Ю Несбё - The Jealousy Man and Other Stories

‘I sat between two men in the back seat, and when I asked them what they were doing they said I was to marry the son of the man sitting in the passenger seat. I started crying, and the man turned and gave me what was supposed to be a comforting smile. He was all dressed up for the wedding, an overweight guy about fifty, with more gold teeth than real ones. And sweating, because it was a warm day. He said: “My boy will love you, and you will love him.” Just that simple. When we arrived, we were led into a big house. There were men standing outside — they looked as if they were keeping watch. One of them had a rifle. I didn’t know it at the time, but the man in the passenger seat was Kamchy Kolyev, head of the mafia that controls the cemeteries in Bishkek. If you want a grave you have to buy it from him.

‘There was a thin young man standing just inside the doorway. He was wearing a black suit and a kalpak, which is a traditional hat men wear at weddings and funerals. He looked almost as afraid as me and just stared. There was a crowd of people behind him, obviously wedding guests, and an old woman — I think it was his grandmother — tried to put a white shawl over me. I knew that if I allowed her to do it that meant I agreed to the marriage, because I’d heard these horror stories about ala kachuu before, I just never thought it could happen to me. But just like in all those stories I’d heard, I was so scared I didn’t dare to resist. All the guests clapped, I was given a glass of arak — vodka — and told to drink it down, and then the ceremony got under way. They had taken my mobile phone away, and someone was watching me the whole time, so it was impossible to warn anyone or run off. I cried and I cried, and the women tried to comfort me. “It’ll be better when you have children,” they said. “You’ll have something else to think about. And the Kolyev family will look after you, they’re good people, rich and powerful. You’re luckier than many of the others here in this room, so dry your tears, girl.” I asked the boy I had just that moment married why me. He actually blushed. “I saw you several times in the hotel bar,” he said. “But you’re so beautiful, so I didn’t dare to talk to you.” So when his father had forced him to pick out a girl he’d like to marry he’d pointed to me, and they checked and found I wasn’t already married. As he was telling me this I felt almost as sorry for him as I did for myself. And then it got dark outside, and my husband and I were led up to the next floor, to our bedroom, like two prisoners being led to their cell.’

Miriam gave a little laugh and the two tears — one from each eye — that rolled down her cheeks were so clear that I almost didn’t see them.

‘We were locked in, and a guard and three women — relatives of the boy — sat outside, obviously to follow what was going on inside. I pleaded with him to leave me alone, but the boy held me down on the floor and tried to take my clothes off. But he couldn’t do it, partly because he was a little shrimp and not much stronger than me, and partly because he was so drunk. But when he whispered in my ear that if I didn’t let him do it he would have to get help, I let him do it. We got into the bed, and he tried to penetrate me, but he was too drunk. He was almost in tears himself, the poor thing, said his father would kill him. So I comforted him and whispered that I wouldn’t say anything, and he thanked me. Then I made a few passionate noises for the benefit of the people outside, and he started to laugh so I had to hold a pillow over his face. When I took it away again I thought for a moment I had suffocated him. But then he began to snore. I waited until I heard the women leaving and then I sneaked out of bed. I put on the boy’s dark suit — like I said, he was small — and only the shoes were too big. I opened the wallet and took out a few soms, enough for a taxi home. Then I put his kalpak on, hid my hair inside it, opened the window, dangled from the sill and dropped down onto the grass. It was dark and had started to rain and several of the other guests were leaving. Kyrgyzstan is Muslim, but the prohibition in the Koran against alcohol isn’t taken as seriously as, for example, the marriage vow, if I can put it like that. Luckily for me. So I just walked out of the gate through the drunken guests and guards without anyone reacting. Further down the road I hailed a taxi and got home. The following day my mother and I each packed a suitcase and with the little bit of money we had we took an early flight to Istanbul.’

‘You fled?’

Miriam nodded. ‘The Kolyev family would never have accepted it if I didn’t live with the boy I had married. It’s a question of honour and respect. Without respect even Kolyev is nothing. They really have no other choice.’

‘But you’d been kidnapped! Why not report it to the police and ask for protection?’

Miriam gave a short laugh. ‘You live in another world, Martin. They are Kolyev and Mamma and I are two penniless women from Kazakhstan. In the eyes of the authorities I’m a runaway who was legally married in the presence of Kyrgyzstani witnesses and they would say it was done freely. So I would be trying to get out of my matrimonial vows.’

I was about to protest that she could also produce witnesses to the kidnapping, but realised that, of course, she was right: I was the one living in another world, the one where might is not right — at least, not always.

‘How long ago was all this?’ I asked.

‘Three months. Fled. Survived. Moved on every time we felt Kolyev’s people getting close.’

‘A lot of towns?’

Miriam nodded.

‘And how long will you be able to finance this flight?’

She shrugged.

‘It must be hell,’ I said.

‘The worst thing is,’ said Miriam, ‘that I’ve ruined my mother’s life. For the second time. Sometimes I’ve even wished that she’d taken the easy way out and encouraged me to accept the marriage — then at least I could have fled on my own and taken my chances. But then, of course, she knew that if she’d stayed behind, Kolyev would have used her to get to me. Whatever, the way things are, I’m a millstone around her neck. So I feel as responsible for my mother as she does for me.’

Maybe it was the association between a millstone and drowning, but a crazy thought occurred to me. That Miriam had swum out into the waves so that she wouldn’t be a millstone around her mother’s neck any more. But it wasn’t something I was going to ask her about. I looked up into the sky. We were some distance from the sea, and yet the air tasted salty.

‘You look upset,’ she said, raising her cup to her lips. ‘Hope I haven’t given you a guilty conscience or something. I didn’t mean to.’

‘Guilty conscience?’

‘I know you can’t help us. That isn’t why I said yes to the coffee.’

Of course I had a guilty conscience. But that was on account of other things. Not only had I neglected to tell Peter of my plans in San Sebastián, but I also wouldn’t be telling him when I got back either.

‘Why did you say yes?’ I asked.

She put her head on one side. ‘Because you’re Peter’s friend.’

‘Because you think Peter can help you?’

She nodded. ‘He says he wants to.’

‘Is that why you went to the Arzak with him?’

She nodded again.

‘Not because he saved you from drowning?’

She didn’t reply, merely brushed a lock of hair from her face and looked at me.

‘Did you recognise me when I walked into the Arzak?’ I asked.

‘From where?’

‘Yes, from where?’ I asked. I had no intention of breaking the promise I had given to Peter, that I would let him be the one who had rescued her. But if she remembered me, remembered those seconds under the water when we had looked at each other, then that wouldn’t be breaking any promise.