The Redbreast(180)

How are you?’

‘Isaiah? This is a surprise.’

‘Is it? I’m ringing to thank you, Harry.’

‘Thank me for what?’

‘For not starting anything?’

‘Starting what?’

‘You know what I mean, Harry. For not starting

any diplomatic moves for a reprieve or anything

like that.’

Harry didn’t answer. He had been half expecting

this call for a while. The sitting position wasn’t

comfortable any longer. Andreas Hochner’s

begging eyes were suddenly present. And

Constance Hochner’s imploring voice: Do you

promise to do what you can, Mr Hole?

‘Harry?’

‘I’m still here.’

‘The sentence was passed yesterday.’

Harry stared at the picture of Sis on the wall. It

had been an unusually warm summer that year,

hadn’t it? They had gone swimming even when it

was raining. He felt an inexpressible sadness wash

over him.

‘Death penalty?’ he heard himself ask.

‘With no right of appeal.’

107

Schrøder’s. 2 June 2000.

‘WHAT ARE YOU DOING THIS SUMMER, HARRY?’

Maja was counting up the change.

‘I don’t know. We’ve talked about hiring a chalet

somewhere here in Norway. Teach the boy to

swim and all that.’

‘I didn’t know you had any children.’

‘No, well, it’s a long story.’

‘Really? Hope I get to hear it one day.’

‘We’ll see, Maja. Keep the change.’

Maja performed a deep curtsey and went off with

a wry grin on her face. It was empty in the café for

a Friday afternoon. The heat had probably sent

most people up to the terrace restaurant in St

Hanshaugen.

‘Well?’ Harry said.

The old man stared down into his glass without

answering. ‘He’s dead. Aren’t you happy, Åsnes?’

The Mohican raised his head and looked at

Harry. ‘Who’s dead?’ he said. ‘No one’s dead.

Just me. I’m the last of the dead.’

Harry sighed, stuffed the newspaper under his

arm and walked out into the shimmering afternoon

heat.