When he caught sight of me, the stranger leaned forward eagerly and asked, “Are you Olaf Andvarafors?”
I wasn’t expecting this question. I wasn’t expecting it at all. I looked around for a chair, pulled one up to the side of the bed, sat down slowly and only then looked at the stranger. I was very tempted to answer in the affirmative and see what happened. But I am not a detective and not in counterintelligence. I’m an honest police bureaucrat. So instead I answered:
“No. I am not Olaf Andvarafors. I am a police inspector, and my name is Peter Glebsky.”
“Really?” he said, surprised but unruffled. “But where’s Olaf Andvarafors?”
Apparently he had recovered completely from yesterday’s events. His thin face had become rosy; the tip of his long nose, which had been so white last night, was now red. He sat on the bed, a blanket pulled up to his waist. The neck of Alek’s nightshirt (which was clearly too big for him) hung open, revealing his sharp collarbone and the pale hairless skin of his chest. His face was hairless too—only a few whiskers where his eyebrows should be and sparse white eyelashes. He sat, leaning forward, his left hand absentmindedly gathering up his empty right sleeve.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But first I have to ask you a few questions.”
The stranger didn’t say anything to this. His face took on a strange expression—so strange that at first I didn’t understand what was happening. But then I realized that one of his eyes was fixed on me, while the other eye had rolled up in its socket, so that I could barely see it. Some time passed in silence.
“Well, then,” I said. “Before anything else I would like to know who you are and what your name is.”
“Luarvik,” he said quickly.
“Luarvik … And your first name?”
“First name? Luarvik.”
“Mr. Luarvik Luarvik?”
He was quiet again. I struggled with the feeling of discomfort that one always gets when dealing with very cross-eyed people.
“More or less, yes,” he said finally.
“What do you mean ‘more or less’?”
“Luarvik Luarvik.”
“Very well. If you say so. Who are you?”
“Luarvik,” he said. “I am Luarvik,” He was quiet. “Luarvik Luarvik. Luarvik L. Luarvik.”
He looked healthy enough, and, what was more surprising, completely serious. But I’m not a doctor.
“I would like to know your occupation.”
“I’m mechanic,” he said. “Mechanic and driver.”
“A driver of what?” I asked.
Here he stared at me with both his eyes. He clearly did not understand the question.
“All right, we’ll put that aside for now,” I said quickly. “You’re a foreigner?”
“Very much,” he said. “For the most part.”
“Most likely. A Swede, for the most part.”
Was he mocking me, I wondered? Probably not. He looked like a man with his back up against the wall.
“Why did you come here?” I asked.
“Olaf Advarafors is here. He will tell you everything. I can’t.”
“You were coming to see Olaf Andvarafors?”
“Yes.”
“You were caught under the avalanche?”
“Yes.”
“You were traveling by car?”
He thought about this.
“By car,” he said.
“Why do you need to see Andvarafors?”
“I have business.”
“What kind of business exactly?”
“I have business,” he repeated. “With him. He will tell you.”
The door creaked behind my back. I turned around. On the doorstep, holding his mug at arm’s length, was Moses.
“You’re not allowed in here,” I said sharply.
Moses stared at the stranger from underneath his bushy eyebrows. He wasn’t paying any attention to me. I jumped out of my seat and walked directly up to him.
“I am asking you to leave immediately, Mr. Moses!”
“Don’t scream at me,” he said in an unexpectedly pacific voice. “Can’t I inquire about whom you have put in my room?”
“Not now. Later …” Gradually, but forcefully, I managed to close the door.
“All right, all right,” Moses muttered, as he was pushed into the hallway. “I could object, of course …”
I closed the door and turned again to Luarvik L. Luarvik.
“Was that Olaf Andvarafors?” Luarvik asked.
“No,” I said. “Olaf Andvarafors was killed last night.”
“Killed,” Luarvik repeated. There was no emotion in his voice. No surprise, no fear, no grief. It was as if I had told him that Olaf had just stepped out and would be back in a minute. “He’s dead? Olaf Andvarafors?”
“Yes.”
“No,” said Luarvik. “Your information is inaccurate.”
“My information is completely accurate. I saw his body myself.”
“I would like to see.”
“Why do you want to see it? So far as I understand it, you did not know him personally.”
“I have business,” said Luarvik.
“But I am telling you: he has been killed. He is dead. Someone murdered him.”
“Fine. I would like to see.”
Suddenly I remembered: the suitcase.
“Was he supposed to give you something?”
“No,” he answered indifferently. “We were supposed to talk. He and I.”
“About what?”
“He and I. Me and him.”
“Listen, Mr. Luarvik,” I said. “Olaf Andvarafors is dead. He has been murdered. I am investigating his murder. I am looking for the murderer. Do you understand? I need to know as much as possible about Olaf Andvarafors. I am asking you to be candid about this. Sooner or later you are going to have to tell me everything. Better sooner than later.”
Suddenly he pulled the blanket up to his nose. His eyes drifted apart again.
“I can’t tell you anything,” he said. His voice was muffled by the blanket.
“Why not?”
“I can only tell Olaf Andvarafors.”
“Where are you coming from?” I asked.
He was quiet.
“Where do you live?”
Silence. Quiet sniffling. One eye looked at me, the other at the ceiling.
“Are you following orders?”
“Yes.”
“Whose, exactly?”
“Why do you want to know this?” he asked. “My business isn’t with you. Your business isn’t with us.”
“I am asking you to understand,” I said earnestly. “If we find out something about Olaf, we will be able to find out who his murderer is. Granted, you apparently don’t know Olaf. But whoever sent you to him, they might know something.”
“They also do not know Olaf,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“They don’t know Olaf. What do you mean?”
I rubbed the stubble of my unshaven cheeks.
“You’re not making any sense,” I said gloomily. “Some people who don’t know Olaf sent you, who also doesn’t know Olaf, with some sort of business for Olaf. How is this possible?”
“It’s possible. It is.”
“Who are these people?”
Silence.
“Where are they?”
Silence.
“Mr. Luarvik, you may be in big trouble.”
“Why?” he asked.
“When a murder is being investigated, good citizens have a responsibility to provide the police with the desired information,” I said strictly. “Failure to do so could be seen as complicity.”
Luarvik L. Luarvik did not react to this.
“It is not impossible that you might be arrested,” I added. It was clearly illegal to threaten him this way, and I hurried to add, “In any event, your stubborn resistance will hurt you a great deal during the trial.”
“I would like to wear clothes,” Luarvik said suddenly. “I do not want to lie here. I want to see Olaf Andvarafors.”
“For what reason?” I asked.
“I want to see him.”
“But you don’t know what he looks like.”
“I don’t care what he looks like,” Luarvik said.
“Then what do you want with him?”
Luarvik crawled out from under the blanket and sat up again.
“I want to see Olaf Andvarafors!” he said very loudly. His right eye was twitching and rotating. “Why all these questions? Why more questions? So many questions. Why don’t I see Olaf Andvarafors?”
I was losing patience too.
“You want to identify the body? Is that how I’m supposed to understand you?’
“Identify … You mean recognize him?”
“Yes! Recognize him!”
“Yes. I want to see him.”
“How do you expect to recognize him,” I said, “if you don’t know what he looks like?”
“What do you mean what he looks like?” Luarvik yelled. “Why do you ask me what he looks like? I want to make sure this is not Olaf Andvarafors, that it is someone else!”
“Why do you think that it’s someone else?” I asked him quickly.
“Why do you think that it’s Olaf Andvarafors?” he answered.
We stared at each other. I had to admit, this strange person had a point. I couldn’t have sworn that this Viking with his twisted neck was the same Olaf Andvarafors as the one that Luarvik L. Luarvik was looking for. It might not be that Olaf Andvarafors—it might not be Olaf Andvarafors at all. On the other hand, I did not understand what sense there was in showing Olaf’s body to someone who didn’t know what he looked like. Face to face … But then come to think of it, what was so important about the face? Maybe he had to be recognized by his clothes, or a signet ring, or let’s say a tattoo …
There was a knock at the door, and Kaisa’s voice squeaked, “Clothes, sir …” I opened the door and took the stranger’s dried and ironed suit from Kaisa.
“Get dressed,” I said, laying the suit on the bed.
I walked over to the window and proceeded to look out on the Dead Mountaineer’s toothy cliffs, already lit with the rosy light of the rising sun; on the pale dot of the moon; on the clear blue sky. Behind me there was rustling, mumbling, scraping; for some reason a chair was being moved (apparently, it was not so easy to get dressed with both one arm and a squint). Twice I felt the urge to turn around and offer some help, but I held myself back. Then Luarvik said, “Dressed.”
I turned around. I was surprised. I was very surprised, but then I remembered what this man had lived through overnight, and stopped being surprised. I walked up to him, straightened and buttoned his collar, rebuttoned his jacket, and slid the manager’s slippers over to him. While I was doing all this he stood there submissively, holding out his lone hand. The empty right sleeve I put in his pocket. He looked at the slippers and said doubtfully:
“These aren’t mine. I don’t have ones like these.”
“Your shoes haven’t dried yet,” I said. “Put them on, let’s go.”
You would have thought he’d never seen a pair of slippers before in his life. He tried twice, and failed twice, to drive his feet into them with a sweeping motion, losing his balance each time. His equilibrium seemed off in general—clearly he’d been through a lot, and wasn’t yet himself. I understood this well: I’d had similar experiences myself …
Some kind of machine must have been spinning away silently in my subconscious, because suddenly I was struck by a wonderful idea: what if Olaf wasn’t Olaf, but Hinkus, and Hinkus wasn’t Hinkus, but Olaf? What if he’d summoned this strange man via telegram? But nothing came of this transmutation of names, and I shook the thought out of my head.
Hand in hand we went out into the hall and up to the second floor. The owner, who was sitting at his post as he had been earlier, gave us a thoughtful look. Luarvik didn’t pay him any attention. He was focused completely on the stairs. I held on to his elbow just to be careful.
We stopped in front of the door to Olaf’s room. I carefully inspected the tape I’d put up: it was all in order. Then I took out the key and opened the door. A sharp unpleasant odor struck my nose—a very strange odor, not unlike the smell of disinfectant. I lingered in the doorway, trying to pull myself together. But everything in the room was just as it had been. Only, the face of the dead man seemed darker to me than it had the night before, possibly because of the lighting, and I could barely see the bruises anymore. Luarvik was nudging me insistently between the shoulder blades. I walked into the entryway and stepped aside so that he could see.
He might have been a mortician, instead of a mechanic and driver. He stood over the body with a completely indifferent look on his face; he bent low, placing his single hand behind his back. There was no disgust, no fear, no awe: this was just a businesslike inspection. Strangest of all was what he said next.
“I’m surprised,” he said in an utterly flat tone. “This really is Olaf Andvarafors. I don’t understand.”
“How did you recognize him?” I asked immediately.
Still bending over, he turned his head and looked at me with one eye.
He was standing there bent, with his feet far apart, looking up at me quietly.
This lasted so long that my neck began to hurt. How could he remain in that ridiculous position? Was he having lower back problems, or what? Finally he said:
“I remembered. I’ve seen him before. At that time, I did not know it was Olaf Andvarafors.”
“And where did you see him before?” I asked.
“There.” Still bent over, he waved a hand towards the window. “It’s not important.”
Suddenly he straightened up and lurched around the room, turning his head in a funny way. I braced myself, never taking my eyes off him. He was clearly looking for something, and I had already guessed what that something was …
“Olaf Andvarafors did not die here?” he asked, stopping in front of me.
“Why do you think that?” I asked.
“I don’t think. I asked.”
“Are you looking for something?”
“Olaf Andvarafors had one object with him,” he said. “Where it is?”
“You’re looking for his suitcase?” I asked. “You came here for it?”
“Where it is?” Luarvik repeated.
“I have it,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “I would like to have. Bring, please.”
“I could bring you the suitcase, but first you have to answer my questions.”
“Why?” he said in amazement. “Why more questions?”
“Because,” I said patiently. “You will receive the suitcase only if your answers to my questions demonstrate that you have the right to it.”
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Whether it’s your suitcase or not. If it’s yours, if Olaf brought it here for you, then prove it. Then I’ll give it to you.”
His eyes drifted apart and then focused again on the bridge of his nose.
“Don’t,” he said. “I don’t want to. I’m tired. Let’s go.”
I followed him out of the room feeling a little puzzled. The air in the hallway seemed surprisingly clean and fresh. Where had that apothecary’s stench in the room come from? Perhaps something had been spilled in there earlier, but the window being opened had masked the smell? I closed the door. Luarvik remained where he was, apparently immersed in deep thought, as I got the glue and paper from my room and set to work resealing the scene.
“So what’s it going to be?” I asked. “Are you going to answer my questions?”
“No,” he said decisively. “I don’t want questions. I want to lie down. Where can I lie down?”
“Go back to your room,” I said numbly. I was overcome with apathy. Suddenly I had a splitting headache. I wanted to relax, lie down, close my eyes. The entire absurd, unprecedented, messed-up, nonsensical case seemed to be coming to life in the form of the absurd, unprecedented, messed-up, nonsensical Luarvik L. Luarvik.
We went down the hall; he staggered back to his room, and I sat in the armchair, stretched myself out and, finally, closed my eyes. Somewhere I could hear the sea murmuring, loud, insensible music, dark spots swimming towards me and away from me. My mouth felt like I’d been chewing for hours on a damp rag. Then I felt a wet nose sniff my ear, and Lel’s heavy head leaned consolingly against my knee.