Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

She looks at him with troubled eyes.

“Neurological?”

She’s frightened by the word, too. Medical would have been better, Charlo thinks. Less ominous.

“Can you get a bus to the stables?” he asks. “It’s just for a couple of days, and then I promise I’ll be back again.”

She nods and looks at him solemnly. “You needn’t worry about me,” she says calmly. “I’ll find a way.”

He drives, thoughts buzzing in his head. Now, he thinks, when everything was working out so well. Now, when there’s order and happiness and work, this threatening cloud appears and throws a dark shadow over it all. He tries to shake it off. His hands clutch the steering wheel hard, and once again he has the feeling of being perfectly healthy.

“We’ll miss you,” Julie says, “even if it is only for a couple of days. Møller is so used to you doing everything for him. He sings your praises — d’you realize that?”

Charlo nods contentedly. “You know what?” he says, “I love that feeling of being indispensable. I’d forgotten how good it is.”

After that they say no more. The landscape glides past. He sees the apple trees blossoming white and pink, and the grass is bright green between the patches of wet snow. Could it be that all this will be taken away from him? He doesn’t often think about death. Now he sees everything in vivid relief: the lofty sun, the deep blue sky. The hum of the engine, Julie’s breathing. He feels so alive. Yes, it will be taken from me, he realizes, because all people die. But it won’t happen yet. I’ve earned some good years with Julie. He gives her a sidelong glance. It’s us two against the rest, he thinks. We are strong. We’ll make it.

A week later he’s standing outside the hospital with a small overnight bag in his hand. The bag contains pajamas, a toothbrush, and slippers. Washing things, some underwear, and a book. He feels a little cold and confused. It’s a bit like standing at the frontier of a foreign country, a country whose customs and language you don’t know. He can see the outline of a wheelchair inside the door. People are going in and out of the building. He steps through the wide entrance and asks his way to the Department of Neurology. Even saying the word makes him go cold. The term is redolent of mystery and horror. The woman at the desk gives him directions, and he walks toward the elevator. Is there pain and indignity in store? Lack of experience makes him feel uncomfortable. Eventually he finds the place he’s supposed to be and seats himself in a comfortable chair.

First he has to answer a whole host of questions. They’re put to him by an experienced nurse. No, he’s never been in the hospital. No, he isn’t allergic to anything and doesn’t take any medicine. No, he isn’t aware of any special hereditary conditions in his family. The nurse takes her time; there’s no end to the things she needs to know. He answers as best he can. He racks his brain and tells the truth. Then she shows him to his bed, which is in a double room. Both beds are unoccupied. He puts his bag down and goes to the window. He’s on the tenth floor and has a panorama of the whole town. He turns and looks at his bed again. Are they expecting him to get into it? He’s only just got up. He sits in a chair by the window and takes in the magnificent view.

The room is large and there’s a lot of equipment above the beds, equipment he can’t even begin to understand. Eventually he goes to his bed anyway, pulls off his clothes, and puts on his pajamas. Creeps in under the crisply folded duvet. It feels strange lying there like that. He’s well after all; nothing is troubling him now. Only his thoughts. He lets them wander freely, because he can’t be bothered to channel them.

An hour later, he’s fetched by a nurse. He follows her, half-clothed. It’s been a long time since he’s displayed his body to anyone, and he’s no spring chicken anymore. He feels terribly embarrassed. Feels that everything about him is wrong, the balding head, the hanging stomach. But the nurse is young and pretty. She’s courteous and friendly. Yet he’s well aware that he’s only one of many. She’s certainly not interested in him or his destiny, not really. She’s careful and vigilant and pleasant while doing her duty. In the end, he withdraws into himself. He just wants the time to pass so that he can get it over with and go home again, to Julie. To that fragile, free life of his. They say nothing as they work except there, that’s done, now you’re finished, Mr. Torp. You can go back to your room.

He goes back to his room and gets into bed again. Registers that an elderly man is sleeping in the other bed. He picks up his book and starts reading, realizing that he’s hungry. Presumably now they’re in the office looking at my results, he thinks. Standing there with furrowed brows as they nod at each other and agree. He doesn’t know what they’re agreeing about. He can’t concentrate on his book, so he lays it aside. He lies there looking out of the window at the cloud formations.

They keep it up for three days.

He goes from room to room and lies down for them on couches. He closes his eyes and holds his breath. He follows instructions and cooperates. Answers everything truthfully. He puts himself in their hands. It’s like falling: he doesn’t know where he’s going to end up or what kind of accident awaits him. The feeling of helplessness is overwhelming. They talk among themselves, and he can’t understand what they’re saying. The various machines put the fear of God into him, but none of them hurt. Not until he’s given a lumbar puncture. Out of sheer fright, he concentrates hard on what they ask him to do. Breathe calmly, in and out. It’ll soon be over. It’s going fine, Mr. Torp.

Now they’ve been through everything. He lies in bed waiting, feeling at their mercy. Afterward he’ll recall this moment. The doctor appears in the door, accompanied by a female nurse. He’s carrying a sheaf of papers. Charlo sits up in bed and feels a slight rushing in his head. He’s going home at last. His body has been examined in every possible way. Julie is waiting; they’re going out to eat. Everything will be as before, he hopes. His back is sweating.

“Mr. Torp,” the doctor begins. “We need to have a little chat.”

He comes over to the bed, bringing a chair with him. Charlo doesn’t know whether his seating himself comfortably like this is a good sign or not. Perhaps he’s simply grabbing the opportunity to take the weight off his feet for a bit, or perhaps what he has to say will take a long time. Or he’s sitting down to emphasize something serious. For there is a sense of gravity in the room now. Charlo glances at the sheaf of documents. That’s his future, that’s his sentence. The nurse remains standing at the foot of the bed. Charlo raises the support and adjusts his pillow. His heart is beating hard under his pajamas.

“We’ve carried out a number of investigations, and from the results we can say a bit about your problems.”

“Right.”

He nods solemnly, clasps his hands, and sits in his bed like an old man.

“Some diseases are diagnosed primarily by their symptoms. In other words, we don’t always have physical findings.”

Charlo sits, nodding. He can hear that rushing again. It’s louder now.

“In your case, we have some findings. And together with other observations, and the symptoms you’ve described yourself, we’re fairly certain about what we’re dealing with. I mean, we have the criteria for a definite diagnosis.”

Charlo is so nervous that he sits there gaping. He sees the doctor steeling himself, his mouth tightening.

“Let me put it this way. You’re suffering from a disease of the central nervous system. It’s chronic. I’ll try to explain it so that you’ll understand, because this is quite complicated.”