes Mohaug was deeply affected by the incident. So that’s how things were.”
It was so quiet in the apartment. No clocks, no distant radio that no one was listening to. Harald Hansvold’s apartment was not an old man’s apartment. The furniture was neutral, the curtains were white, and there were no potted plants on the windowsill.
“Have you read Revheim?” Hansvold asked in a friendly tone.
“Yes. Most of it, I think. He’s the sort of writer you get a kick out of when you’re in secondary school. I certainly did. He was so… direct. Rebellious, as you said yourself. So strong… in standing alone. Alone in what he believed in. So it really appeals to that age group.”
“There were other things, too,” he said. “That he wrote, I mean. That interest children at that age. Secondary school.”
“Yes. Anders Mohaug, was he…”
“As I said,” Hansvold sighed heavily. “Anders Mohaug was easily led. The other children around here avoided him like the plague, but Asbjørn Revheim was friendlier. Or…”
Again he got that far-off look in his eyes, as if he was rewinding his memory and didn’t quite know where to stop.
“In fact he wasn’t a friend. He exploited Anders. There’s no doubt about that. And he could be pretty nasty, as we saw time and again. Also in what he wrote. Anders Mohaug, a heavy, slow chap, in every way. It wasn’t friendship.”
“How can you say that?” said Johanne.
“I can and I will.”
For the first time there was a sharpness in his voice.
“Did you ever hear,” Johanne asked quickly, “about a police case in 1965?”
“A what? A police case?”
“Yes. Was Anders ever in trouble with the police?”
“Phuh… He was pulled into the station every time Asbjørn decided to do something and take the poor boy along with him. But it was never anything serious.”
“And you’re sure about that?”
“Tell me…”
She could swear that he looked like an eagle now. The matte gray film over his left eye made it look bigger than the right; it was impossible to look at anything else.
“Could you be a bit more precise?”
“I have reason to believe that Anders’s mother contacted the police in 1965, after her son died. She believed that he was guilty of committing a crime many years before. Something serious. Something that another man was sentenced for.”
“Agnes Mohaug? Mrs. Mohaug report her own son to the police? Impossible.”
He shook his head firmly.
“But her son was dead.”
“Doesn’t matter. That woman lived for Anders. He was the only thing she had. And she deserves every praise because she looked after him and helped him right to the bitter end. To report him for anything… even after…”
He gave up on the pipe and put it down on the edge of the ashtray.
“I just can’t see it.”
“And you never heard… any rumors?”
Hansvold chuckled and folded his hands on his stomach.