Inger Frimansson - Good Night, My Darling

“Did you wait for the mail?”

“Yes, but there was nothing. And, in addition, I found this.”

He put his hand in his pocket and took out a passport. He threw it on the table with force.

“She can’t have gone anywhere. At least, she hasn’t left the country.”

“What about the EU nowadays… Do you need a passport anymore?”

“I think you still do.”

“I’m sorry… but I’m afraid I can’t really do anything for you.”

“May I ask, were you really friends when you went to school together? Were you best friends, as they say?”

“Not really.”

“Yes, I got that from her. She was hinting at something along those lines. You were bullied, weren’t you?”

“It was a little difficult for me, but I haven’t really dwelt on it very much. It was really quite a long time ago.”

“She hinted that there was something she wanted to bring up with you. She had a bad conscience; she was suffering from it.”

“She did?”

“Did she do it, say anything to you?”

Her thoughts whirled around her brain, was it the right thing to do to answer honestly now? Was it?

“I believe she said something like she hadn’t been so nice all the time.”

“She said that?”

“I think so.”

“And what did you answer?”

“I don’t remember… I probably said something like I hadn’t exactly been an angel myself.”

His shoulders sank. She observed his shirt; the collar was wrinkled. He wasn’t wearing a tie.

“The boys,” he said heavily. “What am I going to say to the boys?”

“I know that you’re worried,” she whispered. “But it hasn’t been that long yet. Try and be patient. Maybe she’s calling you right now; maybe she’s on the phone.”

“I have everything sent to my cell.” He patted his jacket pocket. “I’ll hear right away when the phone rings at home. Where did she say she would go? Which words did she use exactly?”

“Oh, I don’t really remember.”

“Did she just look at her watch and say something like, oh, I really have to go?”

“It must have been something like that.”

“I was out at the cabin the whole weekend. Otherwise I would have reacted earlier. Why, why the hell did I go out to the cabin!”

He rubbed his fingers against his forehead.

“I really don’t understand all this. I just don’t get it.”

“I can imagine… You think you know a person. And then you realize you really don’t.”

“That’s true; that’s really true.”

Justine’s telephone rang. She got up.

“Please excuse me!”

Hans Peter , she thought. Kind, sweet, dear Hans Peter.

But it was a different Hans, Hans Nästman.

The wind had picked up. Clouds of dry snow were blowing through up there, like wisps of smoke. Her face got warm. “Good day again, Justine Dalvik. Do you remember me?”

“Yes, of course I do. Why are you calling?… Is there any news about Nathan?”

“No.”

“All right.”

“And no news about the murderer of that young girl?”

Justine held her breath. Behind her in the room, Tor Assarsson was pacing about. He had opened the balcony door now and was lighting a cigarette. An ice-cold draft swept across the floor.

“Just a minute!” she said into the phone. “Close it!” she hissed to Tor Assarson and pointed to the bird.

“Do you have visitors?”

“Yes.”

“You had a visitor on Saturday evening, too, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“I would like to talk to you about that.”

“Why? Don’t I have the right to have guests in my own home?”

“Certainly you do, Justine, certainly.”

“Then, well, I don’t understand…”

The call was cut off, and she realized he was speaking on his cell phone, which had come into shadow. She regretted her reaction; she had gone straight to the attack. That was not good. She hung up the phone, bent down and got her jacket. Then she went out on the balcony with Tor Assarsson.

“You have to be careful with the doors and windows. The bird can impulsively fly out.”

Smoke streamed from his nostrils.

“That’d be just fine!”

“Absolutely not!”

“A bird like that should be free.”

“Yes, but he wouldn’t manage. He doesn’t know how to defend himself against wild birds, and other animals that might hurt him. He’s been with people his whole life, since he fell from his nest. He is imprinted by people, by me.”

The ashtray was on the floor. She realized that she had forgotten to empty it. The gusts of wind made the ash swirl a bit. Tor Assarsson put out his cigarette among the many halfsmoked butts left by Berit.

“Whatever. It’s really none of my business.”

He left. At first he said he would call a taxi, but then he changed his mind a moment later.

“I’ll walk along the route she took. I’ll go and take the bus. Do you know how often they go?”

“Sorry, I never take the bus.”

“No. You have a fine new car, I noticed.”

“Yes, I just bought it. I have some things to do, or I would give you a lift to the subway station.”

“No, no, I’d rather walk. As I mentioned before, I want to think my way into what Berit was doing last Saturday.”

She followed him to the door, handed him his coat and scarf. Took his ice-cold hand into her two warm ones.

“Tor,” she said, using his name for the first time. “We’ll cross our fingers as hard as we can. That Berit will show up unharmed. That she’s not hurt and everything will be like before. And if we think of her as hard as we can, it’ll certainly happen.”

He cleared his throat.

“Thank you,” he said.

As soon as he left up the hill, she returned her jacket to its place. The telephone rang immediately.

“Hello?” she called, but heard only static noise. “Hans Peter, is that you?”

It was the policeman. He was muttering and swearing.

The words came in bits.

“Hello? Dammit all… I’ll soon… in Hässelby. In about

… minutes.”

She went up to the balcony, took the ashtray and emptied it into the toilet and had to flush four times until all the butts disappeared. Then she called for the bird, and placed him in the attic. A strange calm came over her. She put a pot of coffee on and set mugs on the table.

Hans Nästman came alone. He parked right behind her car and walked up the gravel path. She opened before he rang the bell.

He didn’t look like his usual self. He was a great deal thinner. “Good day, Justine. I haven’t forgotten you, as you see.” “I haven’t forgotten you, either.”

“That’s a good thing.”

“I’ve made coffee.”

He nodded.

They sat at the kitchen table, just as she had earlier done with Hans Peter. She had cleared off the surface and was filled with a physical longing, and then the phone.

“You’ve changed,” she said.

“So you noticed?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been sick.”

“It looks like you’ve lost a number of kilos. Nothing serious, I hope?”

“A colon tumor.”

“Oh.”

“It’s gone now. The tumor. And I hope it’s gone forever.”

“This horrible illness, cancer.”

“Yes, you learn to value life in a completely different way after something like this.”

She poured the coffee.

“I apologize. I don’t have any coffee cake.”

“Wonderful! Too many cakes and cookies all the time in these situations.”

“You’ve come here for a reason, I take it?”

“For the sake of Berit Assarsson, your former classmate.”

Her stomach turned to ice.

“Berit, yes.”