Thomas Enger: Burned

His mobile beeps again.

Yes, please. Am starving. Fontes in Lokka? They do good food.

He texts her straight away.

Great. See you there.

He snaps the mobile shut and speeds up. She’s right, he says to himself. Their food is good. And decides he has also earned himself a beer.

After all, it is Friday.

He has managed to down his first beer before Anette arrives. He is sitting near the fireplace, where a log fire is blazing like a small furnace, despite the June evening, and where people walk up and down the stairs to get to the toilets. He has doubts about the fire, but it was the only vacant table.

He waves at her. Anette spots him immediately and smiles as she walks towards him. He gets up. She hugs him.

It has been a long time since anyone hugged him.

They sit down. The waiter, a tall dark guy with the whitest teeth Henning has ever seen, is quick off the mark and takes their order.

‘A Fontes burger with bacon. And the biggest beer you’ve got,’ Anette says and smiles. Someone is breathing a sigh of relief, Henning thinks.

‘And one for me, too,’ he says. ‘Both, I mean.’

The waiter nods and leaves. Clumsy, Henning groans inwardly, expressing myself like that. He feels awkward. Even though his intentions are strictly honourable, it’s like they are on a date. And that’s an uncomfortable scenario.

‘So,’ she says, looking at him. ‘Did it make a good story?’

‘It’ll do,’ he says. ‘At least, I think so. I didn’t write it myself. Didn’t have the energy.’

‘So you got some poor sod to do it for you?’

‘Something like that.’

‘It’s much more fun to write yourself.’

‘I thought you wanted to be a director?’

‘Yes, but the best directors are often the best writers. Quentin Tarantino, for example. Oliver Stone. I was about to mention Clint Eastwood, but I don’t believe he writes very much himself, now that I think about it. Did you know that Clint Eastwood composes practically all his own film scores?’

‘No.’

‘Now you do. And very good scores they are too. Very jazzy, a lot of piano.’

Henning likes jazzy. And a lot of piano. They look at each other without saying anything.

‘What will happen to the film now?’ he asks, and immediately kicks himself for bringing up the subject so soon.

‘Which one of them?’

‘Well, both.’

‘Please can we not talk about that? My best friend is dead, she was killed by a lunatic I wish I had never met, and the last thing I want to think about is what happens to the film. Or films. Right now, all I want to do is eat my burger. I don’t give a toss about anything else.’

He nods. Anette looks for the waiter. There. Eye contact. The waiter nods and makes an apologetic movement with his hands.

‘Has Bjarne been grilling you?’ Henning asks.

‘I’m well done on both sides.’

‘Was he okay? Did he treat you all right?’

‘Oh, yes. Nice and easy. I should expect to be interviewed again, but that’s fine. I understand.’

The waiter brings their much-needed drinks. Anette thanks him, swallows a large mouthful and licks off the foam which has settled on her upper lip.

‘Ah, a life saver.’

Henning takes his own glass and twirls it around. He sits like this for a while.

‘It was me who found him,’ he suddenly says. He doesn’t know where that sentence came from. He just blurted it out.

‘Stefan?’

‘Mm. I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I had some questions for Yngve. The Foldviks weren’t at home, but the front door was open, and I-."

He looks down.

‘Did you go inside?’

He looks up again and nods. ‘Have you ever visited them?’

Anette takes another sip.

‘I had a meeting with Stefan there once — now when was it? Six months ago or something like that. We chatted about his script.’

‘Which you were turning into a film?’

‘Precisely.’

‘And that was the only time?’

She takes another sip and nods.

‘We e-mailed and chatted occasionally after that, stuff to do with the film. Which was some way into the future. Everything in the film industry is. To begin with, you meet to agree to have a meeting, and when that meeting comes, you agree to meet another time to have another meeting about meeting up.’

She rolls her eyes. He smiles.

‘Why do you ask about that?’

‘Oh, I was just curious.’

‘Can I ask you a question?’

‘Go on.’

‘What happened to you?’

She points to his face, to his scars.

‘Oh, that.’

He stares down at the table.

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ Anette says, tenderly.

‘No, it’s just that — ’

He twirls his glass again.

‘Several people have asked me that recently. I don’t really know what to say without — ’

He stops and visualises the balcony once more, Jonas’s eyes, feels his hands which suddenly aren’t there. It’s as if he is in a soundproof room with no light. He looks up at her.

‘Another time, perhaps.’

Anette holds up her hands.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to — ’

‘No, no. It’s fine.’

Anette looks at him for a long time before she takes another sip of her beer. They drink in silence, watch the diners, watch the door whenever it opens, gaze at the flames.

A question, which has been troubling him, resurfaces.

‘Why did you come back?’ he says. ‘Why did you go to the tent?’

Anette swallows and suppresses a burp.

‘Like I said to you: I was curious. You were obviously up to something. Your face gave it all away. You should have seen yourself. I’m used to thinking in stories and I realised that a very good one was happening right under my nose. It was too tempting not to go back.’

He nods slowly.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to spy on you.’

‘How long were you outside before you came in?’

‘Not very long. But listen, I’ve already been through this with that policeman, Brunlanes, or whatever his name is.’

‘Brogeland,’ Henning corrects her. ‘Sorry, I’m just a bit — ’

It’s his turn to hold up his hands.

‘I’m a bit all over the place after a day like today.’

He makes a circular gesture with his finger next to his temple.

‘No worries,’ she says, mimicking an Australian accent. ‘Cheers.’

She raises her glass. They drink.

‘What are we drinking to?’ he asks.

‘That no more lives were lost,’ she says and swallows.

‘Cheers.’

They agree to forget about the Foldviks while they eat their Creole-inspired hamburgers with potato boats or potato wedges or whatever they are called. He eats far too much and wolfs his food down. The beer settles like a fermenting layer on the top of his stomach. When they eventually leave, after Henning has paid the bill, he knows he is in troubled waters.

But then again, he likes the sea.

‘Thanks for dinner,’ Anette says, as they go outside into the June evening. It has started to rain again, tiny, spitting drops.

‘My pleasure.’

‘Fancy a couple of these?’ she says. He lets go of the door, which slams shut behind him. Anette is holding out a bag of Knott sweets.

‘These are great after a few beers.’

She pours some of the white, brown and grey pearls into her hand and tips them into her mouth. He smiles and says:

‘Yes, please.’

He holds out his hand and gets his own stash. Knott. Oh, great sweet of my childhood! He has consumed his fair share of them over the years, but he dreads to think how long ago it is since he last tasted the tiny flavour explosions. He takes a brown one, smacks his lips and nods at her with approval.