The Redbreast(119)

‘They’ve got Banana Split à la Szechuan,’ she

said.

‘Order two.’

‘I’ll miss you too,’ she said and her eyes found

the next page of the menu.

‘How much?’

She shrugged.

He repeated the question. And watched her take a

breath. She was poised to speak, but let the air out.

Then she started again. In the end it came.

‘Sorry, Harry, but right now there’s only space

for one man in my life. A little man of six.’

It felt like having a bucket of freezing cold water

poured over your head.

‘Come on,’ Harry said. ‘I can’t be that wrong.’

She raised her eyes from the menu with a

quizzical expression on her face.

‘You and me,’ Harry said, leaning across the

table. ‘Here, this evening. We’re flirting. We’re

having fun. But we want more than that. You want

more than that.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Not perhaps. Absolutely certain. You want

everything.’

‘So what.’

‘ So what? You have to tell me, that’s what,

Rakel. I’m off to some dump in southern Sweden in

a few days’ time. I’m not a spoiled man. I just want

to know if I have anything to come back to in the

autumn.’

Their eyes met and this time he held her gaze. For

a long time. She finally put down the menu.

‘I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be like this. I know

this will sound strange, but . . . the alternative

won’t work.’

‘What alternative?’

‘Doing what I feel like doing. Taking you home

and taking off all your clothes and making love to

you all night.’

She whispered the last part softly and quickly. As

if it were something she had wanted to wait until

the very last minute to say, but when it had to be

said, it had to be said exactly like that. Blunt and

unadorned.

‘What about one more night?’ Harry said.‘What

about several nights? What about tomorrow night

and the night after that and next week and . . . ?’

‘Stop it!’ She had an angry line over the bridge of

her nose. ‘You have to understand, Harry. It won’t

work.’

‘Right.’ Harry flicked out a cigarette and lit it. He

allowed her to stroke his chin, his mouth. The

gentle touch ran like an electric shock along his

nerve fibres, leaving a dull pain.

‘It’s not you, Harry. For a while I thought I might

be able to do it again. I’ve been through all the

arguments. Two adults. No one else involved.

Non-committal and simple. And a man I feel more

for than anyone since . . . since Oleg’s father.

That’s why it won’t stop with just the once. And

that . . . that is no good.’

She fell silent.

‘Is it because Oleg’s father is an alcoholic?’

‘Why do you ask about that?’

‘I don’t know. It could explain why you don’t

want to get involved with me. Not that you need to

have been with another alkie to know that I’m not a

good catch, but . . .’

She rested her hand on his.

‘You’re a good catch, Harry. It’s not that.’

‘So what is it then?’

‘This is the last time. That’s what it is. We won’t

meet again.’

Her eyes rested on him. And he saw it now. They

weren’t tears of laughter gleaming in the corners of

her eyes.

‘And the rest of the story?’ he asked, trying to

force a smile. ‘Is that like everything else in POT,

on a need-to-know basis?’

She nodded.

The waiter came to their table, but must have

sensed his timing was off and went away again.

She opened her mouth to say something. Harry

could see that she was on the verge of tears. She

bit her lower lip. Then she put the napkin down on

the tablecloth, shoved her chair back, stood up

without a word and left. Harry remained, sitting

and staring at the napkin. She must have been

squeezing it in her hand for some time, he mused,

because it was crumpled up into a ball. He

watched it slowly unfold like a white paper

flower.

67

Halvorsen’s Flat. 6 May 2000.

WHEN HALVORSEN WAS WOKEN BY THE TELEPHONE

RINGING, the luminous figures on the digital alarm

clock showed 1.30 a.m.

‘Hole speaking. Were you asleep?’

‘Nope,’ Halvorsen said, without the slightest idea

why he should lie.

‘I had a couple of things on my mind, about

Sverre Olsen.’

From the breathing and the traffic in the

background it sounded as if Harry was out

walking.

‘I know what you want to know,’ Halvorsen

said.‘Sverre Olsen bought a pair of combat boots

at Top Secret in Henrik Ibsens gate. They