Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

“Are you the man who’s going to buy Crazy?”

She has a pretty, round face beneath the black helmet. Boots with long spurs and elegant black leather gloves.

“You don’t like the idea, maybe? Of selling him?”

He regards her nervously. Why should she want to part with this beautiful specimen of horseflesh? He is filled with anxiety as he squints up at her. She shrugs nonchalantly. The horse has lowered his head and is nibbling his forelegs.

“As long as I get another one, I’m not bothered,” she says simply. “I’ve changed horses several times already. I’d like an Arab; they’re lighter.”

She stares at him as she speaks. She stares at his legs and at his hands, and glances rapidly and inquisitively into his eyes. She’s one of those bright, tough girls, presumably a fearless rider.

“Will you be doing dressage?” she asks. And he thinks, I don’t look much like a rider, it’s hardly surprising she’s asking. Before he has time to reply, she says: “Or will you be jumping? He’s a good jumper. One meter thirty, very sensitive to the reins. He’ll jump a long way, too.”

“No,” Charlo finally says, looking at the horse all the time. “My bones are about as brittle as dry twigs. I think I’d better keep my feet on the ground.”

She unfastens the chinstrap of her helmet.

“You’d never buy a car without giving it a test drive,” she teases.

He smiles bashfully and shakes his head, feeling a little embarrassed. It’s been a long time since he was on a horse, but he’s tempted all the same.

“I’m not exactly dressed for it,” he parries. He feels incredibly clumsy next to this girl: an ungainly grown man with a belly and thinning hair. Wearing a lumpy old quilted jacket.

She slips resolutely off the horse’s back and hands him the reins. Charlo takes off his jacket. Stands hesitating for a moment. What’s he getting into? Where will it end? In the sawdust perhaps, head first. A broken neck. Or cracked ribs.

“Do you need a whip?” she asks, full of blue-eyed innocence. Charlo shakes his head.

“I’ll ride him at a gentle trot, that should do.”

“Now that he’s well warmed up,” she says, “he’ll move easily. He favors the left,” she adds. “In case you’re interested.” Her gaze is insistent; she wants to play.

Charlo gulps. He puts his foot in the stirrup, gathers the reins in his left hand, and grips the saddle with his right. Silently he counts to three, and then pushes off hard and swings himself up.

“I’m afraid he’s in for a shock,” Charlo says. “I probably weigh twice as much as you.”

“That’s nothing to Crazy,” she says, smiling. “Come on, let’s see!”

She’s enjoying herself like the child she is. He sets off at a walk and tries to relax and keep his back straight. The horse’s movements are big and Charlo bobs away. The horse’s body is warm between his thighs. He does one circuit at a walk, leans forward a bit, and digs in his heels. The horse immediately changes into a nice, easy trot. He feels hot; his cheeks are burning. He trots around three times, and then stops in front of the girl.

“And now, do two circuits at the canter,” she says eagerly. Playing instructor, her voice is full of authority.

Charlo wavers. He strokes the horse’s neck and feels the thick arteries under his skin. He feels so important sitting there. As if he’s in the right place, in control at last. The horse will do what he asks. He is his master, he feels that. But cantering?

“Just ride him in a volte. Then he’ll do a nice circle. He’s got a very easy canter. Come on!”

He does half a circuit at a walk and goes into a trot. He hasn’t lost his former skills and can ride with a certain elegance. But when it comes to cantering, he’s not sure. He doesn’t want to land in the sawdust. He’s not young anymore, not supple like the girl on the ground. She’s watching with excitement. But then, I’m already living dangerously, he thinks. He sits well down in the saddle and kicks his right heel into the horse’s flank once, then once more. Suddenly the horse alters his rhythm and his movements are drawn out, undulating. I’m cantering, he thinks exultantly. Nothing else matters, because when you’re on horseback the rest of the world fades away. The girl has started clapping her hands, and Charlo is pouring sweat now. He’s concentrating hard and letting himself be carried away, while the mane billows and the hooves beat the ground in a regular rhythm. He feels like the wind, like a wave breaking, in that special joy of being one with the horse, around and around in great circles. Then, suddenly, he feels weak and tired. He eases down to a trot, and then to a walk. He halts and pats the horse’s neck.

“Wonderful,” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow.

She nods proudly. Charlo slides down the horse’s flank and lands gently.

“But can you let him go? Are you sure?”

She smiles indulgently. “I don’t want to keep riding the same horse for years. I like changing. Will you buy him?”

“Yes. I’ve just spoken to your dad, and we’ve agreed. Can I ask you something?”

She nods.

“Can I take a couple of photos of him? Would you hold him?”

She walks over and takes the reins. Charlo gets his camera out of his pocket, raises it to his eye, and gets them in the frame.

The horse has raised his head as if wanting to pose. Loveliest horse in the world, thinks Charlo, and clicks the shutter.

“Daddy!”

Julie squeezes his fingers. Her hand is hot and clammy.

“Can I ride on that horse? Can I ride on it now? Right away? Will you help me?”

She goes on and on, tugging at his hand and imploring him with her green eyes. She stands there fizzing, about to explode like a firework. They’re at the stables for the first time, and her gaze has lit on a white pony. He smiles and squeezes back, and looks down the passage for an adult.

“Maybe,” he says, “but I must ask someone first. We can’t just ride off, because someone owns it.”

“Who’s the person who owns it? Can you ask now? Can I ride on it now?” She’s quivering with anticipation and stroking the pony’s neck the whole time. Her eyes have that special luster, as if she’s found gold. He looks at the rotund Shetland pony and down at five-year-old Julie who’s wearing a red snowsuit and has stout boots on her feet. She’s thrown her fleece-lined mittens on the floor. She’s his; she’s his dearest possession. Satisfying all her wishes is the very mainspring of his life.

He tells her to wait, and he walks along the passage, down to the ring where an instructor is busy with a group of children. They’re bumping along on mounts large and small, all hot in the face and concentrating hard.

“That white Shetland pony,” he says, looking at the instructor with a plea in his eyes. “Could we saddle it up and have a go? I’ve got my small daughter with me, and she’s beside herself with excitement.”

The instructor is wearing a set of blue thermal overalls and a warm hat with earflaps. She turns from her charges and looks at him.

“Has she ridden before?”

“No,” says Charlo, “but I have. We can manage on our own. We don’t need any help.”

Suddenly she looks away from him and shouts across the large ring. “Form a volte, girls; don’t ride so close together!”

Charlo glances up toward the stable, then back at her again. Thinks about Julie waiting in the box; he can’t bear to disappoint her.

“Just five minutes,” he implores. “I can saddle up and do everything. Perhaps she could have lessons here. Could she? She’s five. What would it cost?”

She smiles, studying him. “A hundred and fifty kroner an hour. Once a week. His saddle is hanging in the tack room, on the peg marked Snowball.”