Карин Фоссум - The Whisperer

At first, she wanted to cry. But she pulled herself together and started to think rationally. Her letter had been returned, so what? He had moved. Well, people moved all the time. Irfan had moved from Turkey to Kirkelina. The Soi family had moved from Thailand and were now going to live in the Teigens’ house. Her son had now moved away from Landsberger Allee. Nothing to get upset about. She sat down again and studied her own handwriting. It was quite fine writing, though she said so herself. Meticulous and easy to read, with tight, beautiful loops and curls. And yet her cheeks reddened in shame. A friendly nudge, this careful sign of life that she had sent out into the world had been thrown back in her face, as though she was a gift that nobody wanted. It was humiliating. She felt rejected. No one must know that she was the sort of person that was ignored. For a second, she considered opening the envelope and reading her own letter; it was innocent and simple, only it had not reached him. There were two voices talking in her head now, one hurt and dejected, the other firm and sensible. The fact that the letter had been returned meant the post office in Berlin was doing its job. They had kindly returned the letter after they had looked for her son’s mailbox without finding it. There was only one thing to be done. She had to burn it. Ah well, she had not managed to get hold of him. Maybe she would never get hold of him again. Her thoughts were as black as the paper when it started to burn. Her thoughts smouldered into ash as well. She slammed the door of the burner shut, put it behind her and pulled herself together. He would send the usual Christmas card sometime in December, and he would tell her that he had moved, and he would explain why, and give her the new address so she could write back. No worse than that. What a fuss! Perhaps he had started his own family and needed more room.

She drank her espresso, which was no longer warm, and the black coffee left its mark in the corners of her mouth. Her head felt empty, the rooms were numbingly silent. They somehow felt alien too, something was missing, something she had forgotten. She sent an inspector into her brain to look for any irregularities, but without result. She switched on the television and watched the news, focused on the voices and images and after a while she calmed down again. It was not until much later that she realised she had forgotten about the meal she had planned, and immediately felt hungry. She went into the kitchen. She looked over at the Teigens’ house and saw the light in the window. No, it was no longer the Teigens’ house, she had to get used to the Sois. Sooner or later she would meet them out on the road. And either they would be embarrassed by her lack of voice, they might even pull back and subsequently avoid her, or they would come closer so they could hear, listen to her with a friendly and attentive expression, give her the time she needed. You never knew the way things would turn out.

After her meal, she sat and dozed in the chair. Every time her chin hit her chest, she started. She daydreamed about her son. He had been offered a fabulous opportunity at a luxury hotel in Johannesburg. Because his qualities as a hotel director were legendary. His reputation had gone before him and a headhunter had recommended him for the post, so now he had left Berlin. And had he not as a teenager talked about South Africa with stars in his eyes? Clear images came to mind like doves of peace: hotel staff in white uniforms, gardens full of exotic flowers, big glittering swimming pools with blue bottoms. All his life, he had dreamt about running a hotel like that, and he had worked hard for many years with that goal. And now, finally, his dream was reality. The negotiations had taken some time, which was why he had never invited her to the Dormero. He had wanted to wait until it was all settled. He might even send her a telegram. This thought pleased her and she got up and went to her computer. She searched luxury hotels in Johannesburg. The hotel had no less than five stars, she was sure of that, he would not lower his standards. First she found the Radisson Blue, but it was a chain hotel, and he had greater ambitions than that. But it could be the Michelangelo Hotel or the Residence Boutique. She ended up with the Intercontinental. From the photographs, it looked like exactly the kind of place he would choose. In her mind, she was already standing at reception. Perhaps there was a stuffed lion guarding the main entrance. She might need a visa to get into the country, or vaccinations; she would have a lot to organise once he had written and invited her. Reality took hold again and she recognised it for what it was, nothing but a childish daydream. She stood up, turned off the computer, her cheeks flushed. It was a good thing no one could read her thoughts.

Day after day Ragna sat at the till in Europris and studied the people. She used her eyes, as she always had, to gather in details, and their aura, charisma or lack thereof. Sometimes she caught a scent of perfume or cigarettes. It was their voices she was most interested in, precisely what she had lost, and goodness, how different they were. High and deep, hoarse and sharp, sugary sweet and soft, unclear, flat or sing-song. Some only spoke when they needed to, others just chatted away. She would have done so herself if she could, in her childlike voice, which used to make callers ask if there was an adult at home. She should perhaps have told them they died a long time ago.

One day, a young man suddenly stood there in front of her, requiring her attention. He was dressed in a black suit, and had a white shirt on underneath. So far that day, she had only seen people in down jackets and denim, but here was a customer who was well dressed in a shirt and tie, with slicked-back, dark hair. On a normal weekday. He was probably around thirty and she wondered how someone in such formal clothes had found their way into Europris in the middle of the day, when he looked more like he should be at a do of some kind. A wedding, perhaps, or a confirmation, or a funeral. No one dressed like that normally, unless it was work-related. Perhaps he worked in a funeral home, and he had ten minutes left of his break from the gravity. The hearse might even be parked outside. The deceased would not notice if the driver disappeared for a few minutes. Like her, he was thin and pale, and he seemed to be a bit stressed, as though he needed to be somewhere. An estate agent, she decided, they were always smart. Or, she smiled to herself, he could be from the Secret Service. A secret agent. He noticed that she was looking at him, and gave her a brief smile, as he put his shopping down on the conveyor belt. He had bought some tools — a hammer and a small saw, the kind that could cut metal, she thought — and some screwdrivers in various sizes. He did not look the practical sort at all, Ragna thought, but that was no doubt because of the suit. As usual, she had drawn her own silly conclusions. She imagined that he was searching for something in her face, her eyes maybe, as though he wanted something more than just to pay, and she was not used to it. He put his purchases into a bag and everything clunked and jangled a bit. As he left, he gave her a last look. For the rest of the day she sat there thinking about him.

Of course it would be possible to get Rikard Josef’s new address from international directory enquiries. She thought about it as she sat on the bus, to the right of the aisle, with her cheek to the window. Audun had got there first again, and was sitting in her place. She knew she had to do something, only she did not know what. The seat she was sitting on felt like it was too big for her, that it was meant for someone else. She thought about her son who had disappeared. Everyone could be traced, it would only take her a few minutes to find him. Something might have happened, something that meant she needed to get in touch with him quickly. And what could that be? she asked herself. Not much happens in my life, other than the nonsense in the mailbox. But I could fall ill. I could have an accident, the house could burn down. Would he even come to my funeral? she wondered, almost despairing. She must find out where to send his Christmas card. She did not want to blame him for anything, but she thought she had a right to know where he was. Where he was sleeping, eating and working, and if he was well. As soon as she had his new address, she would send another letter, just to let him know that she had found out that he had moved. She could ring the Dormero, of course, they would know where he was, but the idea of whispering on the phone in mediocre English, and the possibility of a bad line, did not appeal to her. She had never had her son’s private number, for some reason. She would look for it now. She could at least send him a text message. He would receive it with a ping, or a drop of water in a pool, maybe even a short tune or whistle, she imagined. She had chosen the first four notes of Beethoven’s Fifth on her own phone.