“I’ve heard that everyone who commits suicide is actually in a state of acute psychosis,” said Lina.
“What rubbish!” said Halldis.
“No, it’s true!”
“That you’ve heard it, perhaps. But it’s not true.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Could well be true in Asbjørn Revheim’s case,” said Johanne. “On the other hand, the man had tried several times. Do you think he was psychotic every time?”
“He’sh insane,” mumbled Bente. “Absholutely raving mad.”
“That’s not the same as psychotic,” Kristin argued. “I know a couple of people I would describe as raving mad. But I’ve never met anyone who’s psychotic.”
“My bosh is a psychopath,” said Bente, too loud. “He’s evil. Evil.”
“Here’s a bit more mineral water for you,” said Lina, passing her a big bottle.
“Psychopath and psychotic are not the same thing, Bente. Have any of you read Sunken City, Rising Ocean?”
They all nodded, except Bente.
“It came out just after the trial,” said Johanne. “Isn’t that right? And also…”
“Isn’t that the one where he describes the suicide,” Kristin interrupted. “Even though it was written many, many years before he actually took his own life… Doesn’t bear thinking about, really.”
Her shudder was exaggerated.
“But wha’ then?” said Bente. “Can you not jusht tell me wha’ happened?”
No one said anything. Johanne started to clear the table. Everyone had had enough.
“I think maybe we should talk about something a bit more pleasant,” said Halldis, tactfully. “What are your plans for the summer?”
It was past one in the morning when her friends finally stumbled out the door. Bente had been asleep for two hours and seemed confused by the notion of going home. Halldis had promised to get the taxi to drive via Blindern, and she would make sure that Bente got safely to bed. Johanne aired the apartment thoroughly. The smoking ban had been lifted for the past hour, but she couldn’t quite remember who had made the decision. She put out four saucers full of vinegar. Then she went out onto the terrace.
It was the second hour of the first day of June. A deep blue early summer light was visible in the west; it wouldn’t get truly dark again now for a couple of months. The air was crisp, but it was still possible to stand outside without a coat. Johanne leaned against the flower boxes. A pansy drooped its head.
In the course of three days she had talked about Asbjørn Revheim twice. To be fair, Asbjørn Revheim was one of the most important people in Norwegian literature, in modern Norwegian history, for that matter. In 1971 or 1972, she couldn’t remember for sure, he’d been sentenced for writing a blasphemous, obscene novel, several years after the parody of a case against Jens Bjørneboe that should have warned the authorities against interfering with literature. Revheim didn’t just lie down and take it; he hit back with Sunken City, Rising Ocean a couple of years later. A more obscene and blasphemous book had never been printed in Norway, before or since. Some said it was worthy of the Nobel Prize for Literature. But most people felt that the man deserved another round in the courts. However, the prosecuting authorities had learned their lesson; the Director General of Public Prosecutions admitted many years later that he had in fact never read the book.
Revheim was an important author. But he was dead and had been for a long time. Johanne couldn’t remember the last time she had thought about the man, let alone talked about him. When the biography was published the autumn before, it had caused quite a stir, but she hadn’t even bought it. Revheim wrote books that meant something to her when she was younger. He meant nothing to her today, to her life as it was now.
Twice in three days.
Anders Mohaug’s mother believed that Anders was somehow involved in the murder of little Hedvig in 1956. Anders Mohaug was retarded. He was easily led and hung around with Asbjørn Revheim.
That would be too simple, thought Johanne. That is just too simple.
She was cold, but didn’t want to go in. The wind tugged at her shirt sleeves. She should buy some new clothes. The other girls looked much younger than she did. Even Bente, who smoked thirty cigarettes a day and would soon need treatment for her alcoholism that was no longer a joke, looked better than Johanne. More trendy, at least. Lina had given up taking her shopping ages ago.
It would be too simple.
And in any case, who would want to protect Asbjørn Revheim from persecution and punishment?
He was only sixteen in 1956, she thought, and filled her lungs with night air; she wanted to clear her head before she went to bed.
But in 1965? When Anders Mohaug died and his mother went to the police? When Aksel Seier was released without any comment other than that he should be happy?
Asbjørn Revheim would have been twenty-five by then and was already an established author. Two books, as far as she could remember. Already established, after only two books. Both had caused passionate debate. Revheim was seen as a threat at the time. He wasn’t someone people would want to protect.
Johanne was still holding the biography. She looked down at it, stroked the cover. Lina had insisted that she keep it. It was a good picture. Revheim’s face was narrow, but masculine. He had an open smile. Almost arrogant. His eyes were small, with astonishingly long lashes.
She went in but left the door to the terrace open. A whiff of vinegar teased her nose. She found herself feeling disappointed that Adam hadn’t called. When she got into bed, she decided to start reading the book. But before her head even hit the pillow, she was fast asleep.
FORTY-THREE
Aksel Seier had never been one to make quick decisions. As a rule, he liked to sleep on them. Preferably for a week or two. Even small, trivial things such as whether he should buy a new or a used fridge now that the old one had broken. He took his time. There were pros and cons with everything. He had to feel what was right. Be certain. The decision to leave Norway in 1966 should have been made the year before. He should have known there was no future in a country that had sent him to prison and kept him there for nine years without reason, a country so small that neither he nor anyone else would be allowed to forget what had happened. It just wasn’t in his nature to rush. Maybe it was a result of all those years in prison, when time passed so slowly it was difficult to fill it.
He was sitting on the stone wall outside his house, between the small garden and the beach. The granite was red and still warm from the sun; he could feel it through the back of his pants. The tide was out. Half-dead horseshoe crabs lay stranded along the water’s edge, some with their shells facing up, like tanks with tails. Others had been thrown on their backs by the breakers and were dying slowly in the sun with their claws in the air. The crabs reminded him of prehistoric monsters in miniature, a forgotten link in an evolution that should have made them extinct long ago.
He felt a bit like that himself.
All his life he had waited to have his name cleared.
Patrick, the only one in the U.S. who knew anything about his past, had urged him to contact a lawyer. Or perhaps even a detective, he said as he polished a gold-plated bridle. Patrick’s carousel was the best in New England. There were plenty of detectives in America. A lot of them were extremely good, said Patrick. Surely if that woman had come all the way from Europe to tell him that she believed he was innocent, after so many years, the long trip all the way from Norway, well, then it must be worth finding out more. Patrick knew that lawyers were expensive, but it would be easy enough to find someone who would only take payment if they won the case.