He stood there for a long time, his mind attuned to the past, his reflection in his mother’s window, before he quietly returned to his starting point.
Now he was at journey’s end.
He removed his belt and tightened it around his left arm so that his veins stood out. He took the syringe out of his inner pocket, attached the needle, and filled it from two ampules. There wasn’t much light-he was grateful for that, slid the needle in between the thumb and pointer finger, the student’s comfort. He calmly pressed the plunger, loosened the belt, and closed his eyes.
He noticed with a tinge of irritation that someone had entered the room and he was a bit surprised that he could see the door from his vantage point under the cushions. Then he heard her voice and forgot everything else. She was wearing the pretty, white ruffled skirt he had bought for her when she was six years old and that he liked so much. She stood before him shining, happy, full of health, and he felt the tears stream down his cheeks; then he spread out his arms and ran over to meet her. She had been away from him for so many years and now he held her in his arms again. His wonderful little girl.
Chapter 20
Alma Clausen had been pigeonholed ahead of time by her guest. Widow of a farmer, a woman in her midfifties. Pious and from Tarm-all data that in Poul Troulsen’s view stank of the cowshed, thickened sauces, narrow-mindedness, and plenty of room for intellectual improvement. Reality, however, proved quite different.
His expectations were initially met, however, in that Alma Clausen was a kindly, unassuming person, short and with a clothing style that he could describe only as drab. Her home was modest and nondescript. Flowery wallpaper, embroidered bell strings, and Amager shelves with porcelain figurines from Salzburg. Liver-pâté-colored mediocrity. Only at an embarrassingly late stage did Troulsen finally realize that the woman was incredibly sharp. This as he slowly and loudly asked her about her life.
“I thought you had received a report about me. Haven’t you had a chance to read it?”
Haven’t had a chance was the polite version; haven’t bothered would be more accurate.
“What leads you to believe that we have a report about you?”
Her answer came without sarcasm: “Among other things because I spent an hour on the phone last night with the detective from Ringkøbing who was supposed to write it.”
“I am trying to get these facts straight from you.”
He could hear himself how unconvincing his explanation sounded. She glanced at his bag, then looked him in the eye and caught him out as if he were a child who had not done his homework.
“It is straight from me. Now I will get us something to eat. You can have a cup of coffee while you read.”
And so it went.
Alma Clausen graduated in 1972 from Copenhagen University with a degree in theoretical physics and was accepted by the Niels Bohr Institute in Copenhagen. In 1977 she defended her doctoral dissertation. That same year she gave up her academic career for a life as farmer’s wife in Ådum. She and her husband eventually celebrated their silver anniversary. When he died, she sold the farm and moved to Tarm. There she read up on the latest research in her discipline and was now an online instructor for the universities of Copenhagen, Berlin, and Stockholm. She had no children.
She called out to him from the kitchen, almost to the second when he was done reading.
“Come out and help me with the salad and I’ll tell you about my work.”
“I’m not sure I’ll be able to follow you.”
“Nonsense. Everyone understands it to some extent. No one understands it completely. That’s what’s so interesting about physics.”
She was right, it was genuinely interesting. He sliced away and listened with fascination.
It was almost four o’clock before he got to the heart of his errand, which was Per Clausen’s personality. By that time he had long ago turned off the tape recorder, which had appeared to irritate her. In turn she made every effort to answer his questions, as if one favor deserved another.
“How well did you really know your brother?”
“That’s difficult to say. We don’t see each other so often, and when we do, I’m almost always the one who comes to him, that is, except for last week. We sometimes e-mail and we call from time to time, often in regard to a mathematical problem.”
“You help him with mathematics?”
“Unfortunately, no. It’s always the other way around. He helps me. Per is the brains in the family.”
“And when you communicate, is it only about science?”
“You could say that. Mathematics, physics, and statistics mainly, but we also discuss other areas such as religion, for example.”
“Religion? Is your brother religious?”
“No, quite the opposite. I am, he is not.”
“What about relationship matters? Do you talk about that?”
She didn’t answer directly but continued to elaborate.
“It’s only these past few years that Per has started to show an interest in spirituality, and that should be understood very broadly. Not in Christianity, that is, more precisely in questions of faith, morality, hate, love, compassion, and judgment… those kind of things.”
“That strikes me as very lofty. No, that’s the wrong word. ‘Theoretical’ is more what I mean.”
“I wouldn’t say that. Per is always very practical. Would you like an example?”
“Yes, please.”
“Last Thursday we talked about demonization, about public morality and humanity. Per took as his starting point the large numbers of German refugees that Denmark was forced to accept at the end of the war in 1945-that is to say, mainly people who were fleeing from the advancing red armies in the east. After liberation, the authorities refused to grant these people medical care, and this was not because there was a shortage of medical care, or because there was no need for it, but simply because they were German. This resulted in a number of deaths, especially among children, who could have been saved.”
She recited, “ ‘If you hammer in the idea of an “us” and a “them” into the national consciousness, then the majority of the population will passively accept anything. Especially in these times when there is no common moral denominator to be found.’ ”
“That is your brother’s claim?”
“To the extent that I can remember it, yes, but I think I do. Naturally I disagree with him, I have to.”
“It sounds a bit fascist to my ears.”
“Per is no fascist. I don’t believe he has any political orientation whatsoever, and if he has one, he is a confirmed cynic.”
“We see him as a bit of a provocateur, if that is the right word. What do you say to that?”
“That it’s true. Per does like to tease people but it is seldom mean-spirited, and if he runs circles around you it’s just to show that he can.”
“What does he get out of it?”
“Nothing except a crooked little smile.”
She smiled to herself.
“Hm, interesting. Back to the question of relationships-do you talk about them?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?”
“If we do, it’s always with a kind of agreement.”
“I’m not sure I understand. Can you elaborate a little further?”
She reflected on this for a while before replying.