Jo Nesbo - Midnight Sun

‘That was why you stole the money, wasn’t it?’

I shrugged.

‘You stole the money for your daughter, even though you knew they’d kill you if they got hold of you.’

I spat over the side of the boat to see something break the terrible stillness of the water. ‘It sounds good when you put it like that,’ I said. ‘Let’s just say I was a father who waited until it was too late to do anything for his daughter.’

‘But it was already too late, wasn’t it, according to the doctors?’

‘They said so, but they didn’t know . No one knows . Not me, not you, not the priest, not the atheist. So we believe. Believe, because that’s better than realising that there’s only one thing waiting for us down in the depths, and that’s darkness, cold. Death.’

‘Do you really believe that?’

‘Do you really believe there’s a pearly gate with angels and a bloke called St Peter? Actually, no, you don’t believe that — a sect about ten thousand times bigger than yours believes in saints. And they think that if you don’t believe precisely what they believe in, down to the smallest detail, then you’ll end up in hell. Yep, Catholics believe that you Lutherans are heading straight down to the basement. And you believe that’s where they’re going. You really were pretty lucky being born among true believers up here near the North Pole instead of in Italy or Spain. Then you’d have had a very long road to salvation.’

I saw the line go slack, and pulled at it. It jerked, apparently caught on something; it must be shallow here. I tugged harder and the line came free of whatever it was caught on.

‘You’re angry, Ulf.’

‘Angry? I’m fucking furious, that’s what I am. If that god of yours exists, why does he play with humanity like that, why does he let one person be born into suffering and another into a life of excess, or one with a chance of finding the faith that’s supposed to save them, while the majority never get to hear a thing about god. Why would he... how could he...?’

Damn cold.

‘Take your daughter?’ she asked quietly.

I blinked. ‘There’s nothing down there,’ I said. ‘Just darkness, death, and—’

‘Fish!’ Knut cried.

We turned towards him. He was already hauling in the line. Lea patted my arm one last time, then let go of me and leaned against the gunwale.

We stared down into the water. Waiting for whatever he had caught to come into view. For some reason I found myself thinking of a yellow sou’wester. And suddenly I had a premonition. No, it was more than a premonition. I knew for certain: he would come back. I closed my eyes. Yes, I could see it quite clearly. Johnny would come back. He knew I was still here.

‘Ha!’ Knut said jubilantly.

When I opened my eyes, a large cod was wriggling in the bottom of the boat. Its eyes were bulging, as if it couldn’t believe what it was seeing. Which was fair enough — this could hardly have been how it thought things would turn out.

We rowed to an island where the keel scraped softly against the sand. It was only a couple of hundred metres between the gently rounded island and the mainland, which tumbled abruptly and darkly into the sea from the heather-covered plateau. Knut took his shoes off, waded ashore and tied the boat to a rock. I offered to carry Lea, but she just smiled and made me the same offer.

Knut and I made a fire and lit it while Lea gutted and cleaned the fish.

‘Once we caught so many fish that we had to fetch the wheelbarrow to empty the boat,’ Knut said. He was already licking his lips.

I couldn’t ever remember being that fond of fish when I was a boy. Maybe that’s because it was mostly served in the form of deep-fried fritters or fish fingers, or shaped into balls in a white, semen-like sauce.

‘There’s a lot of food here,’ Lea said, wrapping the entire fish in silver foil and placing it directly on the flames. ‘Ten minutes.’

Knut clambered onto my back, clearly excited at the prospect of food. ‘Wrestling match!’ he cried, clinging onto me even when I tried to stand up. ‘The southerner must die!’

‘There’s a mosquito on my back,’ I yelled, and bucked, tossing him back and forth like a rodeo rider until he landed on the sand with a happy yelp.

‘If we’re going to wrestle, we’d better do it properly,’ I said.

‘Yes! What’s properly?’

‘Sumo wrestling,’ I said, then picked up a stick and drew a circle in the fine sand. ‘First one to make the other person step outside the circle wins.’

I showed him the ceremony that preceded each bout, and how we should squat opposite each other outside the circle and clap our hands once.

‘That’s a prayer for the gods to be with us in the fight, so we aren’t alone.’

I saw Lea frown, but she didn’t say anything.

The boy followed my actions as I slowly raised my palms, looked down, and then put them on my knees.

‘That’s to crush evil spirits,’ I said, then stamped my feet.

Knut did the same.

‘Ready... steady...’ I whispered.

Knut twisted his face into an aggressive grimace.

‘Go!’

He leaped into the circle and tackled me with his shoulder.

‘You’re out!’ he declared triumphantly.

My footprint outside the circle left no room for doubt. Lea laughed and clapped.

‘It’s not over yet, rikishi Knut- san from Finnmark ken ,’ I snarled, and squatted down again. ‘First to five is Futabayama.’

‘Futa...?’ Knut quickly crouched down on the other side.

‘Futabayama. Sumo legend. Big fat bastard. Ready... steady...’

I got him in a body lock that carried him well outside the circle.

When the score was 4–4, Knut was so sweaty and wound up that he forgot the preliminaries and hurled himself at me. I stepped aside. He couldn’t stop in time, and stumbled outside the circle.

Lea laughed. Knut lay there motionless with his head in the sand.

I sat down next to him.

‘In sumo, some things are more important than winning,’ I said. ‘Like showing dignity in both victory and defeat.’

‘I lost,’ Knut whispered into the sand. ‘I expect it’s easier to do that when you win.’

‘It is.’

‘Well, congratulations. You’re Futa... Futa...’

‘. . bayama. And Futabayama salutes you, courageous Haguroyama.’

He raised his head. He had sand stuck to his wet face. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Futabayama’s apprentice. Haguroyama also went on to be a master.’

‘Did he? He beat Futabayama?’

‘Oh, yes. Toyed with him. He just had to learn a few things first. Such as how to lose.’

Knut sat up. He squinted at me. ‘Does losing make you better, Ulf?’

I nodded slowly. I saw that Lea was paying attention too. ‘You get better—’ I squashed a midge that had landed on my arm — ‘at losing.’

‘Better at losing? Is there any point in being good at that?’

‘Life is mostly about trying things you can’t do,’ I said. ‘You end up losing more often than you win. Even Futabayama kept on losing before he started to win. And it’s important to be good at something you’re going to do more often, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so.’ He thought about it. ‘But what does being good at losing actually mean?’

I met Lea’s gaze over the boy’s shoulder. ‘Daring to lose again,’ I said.

‘Food’s ready,’ she replied.

The skin of the cod had stuck to the silver foil, so when Lea opened the parcel up, we just had to pull off pieces of the white flesh and pop them in our mouths.

‘Heavenly,’ I said. I didn’t know what I meant by heavenly, but I couldn’t think of a better word.