VI
The atmosphere in Room 302 at Ullevål Hospital was far more pleasant and uplifting.
Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen was in better shape than I had feared. Her shoulders and arms were tightly bandaged, but she was awake and reading a book about the history of French literature when I came into the room. She had obviously learned to turn the pages with her nose. She put the book down as soon as she saw me, and lit up the room with one of her smiles. And the mood soared when I put down the flowers and the books on the table beside her.
‘Oh, I don’t know what to say,’ Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen exclaimed, when she saw the gifts.
It may sound strange, but she looked just as in control when she said this as she always did. So I chuckled and she laughed at me laughing at her.
There was still a danger of permanent damage to her shoulder, but she would possibly be able to write again in time for the autumn exams. But whatever the case, it was simply a huge relief for her to be alive and to be able to read again. Her parents and younger brother had already been to visit. And it was a lovely surprise that I had come too, Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen said with a bold little smile from her sickbed.
I told her that she had been exceptionally astute to run to the stage and prevent Trond Bratten from going on, given that I had not even had time to tell her. She thanked me, and with another smile said that that was precisely why she had understood. I had mentioned that there might be an assassination attempt earlier, so when I just ran on straight into the building without even apologizing, she could not think of any explanation other than the planned assassination. She had simply done what she had to for society and democracy, and despite the pain, she did not regret it at all.
I assured her that when she left hospital there would be many more gifts and congratulations, from both friends and strangers. The newspapers had already made several enquiries to the police asking when she could be interviewed. Miriam raised her head with an inquisitive look in her eyes and asked if I knew which papers had rung. Her eyes opened wide when I said the local Lillehammer paper Dagningen and the SPP paper Orientering had called at least twice, and that Aftenposten, Dagbladet, VG and Arbeiderbladet had all been on the phone. When I added that the NRK radio and television had also been in touch, Miriam looked like she wanted to jump out of bed and call them all immediately.
As this was all positively received, I added with some trepidation that her efforts in saving the party leader would no doubt increase support for the SPP. And even more hesitantly, I added that my own sympathies for the party had certainly increased thanks to her efforts in recent days.
Then I hastily asked whether she might allow me to take her out to dinner as soon as she got out of hospital. And we would then have plenty of time to talk about the case, and other things, at one of the best restaurants in town.
Miriam Filtvedt Bentsen’s smile widened even more. She commented with some irony that she would have to look at her timetable first, but that she should be able to find time for dinner in a restaurant once she was out. As a student, one could live for several days on a good restaurant meal, given the current rates on student loans.
We laughed a bit and ended our visit on a cheerful, happy note, despite the serious nature of the case. In the end I was chased out by an almost militant head nurse who was concerned about complications, stress and exhaustion, despite the patient’s mild protests. I tried to excuse myself by saying that I had been there barely half an hour, but had to back down when both the head nurse’s watch and my own proved that I had in fact been there for more than two.
‘Even the police risk being hounded by the military!’ Miriam joked in a whisper as I got up from the chair by her bed. Then she laughed her peculiar, almost sadistically sarcastic laugh. Both this and her joke made me laugh, and I whispered back that the police would be back for another inspection tomorrow.
My fascination and admiration for Miriam had grown in the course of these two hours at the hospital, when I saw the calm and self-control with which she accepted the fact that she had been exposed to a shock and injury that might affect her for life, through no fault of her own. And in parallel, my anger at Patricia’s jealousy and lack of empathy also increased. And I was quite exercised by the time I left Ullevål Hospital at half past seven.
I waved happily from the doorway, remembering a few seconds too late that Miriam could not wave back. But she took it with good humour, and sent me a crooked smile as I shut the door.
VII
The telephone rang just as I let myself into my flat in Hegdehaugen around eight o’clock, and carried on ringing until I answered it.
I was at first relieved when I heard my mother’s voice. But to my surprise, it was not her usual cheerful voice, and she had definitely not called to congratulate me on closing the case.
‘Have you heard the terrible news?’ she more or less cried into the phone.
My mother was normally a woman of great composure, so I realized immediately that something was seriously wrong. My thoughts swirled around my father, my sister and her little girl. I had in no way anticipated what was to come.
‘It’s so sad. I have just heard that Professor Borchmann died of cancer at the University Hospital this afternoon! Is there no end to the misfortune that poor family has to suffer? We were not even aware that he was ill. How could you guess something like that?’
The words hit me like a blow to the chest – it was a knockout. I do not remember sitting down, but suddenly realized that I was.
When I found my voice again, I said that I had certainly had no idea, and could not have guessed either. Professor Director Ragnar Sverre Borchmann had always seemed so strong and solid to both me and my mother. We simply did not imagine that he could die.
I heard myself promising my mother that I would pass on the family’s condolences to the young, now parentless Patricia, if and when I spoke to her again.
Then I found myself asking if she had heard when exactly Professor Borchmann had died this afternoon.
It had been around four o’clock.
As soon as my mother said that, all communication between my brain and my arm was broken. I do not remember saying goodbye. But I suddenly realized that I was sitting with the receiver in my hand, and my mother’s voice was no longer there.
The receiver felt as heavy as lead in my hand. I finally put it back in the cradle. This did not help. When I picked it up again a few minutes later, it felt even heavier. My hand sank listlessly twice before I managed to dial the number correctly with a shaking finger.
VIII
I had never before experienced the telephone on Patricia’s table ringing more than three times before she answered. This time it rang for thirteen eternal rings. And when I finally did hear a voice at the other end, it was the maid, Beate, and not Patricia.
I apologized for calling so late on this of all evenings, and asked if it would be possible to pass on our condolences and to have a few words with Patricia.
Beate said that Patricia had told her I would call, and had given her a short message to read over the phone.
The message was as follows: ‘Thank you for your thoughts with regards to the death of my father. I hope that you will understand that I will now have to focus on the various formal and practical things that have to be done in connection with my father’s funeral and the continued operation of his companies. I would be very grateful if you and your parents would come to the funeral. Best wishes, Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann.’
There was silence on the line for a moment. I thanked Beate, and asked if she could send a message back that I and my parents would of course come to the funeral.