Gunnar nodded, holding back tears of inadequacy and guilt. He dropped his eyes to his bandaged hand and the bland pastels of the curtains that were drawn around his bed.
“You don’t have to prove shit to me or anyone else, least of all, yourself,” she hissed through clenched jaws, staring him square in the face with her forehead against his. “Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Like everyone else, fighters get hurt. They also get tired, battle-weary. Battle-weary, Gunnar. It does not make you a weakling; it is what makes you a warrior. Not winning. Not coming off unscathed. People don’t get battle-weary when they are pacifists, do you understand?” she whispered with such conviction that it grew silent in the immediate vicinity. Patients and nurses, alike, listened. “Only losers die without scars. Only weaklings live to grow old. If you bleed, if you break, if you weep — it is the price of battle. Your scars are plenty, my love, and they spell out the name of Odin on your soul. That is what you are to me. Do you understand? That is what you are to me, even when you fall. Especially when you fall.”
He said nothing in return, but she knew that he took it to heart. If he did not this time he never would. But he did. The quiver in his lips told her so. Her cell phone’s message tone sounded, prompting a quizzical expression from her husband. She sighed.
“It’s that woman I met the other day. She is inviting us over. Tonight.”
“You go, baby. I’m stuck here for observation,” he jested with a lolling tongue. “Take the bike. I’m not going anywhere with my knackered back until tomorrow anyway and you will just get bored.”
Val kissed her husband and gave him a quick, sexy lick on the lobe of his ear, as she always did to show her affection. There was no ‘I love you’ with Val. She believed in actions, not words. Gunnar fell asleep as his wife dialed the number on her phone. Her sweet voice echoed into oblivion as he drifted off, “Hi Nina!”
Chapter 7
Sam’s eyes were nailed to the television. International news channels reported on various cultural treasures having been stolen, but what was more disturbing was that the robbers killed and maimed at will to get what they wanted.
‘No arrests have yet been made and the suspects are still at large. The security footage seems to have suffered interference, as has been the recent robbery at the British Museum in London. Again, a number of undisclosed artifacts of religious and cultural significance had been stolen and two police officers were wounded in a subsequent shoot-out after the three suspects were cornered.’
As much as he tried to figure out the sudden interest in relics from the antique world, Sam found himself perplexed. He could understand the hunt for really significant items such as the Ark of the Covenant and the Spear of Destiny, but hoards and collections seemed to be carefully chosen all over Europe. It actually amused him how picky the robbers were. It was clear that they were not in it for mere profit on the black market. These deadly robberies were not for genies in old lamps, but little pieces of European cultures that had nothing in common, not even their countries. What could be so important about personal burial treasures?
It had him enthralled, curious, like he used to be when he was still alive. Now that he was a reserved, careful bore with a cushy career, he was not supposed to feel exhilarated by the dark side of world events or the peril hidden in mundane news reports. But he was.
For the first time since he started therapy, he had to admit it to himself: he hated his new life. He thought if he changed his look a bit, according to how he felt about his new found freedom, he would adjust better to the bleak normality of developments. All he felt, in truth, was frustration.
Out there was a limitless world with untold secrets, undiscovered places forgotten by time, and he was sitting in his flat most of the time, writing about sports and social events that came by annually. What more was there to life, he wondered, for people who did not seek out the hellish thrill of danger, discovery and knowledge? Books, the Internet and occasional lectures were the paths to more knowledge, but actually these were all written by people — people just like him. They did research as far as they could and wrote it down under a heading. Great. Did they ever experience the things they wrote of? Few did. Then they would give their take on what the research taught them, or what they disputed, and suddenly they were scholars, academics, experts.
Sam felt unbridled drive overwhelm him again, but he was so carefully programmed not to want it, that he literally plopped down on his couch after standing up. That is how he had been overcoming his innate need to know — just know. Gluttonous for that which the others did not know, that was Sam. Since he was a child, he refused to take things at face value. He quickly figured out that adults were only right because children did not know the difference and as soon as that inkling sank in, he began to question everything.
Now he sat on the couch, the television babbling in the background of his deafening thoughts, his inner fight overpowering everything external. His heart slammed from the livid anger he began to feel. All at once everything made him furious. He felt uncontrollable and strong. It was a conscious decision and he wanted to make it. Sam Cleave was not going to wonder about things anymore.
“My god, how did I become this dull?” he asked himself out loud. Most of the anger he felt was directed at himself for allowing, for believing what someone else told him he needed. Granted, he needed some rest and some time away from constant threat, but not like this! He had almost become comatose in his security. Through two cigarettes and the first three shots from a fresh bottle of vodka, he battled it out with his convictions. Was he going to shed the cloak of safety and live while he eluded death? Or was he going to continue to be asleep and be dead while he was alive?
On the opposite side of the room, his cat turned from the window, lay down on the carpet, shot him a sharp glance and yawned.
“Precisely my point, Bruich,” Sam said and snuffed his fag. “All I needed was your approval, oh Great Oracle.”
As if by fate, Sam’s ring tone chimed from underneath his Men’s Health magazine which was face down open on the carpet. Somehow it had landed on the phone, barely missing the over-full ashtray full of cigarette butts.
“Patrick is in the mountains for the week, so who the hell is calling me on my personal number? And now! I don’t want to talk to anybody until I see daylight,” he mumbled as he retrieved the whining phone from the floor, but at the sight of the screen his words stopped short.
Nina Gould calling…
Sam’s heart skipped. He did not know why though. Nina had been a close friend of his for several years now and he was used to her pretty face and gorgeous body about him. So he could hardly fathom the excitement with her name on his phone. Maybe he just missed her and it was a nice surprise. Inside Sam’s head he could hear laughter — his own, at his ridiculous charade with which he consoled himself about Nina. Nice surprise. Really?