I Can See in the Dark

Chapter 15

It’s too light and too hot in summer. The days never end, I can’t stand all this germinating and sprouting and growing. It’s like an unbridled force, a cornucopia without meaning: worms that peer out during wet weather, flies and wasps, ladybirds and lice, moths and daddy-long-legs in the curtains, spiders in the corners, mice in the wall, I can hear them scratching. They swarm, creep or crawl, my thoughts get badly disrupted, and I slowly go mad.

I gradually realised that something was taking shape deep within me. An incomprehensible longing whose contours I was in the process of discerning. I wanted to be something. Become something, mean something, be on everyone’s lips like a bitter pill. It wasn’t enough to wander up and down Løkka’s corridors pinching Nelly Friis, or whispering nasty threats in Waldemar Rommen’s ear. It wasn’t enough. I was a nobody. I was totally insignificant, nothing to look at, nothing to the world at large, eminently forgettable, and this knowledge was insufferable. I wanted people to turn and watch me pass, remember me and speak of me with reverence and respect. This yearning grew big. It filled my heart and head. Cost what it might, I had to make a difference. In some way or other, I had to check nature’s headlong rush.

Like cutting branches off a tree.

Like pouring poison down a well.

It was as if I’d fallen in a river, I was going with the current, as fragments of images flitted past my mind’s eye. Like pennants in a summer breeze. Images of Arnfinn, his glass raised. Images of Oscar falling through the ice, images of Ebba with her crocheting, images of Miranda with her thin ankles. Images of Sister Anna, my angel, my little sugarplum.

If only I had a woman!

I went about observing life and its people, I pulled Nelly’s hair and pinched her behind the ears, and all the while I listened for signals, alertness was vital. I liked strolling past the slumbering houses close to where I lived, I liked going to the park by Lake Mester, preferably in the dark when no one could see me. But I could see. Eyes gleaming in the shrubbery behind the benches, foxes, cats and hares, quivering, darting, orange-coloured creatures. I also registered that the big black man from the Reception Centre frequently occupied a bench at night. He probably got out of a window, and then sat there on the bench glowing like a house on fire. I stood motionless in the bushes and stared at all that strength which no one wanted. There was something genuinely pathetic about him. I’m not a compassionate person, but that massive man touched something deep within me. He was so very big and so very unwanted.

It came to pass just as I’d imagined.

One day there was an impatient ring at the door.

The sound of the bell through the house was so rare that I jumped; but I’d been waiting, I’m no fool, some things are so obvious. I’d dangled a worm, and now the fish had bitten. The bell was a harbinger of something new and different, something resembling an occasion in my uneventful life: I was wanted for something. Arnfinn stood at the top of the steps, faltering and shaky as always. With one hand on the wall to steady himself, he looked at me with beseeching eyes. He’d had to swallow his pride, his need was too great, his dignity had been laid aside, he needed first aid.

‘You wouldn’t happen to have a drink, would you?’ he asked expectantly.

His hopeful enquiry hung in the air between us. I didn’t answer immediately; I liked the situation and I wanted to milk it a bit. So I stood for a while in silence and regarded the pathetic figure, the broken-down man in his windcheater and stout, brown shoes. With his florid face and all his forlorn despair. There was definitely a mutual understanding between us; I felt it clearly as I stood in the open doorway. Deep in his ravaged, drink-sodden brain, Arnfinn had registered that I wanted him for some reason, that he had something I needed. Or, to be more precise, that I had a plan. Even if he didn’t understand my motive, the reward was a few glasses of vodka, and vodka was the only thing that got him from one day to the next. I opened the door wide and led the way into the house, and he scuttled in after me with his rolling gait, found his place on the sofa, right up in the corner and sat there, hunched and clasping his hands in his lap, like some inscrutable riddle. He didn’t remove his windcheater or his shoes, but seated himself as he was. Shabby, unkempt and thirsty. His eyes turned to the cupboard and, just like the last time, it contained a bottle: I’d bought another in case he dropped in, and he’d realised this. But I didn’t hasten across the floor to fetch it. I wanted to wait a bit, I wanted to torment him, at least for a short while. I was like a small boy with a stick, and he was wriggling like a worm.

‘Yes, you’re thirsty, I expect,’ I remarked mildly.

Because I can be extremely friendly when I want to be, and I wanted to be then. I dug into my reserves of goodwill, buried deep within me, and which on rare occasions I require.

He dropped his gaze immediately. And coughed to clear his throat.

‘I was in the area,’ he said. ‘It was too good an opportunity not to visit. For a chat, I mean. If that’s not too much to ask. But perhaps your cupboard’s empty anyway? I don’t want to cadge,’ he maintained. ‘Well, it was only a thought, I don’t want to be a nuisance. But you know how it is, you understand people, I knew that the first moment I set eyes on you.’

He was silent for a long time after expressing this piece of flattery. He was sitting right on the edge of the sofa, twining his fingers. Just as scruffy and dishevelled as always, with his heavy, stooped body, and for an instant I felt contempt, that he couldn’t lift himself out of his state and make something of himself, contribute something to society. But then, deep down, I had a liking for him, with his quiet, modest demeanour. There was something honest and decent about his simple existence that I valued. And, after all, I’d already begun tapping those reserves of goodwill. For a while we sat there in silence. I could see that he was struggling with his thoughts, that he was trying to put them into words, that he actually had something he wanted to say. His eyes wandered over to the Advent Star in the window, and it brought a wan smile to his solemn face.

Then his eyes settled on the cupboard once more, in the hope that I might have a bottle, and I saw the yearning like a light in those dark eyes. But he bit it back, clinging to the last shred of his dignity: he wanted me to do the offering. I would, too. Soon, once he’d sat there and stewed for a bit.

‘I want to tell you something,’ he began, fixing me with his gaze. ‘Just so you know how things really stand. I’ll tell you about something that happened a very long time ago. To a small boy. Who I know a bit about. That is, if you want to hear it.’

‘I want to hear,’ I said. ‘Fire away.’

I sat still and listened attentively, noticing all the while how his eyes constantly darted towards the cupboard.

‘He was about six years old,’ Arnfinn began. ‘Well, five or six, knee-high, you know, with skinny legs. He was in bed asleep one summer night, with the window open. He slept alone. He had no brothers or sisters, so it was just him. Before he went to sleep he heard the trees outside, there was a bit of a breeze, you know what I mean, rustling in the treetops, the way that tends to make us sleepy. He was lying with his back to the window and he couldn’t hear anything except the trees. At last his eyes closed. Well, don’t ask me if he dreamt, because I don’t know. All I know is that the big house was completely quiet. And that his mother was sleeping in the room next door.’

Arnfinn paused. He thought for a moment and scratched his chin.

‘In the middle of the night he awoke with a terrified scream.’

‘Why?’ I wanted to know. ‘What had happened?’

‘He screamed,’ Arnfinn repeated. ‘It reverberated through the house. And his mother was up in an instant, running to his room. Switched on the light. Stood staring at him as he lay beneath the duvet. And you know, he was as white as the sheets he lay in. “What’s the matter?” his mother asked. “Why did you scream? My God, you made me jump!”

‘The boy pointed to the foot of the bed. “There’s a snake under the duvet,” he said. Or rather, I should say he whispered it, because she could only just hear what he said. But she almost collapsed with relief. She was expecting something different, you see. This was something she understood. And then she assumed the look the boy knew so well, the sympathetic look, you know. And it was quite a resigned look too, because he had a lively imagination. Perhaps she thought, kids are kids, and they do say funny things. “You’re having a nightmare,” she said. “Now, wake up!” She patted him consolingly on the cheek. Then she pulled the duvet off him.’

Arnfinn wrung his hands so hard in his lap that his finger joints cracked.

‘She pulled the duvet off,’ he said. ‘And there between the boy’s thin legs lay a huge snake.’

Then he stopped again and nodded.

‘A huge snake,’ he repeated.

‘You’re joking,’ I interjected.

‘I never joke,’ said Arnfinn. ‘What would I do that for? It was a snake and it was enormous. Not one of those little ones. It was enormous. It had twisted itself into a great coil. It was black, with a sort of yellowish-grey, speckled pattern, thick as a grown man’s arm, and as long as a wet week. His mother could make out its head between the boy’s knees, its nasty, flat head. Have you seen a snake close up? They’re as ugly as sin, I’m sure you’ll agree. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was touch that snake, but she bloody well had to, because the boy was completely hysterical. So she grabbed hold of the huge thing and yanked. And you know,’ said Arnfinn, ‘when we’re frightened, we’re tremendously strong. The snake crashed to the floor with a horrible sound and quickly slid under the bed and coiled up. Then she grabbed the boy and fled from the room. Rang the police and sat waiting with the boy on her lap. When they came they weren’t too keen either, once they saw the horrible creature under the bed. But they had to do something. They put on protective gloves and hauled the snake out, shoved the monstrous thing into a sack. Then they drove off with the snake in the back of the car. Well, what do you think?’

Arnfinn sank back on the sofa. He’d obviously finished his story and seemed tired.

‘Very good,’ I said calmly. ‘Is there a point to it?’

‘There certainly is a point,’ said Arnfinn. ‘That snake had escaped from one of the neighbouring houses, where a man had been keeping it as a pet. Then it got in through the open window and was attracted to the warmth under the duvet on the boy’s bed. Ever since that night, he’s found it extremely hard to sleep. He’s nearly sixty now, and he’s still got problems sleeping.’

Here Arnfinn paused for a while. He was waiting for me to say something; it was probably my turn.

‘So, was it you?’ I asked, and now my interest was genuine, because the story about the snake was both compelling and a bit exotic.

‘You asked me why I drink,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t take much. That’s all I’m trying to say.’

‘Did you find a snake in your bed?’ I wanted to know. ‘When you were a boy. Is it a true story?’

‘I have problems sleeping,’ he repeated mulishly.

He gesticulated with open hands. He’d clearly given me what he had to give, and now at last I went to the cupboard and fetched the bottle of vodka. I poured a stiff one and pushed it towards him.

‘It’s none of my business why you drink,’ I said generously. ‘And it’s none of your business why I do the things I do. But people always want to go round rubbing shoulders with each other. Confiding, understanding, explaining. Let’s skip all that, shall we? We’re grown-ups after all.’

Arnfinn raised the glass of vodka to his mouth, and now he looked blissful.

‘But you’ve probably got a tale to tell, too,’ he suggested. ‘About a small boy.’

I shook my head emphatically. At the same time I saw how Arnfinn’s face softened and turned gentle and friendly.

‘I’ve never been a small boy,’ I explained.

Arnfinn chuckled good-naturedly. His body had become loose and relaxed, and he rocked as he sat on the sofa. He was migrating into those bright, shining halls again.

‘Never been a small boy,’ he mimicked. ‘Now I’ve heard everything.’

‘I haven’t a single childhood memory,’ I explained.

He was a little taken aback by my obstinacy.

‘Were you ill or something?’ he wanted to know.

‘As I said,’ I reiterated, ‘I can’t remember very much at all. Apart from a little shit at school who called me a pike. Well, and I do remember my confirmation. And everything in between is missing. It’s simply missing.’

Arnfinn’s eyes opened wide in amazement.

‘But I do have a memory,’ I added. ‘Of my mother. A skirt with two legs. And a pair of big shoes. Everything further up passed me by. Hands. Heart. Head. I mean, they were there all right, but I never managed to get hold of them. D’you know what she used to say? You’re always strongest when you’re on your own. That was the way I was raised.’

‘Yes, it’s just one unending bloody struggle,’ Arnfinn opined, but his tone was jocular now, the vodka had made him happy and turned his cheeks red. ‘My bodywork’s in terrible condition,’ he went on, ‘ugly, dented and rusty. But my heart ticks over like an old Opel engine. I bet that when my chassis has fallen to pieces, that motor will still be humming along. I get my strong heart from my mother. My God, how it beats.’

He placed a hand on his chest and cocked his head.

‘And what do you get from your father?’ I wanted to know.

Arnfinn pondered the question for a long time.

‘This here,’ he said, raising his glass. ‘He drank himself to death. Mind if I refill my hip flask?’