Inger Frimansson - Good Night, My Darling

“Justine, now don’t get offended, but it seems that bad luck follows you around. People in your vicinity tend to disappear or die.”

“This is supposed to be my fault?”

“Your fault? I didn’t say that. But listen: First it was Nathan Gendser, your male companion. He just disappeared in the jungle and no one has heard from him since. Then Martina Andersson, a young and beautiful photojournalist with an open interest in this Gendser. She was found murdered in cold blood with a jungle knife. In your shared hotel room.”

“An open interest?” she repeated.

“Of course, I’ve been talking to the other people in your group. You must have noticed something like that.”

“She was flirty, but that was mostly her way; young women like to do that. And Nathan was also flirty, and I have to admit that it was hurtful to me sometimes. And of course he was flattered by Martina’s attention. He was a real guy when it came to her.”

“And now we have this woman Berit. Her husband has just reported her missing. It was in that context that we came across your name. She was with you right before she disappeared.”

“And you somehow suspect me? Are you going to put me in jail?”

He looked at her over his glasses.

“I just want to talk with you about it.”

“Is this an interrogation, or what?”

“Don’t take it like that. I just want to ask a few questions.”

She pressed her hands to her face. Her heart was pounding so strongly that she almost imagined that he could hear it.

“OK,” she said in a low voice. “Nathan… I still haven’t gotten over it, if that’s what you think; every time his name is spoken… we were going to get married. I would have been his wife by now. It hurts me. I see him lying there in the rain forest, maybe hurt… dead… how the wild animals…”

Hans Nästman waited patiently until she finished. He leaned back in the chair, and when she took her hands away from her face, he gave her a friendly smile.

She had to tell about Saturday evening; he wanted to hear every little detail. He let her show him exactly where they sat, what they said, what they ate and drank. He asked about her foot.

“I fell when I was out running. I’ve probably sprained it.” “Her husband said that she felt some kind of regret. Her childhood seemed to catch up with her. She had apparently been a leader and had bullied many classmates. Including you. It seemed to weigh heavily on her mind.”

“Yes, she… mentioned something along those lines.” “How do you remember that bullying?”

“I told her all children do things like that; I wasn’t exactly a saint myself. I could be a bit nasty, too. Isn’t that part of childhood? I mean, think about it. How many kids did you hit on the chin when you were a boy?”

“She looked you up in order to talk about it.”

“Well, not just that. We were classmates; she was rummaging around in her roots, trying to make things fit together, so to speak.”

“Hmm. But why would she disappear right now? What do you believe about it?”

“Well, I don’t know… but it’s just Monday. Certainly, she’ll show up soon!”

“She’d never done anything like this before, her husband says.”

“Nora Helmer in A Doll’s House didn’t do anything like that either until the day she left husband and family.”

“I haven’t read A Doll’s House .”

“Ibsen.”

“I know that.”

“I said the same thing to her husband, who was here earlier. Berit is certainly depressed. She was seeing her life as one big failure: the marriage, the boys who didn’t want to have much contact with her any longer, and then all that with her job. Her boss was going to move the entire business up to Norrland. You can well imagine… She’s not young anymore, of course; she’s my age. But maybe you don’t know the value of a woman who is our age? In the job market… and other markets for that matter?”

There was a noise from the attic. A screech and some thuds, as if someone had fallen over. The policeman jumped up.

“What was that?”

She sighed.

“I have a bird. He’s up there. I usually let him fly free in the house, but I am so damned tired of explaining him to people who come here. So I put him in the attic before you arrived.”

She went up the stairs and opened the door.

“Hello?” she called. “Are you coming?”

She didn’t hear him. She entered the darkness and saw a stack of her father’s old bound magazines, Arbetsledaren, which had fallen from a shelf. The bird sat in the middle of the books, biting the covers and giving her wrathful looks.

“Leave those alone!” she scolded. “Pappa would have been furious!”

“What is that?” asked Hans Nästman. He was standing right behind her now; he was holding the railing. If she kicked her leg backwards? The stairs were steep; he would lose his grip from sheer surprise and fall headfirst onto the landing. He was weak and fragile after his illness; he wouldn’t be able to resist.

She didn’t do it.

The bird flapped over their heads.

“He’s angry,” she said. “He doesn’t like to be locked up.”

“No,” said Hans Nästman. “Very few do. And still, crimes are committed.”

She was finally alone again at four-thirty. She went straight to the telephone and dialed Hans Peter’s number. Still no answer. Maybe he’d already gone to work? What was the name of that hotel where he worked, something with roses? She got out the yellow pages and looked under Hotels, she found it right away, Tre Rosor on Drottninggatan. She wrote the telephone number in a notebook.

She started the car. He couldn’t have reached the hotel yet; he didn’t start work this early. She drove toward Fyrspannsgatan and parked alongside the cemetery. It was a gray day. The wind ripped at her hair and clothes, made her freeze down to the marrow of her bones.

First she went to the wrong building. After searching around, she finally found Hans Peter’s entrance. She realized that she had never before been inside a rented place. She stood outside for a long time and read on the board in the entryway the names of the residents. In the distance, she heard the dampened sound of footsteps, then the sound of running water. A vague, almost unnoticeable smell of marble and stone. She saw his name, too long to fit completely, H. P. Bergman, fourth floor.

There was no elevator. She slowly walked up all the stairs. His door was directly on the right; she saw his name again.

No, he wasn’t home. She rang the bell many times and when he didn’t come, she peeked through the letter slot. His smell, the smell of Hans Peter and everything that belonged to him. She called a few times but finally realized that the apartment was empty.

Should she sit and wait? Or had he already gone into town? Maybe he’d done that. No sense in staying. She had her notebook with her, so she ripped out a page and wrote his name on it: Hans Peter , she wrote, I long for you so much, so very very much. Please forgive me if I hurt you. Justine.

She folded the paper in the middle and stuffed it through the letter slot. It fell down to the welcome mat. She saw it lie there and caught a glance of the edge of his winter coat, which was hanging on a hook.

She suddenly began to cry.

The bird was in the kitchen. She’d forgotten to give him food. Where was it? Any frozen ground beef in the freezer? No, not even that. It was twenty to six.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. “I’m just going to do some shopping.”

She drove to the shopping center. There was an incredible number of cars for a Monday evening, but she found a place next to the shopping cart storage.