Rupert Thomson - The Insult

Comes out when you speak

With his memory, of course, it was impossible for him to forget the rhyme — and verses existed that were far less innocent.

Jan Salenko smiled ruefully into his drink. He didn’t think Karin had ever called him ‘Memory’, as the others did, nor had she ever chanted those rhymes at him. When she saw him in the village she’d say, ‘Hello, Jan Salenko,’ as if the sound of his name said all at once amused her. She was always friendly, but somehow that was worse than if she hadn’t noticed him at all.

Then something happened. Nobody knew for sure what it was, only that Karin wasn’t seen around any more. The autumn he was twenty-three and the whole of the winter that came after. She just disappeared. And when she appeared again, in the spring, she had a baby. But there was no mention of a husband. And nobody could say who the father was. There were jokes, of course — immaculate conception, virgin birth; there was even some sarcastic talk about the second coming (the trouble was, the baby was a girl). The year before, Karin had been courted by half the boys in the county. Now they stayed away, every single one of them.

He gathered his courage. One morning towards the end of April he walked out to old man Hekmann’s place. It was a fine day, clouds running in the sky, trees with their new leaves. He found Karin crouching in the shadows on the back porch. She had her baby with her. No one else was about.

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘it’s you.’

She stepped out into the sunlight. Her eyes were dull and her face looked thin. Her brown ringlets were tied back with a piece of chicken wire.

He stood in front of her and began to remember her out loud. He remembered every time he’d ever seen her in his life, starting at the bridge eight years before. He described where and when each meeting had taken place, how the weather had been on each occasion and what she’d looked like, not just the clothes she was wearing, but the smallest details — how long her hair was or whether she had a graze on her knee. If she’d spoken to him — or to anyone else, for that matter — he recalled the words for her. If she hadn’t spoken, he told her whether she’d smiled or not, and what kind of smile it was. At last he reached the most recent encounter, which was still happening, of course, and he told her what he’d remembered so far — the April sun, the wind, her faded dress, the wariness he saw in her, the split in her lip (had someone hit her?), the baby sleeping in her arms, her first three words.

Afterwards, she was silent for a moment, then she looked at him in an entirely new way and said, ‘That’s the best present anyone ever gave me.’ Then she looked off into the trees for a long time.

They didn’t talk much after that, but he wasn’t uncomfortable sitting on the porch with her. He didn’t think she wanted him to go. He felt he fitted cleanly into the air beside her. They could’ve been two staves in a fence.

The next time he sat on her porch, three days later, she turned to him with the baby in her arms and said, ‘Sometimes I think I’m going to drown the both of us.’

Her eyes moved to the trees and the shallow pond that lay beyond the clearing, just an area of grey light on the ground. ‘Better to be done with it,’ she murmured. ‘No one will have me now, not with a child.’

He had to wait until his heart slowed down. He remembered the exact look of the trees and the temperature of the air.

‘I would,’ he said. ‘I’d have you.’

She stared at him, and then she laughed. He didn’t know what she meant by the laughter. For a moment he feared that the rhyme might follow it. Jan Jan The Memory Man … But the laughter stopped and she was still staring at him.

‘Why don’t you marry me then,’ she said, ‘and take us away from here?’

Leaves whispered at the edge of the clearing and the sun went in.

‘Marry me, Jan Salenko.’

Salenko cleared his throat, then looked across at Munck. ‘I’m sorry. I ran on a bit.’

Lifting his glass, he finished his brandy. I finished mine, too. I knew something Jan Salenko didn’t. His ex-wife, Karin, had told me how the child had happened. We were the same, I was thinking, Nina and I. We’d both come close. With me it was a bullet. With her, that shallow pond beyond the trees.

‘Another drink, Mr Salenko?’ Munck said.

‘Thank you, no. I should be going. My bus …’ He rose out of his chair.

When he’d gone, I looked at Munck.

‘I’ll have one,’ I said.

‘This case,’ Munck said.

He had something on his mind. I waited. The brandies arrived.

‘You knew her pretty well,’ he said, ‘didn’t you.’

‘I don’t know about well.’ I swirled my new drink in its glass. ‘I told you. I only met her in November.’

‘She took drugs.’

‘Probably.’

‘Probably?’

‘I never saw her take any.’

‘No, of course not.’ Munck drank. When the brandy went down, it made a sound that doves make when they’re nesting — a kind of muffled squawk. ‘She was a stripper, wasn’t she?’

‘As far as I know, she worked behind the bar.’

‘In a strip club.’

‘In a club that has dancers,’ I said, ‘sometimes.’

He let that go. Cradling his drink, he peered down into it. ‘She slept around.’

‘She slept with me,’ I said. ‘That’s all I can be sure of.’ I leaned forwards. ‘What are you getting at, Munck?’

‘I’m just telling you what they’re saying at the precinct.’

It was another example of Detective Munck’s technique. He could say anything he liked in that soporific voice of his, the worst thing he could think of, and then he could step back with his hands raised and disown it all. It allowed him to provoke you and remain your friend.

‘They’re saying, girls like her, they disappear.’

I drank some of my brandy. It was very smooth. I thought it must be imported.

‘Down at the precinct they’re saying she’s probably gone off somewhere. Be a hooker, something like that. Make some money.’ He mentioned a port in a neighbouring country that was famous for its red-light district. ‘They’re saying, girls like her, that’s what they do.’

I swallowed some more brandy. Definitely imported.

‘They’re saying, girls like her, forget it. They’ve got it coming, they’re asking for it, they get what they deserve.’ He paused for breath. ‘Are they right?’

‘Munck,’ I said.

‘That’s what they’re saying.’ He shrugged, then he emptied his glass. ‘You want another?’

‘No. I think I’ll go now.’

He ordered one for himself.

‘What else are they saying?’ I asked him.

‘They’re saying she could’ve been killed. That wouldn’t surprise them, a girl like her. That wouldn’t surprise them at all.’

I lifted my glass to my lips, but there was nothing in it.

‘Sure you don’t want another?’ Munck said.

‘I’m sure.’

‘You loved her, didn’t you.’

I nodded.

‘She told you it was over.’

‘Yes.’

He paused long enough for me to hear the whole line of a song that was playing on a radio somewhere.

‘You want to know what they’re saying, Martin? I’ll tell you what they’re saying. They’re saying you could’ve done it.’

That night, at one o’clock, I unlocked the door to Loots’ car and climbed into the driver’s seat. I turned the steering-wheel from side to side, just to get the feel, the weight of it. I tested the pedals with my feet. Down to the floor they went, resisting; up they sprang again. I moved through the gears once or twice. The transition from second to third was awkward; you could end up in fifth, if you weren’t careful. Then I was ready to fit the key into the ignition. When was the last time I’d driven? A Thursday evening, almost a year ago.