Ю Несбё - The Jealousy Man and Other Stories

My brain approached the problem in the way prescribed by Descartes, using first intuition and then deduction. The conclusion that emerged was disheartening, but therefore also — strange as it may sound — liberating. Because there was so obviously only one solution there was no need to torment my brain with doubts, deliberations and procrastination.

‘You know, in former times hunters used to bring trophies home with them from Africa,’ I said as I stood up. ‘They used to mount the heads of rhinoceroses, zebras, lions and antelopes up here,’ I said, pointing to the wall above the fireplace. ‘But since there are no longer any large mammals left in Africa, this is what I took instead.’

I lifted down the heavy old elephant gun I had bought in a bazaar in Marrakesh. ‘The seller claimed that it was used to kill the last elephant in Africa. And I liked the irony of having a rifle above the fireplace instead of a lion’s head. A dead rifle that no longer has any function, that has been overcome and now hangs on the wall, an object of general ridicule. We all die, but what if, before that, we are able to do something that is useful for the whole flock, for the community? Yes, I probably am a utilitarian. I really do believe that we have a duty to carry out any act that benefits rather than harms mankind, whether we want to or not.’

I pulled on the breech. The rusty mechanism obeyed with a grating reluctance. I stared into the barrel.

‘Ralph,’ said Johansson, his voice uneasy. ‘Don’t be stupid, shooting yourself won’t help. You might mean it to be a utilitarian act, but Exor can extract data from your brain long after you’re dead.’

‘What I was trying to say,’ I went on, ‘is that the correct moral action does not necessarily need to be morally motivated. This action, for example, is primarily motivated by my egotism, my love for my wife, and my hatred of you.’ I turned the rifle on Bernard Johansson, aimed at his head and fired. The report was loud, but the hole left in Johansson’s forehead surprisingly small considering the heavy calibre of the bullet.

‘And yet it is, from a utilitarian perspective, correct,’ I said, walking round the body and registering the fact that Klara’s sofa would never be quite the same again.

It’s been a long journey back to the Spanish Sahara. For several days now I’ve been hearing the low, crackling sound of the larvae’s hungry chomping, not knowing whether it came from the suitcase or from my own head. But then it fell silent, the way a coffee pot does just before the water begins to boil. Then a low rumbling. Rising and rising. And now finally it’s boiling, Klara, my beloved. I hear voices and heavy, shuffling footsteps on the staircase. They aren’t afraid of me, they know they have all the superiority they need, but not all the time. None of us has that. From the moment we’re born we start to die.

These are the last thoughts, they’re about the letter. About the mice. About Anton. About the decision. And so, Klara, I have to leave you.

Waking in the bed Klara and I had shared as the day broke, my first thought was that it had all been a nightmare.

But Klara was gone, and the body of Bernard Johansson lay on the sofa in the living room.

I had thought about it all night and slowly begun to realise that getting rid of a body is a very difficult thing to do. That in preparation for obvious solutions such as dumping the body in the sea, or burying it in a wood, there are any number of practical logistical problems which can seem almost trivial but which, taken together, impose a dauntingly high risk of being caught.

What bothered me most was not being convicted of murder, but the thought that, lacking my brain, they could use Exor on Johansson’s. Because even though that wouldn’t give them the whole formula it would get them so close that — as he had correctly pointed out — sooner or later they would find the solution.

I looked at the clock. There was every reason to suppose that Johansson — who was, in most respects, a completely typical young researcher — had kept his criminal plans and his visit to me secret, so it would probably be a while before they started looking for him.

I dragged the body into the bathroom, hauled it up into the bathtub and covered it with the Turkish rug.

Then I headed off to work.

I sat in my office staring at the keyboard of my typewriter. Newspapers lay next to it, the headlines all about the planned meeting between the four confederations at Yalta. Of course the thought had occurred to me. I had dismissed it, thought it again, dismissed it. And now thought it yet again. I had even put paper in the typewriter and was ready. Because Egger had been right. It really is second nature for a researcher to want to share his knowledge. And if Ankh was to benefit all mankind then it could only happen one way: if everybody, absolutely everybody, was given the formula at the same time, so that no one could exploit the knowledge to further their own power. Of course, there might still be war over access to resources such as dreyran, but if I were to give the world leaders the formula while they were gathered at Yalta, and they realised that the only alternative to chaos and violence was if they reached an agreement, passed laws and ensured a fair distribution of resources, then it still might end well.

It was just a question of faith in human nature. Like Kierkegaard’s ‘leap of faith’. You needed to persuade yourself to believe something that all experience and logic told you it was impossible to believe. Because there was actually no alternative. If I — a very good but not exceptional researcher — could stumble across the formula for prolonged and in theory eternal life, someone else would be able to also, regardless of whether or not I kept it secret. It’s chaos theory. Anything that can happen, will happen.

So: one text, four copies, one to each of the four confederation leaders. One formula with an explanation of what it was, and why it was being sent out to everyone. It wouldn’t necessarily get there quickly. Things weren’t like they used to be in the days when the internet existed. But my letter-heading and my signature, Head of Research at Antoil Med, would at least ensure that it would be read by the confederations’ experts. And they would immediately realise what it was they held in their hands, and that it was urgent. It would have to happen at Yalta.

I pressed down the first key. My office door opened.

Normally I would have reprimanded my subordinates for entering without knocking, but when I saw the distraught expression on Melissa Worth’s face I realised it wasn’t a simple oversight. I steeled myself. This could only be about one thing: Bernard Johansson’s mysterious absence.

‘The mice,’ said Melissa, and now I saw that her eyes were brimming with tears. ‘They. They’re...’

‘They’re what?’

‘They’re killing each other.’

Melissa and I ran to the laboratory and found the other members of the team gathered round one of the large communal cages where we had allowed the mice to socialise, before they had started to show signs of aggression.

Six of the mice lay bloody and lifeless in the sawdust, the four others were locked in their individual cages.

‘We were just following the programme,’ said Melissa. ‘We reduced the injections to a minimum, and because the mice had stopped showing aggression when we fed them in their individual cages we opened up the slides to the communal cages, just like we all agreed. They went straight for each other, all of them, as though they’d just been waiting. It happened so quickly we didn’t have time to get them back in their cages before...’ Melissa’s voice cracked up. She had been there from the very beginning, one of those who had seen the miracle take place, who had given her time, her whole life to the project.