Karin Fossum: I Can See in the Dark

Afterwards, I went to the park.

I sat by the fountain and wrestled with thoughts of life and death. The secret lay there like a shining red mark on my chest, and I imagined that everyone could see it through my clothes. Suddenly a man came walking up the path, big, muscular and bowed. He took no notice of Woman Weeping , but went directly to one of the benches and sat down, slightly hunched, ignoring my modest presence. Straight away I felt a little nervous, because there was undoubtedly something awe-inspiring about him. His skin and hair were black, he was dressed in combat gear and tall, black leather boots as if he were fighting a war. I realised immediately that he was from the Refugee Reception Centre, it wasn’t far away, only ten minutes’ walk from the Dixie Café. Where, incidentally, the asylum seekers weren’t welcome because they stole things. At least, the owner claimed they were a bunch of thieves, stealing sweets and other things that were on the counter. People from the Reception Centre were often to be seen wandering along the road, they walked without any object or aim, they had nothing to do, apart from play table tennis, and that soon wears thin. Knocking a ball back and forth over a net isn’t much of a challenge. The man suddenly stared in my direction, and I froze and willed myself to become invisible. His eyes were black and hard, there wasn’t an iota of friendliness in them, only despondency. I was careful not to return the stare, I didn’t want to arouse any violent impulses in him, didn’t want to activate that mountain of muscle. Perhaps he was traumatised, that’s probably why they come, perhaps he’d seen his own child hacked up with a machete, or impaled on a bayonet, you never can tell. And the brutality we hear of in other parts of the world is almost impossible to imagine.

Where’s his knife? I wondered, in the midst of my fear, for by now my imagination was running wild. Could it be in his boot, or does he keep it in a pocket? Perhaps it was my turn to face death now, and there were no witnesses. Someone would find me on the ground, bleeding, in front of the bench, with punctured lungs, possibly it would be Miranda and her mother, possibly Arnfinn. Maybe I’d be able to crawl down the path to the Dixie Café; sometimes people managed such things even though they were dying. But the black man evinced no interest in me. He just sat wrapped in his own tormented thoughts, his gaze now fixed on his black leather boots. There was something so abject about him, something so wretched and hopeless that in the end I found myself feeling a crumb of sympathy for him, even though sympathy isn’t my strong point. Despite that, I was moved. A black giant, in combat kit, probably friendless, without home or family, unemployed, and with no rights of any sort. He’d come over here, and he’d been allowed to play table tennis as often as he wanted; that’s not much to celebrate. Not that I’m especially sympathetic, as I said, they only come over here to help themselves to what we’ve got.

Suddenly he rose from the bench. I flinched slightly when that great bulk moved so quickly, because I was still thinking that he might decide to attack. He might fly at me without provocation, it was always happening, you read about it in the newspapers. The massive body moved away through the trees, walking with a heavy rolling gait, and almost immediately blended in with the leaves. I relaxed once more and followed him with my eyes. To be so big and strong, I thought, and so lonely and miserable. Maybe he was on his way to the Dixie Café to steal sweets.

Then Arnfinn came tottering along the path.

He must have encountered the black refugee from the Reception Centre, but he showed no sign of it, the alcoholic is indifferent to most things. He lurched over to his usual bench, sat down heavily and groped automatically in his windcheater for his silver hip flask. Remembering it was lost, he patted his other pocket, and took out a half-bottle. He put it to his lips and drank. I didn’t quite know why, but I approved of the simple life he appeared to lead: sleeping, drinking, pottering about in the park, without cares or responsibilities, other than finding enough to drink. While the rest of us toiled. While the rest of us paid taxes and dragged ourselves from one chore to the next, he sat on his bench drinking a half-bottle of vodka. While the world at large hummed along without him. His eyes were veiled with intoxication, but also with modesty and shame, I don’t want to be a burden to anybody, the eyes said, when I nodded affably in his direction. He also had the habit of tilting his head to one side, as if recalling an old memory, and then a smile would soften his ravaged features. He never addressed anyone from his bench. He never apologised, and he never asked for the smallest thing, neither did I for that matter, I minded my own business, as I believe we all should. He took time over his drink, enjoying every last drop. Each time he took a nip he closed his eyes, and the spirit coursed through his veins and warmed him. When the bottle was empty, he got up and left, went home to unconsciousness and oblivion. In all probability, he slept deeply and dreamlessly, and well into the following day. Presumably he missed his hip flask, which was now in my possession. Of course one day, when I was good and ready, I’d return it. But I was in no hurry.

The sight of the man struggling in the water haunted me from hour to hour. Again and again, I saw the ice crack beneath his hands, I saw his arms working like the sails of a windmill, I heard the outraged screams of a man who had been big and strong, but was now in the clutches of death. How much life there is in a human being, I marvelled, how much strength, how much will to survive, how much fear for the end of existence and the great darkness. Each time the image projected itself on my inner eye, my pulse increased, but it was also a curse. It reminded me of who I was, someone on the outside of everything, a paltry observer of life. Sometimes, at night, the scene was in close-up, as if I were standing on the edge of the broken ice looking down at him. Then he would stare back at me with burning eyes. As whisperings filled the corners of the room, and that damned lorry stood there, its engine turning, filling the bedroom with the acrid smell of diesel fumes.

If only I had a woman!

It gnawed at me, this desire, this longing to be part of a couple, but I’m no good with women. I continued to send Sister Anna long, lingering glances, even though I knew it would never lead to anything. I don’t arouse anything in women, bitter experience has taught me that; I’ve spent my whole life in total solitude. She was off work for a couple of days, but it couldn’t have been anything serious because soon she was back again. I was on the late shift and ran across her in the corridor. But she didn’t stroke my arm as usual, her eyes were distant, and she passed me without a word. Her indifference was almost unbearable. I was used to a smile and a passing touch, and now I got nothing. I carried on pacing the corridors like a pauper, numbed by my yearning for attention, for life is tough enough as it is, and I need some comfort.

At three o’clock we had a short meeting. Dr Fischer sat rubbing his temple as usual. He seemed distant as well, as if his thoughts were somewhere far away from the ward office. He was surprised, he confessed, that some of his many prescriptions weren’t having the desired effect. He could hardly have known that I was flushing the tablets down the toilet, and that occasionally, just for fun, I would swap them around, and give Waldemar Rommen the pills that Mr Larsson should have had, and vice versa. It wasn’t really of any consequence, but this small, mundane hoax gave me a frisson of excitement, because I was making a difference. Here, to explain these destructive tendencies of mine, I could say that my mother used to beat me with a stick. But it wouldn’t be true. In reality she was just taciturn and indifferent, only coming out with endless critical saws about how life ought to be lived. We’ve only ourselves to blame, she would say, you reap what you sow. You’ve made your bed, now you can lie on it. There was no end to them. But she never hit me. We never had much contact. She was always engrossed in the house, all the things that had to be cleaned and polished, watered and looked after. I think she felt more for her house plants than she did for me. There was something about her eyes and her hands when she held a flower between her fingers, a sudden tenderness. I’ve no idea what made her bring me into the world, presumably it was an accident. These are the tedious thoughts I struggle with as I walk up and down the ward’s corridors. With my predilections and my sharp nails.