There.
Asbjørn Revheim had changed his name in defiance when he was a teenager. The biographer spent one and a half pages discussing how incredible it was that in 1953, his parents had allowed the teenager to reject his family name. But then his parents weren’t any old parents.
Asbjørn Revheim was born Kongsbakken. His mother and father were Unni and Astor Kongsbakken; she was a well-known tapestry weaver and he was a famous, not to say notorious, public prosecutor.
The water was tepid now. She nearly forgot to rinse her hair. When her mother arrived at two, Johanne barely had time to tell her that Kristiane needed to have half an aspirin dissolved in warm Coke in an hour and that the child could drink what she wanted.
“Back about five,” she said. “You can put Jack out on his leash in the garden. And thank you, Mom!”
She completely forgot to explain why there was a biography drying on a string between two dining room chairs.
Alvhild was worse. The smell of onions had returned. The old lady was in bed and the nurse instructed Johanne not to stay long.
“I’ll be back in a quarter of an hour,” she threatened.
“Hi,” said Johanne. “It’s me, Johanne.”
Alvhild struggled to open her eyes. Johanne pulled up a chair and carefully laid her hand on the old lady’s hand. It was cold and dry.
“Johanne,” repeated Alvhild. “I’ve been waiting for you. Do tell.”
She gave a dry cough and tried to turn away. Her pillow was too deep and her head seemed to be stuck and she stared at the ceiling. Johanne took a paper tissue from a box on the bedside table and dried around her mouth.
“Do you want some water?”
“No. I want to hear what you found out when you went to Lillestrøm.”
“Are you sure… I can come again tomorrow… You’re too tired now, Alvhild.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
She coughed painfully again.
“Tell me,” ordered Alvhild.
And Johanne told her. For a while she was unsure whether Alvhild was actually awake. But then a smile forced its way onto the old lady’s lips; Johanne should just carry on.
“And then today,” she said finally. “Today I discovered that Astor Kongsbakken is Asbjørn Revheim’s father.”
“I knew that,” whispered Alvhild.
“You knew that?”
“Yes. Kongsbakken was an imposing character. He had a very high standing in legal circles in the fifties and early sixties. There was a lot of whispering about how embarrassing it must be for him to have a son who wrote books like that. He… But I didn’t know that Revheim had anything to do with the Seier case.”
“I’m not entirely certain that he does.”
Alvhild struggled with the pillow. She wanted to sit up. Her hand fumbled to find the small box that regulated the bed.
“Are you sure that’s good for you?” asked Johanne, and gently pushed a green button.
Alvhild nodded weakly and nodded again when she was satisfied. Pearls of sweat appeared on her forehead.
“When Fever Chill was published in…”
“1961,” said Johanne. She had read most of the biography.
“Yes, that sounds right. There was a terrible to-do. Not just because of the pornographic content, but perhaps even more because of the bitter attacks on the Church. It must have been the same year that Astor Kongsbakken stepped down as public prosecutor and joined the Ministry as an adviser. He…”
Alvhild gasped for breath.
“… water in my lungs,” she smiled weakly. “Just wait a little bit.”
The nurse had come back.
“Now I’m being serious,” she said. Her large bosom jumped in time with the words. “This is not good for Alvhild.”
“Astor Kongsbakken,” wheezed Alvhild with great effort, “was a good friend of the director general. The one who asked me to…”
“Go,” said the nurse, and pointed to the door; she prepared an injection with practiced movements.
“I’m going,” said Johanne. “I’m going now.”
“They were friends from university,” whispered Alvhild. “Come back again, Johanne.”
“Yes,” said Johanne. “I’ll come back when you’re better.”
The look the nurse gave her said that she might as well wait till Hell froze.
When Johanne got home, it smelled clean. Kristiane was still sleeping. The living room had been aired and the curtains taken down. Even the bookcase had been organized: books that had been piled on top of each other in a rush were now put back in their rightful places. The massive heap of old newspapers by the front door had disappeared. So had Jack.
“A walk will do your father good,” said her mother. “It hasn’t been long since they left. The curtains desperately needed a wash. And here…”
She handed her the Asbjørn Revheim biography. It looked as if it had been read front to back and was well worn, but it was still hanging together and was dry.
“I used the hair dryer,” said her mother and smiled. “It was actually quite fun to see if I could save it. And…”
She tilted her head almost imperceptibly and raised an eyebrow.
“A man came here. A certain Adam Stubo. He was delivering a T-shirt. It was obviously yours because it had ‘VIK’ written on the back. Had he borrowed it from you? Who is he? I think he could at least have washed it.”
FORTY-NINE
The pathologist was alone in the office. It was late on Sunday, June 4, and he was hopelessly behind in his work. He was getting close to sixty-five and in many ways felt that he was hopelessly behind in many areas. For years he’d put up with bad working conditions, too much to do, and a salary that in his opinion bore no relation to the pressures of the job, but now he was starting to get angry. In terms of professional satisfaction, he had no regrets. But now that he was nearing retirement, he wished he had a better income. He earned just under six hundred thousand kroner a year, when you included teaching and overtime, which he’d stopped counting. His wife reckoned it must be about a thousand hours a year. It was of no concern to him that most other people thought his salary was impressive. His twin brother, who was also a doctor, had pursued a career in surgery. He had his own clinic, a house in Provence, and a taxable fortune worth seven million, according to the last tax rolls.
Sunday was his reading day. His position was actually supposed to allow him time to keep up to date with developments in the field within normal working hours. In the past decade, he had virtually never read an article between nine and four o’clock. Instead, he got up very early on Sunday morning, put lunch and a thermos into his backpack, and walked the half-hour to work.
He was depressed by the time he had sorted the magazines, periodicals, and theses into two piles: one must read and the other can wait. The latter was very small. The former towered from the floor to knee height. At a loss, he grabbed the publication on top and poured himself a cup of strong coffee.
Excitation-concentration coupling in normal and failing cardiomyocytes.
The thesis was from January 1999 and had been there for a while. He was not familiar with the author. It was difficult to say whether the thesis was relevant without taking a closer look. He was tempted to pick something else out of the pile, but he pulled himself together and started to read.
The pathologist’s hands were shaking. He put the publication down. It was so alarming and at the same time so obvious that he was afraid, for many reasons. The answer was not in the thesis itself. It had just made him think. He felt his adrenalin rising, his pulse racing, and his breathing quickening. He had to get ahold of a pharmacist. The telephone directory fell on the floor as he tried to find the number of his wife’s best friend, who owned a pharmacy in Tåsen. She was home. The conversation lasted for ten minutes. The pathologist forgot to thank her for her help.