Hakan Nesser - The Return

Not the sort of life to make a film about?

He bit a toothpick and continued his line of thought.

Shouldn’t it be possible to re-create any given life in some artistic form or other, if a big enough effort was made? Perhaps there was a specific genre for every individual. What about his own life, for instance? What could be made of that?

A sinfonietta, perhaps? A concrete sculpture? Could Strindberg have turned it into half a sheet of paper?

Who knows, he thought.

And now here he was, lying on the balcony, asking these pointless questions again. Pretentious and incomprehensible questions that seemed to be whirring around inside his head only in order to mount a vain and idiotic struggle with the aggressive cello.

Much better would be a beer and a cigarette, he thought, and pressed the white button. A damn sight better.

But instead of Sister Terhovian, it was Munster who appeared in the doorway. Van Veeteren switched off the cassette and removed the earphones.

“Everything OK?” asked Munster.

“What the devil do you mean? Isn’t it obvious that everything isn’t OK? I’m lying here miles from civilization, and I can’t do anything about it. Have you made any progress?”

“Not really,” said Munster. “It seems pretty good out here in the sunshine, no matter what.”

“Hot and sweaty,” said Van Veeteren. “I could do with a beer. Well?”

“What do you mean by ‘well’?”

“Have you brought the cassettes, for instance?”

“Of course. Both of them. I had a bit of trouble in finding the Gossec, needless to say, but they had it at Laudener’s.”

He produced the two cassettes from a plastic carrier bag and handed them to the chief inspector.

“The red one is from our update meeting.”

“Are you suggesting that I can’t tell the difference between a requiem and a gang of cops droning on and on?”

“No, I take it for granted that you can.”

“I’ve read what the Allgemenje has to say. What’s in the other rags?”

“The same, more or less,” said Munster.

“No speculation about motives?”

“No, not in the ones I’ve read, in any case.”

“Odd,” said Van Veeteren.

“Why?” said Munster.

“Ah well, it’ll come, no doubt. Anyway, I’m quite clear about the matter now. I read through the Marlene papers last night. I’ll wager he’s innocent on both accounts. Do you disagree?”

“No,” said Munster. “We’ve been coming round to that

view as well. We’re just a bit doubtful about what to do next. . ”

“Of course you are, damn it,” growled Van Veeteren. “I haven’t issued any orders yet. Wheel me back into the ward, and we can get down to business. It’s disgraceful that they send patients into exile on the balcony and just leave them lying there. It’s like an oven here. . ”

Munster opened the doors as wide as they would go and started to shove the steel-framed bed back into the ward.

“Where shall we start?” he asked when Van Veeteren was back in his usual place.

“How the hell do I know?” said the chief inspector. “Let me listen to the tapes, and come back two hours from now. I’ll be able to give you clear instructions then.”

“All right,” said Munster.

“Meanwhile, you can try to locate this person.”

He handed over a sheet of paper folded twice.

“Leonore Conchis,” Munster read. “Who’s she?”

“A woman Verhaven had a relationship with in the seven -

ties,” said Van Veeteren.

“Is she still alive?” Munster asked automatically.

“You can start off by finding the answer to that question,”

said Van Veeteren.

She wakes up yet again.

She can feel the darkness and his heavy presence like pressure on her chest. She cautiously heaves herself up on an elbow and tries to make out the faint phosphorescent glow of the alarm clock’s hands.

Half past three. Very nearly. As far as she can see. The air in the bedroom is compact and stuffy, despite the window standing ajar. She raises herself into a sitting position and gropes around with her feet on the uneven floor until she finds her slippers.

She stands up and tiptoes cautiously out of the room, picking up her thin and worn terry-cloth robe on the way. She closes the door and puts her ear against the cool wood. She can hear his heavy, occasionally rattling breathing even at this distance.

She shivers and puts on her robe, then slowly makes her way down the stairs.

Down. That’s the worst. The pain in her hips sends red-hot needles up and down through her body. Along her spine and up into the back of her head, down to the arch of her foot and into her toes. It’s remarkable how mobile this pain can be.

It gets worse with every step she takes.

With every day. More and more acute. It becomes more and more difficult not to turn her feet inward and hunch her back.

It becomes harder and harder to walk.

She slumps down at the kitchen table, rests her head in her hands and feels the throbbing pain slowly receding. Waits until it has faded away completely before turning her thoughts to that other business.

That other matter.

Three times tonight she has been jettisoned by that dream.

Three times.

The same ghastly idea. The same unbearable image.

Whenever he’s come upstairs and plummeted down beside her, she’s pretended to be asleep. He hasn’t touched her. Not even placed a hand on her hip or shoulder. She’s got him as far as that. He never touches her now, and she knows this is a vic-tory she has achieved, despite everything. She has come this far thanks to her own efforts.

Beyond reach. Her body is beyond reach. Now and forevermore.

She need never be taken advantage of again.

The unspoken agreement is a sort of murky bond between them, but it is only now that she has begun to appreciate the price. The counterbalance. The incomprehensible horror on the other side of the scales.

Everything has its price, but she has not had any choice.

There can be no question of guilt regarding her decision and her action-she knows all too well what would be the out-come of giving herself again to this man, even though he is her husband and the father of her child. There is medical advice as well; it’s not just her. It would have a detrimental effect on her physical and mental health, and what ability to 1 8 9

move around she still retains. If she were to become pregnant, that is. She must not give birth again. Must never give herself to him again. The hub of her life is in her pelvis. Ever since that terrible night when she gave birth, it has to be protected and made as inaccessible as a hallowed room.

A hallowed room?

This really is the way her thoughts are tending. Can anybody understand why?

God or her mother or any other woman?

No, nobody. She is on her own in this matter. A barren woman with a husband and a child. At long last she has learned how to accept the inevitable. He must never again be allowed inside her, and now his hands and the whole of his body have given up their vain attempts to plead and grope around. At long last he has resigned himself to the inevitable.

But the price?

Perhaps she did realize early on that there would be a price to pay. But now? Did she realize this would be the price?

The thought is horrific. Not even a thought; no more than the fragment of a dream. An image that has raced through her consciousness at such a dizzy speed and with such incomprehensible clarity that she has been unable to understand it.

Perceive, yes. Comprehend, no.

She has seen it, but not taken it in.