Karin Fossum - Eva's Eye

Eva squirmed. “I don’t usually try to explain my pictures.”

“No, I can understand that well enough. But this” — he pointed to a spire rising up from the blackness — “reminds me of a church. And this small gray thing in the background, could be something like a headstone. Slightly arched at the top. A long way from the church, but you can still see they’re linked. A churchyard,” he said simply. “With just one headstone. Who’s buried there?”

Eva stared at him in amazement. “Me, I suppose.”

He walked on into the hall. “It’s the most powerful image I’ve ever seen,” he said.

Just as the front door slammed, it occurred to her that maybe she should have shed a few tears, but it was too late now. She sat with her hand in her lap listening to the washing machine, it had begun its spinning cycle, turning faster and faster until it became an ominous whine.

She shook off her fear and began to work up a slowly rising anger. It was an alien feeling; she was never angry, only despondent. She’d fetched her handbag from the dining table, opened it and turned it upside down so that the money fluttered out. Most of it was in hundred-kroner notes, a few fifties, and a clutch of thousands. She counted on and on, unable to believe her own eyes. More than sixty thousand kroner! Pocket money, Maja had said. She arranged it in tidy piles and shook her head. She could live for an eternity on sixty thousand, six months at least. And no one would miss it. Nobody even knew it existed. Where would it have gone otherwise, she thought, to the state? Eva had the strange feeling that she deserved it. That it was hers. She gathered up the piles, found a rubber band, and bound them up neatly. It no longer troubled her that she’d taken the money. It ought to have troubled her, she couldn’t quite understand why it didn’t, she’d never stolen anything in her life before, apart from Mrs. Skollenborg’s plums. But why should it just lie there, in bowls and vases, when she needed it so badly?

After a short pause for reflection she went down to the cellar. She rummaged around for a while on the workbench and found an empty paint tin that was dry inside. Lime green, satin finish. She put the wad of notes in the tin, replaced the lid, and pushed it back under the bench. Whenever I need something I can simply put my hand in the tin and fish out a few notes, she thought in amazement, just as Maja had done. She went back up again. It’s because no one will find me out, she thought. Maybe we’re all thieves at heart provided the opportunity is good enough. This was a good opportunity. Money that belongs to no one anymore has been redistributed to people who really need it. Like me and Emma. And Maja had almost two million more hidden at her cabin. She shook her head. There was no point in even thinking about such large sums. But what if it was so well hidden that it would never be found? Was it just to lie there and rot? I’d like you to have the money, Maja had said. Perhaps it was meant as a joke, but the thought made her give a little gasp. Perhaps she really had meant it. A possibility tried to insinuate itself, but she pushed it away. Money that no one knew about. It was quite impossible to imagine what she could do with so much. Of course it would never work. You could never hide a fortune like that, even Emma would start asking questions if she suddenly had all that money in her hands, she might babble about it to Jostein, who in turn would start asking questions, or perhaps to her grandfather, or to friends or parents of friends. That’s why it’s so difficult to be a thief, she mused, there’s always someone to be suspicious, someone who knew how badly off you’d been, and gossip spread so quickly. If only Maja knew what she was sitting here thinking. Perhaps she was in a cold-storage drawer now, with a label tied to her toe. Durban, Maja, DOB 04.08.1954.

She shuddered. But the man with the ponytail wouldn’t be free for long, they were always caught. It was just a matter of waiting while they closed in on him; he hadn’t got a chance, not now with all the modern DNA testing, and he had actually had intercourse with Maja. He’d left quite a visiting card, as well as fingerprints and hairs and fibers from his clothing and all sorts of other things, she’d read about such methods in crime novels. Suddenly, it struck her with horror that she’d left a lot of traces there herself. The man from the police would return, she was sure of that. Then she must tell her story just as she’d done before, perhaps it got easier after a while. She stepped purposefully into her studio. She put on her smock and set about staring fiercely at the black canvas that stood on the easel. Sixty by ninety, it was a good format, not too large, not too restricting. She had sandpaper and blocks in a drawer. She tore off a piece and folded it around a block, clenched her hand and made a few tentative movements in the air. Then she attacked the canvas. She landed on the right and did four or five powerful strokes. The color turned mid-gray, something like lead, a little lighter where the canvas weave had thicker fibers. She stood back. What if they didn’t find him? What if he simply went free? Opel Manta, BL 74, wasn’t that it? Not everybody gets caught, she thought now, if he wasn’t already on the file, how could they find him? It had all happened so fast and so completely silently. He slid out and disappeared in a matter of seconds. If she were the only one who’d seen the car they would never find out he was driving an Opel Manta, just the sort of uncommon car that would have made him so easy to trace.

She advanced again and worked intensively at a point a bit further to the left, smaller movements now, but harder. What had he said? Something about his job — how long it took him to earn a thousand kroner. In her mind’s eye she could see the back of his fair hair and the little ponytail at his neck. Hadn’t he said the brewery?

She stopped. She’d got to the white canvas and a piercing brightness. The block fell to the floor. She glanced at the time, thought for a second and shook her head hard. Continued scraping. Glanced again. Pulled the smock over her head, got dressed, and went out.

The car needed full choke to start. It made a terrific roar and the exhaust was black as she changed up and nosed into the road. Maybe he was already over the border in Sweden for all she knew. Perhaps he had a cabin where he could hide, perhaps he’d committed suicide. Or perhaps he was at work just like everyone else, as if nothing had happened. At the brewery, with his white Manta parked outside.

She sat hunched over the steering wheel and drove fast. She wanted to see if she was right, if the car really was standing there. If it really existed and wasn’t a figment of her imagination. She shot past the power station on the right and suddenly remembered the unpaid bills, she mustn’t forget about them. She had the money now, even enough to frame some of her pictures. People didn’t buy pictures with unpainted canvas around the edges. She couldn’t understand them. Now she had the Spice Garden on her left and was approaching the hill with its nine sleeping policemen. She changed down into second. He never saw me, she thought. I run no risk strolling around outside the brewery; he has no idea who I am or what I’ve seen. But he is scared, and on his guard. I’ll have to be careful. She lurched over the first bump. If he’s clever, he’ll carry on with his life as if nothing’s happened. Go to work. Tell dirty jokes in the canteen. Maybe, she thought suddenly, he’s got a wife and children. She drove on carefully over the bumps, trying to spare the old car. Secretly, she christened him Elmer. It was a suitable name, she thought, slightly pale and watery. Anyway, she couldn’t imagine him being called anything ordinary, like other people, Trygve, or Kåre, or perhaps Jens. Not when she saw him with her inner eye, kneeling on the bed with his trousers around his knees and the sharp knife glinting in his hand. There was nothing ordinary about him. Did he feel different now? Was he shaken and scared, or was he simply angry that he’d overstepped a mark that might possibly cost him dear? What did it really feel like?