Hans Lahlum - Chameleon People

I was tempted to say that it was only in a panic when Miriam had been kidnapped. But I thought the situation was bad enough without me lying. So I told her the truth: that I had contacted her after Vera Fredriksen was murdered on Monday night, and that I had regretted bitterly not telling her then.

‘It would have been better if you had told me. Hearing it now is a lot more difficult, but I guess it is something I can live with,’ she said.

Everything went quiet. The room felt even smaller now.

‘Hopefully there is nothing here that you could not live with?’ I said, carefully.

Miriam sighed into the pillow, then took two deep breaths before she spoke.

‘There is. My friend Tatiana was killed yesterday and now you tell me that no one is going to do anything about it because she was not Norwegian. I could live with all the rest, but not that.’

I immediately told her that I had questioned that as well. I told her what my boss had said when I raised the issue. I had also been very unhappy about it, but had had to accept that that was the way of the world and the situation we were in.

Miriam sighed again. Then she spoke from the pillow in a very quiet and firm voice.

‘Yes, it is the way of the world and the situation we find ourselves in. So I now have to live with the fact that she was killed because of her contact with me and because she tried to help me help you with the investigation. And you have to live without me.’

She said it so calmly and so decisively. I felt as though I had been paralysed. For a moment I thought about how deeply ironic it was that our love story should end in exactly the same place that it had started only two years before: with only the two of us present in a room at Ullevål Hospital, where she was lying injured in a bed because of me.

I sat in silence for a while. Time had stopped once again. I would later find it hard to say whether it was ten seconds, a minute or five minutes. However, I remember only too well the great sorrow that I felt – but also, the relief that grew stronger and stronger.

Eventually, I said that I was incredibly sad to hear that, and that it was, of course, entirely my fault and not hers. And that she had been caught up in something only because she was trying to help me for a second time.

Then I asked, without knowing how she would respond, if the problem was in fact Patricia more than Tatiana.

I realized my mistake as soon as I had said it. I should not have mentioned Patricia’s name. Miriam gave a little jolt, as though she had been given an electric shock. But her voice was still just as controlled when she answered.

‘I think that it is more to do with Tatiana, as I said. I will think of her with sorrow and guilt for the rest of my life. But naturally, your contact with the genius of Frogner is hard for me to swallow as well. I have tried so hard to do right, as a former president of the United States once said. I did everything I could to help you. And in the end the only result was that one of my friends was killed and you had to get help from the genius of Frogner to save me. I had hoped that I could be of the same help to you as she was. But I realize now that I could never take her place.’

I hastened to say that there had never been anything physical between Patricia and me – and almost bit my tongue when I realized that I had said her name again. Miriam did not react visibly to the name this time, but her reply was succinct and firm.

‘I never thought there was. And I, for my part, have not had a physical relationship with anyone else since we got together. But it is not a good sign that we have to tell each other that.’

I had to admit that she was right.

For a moment I became deeply worried about what might happen if she were to tell anyone what I had told her. But in the next moment I was certain that she would not pass it on. If I mentioned it now, she would only tell me that all my secrets were safe with her, and that it was sad that I had to ask her. So, despite all that was happening, there was still a strange unspoken trust between us.

I wanted to spare her that. So instead I said that I was very sorry for all of this and for all the terrible things she had experienced because of me. Then I asked her if there was anything more I could say or do to help her.

There was silence in the hospital room for a few seconds. Then she answered, slowly, in a slightly tremulous voice: ‘As I am unfortunately unable to move my arms right now, I have to ask if you could please take off my engagement ring?’

I thought how paradoxical it was that a day that had given me so many answers, should end with such a painfully difficult question. But I answered, slowly, in a voice that was in danger of breaking, that of course I could not refuse.

Her arms lay still by her side. But they were unexpectedly tense and her fingers surprisingly warm. My hand was shaking so much that it was embarrassing. It was such a painful moment that I just wanted to throw myself down on the floor and beg not to have to do this, and say that I would give anything for her to forgive me. But I did not. Again I felt the relief when finally the ring slipped off and I no longer had to feel her hand against mine.

I took off my own ring and put it on the bedside table. She thanked me for my help, her chin barely moving on the pillow. She was not crying. But I saw that there were tears in her eyes, and could feel them in my own.

I had to turn around and was on my way out when she said: ‘There is just one little thing I would like to ask.’

‘What is it?’ I stopped in my tracks, without turning around.

‘What happened to the library book?’ she said.

I told her that I had picked the book up out of the ditch, and that it was in safekeeping at the police station, and that I could either post it to her or come by with it one day.

‘Thank you. I think it would be best to post it, if it’s not too expensive,’ she whispered.

That felt like the final, decisive blow. Suddenly I could not bear to see Miriam any longer, and did not want to hear her voice again. But I could not leave the room and let our final words after two years be about a library book.

So I said, without turning: ‘Please give my best wishes to your parents. Thank you for everything. I will never forget you.’

‘Thank you. Likewise,’ she said, almost inaudibly.

It was only three words, and her voice was barely a whisper, but I could hear that she was crying now. I felt the tears on my own cheeks, but I did not want to see her crying. And I did not want her to see my tears.

So I left, alone, without looking back.

It was no more than ten yards from her room to the stairs. But it felt like I had walked for miles. When I got to the staircase it felt like I tumbled all the way down it, even though I could see my legs moving as normal, taking each step at a time, down the endless stairs.

It was raining when I got home. And it continued to rain. From half past five until half past six, I just stood by the window and watched the downpour.

I had several telephone calls to make. I should have rung Ane Line Fredriksen to tell her who had killed her father the Saturday before; I should have rung Hauk Rebne Westgaard to tell him what had happened that spring day in 1932 and to finally give him peace, and I should have rung my parents to tell them about my broken engagement. But even though I did not like the silence, I could not bear to hear another voice at the moment.

I tried instead to put on a record, but it didn’t help. The first song was ‘Days of My Life’ by The Seekers. I stood there until the chorus faded out, turned the record player off when the voice of the female vocalist disappeared, and just stayed standing by the window.