“My grandson,” Sejer said. “He’s in the National Ballet.”
“That means he’s good then.”
“It does indeed.”
“Is he adopted?”
“Yes, from Somalia. Come and sit down again. Don’t change the subject.”
Nicolai sank back down in the chair. “Carmen is like a piano string; she never breaks.” He stood up abruptly and headed toward the door. “You won’t get any more from me. I’ve said enough already.”
He put on his shoes. Sejer gave up and followed him out to the door and opened it.
“What you have told me is very serious indeed,” he said. “It’s the kind of information that I am duty-bound to follow up on. So you have jeopardized the future for both you and Carmen.”
“You’re only saying what you have to say,” Nicolai replied. “But that’s fine, I know what I’m doing. I just want everything to be right, and I’m sure you agree.”
He started to walk toward the elevator. Then he turned for a last time. “You’ll never get a clearer explanation,” he said. “Carmen can wriggle like a worm. And I know you need proof. But I still have hope, and remember that I know her. Maybe, sooner or later, she’ll make a mistake.”
35
Eleventh of October. Morning at Granfoss.
Nicolai was already up, but Carmen hadn’t noticed him getting out of bed. What did he do last night, she wondered. He had gotten into the car and driven off, without any drama. Let me be, he’d said as he left. Eventually she’d given up waiting and had gone to bed around midnight. It was seven in the morning now, and she lay there for a little longer, dozing while she mulled over the situation. This strange life without Tommy. She wasn’t used to the peace and quiet in the house, but it was good, she thought. She had to be honest. The new day lay ahead of her for her to use as she wished; she had an ocean of time. She lay completely still in the bed and listened for noises in the other rooms. The house felt empty, even though Nicolai was up. She could hear the air in the bedroom humming gently in the silence. And she imagined that the humming was the sound of the universe and all the planets spinning in their orbits.
Suddenly she felt hungry. Maybe he had made breakfast for her. One could always hope; he was a nice boy. Shy, reserved, modest, and sometimes downright slow. But a good boy. That was why she had chosen him. He never argued and never hit her. But now, after Tommy had died, he’d changed. She didn’t really believe he’d made her breakfast; he was so indifferent to everything now. And his indifference worried her. He wasn’t himself, wasn’t the Nicolai she knew. She threw the comforter to one side and put her feet down on the cold floor. Then she went over to the window and looked out; it was a clear October day. She walked into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. She washed her face and popped a Rivotril in her mouth as she always did. Then she pulled a sweater over her head and went out into the kitchen, padding quietly on bare feet, and continued on into the living room.
The sofa was empty. The throw was neatly folded, so he hadn’t slept there. Maybe he hadn’t slept at all last night. Well, presumably he’s in the cellar as usual, she thought. She prepared for this explanation, that he was down there tinkering with a bike. It was a safe bet. God knows what’s so great about being in the dimness with all those old bikes, she thought, but then she realized it was only seven o’clock. Surely he couldn’t be busy this early in the morning? She stood for a moment in the middle of the room, not sure what to do. Then she went back into the kitchen and got the butter, jam, and cheese out of the fridge. She put on the kettle and cut some bread, and set the table for a simple breakfast. When the water had boiled, she went out into the hall to the cellar door. She opened it and called down that breakfast was ready. But no one answered, so she closed the door again and went outside.
The Golf was parked beside the mailbox. She looked over toward the pond but couldn’t see him. He must have gone for a walk, she thought. But then again, it was very early. Going for a walk at seven in the morning was not very likely. The prospect of the puppy filled her with joy. They had just ordered one from a breeder in Oslo. A Jack Russell. They would go and collect it when it was eight weeks old, and she was so looking forward to it. Pappa Zita had given them his blessing, but then she had expected nothing less. Autumn would pass, and winter and spring, and then in the summer she would go to court and explain how Tommy had died. She didn’t like to think too much about the court case. She mentally pushed it to one side. She knew that she would manage; she had great faith in her abilities and talents. She decided to weep copiously, because tears were always good. And, after all, what had happened was tragic, and the jury would be sympathetic. She was sure of it. One hundred percent certain.
I am Carmen Zita, she thought; don’t even think about it! She tried not to worry about Nicolai. If he wanted to carry on this way, well then she’d let him. Smoking and drinking whiskey — what next? Sooner or later he would no doubt see sense and once again become the good old Nicolai she had fallen in love with. She wouldn’t leave him. It would always be the two of them. If only he would sort himself out. If only he would come for breakfast.
When she was finished, she left everything on the table. That way it would be easy for him to have his breakfast when he got back from his walk. She put her glass and plate by the sink and then went into the bathroom. She pulled on a pair of jeans and looked at herself in the mirror. She stood there for a while studying her face, and she liked what she saw. It pleased her every time. She went back out to the kitchen and dialed Nicolai’s cell number, only to hear it ringing in the bedroom. She found it on his bedside table, where it lay playing its happy tune. One missed call, she read on the display. OK, he didn’t want to be reached and she had to respect that. She put on her shoes and went out into the yard and down to the pond. She sat at the end of the jetty, where Nicolai would sit for hours on end. She started to mull over life and the unexpected turns it had taken, things she hadn’t planned. Things that she had no control over, like now. She shed some bitter tears because life was so hard, but she liked crying. She felt it was good to release the build-up of pressure inside. She pulled her cell phone out of her pocket and called her father.
“Everyone grieves differently,” he said. “He just needs some space. You know he’s not as strong as you are; he’s so sensitive.”
“He could at least have left a message,” she said. “He just doesn’t care anymore.”
“Would you like me to come over?”
“No,” she replied. “It’s OK, he’ll turn up.”
“Of course he will,” her father assured her. “He decides on his own life; there’s not a lot you can do about it. But promise me that you’ll call when he does come back, just so I know that everything’s all right.”
She promised. She finished the call and got up, walked back to the house, and went into the living room. Then she noticed his cigarettes on the coffee table, along with his lighter. She was surprised that he hadn’t taken them with him, because it had become a habit now. He smoked all the time. She dismissed it and sat down at the desk. She opened the drawer and took out her diary to write a quick entry. “Dear diary, Nicolai has disappeared and it’s early in the morning. I hope he’s not crying somewhere. It would be better if he did that at home with me. Everything is just worse when you’re on your own.”
She didn’t manage to write any more.
She called her father for the second time, and he got in the car right away. He was at her door half an hour later, stroking her gently on the cheek.
“More to worry about, eh?” he said. “As if you didn’t have enough already. But you know what, he’ll turn up. Just you wait and see. Come, let’s go and look for him. Maybe he’s gone down to Stranda; he likes being by the water. What do you think?”