Ю Несбё - The Jealousy Man and Other Stories

I need to think of all this. Think it so that it can be deleted from my brain, so there are no memory traces left to lead them to where Klara is. And I need to think it quickly, with no unnecessary digressions, complete in every respect, so that everything, absolutely everything, will be gone. Because my watch is ticking louder and louder now. Tick-tock. Daniel Egger’s walking stick is getting closer. So I need to think about the visit.

Late one evening, two weeks after I had driven Klara to Switzerland, there was a ring on my doorbell. Already it had been a bad day. Fru Tsjekhov had telephoned and explained that their own doctors wanted to stop administering the medicine that I, as Klara’s doctor, had left them, with instructions that it be administered by injection every evening. I had explained that it was to counter Werner syndrome, but now they were of the opinion that it was in fact these injections that were the cause of her psychotic episodes, and that if they didn’t stop dosing her with what was, for them, an unknown medication, then there was a real danger she would descend into a life of full-blown schizophrenia.

The endless acid rain poured down, etching itself into the roof tiles, eating up our house inch by inch. I had put the place on the market — there was even a board out on the lawn — and my first thought, as I heard the doorbell ring through the sound of the drumming rain, was that it must be a potential buyer. That Daniel Egger could not possibly have had time to work out that the formula I had given him was not genuine.

But when I opened the door slightly and saw Bernard Johansson standing there I realised that this was not, in fact, impossible.

‘Well?’ he said, rain dripping from his smooth and strangely egg-shaped skull. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’

I opened the door and he stepped inside, took off his coat, shook it lightly and I watched the drops fall onto the Turkish rug Klara had bought when we were in Budapest. We sat in the living room, he on the sofa where Klara and I used to sit.

‘So, how can I help you?’ I asked.

Johansson laughed. ‘Christ, that sounds awfully formal, Ralph.’

‘Maybe, but let’s get to the point, shall we?’

He sat up straight. We could, of course, pretend that it was the most natural thing in the world for him to drop in just like that of a Friday evening, but given that neither this nor anything else remotely resembling social intercourse had ever taken place between us in the fifteen years during which we had worked together, I could see just two possible reasons for his visit. One was that he — the only person on the planet who in under three weeks could have realised the formula was faked — wanted to warn me. The other was that he wanted to exploit it.

Naturally, it was the latter.

‘I have a business proposition that could make us both rich.’ His smile was strained, as though his discomfort was as acute as mine.

He explained to me that when Egger had come to him with the formula I had written down, he had initially — based on his almost complete knowledge of our research — been convinced that it had to be genuine and had told Egger so.

‘But as I continued to work on this so-called formula, I began to realise that you had done what any good liar would do and kept as close as possible to the truth. The omitted elements, however, are so crucial to its success that only someone with my knowledge of the material would be able to fill in the blanks or correct the deliberate mistakes.’

‘With all due respect I doubt it, Johansson.’ I did not, however, see any reason to deny that the formula was defective. Chemistry is chemistry, after all, and Johansson was no idiot.

He nodded slowly. ‘If I were to travel to Shanghai and offer an almost complete version of the formula to Indochina, they would not only give me unlimited resources and the best research team in the world, they would also pay me a fortune to solve the puzzle for them.’

‘But you can’t be certain you will succeed.’

‘Give us time and sooner or later we will.’ He sipped his tea. ‘With you aboard things will move much quicker, and they will pay more. So what I’m offering you is a partnership. We split fifty — fifty.’

I had to laugh. ‘Has it not occurred to you that if I wanted to get rich I would have done as you suggest, only gone it alone?’

‘Yes,’ said Johansson. ‘And for that reason I know that temptation is not enough. I need threats as well.’ His tone of voice was regretful, his expression hangdog.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘If you decide to reject my offer then, first of all, I will sell the project to Indochina. They will then make public what they are working on in order to stimulate the stock market, so that by an emission they can raise enough capital to fund the project. And once it is made public, I shall inform the board of Antoil Med that it is you who have sold the formula. And unlike you, who has shown no inclination to cooperate, I will be believed. Egger’s response will be...’ Johansson took another sip of his tea. Not just for effect — I think he actually enjoyed being as brutal as the situation demanded. He put down the cup as though he no longer liked the taste. ‘...quick, and not necessarily painless,’ he concluded.

‘You’ve thought it through thoroughly, Johansson. But there’s one thing you’ve forgotten. Suppose I’m not afraid to die? Or more accurately: what if Ankh is as important for mankind as the splitting of plutonium was a hundred and fifty years ago, offering the chance to make a better world, but also the possibility of destroying it overnight? There isn’t enough dreyran in the soil or the atmosphere to produce enough Ankh for everyone. So who is to decide who shall have eternal life? Who could accept not being among those chosen? With a population that dies only as a result of accident, suicide or murder, draconian legislation will be required forbidding the birth of children if the earth is not to be over-populated in the course of a single generation. And who is to decide who should enjoy the privilege of procreation, and who not? In short, if Ankh is not administered by a global authority then it will be not merely be confederation against confederation but every man for himself, the war of all against all in which neighbours and families turn on one another. My death is just a drop of blood in the ocean. But if I release the formula it’s an ocean of blood. So go ahead, Johansson.’

He nodded as though all this had already occurred to him. Or at least thought that it must have occurred to me . ‘Ralph, for as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been a utilitarian. And of course it’s a noble idea, that the individual should sacrifice himself for the greater good, as they say in the Western Confederation. That’s why I’ve always admired not just your intelligence but also your character and your ability to love others besides yourself. Where is Klara, by the way?’

I didn’t answer, showed absolutely nothing.

‘I see,’ he said quietly. ‘They will find her. And they will find the formula. They will use Exor on you. They will vacuum your brain.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said.

‘Is it?’

All that could be heard in the room for the next few seconds was the rain beating onto the permanently brown lawn out there. Exor was controlled by the army. It was rumoured to be in a bunker where the Louvre had once stood, guarded by an entire squad. That it didn’t need a whole brain to extract memories but that, using only microscopic fragments, it could interpolate its way to the whole memory bank. On the other hand this could take well over a year and cost the same as it cost to provide a big city with energy over the same period of time. Nevertheless, as was also usually the case in matters of technical research, Johansson was right. Offered the chance of a medicine that could give the generals eternal life, of course they would use Exor.