‘That’s tempting, Per-Ole, but…’
‘But?’
‘I’ve got my own chalet to keep an eye on. On my way there now. To Hemsedal.’
Frølich could read in Per-Ole’s eyes that he had seen through him. But Per-Ole was a fine fellow. He didn’t say anything. ‘Another time,’ Frølich said. He wasn’t in the mood to be sociable now. ‘It was tough – I mean, seeing the ruins.’
It was dark as he drove up the mountain road towards the family chalet. The headlights caught the screens of spruce on either side, making the universe seem as if it was a narrow path enveloped by spruce walls. This was terrain with isolated houses and farms, game and bird-life. He knew that because he had been here innumerable times. Perhaps that’s my problem. I see this case the way a driver sees reality, as objects the headlamps pick out and illuminate. Perhaps I ought to shift my perspective, find a different angle?
It was, as usual, colder inside the chalet than outside. He opened all the windows and doors to create a through-draught and change the cold air while he strolled down to the well for water. A well was probably an overstatement. It was a trickle which had been developed into a spring. He and his father had dug up turf and soil to make a hole big enough for surface water to collect after being filtered through a mound of cleansing sand. Then they had sunk a ement ring which they had bought from a farmer in the village. So they had a well one and a half metres deep, a well which never went dry. And, in addition, stayed frost-free longer than the ground surrounding it. He had cut a slate slab lid to fit on top of the cement ring, mounted hinges and a little handle. All you had to do was pull the slab to the side and drop the pail into the dark water. Crystal-clear water, full of minerals and taste.
As always, he quenched his thirst before walking back slowly with the pail.
Then he closed the doors and windows and lit the old wood burner. It would take time to heat the large space under the high ceiling. So he went out onto the veranda and unlocked the sauna. The wood stove in there would be boiling hot in less than an hour. He fetched some finely chopped birch, tore off the bark and used it to light the fire. As the flames caught hold, he put on the birch and watched it catch before closing the stove door with the draught on full. Now he just had to wait. From the veranda he looked at the water, which hadn’t frozen over yet. He went to the shed and took his fishing rod, a couple of spinners and a sheath knife. Then he ambled down to the pond to pass the time. The moon was shining like a white Chinese lantern in the sky. All the birch trees had lost their leaves. The moon reflected on the black surface of the water and the rising frost smoke. The water was probably too cold to catch any fish. Even the leaves of the pond lilies had begun to prepare for winter. He cast the line a few times, the reel squealed and the spinner broke the surface of the water like the leap of a trout. But not a bite. It didn’t matter. He continued to cast a line. The water was cold and the fish were deep. He let the spinner sink until the line was slack and looped, then wound it in slowly. This was his favourite spinner, the one with the red tassel and red spots. He reeled in, lifted the rod, threw, let the spinner sink, reeled in – and got a nibble. The powerful jerk on the rod was unmistakable. Trout. It swam off with the bait and he let it run. The line zigzagged across the water until he locked the reel and wound it in. It held. Perhaps half a kilo. Perfect size. Perfect for frying in the pan.
The fish took a decision and swam to the shore. Frølich let it swim, reeled in until there was another jerk. Thirty seconds later he hauled it onto land; it wriggled around like crazy, squirmed and leapt into a juniper bush. He placed both hands over it. Held it tight. The fish had eaten all the bait. He quickly broke its neck and weighed the fine specimen in his hand. Looking up at the moon, he realized that he had been far away – for as long as it lasted – not thinking about anything else apart from the pleasure of being here in the dark by the lake.
He headed for the chalet reckoning that the sauna was probably hot enough. But the thermometer on the sauna room wall showed only 60°C. He put on more dry birch and some spruce. Dry spruce burned like matchsticks, quickly and fiercely, with flames which would soon boost the heat. Afterwards he went to the well to collect water to pour on the stones in the sauna stove. When he next looked at the sky, it had clouded over. He stood on the veranda, sipping at half a bottle of Upper Ten whisky. The temperature in the sauna had reached 80° and the first raindrops fell.
He undressed and lay naked on the bench. The sweat poured off him. He thought about Elisabeth. Her hands which had flitted across his body like nervous squirrels. He threw water on the stones. They hissed and the steam adhered to his skin, boiling hot, smarting. But he forced himself to lie still. He watched the flames through the glass pane in the stove and thought of the flames burning the long, glowing bones. Soon he wouldn’t be able to stand any more heat. He sat up. The temperature was approaching 90° when he burst through the door and sat naked on the stump of a spruce tree in the rain. This was half the pleasure of the sauna, being rinsed down by the rain, which was a degree or two off falling as snow, but still feeling as hot as before. Rain and sweat mingle as one. The rain kept him drenched, but when he licked his arm it tasted of sweat. The raindrops ran down his body, found their way down his stomach, thighs, let go and found a resting place on the cranberry leaves. But then the wind picked up and caressed his body, a new form of well-being, reducing the temperature a tiny bit, enough for him to stand up and pick his way down to the water: the ice-cold pond, where he glided in and swam between the water-lily leaves, an undulating white monster. Cooled and shivering, he ran back on sensitive feet to the sauna and the sweltering heat. He lay down on the bench and planned the meal for afterwards: trout grilled with salt and pepper, some mushrooms he had brought with him and a little cream, then a lager or white wine from the store in the room under the floor. Lying on the bench, he thought about Elisabeth again. He should have brought her here, shown her this, because this was him, this was the existence he occasionally yearned for; where he came to find his fulfilment.
Once again he was drenched with sweat. His body had almost reached the limit of its tolerance when he heard a sound on the veranda. He raised his head and listened. Something must have fallen, but there was nothing to fall. Yes, there was. The fishing rod. A small bottle of Upper Ten. He got up and went to push open the door. It wouldn’t budge. He applied pressure. The door seemed to be locked. Then he heard another noise. The sound of footsteps. He sat down on the bench. Naked, close to exploding with the heat, sodden with sweat. Inside: 98°. Outside: fresh air, cold, car keys, clothes, money. Someone had locked the door. What is going on? He stood up and shoulder-charged the door. It didn’t stir. The door was wedged shut. Someone has locked me in. But how? He shoved again. But the door held firm. He looked up at the little window in the wall, fifteen by thirty centimetres. Impossible. I can’t take any more! He put the whole of his body behind the door. It didn’t move. Then he smelt it: Smoke.
He looked through the little window. There was no doubt. Flames were licking up at the walls. They’re trying to burn me to death in here. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes. The yellow door quivered in his vision. He kicked it. Nothing happened. Yellow-grey smoke was filtering through the cracks in the floor. The floorboards were warmer now than they had been two minutes before. They were singeing the soles of his feet. Long bones. He could see the headlines in his mind’s eye: Man found dead in chalet fire. He took a run-up and launched himself against the door. His shoulders hurt everywhere, but the door frame gave with a crack. This is me, he thought. This is my bloody chalet. No one’s going to fucking burn it down! He threw himself against the door again. The smoke was in his nose and eyes. He couldn’t see anything, he over-balanced and fell against the burning hot oven. The scream of pain as the flesh on his shoulder hissed. But the burn woke him up too. Another run-up. And this time the door panel caved in. It cracked with a deeper, hollower sound. He filled his lungs with the air that seeped in, tensed his muscles to the maximum, put all his ninety-five kilos behind the punch and smashed his fist through the door panel. His knuckles and forearm were bleeding. But he had one hand through and groped towards the door handle on the outside.