Burned

Chapter 45

Henning can no longer see the man across the street. He didn’t get a proper look at him, but he noticed that the man was short and compact. He was bald, too, and he wasn’t an ethnic Norwegian, he was a little more dark-skinned. He wore shorts and a white, open-necked, short-sleeved shirt with some sort of print on it, but it was hard to take everything in during the brief moment he looked at him. And now, the man has gone.

Henning calls his mother as he walks. Her telephone rings. It rings for a long time. He starts to worry. He tells himself that her mobility isn’t that bad, only that she needs time to move from one point to another if she gets a coughing fit.

He lets the telephone ring and ring. Perhaps she is cross and is leaving it to ring deliberately because she wants him to feel bad. That usually works. And it’s working now. For God’s sake, Mum, he says to himself. Pick up, please.

He crosses the road at the top of Toyengata. He stares at the pavement, trying to look inconspicuous. He can feel his heart beat faster and faster under his shirt. For God’s sake, Mum, he thinks again and speeds up. His legs protest, but he has already made up his mind to visit her. If she isn’t answering her telephone, he needs to hurry up. He looks around as he walks, but it is chaos, there are people everywhere, cars, taxis; he sees them, but he doesn’t see them. He has a constant feeling that someone is watching him, following him, He smells something sharp and spicy. He passes a video shop at the entrance to Gronland Underground Station and just as he is about to hang up, the telephone is answered. But there is no reply.

‘Mum?’ he whispers. He doubts that his voice can be heard through the noise from the station, but he can hear her breathing, or her attempts to breathe.

Nothing is wrong. No new disasters, at any rate. He can hear that she is angry — without her saying anything. That’s the strange thing about her. She can give a whole lecture without uttering a single word. A glance, a sigh, a grunt or a turn of her head is enough. Christine Juul has a whole arsenal of feelings or opinions which are never spoken. She is like Streken, the children’s television character whose background changes colour depending on what mood he is in.

Nothing good ever happens to Streken.

‘Are you there?’ he continues.

A snort.

Precisely.

‘How are you, Mum?’ he says, realising the pointlessness of his question immediately.

‘Why are you calling?’ she grunts.

‘I just wanted to — ’

‘I’m out of milk.’

‘Eh — ’

‘And I need more cigarettes.’

He doesn’t know why he waits for her to tell him that he needs to go to the off-licence as well, because she never does, she just lets it hang like an invisible bridge between his telephone and hers, as if she expects him to understand without the need for her to say so. And he does. Perhaps that’s why.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll come and see you soon. I don’t know if I can manage it today, because I’ve a lot on, but it won’t be long. And another thing, Mum. Don’t open your door to strangers. Okay?’

‘Why would I want to open the door? I never get any visitors.’

‘But if someone were to ring the bell, and it isn’t me or Trine, then don’t open the door.’

‘You both have keys.’

‘Yes, but you — ’

‘And I need a new magazine.’

‘I — ’

‘And some sugar. I’m out of sugar.’

‘Okay. See you soon.’

Click.