‘I don’t. Who is she?’
‘I don’t know. She reminds me of someone.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t know.’
Stein laughed. That secure, calm older-brother laugh. Squeezed her hand again.
There was a drawn-out pling, and a metallic voice announced that the flight to Frankfurt was ready for boarding. People got up and swarmed towards the desk. Irene held on to Stein, who also wanted to get up.
‘What is it, pumpkin?’
‘Let’s wait until the queue dies down.’
‘But it—’
‘I don’t feel like standing in the tunnel so close … to people.’
‘OK. Stupid of me. How’s it going?’
‘Still good.’
‘Good.’
‘She looks lonely.’
‘Lonely?’ Stein looked over at the woman. ‘I disagree. She looks happy.’
‘Yes, but lonely.’
‘Happy and lonely?’
Irene laughed. ‘No, I’m mistaken. Perhaps it’s the boy she resembles who is lonely.’
‘Irene?’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you remember what we agreed? Happy thoughts, OK?’
‘Right. The two of us aren’t lonely.’
‘No, we’re here for each other. For ever, right?’
‘For ever.’
Irene hooked her hand under her brother’s arm and rested her head on his shoulder. Thought about the policeman who had found her. Harry, he had said his name was. At first she had thought of the Harry Oleg had always gone on about. He was a policeman as well. But the way Oleg had talked she had always imagined him as taller, younger, perhaps better-looking than the somewhat ugly man who had freed her. But he had visited Stein too, and now she knew it was him. Harry Hole. And she knew she would remember him for the rest of her life. His scarred face, the wound across his chin and the big bandage around his neck. And the voice. Oleg hadn’t told her he’d had such a soothing voice. And all of a sudden she was sure, there was a certainty, where from, she had no idea, it was just there:
It was going to be alright.
Once she had left Oslo, she would be able to put everything behind her. She wasn’t to touch anything, neither alcohol nor dope, that was what Dad and the doctor she had consulted had explained to her. Violin would be there, it always would, but she would keep it at a distance. Just as the ghost of Gusto would always haunt her. The ghost of Ibsen. And all the poor souls she had sold death by powder. They would have to come when they came. And in a few years perhaps they would pale. And she would return to Oslo. The important thing was that she was going to be alright. She would manage to create a life that was worth living.
She watched the woman reading. And the woman looked up, as though she had noticed. She flashed her a brief but sparkly smile, then her nose was back in the travel guide.
‘We’re off,’ Stein said.
‘We’re off,’ Irene repeated.
Truls Berntsen drove through Kvadraturen. Trundled down towards Tollbugata. Up Prinsens gate. Down Rådhusgata. He had left the party early, got into his car and driven wherever the whim took him. It was cold and clear and Kvadraturen was alive tonight. Prostitutes called after him – they must have scented the testosterone. Dope pushers were undercutting one another. The bass in a parked Corvette thudded, boom, boom, boom. A couple stood kissing by a tram stop. A man ran down the street laughing with glee, his suit jacket wide open and flapping; another man in an identical suit was running after him. On the corner of Dronningens gate one solitary Arsenal shirt. No one Truls had seen before, he must have been new. His police radio crackled. And Truls could feel a strange sense of well-being: the blood was streaming through his veins, the bass, the rhythm of everything that was happening, sitting here and watching, seeing all the small cogs that knew nothing of one another, yet made the others rotate. He was the only one to see, to see the totality. And that was precisely how it should be. For this was his town now.
* * *
The priest in Gamlebyen Church unlocked the door and came out. Listened to the swish of the treetops in the cemetery. Peered up at the moon. A beautiful evening. The concert had been successful and the turnout good. Better than it would be for tomorrow’s early-morning service. He sighed. The sermon he was going to deliver to the empty pews would deal with the forgiveness of sins. He walked down the steps. Proceeded through the cemetery. He had decided to use the same sermon he had used for the burial on Friday. The deceased, according to the next of kin – his ex-wife – had been involved in criminal dealings at the end and even before that had lived a life so full of sin it would be a mountain to climb for all those who made the journey. They hadn’t needed to worry. The only mourners present were the ex-wife with their children, plus a colleague who had snuffled loudly throughout. The ex had confided to him that the colleague was probably the only flight attendant at the airline the deceased hadn’t slept with.