“Yes, I do,” he said.
At 7:50 p.m. Søren rang the bell of an apartment in a residential block on the outskirts of Nørrebro. The name on the door read Beck Vestergaard. Søren hadn’t looked Bo in the eye since the day before Katrine, Maja, and he had gone to Thailand.
“Make sure you take good care of them,” Søren had ordered him, fixing Bo with his eyes. Bo had bristled with irritation. Since then, he had seen Bo once. In the church and only from the back.
Søren had called earlier to say he was coming, but he barely recognized the man who opened the door. Bo was unshaven, and he was wearing jeans and a vest. His stomach bulged like a ship’s fender. He stared at Søren, turned around, and disappeared into the apartment. Søren followed him into a small living room that opened into a laminate kitchen. To the right of the kitchen, an open door led to a room where Søren could see an unmade bed. The curtains were drawn and the television was on in the background.
“What do you want?” Bo scowled. He had sat down on the sofa and lit a cigarette. Before Søren had time to reply, he went on: “I don’t know why you’re here after all this time. But if you’re hoping to be forgiven, you can leave right now. You lost any chance of that when you stopped answering your phone; when I couldn’t get hold of you. Not even at the station. Bastards threatened to get a restraining order against me. A fucking restraining order! If I didn’t stop calling. Like I was the criminal. Ha, if only they knew!”
“I couldn’t bear to hear what had happened. They were dead. I couldn’t bear the details.”
Bo sent him a brief, lost look.
“I wasn’t trying to hassle you, but that was how I was treated. Like a stalker. I just wanted to talk to you. I had just lost my wife and my child. Our child. For fuck’s sake, I just wanted to talk to you!” Bo buried his face in his hands.
“I was a coward,” Søren admitted. “I was wrong.”
A pause followed, then Søren said, “I want to hear it now, please. The details. I want to know why you’re here and they’re not.”
Bo went deathly pale, and started panting.
“Are you saying it’s my fault? You total shit . . .” He made to get up, but his excess weight dragged him back down on the sofa. He accepted his fate and started talking.
“Our hotel room was some distance from the beach, and I woke up that morning when water started coming in under the door. It was total chaos outside. A roof had been ripped off, people were screaming and running away from the beach. I called out for Katrine and headed for the beach. I still didn’t know what had happened, but suddenly I realized I wouldn’t have a chance unless I started running. So that’s what I did. In the opposite direction, away from the coast and up a slope, where I ended up on a hill along with fifty other people. I didn’t want to look down at the bay. I didn’t want to. I lay curled up under a bush, praying they were alive. But my prayers weren’t answered.” He laughed a hollow laugh. “I drank too much wine the night before; we had held an improvised Christmas lunch and I had had too much to drink. My guess is Katrine went down to have breakfast with Maja on the beach when she woke up, so as not to disturb me. They were helpless when the tsunami came. So they died. They were found farther along the beach. That’s what happened, Søren. Happy now? I failed to save them because I was asleep. Because I had a hangover.” Bo retreated into himself.
“I went to the funeral,” Søren said. “I sat in the back.”
“I know, I saw you.”
“Thank you for arranging such a beautiful service. The flowers on their coffins, the silk ribbons and all that.”
Bo said nothing. He looked like he had given up. He eased himself out of the sofa and got another beer. He didn’t offer Søren one. That was all right. Søren’s daughter had died, and he had hidden, like a coward, at the back of the church, convinced that Bo hadn’t seen him. He didn’t deserve a beer. He didn’t deserve anything. A long silence ensued. Bo was staring dully at the television, drinking from the bottle. Søren was numb. When he got up to leave, Bo said: “Guys like you, in their late thirties, going for the big confession, hoping for the grand, all-embracing forgiveness for all their sins, you’re all pathetic.” He hurled the empty bottle into a corner.
“I’ll call you,” Søren said. “I’ll visit.”
“No, you fucking won’t.”
Bo didn’t look up when Søren left. Søren opened the front door. Just as he crossed the threshold, he heard Bo say: “But Maja smiled at me. At me! She never knew who that asshole was.”