The Man in the Window (3 page)

    'Lost my bite?'

    'Yes,' came a shrill yelp from Arvid. 'You're not what you used to be. You and I and Emmanuel - we are…' Arvid gasped for air as if he didn't dare pronounce the word then and there. But he closed his eyes and steadied himself: '… we're
old.
Reidar, you're
old.
You're the
eldest.
And you're not bloody immortal!'

    Reidar gave a start. Silvie, the dog, in the armchair began to bark loudly.

    'Silvie!' Arvid shouted, already nervous. 'Don't be frightened, Silvie!'

    Reidar glared from Arvid to Emmanuel and back again.

    'There are two of us. You're on your own. This time Emmanuel and I will complete what we started. We're selling the shop and that's that.'

    Reidar had turned pale. He grabbed the edge of the table for support. The three men's heavy breathing was drowned by the dog's yapping and high-pitched whimpering.

    Reidar Folke Jespersen took a deep breath and was concise: 'I won't sign anything.'

    The other two men exchanged glances again. Arvid shuffled to the door, which the little lapdog took as a signal to jump off the chair. Barking and growling, it waddled and panted its way over to Reidar and took a bite at his ankle. Reidar stared down at the dog for a few brief seconds, then a shudder ran through his body. He took aim and kicked the dog as hard as he could. The dog let out a hollow yelp as it took off from the floor, flew through the room and hit the corner of the fireplace with a wet smack. The plump dog's body emitted a rattling noise and lay motionless.

    'You monster,' Arvid shrieked, shuffling over to the lifeless animal. He knelt down. 'Silvie!' he called in a reedy voice. 'Silvie!'

    Emmanuel rolled his eyes at Arvid's distraction. He hunched his shoulders as he tried to light a slim cigarillo with a hand trembling from tension. The lighter flame grew with every puff he took. Finally satisfied with the glow, he turned to Arvid: 'It was stupid of you to let the animal in, you know that yourself, Arvid. Reidar and the dog have never got on.'

    'I'm off right now,' Reidar boomed and pointed to the front door with his long, bony index finger. 'And as things stand, there is very little chance I will return.'

    'You've killed Silvie,' Arvid wailed from the fire.

    'Cut that whining out now!' Reidar snapped. 'Your pooch isn't dead.'

    Emmanuel cleared his throat. But his voice gave way as he inhaled the smoke. 'For us…' he mumbled in a semi-strangulated voice,'… for Arvid and myself this is pure business, Reidar. Money. It's unprofessional of you to make it into a personal matter.' He coughed and had difficulty breathing. When he resumed speaking, his voice had the same wheeze as a dying godfather in a Mafia film: 'You'll have to give in, that's all there is to it. It would be best for you. Arvid and I will not comply this time. So you might as well just sign.'

    'I'll never sign,' Reidar hissed.

    'She's not moving,' Arvid shouted, lifting up the lifeless dog. 'Silvie.'

    '… We're talking about my damned pension!' Emmanuel went on undaunted, though now in his normal voice. 'Karsten also agrees that this is for the best. Arvid, Karsten and I - you cannot let your usual bull- headedness spoil the future for us.'

    Reidar stood with lowered gaze for a few moments before peering over at Arvid, who was holding the little dog in his arms. Its two front paws pointed up into the air. One paw convulsed and fell as the dog's head twisted and a pink tongue protruded from its gaping mouth. 'Now the mutt's dead,' Reidar intoned with a crooked, malicious smile playing on his lips. He added: 'You killed it. You shouldn't have picked it up.' Then he turned and marched towards the door.

    'Reidar,' Emmanuel chided. 'The war finished more than fifty years ago. You have nothing to gain by going off on your own. For once in your life, admit defeat.'

    As Reidar opened the door, he threw a last glance over his shoulder and said: 'I'm not signing. That's it. No signature - no contract.'

    Emmanuel shouted at Reidar as he left: 'There's no point resisting, Reidar! Tomorrow the money will be on the table.'

    The door slammed shut.

    'You've lost,' Emmanuel shouted after him and looked at his brother, Arvid, who slowly raised his head and sent the closed door a furious glare.

    Emmanuel puffed away on his cigarillo. 'The vet will fix your dog,' he assured his brother. 'It's another matter with Reidar. We need his name on the contract. Otherwise, we can kiss the money goodbye.'

Chapter 4

In Medias Res

    On the way down the stairs after leaving his two brothers, while stuffing his emotional shock into a dusty old drawer in his psyche, Reidar was planning his next move.

    At first he stood still, shivering, in the freezing snow on the pavement in Uranienborgveien as he racked his brain to decide the best way to locate a taxi and a telephone box. That is perhaps the most irritating thing about days like this, he thought. When you are older, breaks in your routine make the days more difficult, almost insurmountable. He started to walk down towards Parkveien. After fifty metres, at the corner of Uranienborgpark, he found a telephone. On unhooking the receiver, he discovered that he needed a card to operate it. He put the handset back and considered whether he should go straight to the office in Bertrand Narvesens vei in Ensjø and ring from there. It was cold, and he was stiff and tired. However, he wanted to call from somewhere anonymous. He regretted not asking Arvid to book him a taxi before he left. A car as a base would have facilitated progress and his actions; on top of that he would have had somewhere warm to operate from. Dramatic exits such as the one he had just made were quite unnecessary, even though the passion underlined his seriousness and created unrest in enemy ranks.

    With unbending fingers he extricated a telephone card from the wallet in his pocket, as well as the slip of paper on which he had noted down the telephone number of Ingrid's lover. It rang for a long, long time.

    'Yes,' came the response at last.

    Reidar hesitated, just for a second and no longer. 'This is Reidar Folke Jespersen,' he said. 'Let me speak to my wife.'

    The silence on the phone continued. 'No melodrama - I don't have the time,' Reidar continued in the same calm tone, but with a hint of impatience now. 'It is of the utmost importance that I talk to Ingrid - now.'

    'Just a moment,' said the man's voice.

    The silence persisted. Reidar was frozen. He looked around him and cursed Ingrid's nervousness, cursed her for not understanding how he disliked this kind of waiting. As he stood there shivering, a white Mercedes with a taxi sign on the roof came up Josefines gate. It stopped a few metres from the traffic lights. Reidar could see the passenger paying. He was keen to be the next passenger. As if in response to his thoughts, his wife's hushed voice came on the line: 'Reidar?'

    'Yes,' Reidar intoned. 'I'll be late home today, maybe after seven o'clock.'

    The other end of the line was quiet. The rear door of the Mercedes opened, and the passenger got out.

    'Are you there?' he asked.

    'Yes,' said Ingrid, his wife, in a barely audible voice.

    'I assume this will be the last time I find you in the house of another man,' Reidar said. 'But it is your choice. If you wish to stay married, I expect to see you at home at seven. If not, you should not return.'

    The white taxi started up and turned into the street where he was standing. Reidar raised his arm and hailed the taxi, which pulled up by the kerb. 'In any event this episode is forgotten and we will never talk about it,' he concluded and hung up. He took his card from the machine and blew on his hands before hunching his shoulders and trudging across the pavement to the car door the driver was holding open from inside. He got in and shut the door after him.

    'Where?' asked the driver - a chunky Pakistani, concentrating on the traffic behind him in the mirror.

    'Ensjo,' Reidar said and took a deep breath. 'I'm freezing. Would be nice if you could put the heating up a bit.'

Chapter 5

Ghosts

    The anxiety that Reidar Folke Jespersen had not felt for many years lingered - in a way it made him feel restless, which also brought back feelings of youth he had not experienced for a long time either. So it was an anxiety that he both liked and disliked. But he was unsure about what to do next - and that made him annoyed with himself. He just sat at his desk making the essential telephone calls and waiting for five o'clock. As the time approached and it was as dark as night outside, he clumped down the steps from his office to the warehouse. The huge hall was full to the rafters with old furniture and artefacts waiting to be sold at the shop in Thomas Heftyes gate. He stood for a few seconds taking in the chaos of artisanship and old everyday items. For a few seconds he allowed himself to drift into a dream, as he usually did whenever he stood surveying this scene. But on this day he could not hold on to the sensation. So he forced himself to go on, down the stairs. He took a key from his trouser pocket, went to the front door and opened it. It was still icy cold outside. He opened the lid of the green post box hanging on the wall beside the door. The key fell with a faint, almost inaudible clink. Afterwards he went back in and checked that the door was locked. Then he made his way between all the antique furniture, to the very back of the room and stopped in front of a fashionable-looking wardrobe. It was covered with carved mouldings and had decorative flowers painted on the mirrors mounted on the doors. A black dinner suit hung inside. It had hardly been worn, and had an old-fashioned cut. He took off his grey trousers and blue checked flannel shirt, and put on the suit, white shirt and polished shoes.

    After changing, he went back to the office and sat smoking at his desk while contemplating the reflection of his upper body in the darkened window pane. What he saw was an elderly man with white hair and a meticulously trimmed white beard covering his chin and mouth. His eyes followed the outline of his suit; the black contrasting with the white of his shirt, and the black bow tie around his neck. To his sorrow, he was forced to accept that he could not meet his own eyes in the window.
I look like my own ghost - in some English drama,
he thought, and rose with apprehension to his feet. He walked over to the window and pulled down the white roller blind. Then he resumed his position at the desk. It was a heavy table and he had covered it with a smooth white cloth from which shone the faint reflection of the ceiling lamp. There were two stem glasses on the cloth. He stared at the ash on the end of his cigarette, reached out for the ashtray between the glasses and noticed how his hand was shaking. Then he flicked off the ash. He stubbed the glow on the ashtray, extinguished the cigarette and rotated his arm to check the time. With sudden impatience he stood up again and went to the mirror hanging beside the door. He adjusted his bow tie, brushed the lapels of the dinner jacket and brushed off tiny specks of dandruff from his shoulders. He studied his shoes, discovered a stain, bent down and rubbed it with his thumb. There was a grandfather clock between the mirror and the door. He opened the door of the clock and checked the time against his wristwatch. All of a sudden he inclined his head and seemed to be listening. There was the sound of a door closing.

    He switched off the ceiling light and put on the desk lamp instead. Then he stooped and took a dark bottle from the space under the table, but stopped all of a sudden and angled his head again, as though listening. There was a knock at the door. 'Come in,' he said, spreading out his arm in a gesture of greeting as a woman appeared in the doorway. She was in her twenties, tall, slim and wearing a long, red dress. Leaning against the doorframe, she was in shadow, out of breath.

    'Don't be embarrassed,' he said to reassure her.

    As he said the last word, the woman raised her chin and looked him in the eyes. He liked the way she fell so easily into the role, liked the self-assurance she displayed, and perhaps this was the moment he liked best of all - when she came into the light from the desk lamp.

    'Nice to see you again!' she said, almost in a whisper.

    'After far too long,' he answered, feeling his windpipe constrict with self-pity. He stared at the ceiling, swallowed the lump in his throat and, in a dream, repeated: 'Far too long.' He collected himself and went round the table where he sat down on the swivel chair and fixed his eyes on her.

    They eyed each other in silence.

    At last she coughed and said: 'Coming here is like returning to a secret place.'

    He was quiet.

    'It's with me all the time, everywhere.'

    'What is?'

    She considered and said at last: 'Longing.'

    'When you're here, I forget what it means to wait,' he said and nodded towards the bottle. 'Sherry?'

    'Yes, please.'

    He was about to take the bottle, but hesitated and looked up at her. 'Perhaps you would pour?'

    She strode across the floor, took the bottle and poured a glass for each of them. Then she raised her glass, swirled the liquid around and inhaled the aroma before gazing dreamily at a point in the distance. She sipped at the sherry and put the glass down. Bit by bit she began to roll down the long glove reaching up over her elbow. 'It was the driver,' she said. 'He wouldn't let me go.'

    She articulated every word, with slow emphasis, as though she were worried about how the message would go down. Reidar had closed his eyes, as if in meditation. In the end, he inclined his head, opened his eyes and said' in measured tones: 'Well? Why not?' His eyes had taken on a curious yet also caring expression.

    'He wanted to have me,' she said, dropping the glove on the floor. Her fingers were long, her nails sharp and painted red. She took off the other glove too - protracted movements, finger by finger, until she had released her forearm from the tight-fitting material. 'He was brutal.'

    'Was he a stranger, or did you already know him?'

    She lowered her gaze and deliberated. At length, she looked up and said: 'Ask me again later.'

    Reidar acknowledged this clever response with a smile, drew the glass to his lips, sipped the sherry, swallowed and put it down. With a look of satisfaction he studied the hand resting calmly on the glass. 'There's something I have to talk to you about,' he said in a light tone of voice. 'Something important.'

    She took a few paces to the left, walked past the large grandfather clock and stopped in front of the mirror. She gazed at herself. 'I was concerned that you had to wait,' she said, turning back to him. 'But, on the other hand, it appeals to me that a young man shows such obvious interest.'

    He reached out and removed the ashtray from the cloth. He put it on the window sill, beside a small cassette player which he switched on. Low, tinny violin tones poured forth from the player's small loudspeaker.

    She stood stock still, listening with closed eyes. 'Schubert?'

    He nodded as she undid the zip on the waist of her dress. Then she began to undo the row of small, white buttons running down the front of her dress. When she was finished, she freed her shoulders. The dress fell in a bundle around her ankles. She looked down at herself. She was wearing two old-fashioned brown shoes with heels and a string of artificial pearls which she had wound around her neck several times. Otherwise nothing.

    Reidar contemplated her from under half-lowered eyelids. When, eventually, he did move, the chair gave a loud, piercing creak. As if the sound were a signal, the woman stepped out of the dress onto the floor. She raised her hand and caressed her breasts. The skin on her upper arms was nubbled. 'What did you want to talk about?' she asked, crossing the floor with long strides.

    'Forgiveness,' came the quiet answer.

    She stood for a few seconds looking at the table, her mind elsewhere, as though the word was forcing its way inside her, until finally she scrambled up and lay face down on the white cloth. She supported herself on her elbows, took the glass out of his hand and sipped. At last she answered: 'We've talked about that before.'

    He nodded.

    The silence lingered until she passed back the glass and said: 'You and I should have gone to a concert together. Schubert.'

    'Where?' he asked.

    She paused.

    He regarded her with a blank expression.

    'Vienna?' she asked, looking up.

    He shook his head.

    'Salzburg?'

    He shook his head, his eyes closed.

    A smile formed on her lips. 'London?'

    He nodded.

    The woman lay listening to the music with closed eyes until, without undue haste, she rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

    'It's never easy to obtain forgiveness,' she said ruminatively.

    He cleared his throat.

    'It's a two-way thing,' she said.

    He didn't answer.

    They both listened to the music without speaking. After a while she got up onto her knees. The warm light from the ceiling light cast a dark, reddish almost, glow on her skin. He pushed the chair back a little and took in the view from the mirror.

    'Can you see?' she asked.

    'Almost.'

    She slid into a better position.

    'Perfect.'

    He sat observing her in the mirror. He did not move and did not say a word. After a long while she opened her eyes. Then he rose to his feet and whispered in her ear. 'What are you thinking about?'

    'Music,' she whispered back.

    'What kind of music?'

    'Schubert.'

    He wrapped both hands around her face. The blue, somewhat grainy eyelids lowered as he kissed her tenderly on the forehead. She bit her lower lip hard. Her breathing was heavy and drowned the sharp violin notes from the cassette player. For a few brief seconds he gazed at the ceiling. But when she later buried her face in his white shirt front, he lowered his head with affection against her soft shoulder and one solitary tear rolled down.