Inthe end she opened the car door and staggered out on stiff legs. She hoppedaround until the blood slowly returned to her sleeping leg. Ants in the blood.It hurt and she bit her lower lip. She brought her heel down on a sharp stone.It hurt so much she screamed 'Ow', then began to walk. She stumbled around thecar like an electric doll with stiff legs and limbs. Barefoot, she walked overthe cold, sharp stones and soon felt her circulation returning.
Allof a sudden she heard a sound and stopped to listen. She stood quite motionlessand a chill crept up her spine. She stood like this for a long time, listening,but didn't hear the sound again. At the same time she scanned her surroundingsto see what could have caused it. The night was grey, not pitch black, and inthe light from the moon and the stars she saw her shadow on the ground. Theonly sound to be heard was the low rumble of the idling car engine. What wastruly black were the trees and the surface of the water struggling in vain toreflect the stars.
When,at last, she was sure that she had imagined the sound, she decided to go downto the lakeside. She walked down the road with care, looking for a path. Andcaught sight of a wonderful flat stone she could stand on at the water's edge.A cool gust of air blew against her ankles and legs as she approached. Shestopped, bent down, put her hand in the water and felt the temperature.Lukewarm. In the dark she found the stone and went down on her knees. Shescooped up water and threw it into her face; it was not cold at all. She stoodup, peeled off her panties, kicked off her shoes and stepped into the lake bare-legged.Her feet sank down to her ankles in the mud which felt like cool, lumpy cream.It was unpleasant, but it didn't matter. It was only for two seconds. Sheraised her skirt to her waist, faced land, squatted down and washed herself.
Whatwas that?
Shesprang to her feet and listened.
Asound. But what kind of sound?
Shestood quite still listening. But now the silence was total, not even the soundof Henning's car was audible. Just the sound of insects fluttering their wingsagainst the water broke the frozen silence. She suddenly became aware that herskirt was bunched up around her waist, and she let go.
Somethinghad changed. There was something strange about the silence. She tried to workout what was different. She could not, but she didn't like standing there,alone and exposed in the water. The deep gloom and the unbearable silencecaused her to feel a clammy sense of fear spreading outwards from the small ofher back, a fear which numbed her fingers, which drained her arms of strength,which dried out her mouth and which stopped her breathing. As the darkness wasa summer darkness, she could make out the contours of rocks and branchesprotruding into the air. A clump of black, impenetrable spruce trees blockedher view of the road. It was not possible to see through the wall of sprucefoliage.
Walk,she told herself, wade to the shore and go back to the car. But for somereason she did not want to make any noise. Because, she thought, because… itwould drown the other sounds. Which sounds? She stood quite stillconcentrating, but she couldn't hear a single thing.
Shout,she thought. Shout for Henning\ But she couldn't make herself do that,either. Instead she waded to the shore. She tripped and almost fell, butmanaged to regain balance and scrambled on to the shore. She tried to force herwet feet into the shoes. It was difficult; her feet refused to go into hershoes of their own accord.
Onceshe was ready, she stood with her body tensed, listening. Not a sound to beheard, not even insects. Her eyes seemed to be drawn to the thick wall ofspruce on the right. There were spruce needles and tiny pebbles in her shoes.It was unpleasant, but she repressed the feeling. She was focused on the airand the dark wall of spruce. There. There was that sound again. And it camefrom somewhere behind the spruce trees.
Shewas breathing through her open mouth. Panicky breathing which she had to keepin check. She closed her mouth and held her breath. She stared intently at theclump of trees. There it was again. The rustling noise. She closed her eyes.
'Henning?'she whispered. Her voice didn't carry.
Therustling stopped. She cleared her throat to regain her speech.
'Henning?'she shouted and listened. A twig cracked. Other twigs stirred. 'Is that you,Henning?'
Asilhouette detached itself from the clump of trees, a white silhouette. Asilhouette that had been there all the time, but she had not seen it until now,when it started moving. It was in human form. White human form. With no clotheson.
PART 2: THE LITTLE GOLD RING
Chapter Five
PoliceInspector Gunnarstranda observed the shape of his face in the glass bowl. Thereflection distorted his appearance and made it pear-shaped. The mouth with thewhite, artificial, porcelain teeth resembled a strange, long pod full of whitebeans. His nostrils flared into two huge tunnels and around his face there wasthe suggestion of a grey shadow, no Sunday shave as yet. He searched for wordsto say to the goldfish. He was standing in front of the book shelf on which thegoldfish bowl was placed, looking at the fish and himself in the glass. Behindhis pear-face, the reflection caught everything in the flat: the book shelvesand the table with the pile of newspapers. 'Are you lonely?' he asked. Thequestion was ridiculous. He re-phrased it: 'Do you feel lonely?' And, as usual,he put words into the mouth of the red and orange fringetail swimming around inthe bowl with an air of leisure. 'Of course you feel lonely; I'm lonely, too.'Saying the words gave the policeman a pang of conscience. He ought to havebought more fish to give the fat red and orange goldfish some friends, tocreate a fish community in the bowl. However, at the same time he feared thatbuying more fish would mean he would lose contact with this one. It looked athim with its strange eyes, its beautiful tail flapping in slow motion. 'Yesindeed, we're both lonely,' he concluded, straightening up and ambling into thekitchen to brew up some coffee in the machine. Four spoonfuls of Evergood, fiveif it was a different brand. That's how it is; with some brands of coffee youneed to put more spoonfuls in the filter. Not something you can discuss. It's aquestion of taste. He hooked his braces over the shoulders of his vest. 'Do youknow what the worst thing about it is?' he said to the fish. 'It's that youcan't be alone with your loneliness any more. Now it's fashionable to belonely, now they have programmes about loneliness and everyone talks about it,and they broadcast programmes for the lonely.'
Heswitched on the coffee machine and leaned against the door frame. There was aportrait of Edel hanging over the fishbowl. What expression would she have onher face and in her eyes now? But why? Was it because he spent his timeconversing with a fish? Perhaps she's jealous, he thought, jealous because Idon't talk to her? But he did talk to her, in his head. The fish was different;the fish was like a dog. 'Yes,' he heard Edel chide him. 'But dogs have names,'she said.
Exactly,thought Gunnarstranda, trudging back to the bowl. He took the yellow packet offish food, opened it and tapped a bit out with his forefinger. Tiny flakesfloated on the surface of the water. Giddy with happiness the fish about-turned,swam to the top and nibbled at the food. 'Would you like a name?' he asked thefish and considered the three wise men in the Bible. The name of one of thewise men might suit the fish. If the Hindus' theories were right, if the fishhad high negative karma, it might indeed have been one of them. ButGunnarstranda could not remember the names of the wise men. Yes, he did, one ofthem: Melchior. Rotten name for a fish. One was called Balthasar. That wasbetter, but not very original. He kept thinking. 'You could be called… youcould be called…' This was not his strong suit. He had a sudden inspiration.'Kalfatrus,' he said aloud and straightened up with satisfaction. 'Good name.Kalfatrus.'