Death Sentence

11

FINN HAD GIVEN me some complimentary tickets for the book fair.

Over time it had become a ritual that I would visit my parents and present them with two. They expected it. Not because they were short of money. They were both retired, had generous pensions and considerable equity in their bungalow in Valby and their holiday cottage in Marielyst. Even so, they refused to pay the modest entrance fee to the book fair and at times felt the need to remind me of this several months in advance. They also expected me to deliver the tickets in person as I was in town anyway, a tradition we had observed for many years. It was now the only occasion I saw them, once a year for dinner, red wine and conversations about books, the safest topic we could think of.

My father, Niels, used to teach and his interest in literature stemmed from that. My mother, Hanne, had carried on the family tradition and qualified as a doctor at a relatively young age. They read many books in her family. I remember my grandparents had a large library in their villa in Hellerup with hardback classics from floor to ceiling, deep-pile carpets on the floors and soft leather furniture we children weren’t allowed to play on.

It was my parents’ interest in literature that brought them together. They met at a poetry reading at Regensen Hall of Residence in central Copenhagen. They were both students and as far as my mother was concerned choosing my father was probably an act of rebellion. My mother’s family were most unimpressed by Niels. They had hoped their daughter would meet a fellow doctor or a professor, an intellectual kindred spirit who could join in dinner party conversations. Niels was the first person in his family to have undertaken more than compulsory education and it took several years before his in-laws accepted him. His knowledge of literature helped, but the turning point was when he provided them with grandchildren.

My parents’ interest in books didn’t extend to mine. I always gave them a signed copy of every new book I wrote, but they never read it. ‘Not really our thing,’ they would say if I was dumb enough to ask if they had had a look at it. They had made an effort to read my early works, of course, but their only comment was that they thought they ‘were a bit too old for that kind of thing’. They may well have been, but I think the rub was that they always regretted I didn’t have a ‘proper’ job. As my first two books were so poorly received, they had hoped I would give up. This resulted in numerous clashes, and matters finally came to a head one evening some months after my wedding when Line and I were visiting. When my parents yet again hinted that a career change was long overdue, I stormed out in anger. I had no contact with my parents for a long time after that, despite Line’s attempts at reconciliation. If she hadn’t become pregnant and insisted on resuming the relationship for the sake of the child, I would probably never have seen them again.

I took a taxi to Valby. It was late in the afternoon and the sun hung so low in the horizon that the driver had to put on sunglasses. I always sit in the back. This usually signals to the driver that I don’t want to talk, but this driver didn’t take the hint and chatted away about the weather, sport and the latest headlines. I didn’t need to say very much, he managed the conversation all on his own, but still I found it a little irritating. When I arrived at my parents’ bungalow, I wasn’t in the best of moods, and the prospect of spending an evening with Niels and Hanne did nothing to improve it. I didn’t tip the taxi driver.

My mother’s welcome was profuse and Niels handed me a very dry martini almost before I had time to take off my jacket. They had aged considerably in the past year. Hanne’s hair was now completely white, the wrinkles around her eyes were more deep-set and the skin of her face looked slacker. My father’s bald patch had spread. Only a band of hair at the sides and at the back of his head remained, but it actually suited him. It struck me that I might not have them for very much longer and I decided to make sure tonight was a good evening.

The reason for their ebullient mood turned out to be that they had booked their dream holiday to Thailand. Six weeks, leaving just after the New Year, with boat trips, temple visits and elephant safari all included. Since their retirement they had spent a considerable amount of their money on travelling. They had lived much of their lives through books and I was delighted that they now got to see the world for themselves while they still had the chance.

The most bizarre feature of visiting my parents is that they’re still in contact with Line and their grandchildren, my children. I’m always stunned when I see photographs of them on the walls. I know their lives don’t stand still either, but I sometimes forget and the sight of Line and the girls jolts me like an electric shock. It’s unreal to see the change from year to year. People I had once been so close to are transformed. The girls grow with terrifying speed and Line ages with infinite grace. They always look so happy in the photographs and my heart feels heavy. Sometimes Bjørn, Line’s new husband, features, and every time it makes me wonder if the girls call him Dad, a thought that feels like a punch to the guts.

The first few years after the divorce my parents would hide the pictures when I visited, but there were clear outlines on the wall where they had been. In time I think they forgot and later they might have expected me to have got over it. I suppose I did, but I always felt sad when I saw the photographs and wished that things were different.

And this year, too, they had new photographs, ones taken at their holiday cottage in Marielyst this summer, only a month or two ago. One photo was particularly successful. It showed the two girls with Line in the middle. All three wore white summer dresses and the younger, Mathilde, is crowning Line’s head with a home-made garland. The older, Veronika, is grinning at the camera. She has grown so big. Thirteen, or is it fourteen now? She has her mother’s smile.

‘Great photos,’ I said, taking a sip of my drink.

Hanne was in the kitchen preparing the dinner. Niels was sitting in his armchair.

‘Yes,’ he said, tentatively. ‘I’ve got one of those digital cameras.’

‘Are they all right?’

‘Oh, yes, yes,’ he replied. ‘They’re fine.’

I leaned towards a photograph to study Mathilde’s face.

‘Do they ever ask after me?’ I asked as casually as I could manage.

‘Oh, Frank, I don’t know,’ my father said, squirming. ‘Why don’t you ask your mother? I don’t talk to them about that. I’m the one who reads stories or plays croquet with them.’

An uncomfortable silence descended until I asked about his new camera and then Niels spoke eagerly about his new acquisition and its many splendid features. I found it hard to take my eyes off the photographs and most of what he said went over my head.

Over dinner we talked about their forthcoming trip and about books. They had already planned which talks and interviews to attend at the book fair and they expected to buy their travel literature at the same time. We swapped recommendations of books we had read in the course of the past year and my father had a rant about the standard of literature teaching in schools today.

I was happy that books were once again an item for discussion rather than something that led to murder and mutilation in the real world. Along with the roast beef, my concerns about Mona Weis were washed down with a good Barolo, another one of my parents’ retirement investments, and I think we all became rather drunk. A couple of generous brandies with the pudding only added to that.

My father cleared the table and started washing up. This had become the division of labour in their home and he seemed to enjoy it. They wouldn’t hear of buying a dishwasher, not because they were stingy or wouldn’t know how to operate it, but because my father actually looked forward to washing up on his own.

Hanne and I stayed at the table. We both had brandy left in our glasses and were too full to get up. The topics of travelling and books had eventually been exhausted and a pause in our conversation occurred.

‘They look great, the girls,’ I said, breaking the silence.

My mother smiled. ‘Yes, they are lovely,’ she said. ‘They spent a week with us this summer at the Manor House.’

‘Are they all right?’

‘Yes, but they’re so tall now.’ She giggled. ‘They grow up so fast.’

I sniffed my brandy. The alcohol tickled my nostrils. ‘Do they ask after me?’

Her smile faded and she looked up. ‘Please don’t start that, darling,’ she said with a pleading expression in her eyes.

I shrugged. ‘I just want to know,’ I said calmly. ‘Have they forgotten me?’

‘Of course they haven’t forgotten you, Frank.’

‘Do they ask after me?’ I repeated in a slightly harsher tone of voice.

‘Please don’t.’

‘Just give it to me straight.’

She gave me a searching look and I smiled back.

‘Yes, sometimes they ask after you,’ she said eventually, and sighed. ‘Especially the older one. But surely you can imagine what it’s like to be a teenager and have a stepdad …’

‘Is anything—’

‘Bjørn is a good dad,’ Hanne interrupted me firmly. ‘It’s just the usual teenage rebellion.’

We both drank our brandy.

‘So, what do you tell her?’ I asked.

‘Stop it, Frank.’

‘I just want to know what you tell my daughter when she asks about her dad,’ I said, raising my voice. ‘You do answer her, don’t you?’

‘Frank …’

‘Or do you just clam up?’ My rage flared up, fuelled by the alcohol. ‘Is Daddy someone you don’t mention in polite society?’

Hanne shook her head. Her eyes were welling up.

‘So what is it? Do you tell her I’ve gone away?’

‘Frank, darling …’

‘Am I dead?’ I laughed bitterly.

‘Take it easy, son,’ said my father, who had entered from the kitchen. He was wearing a stripy apron and drying his hands on a tea towel. He looked like someone who wanted to get back to washing up as soon as possible.

I rose and threw up my hands in what I hoped was a disarming gesture.

‘I just want to know what you tell my daughter.’

The tears were rolling down Hanne’s cheeks.

I failed to see why. After all, she wasn’t cut off from her children, as I was. She could see my daughters whenever she wanted to, play with them, comfort them, sing to them, spoil them rotten if she felt like it.

I banged my fist on the table and they both jumped.

‘What do you tell them?’

‘We tell them you’re ill!’ Hanne shouted.

I stared at her.

‘What do you want us to do?’ she continued. ‘You are ill, Frank. You need help. What else do we say? She’s old enough to know what a court order is.’ She buried her face in her hands.

Niels placed his hands on her shoulders and gave me an accusatory look.

‘Was that really necessary?’ he said and shook his head.

I stared at my fists. They were trembling. I grabbed my glass and knocked back the rest of the brandy before I marched to the hall, snatched my jacket and the plastic bag from my publishers and left. Neither of them tried to stop me.

The road was dark and deserted. I walked briskly to the high street where I soon found a taxi. I threw the bag on the back seat and snarled the address of the hotel at the hapless driver. Wisely, he decided to keep quiet.

I looked through the window as the streets rushed past. The anger was still boiling inside me and I could feel tears pressing.

I turned my attention to the bag and peered inside it. There was a small pile of letters and a parcel. I pulled out the parcel and held it up to the window so the streetlight fell on it.

My heart started pounding.

In my hands, I held a yellow envelope with a white address label bearing my name. It was thick enough to contain a book.