Карин Фоссум - Hell Fire

“I have flown before, you know,” Eddie muttered, when his mother expressed her concern.

“But I was with you,” Mass pointed out. “How will you find out where to go?”

“I’ll ask,” he said curtly. “Everyone at the airport will be in uniform.”

“I mean to get to the cemetery,” she said. “Copenhagen is a big city.”

“I’ll take a taxi,” he replied. “It’s not that difficult, is it? Stop going on.”

Mass wanted to cry. Her son, whom she loved so much, was going out into the big, wide world, alone, to find a father who had deserted him. And then showered all his love on a second son.

The flight was at ten past seven in the morning and his mother drove him to the airport express train. She stood on the platform and watched the train pull out with a sense of foreboding and an uneasy heart. Eddie. Dear Eddie. He had a backpack on his back that contained the few things he needed, and as the train whizzed him out to the airport, he sat and thought. It didn’t bother him in the slightest that his mother didn’t want him to go.

When he got to the airport, he went to the check-in desk with his reference number. He didn’t dare use the automatic check-in, in case he got it wrong. He was given his boarding pass, went through security, and then had to take off his heavy boots and go through again. He went straight to the gate, where he sat and waited patiently. Dad, he thought, I’m only a few hours away. He boarded the plane, found his place by the window, and collapsed into the narrow seat. The person before must have been a real skinny malinky, so he had to adjust the seat belt. He concentrated on the safety demonstration, keeping his eyes on the flight attendant. He picked up on the oxygen masks, the life jackets and whistle, and the four emergency exits. He would have to struggle out through the doors if they crash-landed. He would crawl down the aisle, over the other passengers if necessary. The plane might explode in a ball of flames. And all that his mother would be given was the remains of some scorched bones. Eventually he relaxed and settled in. The pilot wanted to get home in one piece too; he probably had children waiting for him. So he had to land them all safely.

When he got to Kastrup, he didn’t know where to go. He followed the other passengers to the baggage claim, but he didn’t need to wait for anything since he had his bag on his back. So he headed straight for the exit and found a taxi.

“Amagerbrogade 33,” Eddie said and leaned forward between the seats.

He got his wallet out of his bag and had his Visa card at the ready.

“You got someone there?” the driver asked.

“My father,” Eddie explained as he sat back in his seat. The driver steered a steady course through the Copenhagen traffic. He had a ring of silver hair around the back of his head, and his crown shone like a globe. Eddie was almost there, for real. The sexton was going to meet him at the main entrance. When they found each other, they shook hands. It had started to rain, so they would get wet.

“So,” Povel Koch said, “let’s go and find your father. As I told you, he’s in a very nice place. You might find that his grave is a little overgrown, but you said yourself on the phone that his family had moved away.”

The sexton was heavy and waddled through the maze of beautifully kept graves. It was an enormous cemetery and Eddie was astounded that the sexton could find his way anywhere, even if he did have a map. His heart started to pound inside his wet jacket, and he felt very proud of himself as he followed behind. Tracker Tore could eat dirt.

And then all at once he was standing there alone in the rain. The sexton left him in peace, and he stared at the name, Anders Kristoffer Malthe. Peace be with you.

Eddie noticed immediately that his father’s gravestone stood out. The other stones were black or gray, whereas his was white. It stood there gleaming among all the other dark stones, as if it were calling out to him. The stonemason had carved a wreath under the arched top of the stone. Now that Eddie was finally standing in front of his father’s grave, after endless years of frustration, anger, and longing, the emotions overwhelmed him. He was furious and happy and proud, but he was still bitter. There was nothing growing on the grave since it was March, and Eddie suddenly realized that he should have brought flowers. Think of traveling all this way and forgetting the most essential thing. He bowed his head in shame and looked around at the other graves. Many of them did not have flowers either. He wandered a little but made sure he didn’t stray too far, for fear of not being able to find his way back. When he had been walking around for a while, he spotted a gravestone with an angel on it and a bunch of fresh flowers on the ground in front. There was a candle beside the flowers that had been extinguished by the rain. He read the name on the gravestone, Martin. He only lived to be four years old, which was probably why he had such fresh flowers. Presumably his mother came to the grave every day. He picked up the flowers and inspected them; they were white and blue. He took the candle too and said to the grave: “You’ll get new ones tomorrow.”

He went back to his father’s grave and laid the flowers on the ground. He stood in front of the white gravestone for a long time, with so many thoughts in his head. It felt good to be there, but there was a certain sadness too. As he prepared to leave, he pressed his hand against the stone, and the rain trickled down under his collar and made him shiver.

You shouldn’t have come. Mom is raging.

For the rest of the day, he wandered around Copenhagen.

He went into a café and had some chicken for lunch. A little later, he sat down somewhere else for a Coke and some cake. He went into some stores, looking for things from New York and thinking about his brother Mads. I’m going to find you too, he thought, now that I’ve started. By the time he was on the flight home again at eight, he felt deeply satisfied. He had done what he’d set out to do. It had been an important project, and he had not let anything stop him — not the authorities or his mother’s doubt. He was served coffee and a roll. The sky was dark, and his mother would be waiting for him at the station. He would give her a detailed report, though he would omit the fact that he had stolen the flowers from four-year-old Martin.

Mass was there waiting and gave him a big hug, relieved to have him home again in one piece. She hoped he would calm down now and be himself again. When she thought about it, it was only right and reasonable that he’d gone. I clipped his wings, but they’ve grown out again. She had bought some cinnamon rolls for him and Eddie munched away happily. She had also been to the shopping center and bought him a new sweatshirt. It was black, but it said something different: Survival of the Fittest, with a picture of a Rottweiler baring its teeth. He liked it a lot. He told her about the rain in Copenhagen and the friendly sexton. The enormous double wrought-iron gate at the entrance, the beautiful white stone with a wreath on it. About the chicken and cakes he’d eaten and all the people in the rain. Later that night, he finally put the photograph of the Malthe family up on the wall and slept more soundly than he had in a long time.

Mass sat under the reading light. It warmed the top of her head. She had a constant ache in her back now and had found more bruises. Her right wrist was sore as well. What on earth was the matter with her? She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. There could be no doubt anymore. Something was seriously wrong with her body.

Shiba was no longer as fat as a stuffed sausage but instead was a weak, skin-and-bones bag of a dog feeling a lot of pain. She was riddled with cancer, so there was no hope. Mass could sit in the corner with her for ages, stroking her head and back while mumbling words of affection. She drew in the smell of her, buried her face in her fur, rubbed her big paws. Eddie watched them from the living room. He knew where it was all leading and could tell that his mother was putting it off for as long as she could. One day, he went into the kitchen, leaned against the windowsill, and said: “Enough is enough. She can hardly walk. And there’s no dignity in shitting on a newspaper.”