Карин Фоссум - The Whisperer

Sejer asks me questions and I answer as best I can. It was like this, I say, these were my thoughts and fears — I have to formulate and express them, and it feels right. Then, when I am back in my cell at the desk by the window, I think I should have given a different answer. More truthful. Better. Is that really how it was, how much of it was my imagination, my pathetic attempt to share the blame? But try to see the truth, Rikard. Do you think we would recognise it if we were to find it, in the same way that we recognise lies? Lies sound like nails falling into a tin. But the truth is more of a rushing sound, I think, like waves breaking on the shore. The truth takes us to an enormous door, and when we confess everything, when we assume responsibility and lay all our cards on the table without flinching, the door opens and we can pass through into the sparkling light. And once we have passed through, once we have confessed everything, no one can touch us. We are naked perhaps, but also unassailable and pure. What did you say when they asked you about all the money you had embezzled? Did you talk for a long time about how difficult everything had been? That you felt you had to get away from Kirkelina because you had great dreams, that you got to Berlin and suddenly you were alone in an unknown world, that you fell for temptation and could not resist because you were damaged, perhaps by drugs or gambling? Even good people, those with high morals, dream of the chance to change their lives, and perhaps those who never find that chance are the lucky ones. Did you tell them that you had become a slave to something, that you had to serve a mighty lord, or did you simply say that you discovered what you would describe as a golden opportunity? I was greedy, maybe that was your answer, I am a thief, plain and simple. Perhaps you did not say that at all. Your defence lawyer told you what to say, he advised you on the details and you listened to him. I have chosen not to have a defence. We will sort out all the formalities, of course, there is a lot of information, but I have made it clear from the start that I am guilty. That I am not at all interested in being acquitted, or getting as short a sentence as possible. I just want to be understood. I want the court to follow my journey step by step, so they can understand that there was no other way. My lawyer says, of course, that he feels almost redundant. I may not have a voice, but I have managed alone for all these years. I’m like a dog, I can look at people, and the sensitive ones pick up on my signals straight away. The inspector always does. And one person is enough, Rikard. If there is one person who is willing to listen, just one who is able to understand without judging, I see it as a privilege that very few experience. I chose the inspector. When the day and time come for me to go to court, and I have to give my statement, which practically no one will be able to hear, so everything will have to be repeated over a loudspeaker, I will be brief and accept what I am given. This cell is eight metres square, and I can watch the sky, the odd cloud drifting by, or the migrating birds. I would love to be part of a flock like that, third place on the left, following a strong leader to warmer climes. And the rain, Rikard, let it rain, and remember that every drop that falls is a beautiful snow crystal a few kilometres up, where it is always cold .

Once, many years ago, before you were born, Mummy and I went to London. Daddy was in hospital that spring, and Mummy was tired. When he was in other people’s care, she could rest and relax because she knew he was in good hands. And she was like a girl again. We walked and walked and explored the city and watched the people, arm in arm, as if we were best friends. We went to the theatre and to the market and to the wax museum, and I could have walked the streets of London forever. We had no worries, and we took everything that fell from heaven with a smile. It rained every day. But instead of huddling up and looking for shelter, we lifted our faces to the raindrops and enjoyed all there was to enjoy. On the day we left, we took the train out to Heathrow, and were standing in security fumbling with our bags and cases when suddenly two security guards asked us to step to one side, out of the queue, and to go through a scanner. We both giggled nervously, Mummy and I, but we did not have even a sugar lump more than we should, only cheap things that we had bought at Camden Market, plastic jewellery and glass and some second-hand clothes. So we went through the machine, one after the other, turned round with our arms out straight, head high and legs apart, and I remember seeing a peculiar image of myself on the screen, a shining, orange figure, an alien version of my body, naked and transparent. It was oddly liberating that someone could see all there was to see. It felt good to stand there, I had nothing illegal to hide, no secrets. When Mummy and I had gone through the scanner, we walked arm in arm to the gate, laughing like two hysterical teenagers. We were both euphoric. I will never forget that moment, it taught me that the truth is bright, honesty casts its own light. People can see through us to our bones, and it feels good. Nothing frightens us humans more, but nothing feels better than letting it happen. Now, I am in that scanner again. I twist and turn so that everything can be seen, everything I have collected through the autumn. Everything that has happened in our house in Kirkelina is being revealed .

Do you know what I dreamt the other night? That you had a little girl somewhere, who you knew nothing about. That you once had a girlfriend, but you split up, and she had the baby afterwards, and didn’t tell you. A daughter that lived somewhere in Berlin, without a father or a Norwegian grandmother. What if it were true? Some people’s dreams come true, and it was so real. What do you think she is called, Rikard? Maybe a name that is more usual in Germany. Helga, or Hildegard, or Heidi? If it is true, and you were to find out about it, would you be happy?

Liebe Mutti ,

I don’t have a little girl anywhere. Nor a little boy. I don’t want you to dream things like that. I don’t want my blood to run in anyone else’s veins. And if your dream was true, I would not want that little girl to know anything about you or me. For God’s sake, we’re both in jail! Our branch of the family must be chopped off, it has to stop with us. Walther is living his life in Stockholm, a life we know nothing about. I may even have been fatherless for a long time. Not that I would care, I have always been fatherless .

The priest came to see me yesterday and we talked for ages about lots of things. It strikes me that priests have thought about almost everything, they always have an answer, and if they don’t have an answer, they have a quote from the Bible and if they don’t have a quote, they say that our minds are not capable of understanding God’s long-term plan .

Don’t think so much, he kept saying, don’t question everything. Be in the moment, be where you are right now. In your cell, with the light filtering in through the window. The heart that beats in you is a good heart. I know that it is good, he told me .

For a moment I was tempted to mention Peter. To look him in the eye and say straight out that if there was something he had not managed himself, it was to be in the moment. With Peter, who he adores and presumably desires. They will never find each other, not here inside the prison or outside its walls. They will each be locked in their closet for the rest of their lives. But the rest of us who wander around in the corridor watch them with a little smile, and I think they can feel it, they know they’ve been rumbled. They burn like torches, both of them, if you see what I mean. The truth, the light, as you put it in your letter, streams into our corridor like beams from a brilliant sun whenever they walk side by side to Peter’s cell, the old and the young, for an important conversation, apparently. You can see it on their faces and in the priest’s blue eyes and Peter’s dark eyes. But you should know that the truth can also kill, as it has done since time immemorial. In my mind, I see Peter falling to his knees and confessing his love to the priest, who is duty-bound to reject him, given his vocation. He is a Catholic. Later, the officers will find Peter in his cell, he has hanged himself. It has happened before, it happens all the time, you know what I’m talking about. So, Mutti, I do not have a little girl. I would have told you if I did. Would that have made you happy? Would that have given you the purpose in life that you feel is missing? Once again I have to disappoint you. I left you and I will never provide you with a grandchild .