A writer cannot cry as much as I do, I say to Beate, and she looks out the window and says, at this time of year it’s better to be outside than indoors, at least when the sun is shining. The cheek of her. Beate is coming round all too often, I wish the rain was splashing down on my white plastic chair, and on the radio, drowning the radio.
It has been two weeks since Emilie disappeared, and the police are keeping their cards close to their chest. I have been eliminated from their inquiries, but the man in the baseball cap has been passing by my gate every day lately. His huge form slowing down, his face gawking up at the house. Sometimes he comes to a complete stop. I get the feeling he sees me, even though I have withdrawn far into the room.
He stands there. Always wearing the red baseball cap, the same heavy army jacket. He has probably seen the house on TV, I think, along with everyone else in the neighbourhood, and they stare just as much, only not as openly. There is no danger. He is doing what he has always done, same as when he had the dog. It is because he has heard about Emilie, that is why, simple curiosity. It is human, completely natural, he just does not have the sense to hide it.
God knows what he is thinking. How deranged he is. What sort of fantasies he actually has. Sick ones that no one knows about.
Those arms of his, like ham shanks. I saw him in a T-shirt once. At the shop. Imagine he strangles me. Sits astride my chest, pins me down and squeezes. Easy as pie. Because he thinks I am the killer. But actually it is him, he is the dangerous one, maybe that is how it is.
Well, what do I know. He might be psychotic, his condition might worsen in the summer, that happens to a lot of them. It is the holiday period at the institutions, the psychiatrist is away, public services are keeping summer hours, it is hot and his confusion mounts. Then he stops taking his tablets and buys beer and spirits instead. Drinks more frequently, downs larger amounts. Walks through the woods in his warm clothes. Sits down on the grass up at the lake at Sognsvann and watches girls in bikinis. They lean their heads close and send him funny looks. He becomes angry. He walks the streets in the neighbourhood and stops at mine. Maybe he is furious. Believes it is my fault or something. He is going to get me, he thinks, get that fucking bitch.
I am imagining things, I realise that. But Christ, what am I supposed to think? Does he want to get in here, and why? Should I do something? But seriously, is that really necessary? I do not think I can be bothered.
I am prone to exaggeration, or so Tuva always says.
Maybe I should give her a ring and hear what she has to say. See if she makes light of it. If she does, I need not concern myself, then it is nothing.
An upset stomach, a metallic taste in my mouth. I do not know what is up or down. Is he dangerous or not? I am such a coward. Should not exist. So ugly, stupid and worried. Typical me, just thinking of myself.
I could mention it to Beate in passing, while she is still here. Ask her if she thinks I should call the police. But she is in the toilet and by the time she comes back to the kitchen I will have changed my mind. The police probably know about him already, I am pretty sure they check out things like that, if there are any dangerous lunatics in the area and so on, and anyway the neighbours will have mentioned him already, everybody takes notice of the likes of him. I do not think I need to do anything.
I’m heading off, Beate says, standing in front of me on the landing with her back to the window, the sunlight making the outermost part of her hair glow, giving her a halo. I hug her. Your little angel, Tuva usually says, she is jealous. She has no reason to be. I tell her as much, there is no one I love like you. Do I need to have a reason? Tuva asks. It is just an expression, I answer, and she lets it go.
Take care, I say to Beate.
Mum always says that, take care, but how are you supposed to do that? Beate says, and laughs.
In the afternoon it begins to rain and I bring in the radio. I am fond of it, after all.
I wonder if he really thinks I have Emilie.
I have not seen any sign of him today. That means he might come tonight. In which case I should not leave the house. It would be all too easy for him to break in while I am gone. The veranda door is not visible from the road, nor are the windows at the back of the house. But I do not see any quick escape routes. Sooner or later, I will have to leave. So I may as well go to SATS to work out, that is what I usually do when I am going up the wall. Maybe give Tuva a call before it gets too late, I will see when the time comes, how scared I am, even though I know how scared I will be, how my heart will pound when I put the key in the door, how I will check all the windows and every single room, before going up and pouring myself a large glass of wine, before going down again to shove the big chest of drawers in front of the cellar door, since the easiest way to gain entry is through the cellar windows.
What about an alarm, Mum? I can just hear Tuva. That huge house, Mum. And in that snobby area, why don’t you get an alarm?
Because I find it objectionable.
Because I find wealth objectionable.
Comfortable bourgeois wealth built on quality and stability. Solid wood furniture and an everyday marked by repairs and frugality. The expensive wine and the Persian rugs are just for show. Cut your coat according to your cloth, always. That is the consistent practice that has served to accumulate the money I am living off – you’re nibbling at your own nest egg, you silly little mouse.
I do not know why I should view capital growth as so wrong, yes, what is the problem with that, wealth creation, looking after money and passing it on? Except for the fact that I am unable to do it.
I do not know.
Having to put yourself first.
Everyone not having the same, the shame in eating while others watch.
The urge to divide equally, the tendency not to do so.
That I am childish.
Immature and spoilt. I am over fifty years old, but still want an unrestrained life near the street and nature. Live simply, collectively and in solidarity. Like a young person.
Because, I do not know. When one thing is true the other quickly becomes a lie and vice versa: I love gardens and Persian rugs as well. I do not dare grow a single vegetable without a fence around me. Someone could come and get me while I am bent over the patch. I am afraid. I am very afraid.
The truth is I do not want to be alone. I do not want to live in the house and I do not want to need an alarm.
I love the house. It endures everything, contains everything and stays quiet.
I am being torn in two.
But, no matter, I know it is only a question of time, I know what will happen, and then I will no longer have a choice. Daddy and his sisters will pull it down. They will demolish the house and divide the site into several smaller ones, erect prefabricated houses and sell them at a high price to people who want to live at a good address near all that nature in Nordmarka. Thus Granddad’s old fortune will begin to circulate and spread, among the grandchildren, the great-grandchildren, to be used on mindless consumption by some, acute need by others and perhaps invested by one or two more. Some people will make the money multiply, others will make it disappear down a dark drain. The wooded areas, the heavy pine trees, the roots. The squirrels, the fox. Stray dogs, crows, magpies, the woodpecker. Field mice who claw at the walls. The chickens.
Granddad and Granny made contemporary architectural choices, but the fundamental principle was in line with their upbringing: four solid walls with good materials in the laying of the foundations. The house was meant to last, to stay within the family, but the family no longer wants to be a family, we have forgotten ourselves: I have this much, I take this away, this is how much I have left. Until it is all gone, or has been converted and recycled so many times that we no longer remember how Grandfather’s father considered carefully before investing in the large plot of land, and then passed it on to his children and impressed frugality upon them. It no longer works. The measured craftsmanship at a chosen spot in nature has become a restless stream of transactions and symbolic life, flashing and smashing.
Christ, so much dreaming.
I, Bea Britt Viker, have never liked bourgeois ideals.
I have never liked the norms, dogma and requirements of good manners and pretence.
So why am I not happy when they crumble? Because, God help me, it is the inheritance that has given me freedom from the world of waged work, from the monotonous.
I am the heir of the old capitalists.
Now I miss the ideals. There is a logic to that.
I miss long-term planning, property and solid buildings.
I long for sobriety and a toolbox.
The first was not freedom, but neither is the second.
It is the same as something else.
It always seems to be.
Somebody controlling others.
I place my hand on the door, pull it towards me, walk in, and am then inside. I hand over my membership card, the receptionist draws it through the card reader and a white ticket is printed out. I walk towards the changing room with the ticket in my hand, taking off my shoes before entering and placing them under a bench by the door. They are a relatively new pair of grey Adidas, I bought them after the Nikes disappeared. I push open the door. Choose a locker on the third row. Lean over the bag and unzip it. As it opens the odour of stale sweat, reminiscent of cat piss, hits me. No matter how much fragranced fabric softener I pour into the washing machine the smell lingers on my exercise gear. Not to mention in my trainers. I cannot even put them in the wash. The shop assistant told me the water would ruin the cushioning. The gel or air bubbles in the soles that keep the impact springy would be weighed down by the water. The fully cushioned running shoes to prevent injury to your skeleton and sinews, but do not, because age weakens the body more than the trainers can compensate.
Wearing sports gear makes me look younger, I can see that in the mirror as I fill water from the tap, in here I do not age, I am all alone. A white orchid stands in a vase on the bench beside the sink, I am wearing a pink T-shirt with Nike and JUST DO IT written across the front, I look like everyone else. Every gym in the SATS chain looks the same, I find that comforting: they are all alike, in a world that cannot come to an end, here everything is constant, and no one knows each other, even though you see the same people several times a week, year in, year out.
Everything I know is of benefit to myself. This is the way my life is organised, everything is about me, my own well-being. The wine I drink later that evening. The sentences that start to flow but which I no longer write down. The rain hits the ground, the stone steps, the leaves outside, water collects on the white plastic chair. Soon the brown killer slugs will come out. What is my life actually worth? Nothing? Nothing is threatening. From all sides. I walk through the house and barricade the cellar door. There is no sign of attempted entry or that anyone has been inside. Nevertheless, I carry my mattress and bedding down and lay them on the first-floor landing. If I leave the door from the dining room to the hall open, I can keep an eye on the veranda door from the mattress, while at the same time hear if anybody tries to get in by the front or cellar doors. I’ll be lying in a cold draught but rather that than be surprised in my sleep. Something has dawned on me that should have been obvious from the moment they found Emilie’s bag in my garden: I must be involved even if I cannot see how. In someone’s head I am part of a terrible world. Someone is thinking about me. Somewhere or other, something is being planned for me that I cannot guess nor foresee. Christ, what is going on, who has taken hold of my life, and how is it at all possible for them to do that?
I have never realised this before. How many people cannot make their own choices. What that means. I do not understand what it involves now either, of course not, how someone appropriates everything that is yours. Your parents, your children, your house. Your life and your death. I am so stupid, have been stupid for over fifty years, and will in all probability remain so for the rest of my life, so ignorant, thoroughly lacking in knowledge, about people, that solitary individuals make up groups, countries and nations. Nations. That we do not decide over ourselves. I am very tired. I am fifty-two and have hardly begun life.
Because life. Is. See, I cannot manage to complete the sentence, is this for real? Not knowing what you are going to say, only that it is a sentence, a small sentence, and it is too complex, too complex to exist, it is the root of my tongue that cannot manage more, there is no movement down there. Life is
And then
Continues
I have not rung Tuva but that is because I do not want her to see how afraid I am. Helplessly alone. With the children I am feeble and filled with anxiety. I could have a man, but sooner or later I would want to get rid of him, or he could suddenly take off and leave me alone with the fear, it never goes away.
God knows of what.
Frightened of him leaving or of him staying.
Forcing his way in or pushing me away.
Both.
The criminal is thinking about me. I understand that now. He wants something from me or to do something with me. But why? Is there something in my eyes? Is it because I do not have a man?
No. I cannot face thinking any more. He can just come, whoever he is. The man in the baseball cap or some other bastard. He wants to get into the house. But you know what, I think, it makes fuck all difference. So I go up and open a bottle of red wine.
I drink. I float. Who is it I think I am with? Because I feel close, in communication. Communicatio. But with whom, there is nobody here? And yet, now, on the sofa with the radio on, under the light of the wrought-iron lamp, in the warmth, with the red wine both in my body and in the glass on the table in front of me, I am swimming in an ocean of security. As though nothing ever went wrong and I am not actually alone.
What does it mean to be alone?
I don’t like ’em.