Карин Фоссум - The Whisperer

‘There is a lot of wisdom in madness,’ Sejer said, ‘if we only look for it.’ He made a note and pushed the pad across the table so she could read it.

‘Great potential. Offers accepted.’

When he later accompanied her back to her cell, the letter was lying there, shining white on the desk by the window. She did not see it until the inspector had left, and the first thing she noticed was how carefully the letter had been opened. He must have used the sharpest knife in the building. She stood looking at the letter for a long time, then took a few steps forward and inspected the envelope closely with her eagle eyes. Was it thick or thin, did it contain a single sheet of paper or three or four, had he dismissed her in a few words, or given her more, something she could comfort herself with and live with? How could she bear to read it? She snatched it up and cradled it in her lap, wanting to know how much it weighed, if it warmed her through her clothes, or if the dry paper conveyed no understanding. How silly I am, Ragna thought. Everything is too late anyway, I will never get over this.

My dearest mother, my confidante ,

Your letter was lying on my bed when I got back from the gym today. I have never trained as hard as I did today. I pushed myself beyond the pain threshold, only to discover that pain is uncomfortable, but not dangerous in any way. Everything that streams through my body makes me warm and happy, I am stronger, I can cope with more and I enjoy the respect. People here call me Sef. They ask why I wanted to come to Berlin, and I tell them what I’ve always thought about the city, that Berlin has a weight and authority to it, and a long history of pain. That is why I feel at home here, and I really do. I saw that the letter had been opened, as usual. I pulled out all the pages and sat down by the window, with my head to the glass, with the same anticipation I had as a child when you and Granny gave me a bag of sweets on Saturday night. Do you remember those sweetie bags? They were never the same. Every week you found something new, and even though it sometimes included things I didn’t like, like salty liquorice, I ate everything. I would have to wait a whole week until the next one. I am still sitting by the window. Sometimes I look up, to draw more light into the room. And I am crying now as I write to you, as you perhaps cried when you wrote to me. I am weeping with sorrow and horror, but I am also weeping with relief. Your letter contained things that I did not like and that shocked me, but gradually it is sinking in, and I am accepting it, little by little. Like when you drink hot tea, sip by sip, and burn your lips, and it takes forever to finish the cup. I don’t want to be the one who destroys this fragile connection we have started to build together. We’re building a bridge, I think, that will need strong foundations. I wrote to you that the truth kills, and you wrote that it is bright. It is shining on me now. This is what I have longed for all my life, for you to see yourself in terms of your illness — that was why you had to live at home, so Granny could look after you. I hope that you are willing to accept help, that you will take the medication the doctor has prescribed, even though it has side effects. Granny and I had to endure the side effects of your illness. I hope that you will accept the diagnosis and choose psychiatric care, if the judge gives you that choice. That you will stay there as long as required, that you try to create a life with others in the same situation, or as we have previously talked about, in the same boat. If that is how things unfold, then I promise you, dear Mother, that as soon as the trial is over and you are settled wherever you are going to serve your term, I will apply for leave to come and see you. On the grounds of illness in the family. I’m sure I will get help with the application. I could perhaps ask the priest to write a letter of recommendation, as men of the cloth are often good with words. Of course I carry with me much of what is good in you, Mutti. I remember all the times you carried me out to the paddling pool on those hot summer days, and the water was so cold it took my breath away, because the hose was attached to a tap in the cellar. Then afterwards I would lie down on a big towel and you would wrap me up, so not even my head was showing. You said that I was the most precious gift, and that we should go inside and give the present to Granny. You carried me in your arms those few steps across the lawn. I must have looked like a little mummy. And Granny slowly unwrapped the towel and clapped her hands in delight because I was the best gift she had ever been given. I have lots of memories like that, and now I am reliving them .

As for me, I am a simple thief, and I am deeply ashamed. I am serving my time with other simple thieves. There is something dirty about my crime, is it not the meanest of them all? Emotions like fear and hate and jealousy set everything else in relief. And the person standing in the dock before the judge becomes so clear. A thief is just a thief. I can’t explain my crime in terms of confusion, or sickness, or desperation. I was just plain greedy and I have to live with that. I saw a golden opportunity and I grabbed it. Going to work at the Dormero and fiddling the accounts became an exciting game, an addiction. And all the time, I was super nice and friendly to my colleagues, more chatty than usual, accommodating, warm and generous. They had no idea that I was laughing at them inside. But then the mood changed. At first it was barely noticeable, but then their eyes started to turn away whenever I came to reception, and there was a coolness I had not felt before. And I’ve told you the rest .

And now I want to have a big heart, dear Mother, just as you have opened your heart to me. You talk about children and love. I am perhaps a bitter man, but I am not old. You have opened a door for me, and I will open a door for you, so now it’s the two of us against the world. We have to stick together. Please keep writing to me! Tell me about your days and weeks, and of course the trial, when it happens. I will wait for you here, I’m not going anywhere for a long time, and please believe me when I say there is nothing I need. I do not want you to suffer. Bennet’s family and friends will grieve for the rest of their lives, but they will also hear your side of the story in court. Perhaps they will understand your fear and feelings of persecution, and that you acted out of desperation in a threatening situation, even though that battle was in your head. The Jehovah’s Witnesses are people of faith, and they might understand and forgive you, in the way that I understand and forgive you. Perhaps they can see Bennet taking his place in the Thousand Year Reign, together with a host of white angels, if that’s what it looks like. Perhaps his nearest and dearest will gather together and read about forgiveness, there is so much about it in the Bible, and pray for you. And you know, they say that time heals all wounds, so the morning will come when you wake up and are able to look people in the eye. Take it day by day, a little at a time, and you will slowly move forward and see if it works. Think of insects on the surface of the water, Mutti. The film is not visible to the human eye, and a water skater does not weigh much, but because it moves carefully, it stays standing. You know all about that, with your whisper. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Just surrender to the care of those who wish you well. And put your trust in me and what we have started to build .

Your devoted son ,

Rikard Josef

She read the letter again and again, until she knew it off by heart. To think that he had given her such a gift, such comfort and understanding, and so many promises. She sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, with the letter in her lap. She could not bear to put it away in the drawer; instead, she stuffed it under her clothes, and felt the dry paper against her skin. At regular intervals, she put her hand on it to reassure herself it was not a dream, that it was not her sick mind playing a trick. The letter was real. The words came from her son’s heart, and they had travelled all the way from Berlin to her cell. The letter would last forever, it would exist after her death, and perhaps a grandchild might read it one day and see their father’s greatness.