Punishment aka What Is Mine

FORTY-TWO

I don’t know how you manage it all,” exclaimed Bente, enthusiastically. “That was so good!”

Kristiane was asleep. She was normally restless when Johanne was expecting guests. In the early afternoon, she would already have long periods during which it was impossible to talk to her. She would roam from room to room, wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t sleep. But tonight she had fallen into bed, exhausted, with Sulamit under one arm and Jack, dribbling with delight, under the other. The King of America had changed Kristiane, Johanne had to admit. This morning her daughter had slept until half past seven.

“Recipe,” said Kristin, swallowing. “I must get the recipe.”

“There isn’t one,” said Johanne. “I just made it up.”

The wine was good. It was half past nine on Wednesday night. Her head felt light. Her shoulders didn’t ache. The girls around the table were talking over each other. Only Tone had said she couldn’t come; she didn’t dare leave the children alone, given the situation. Especially after today.

“She’s always so damned worried,” said Bente, and spilled some wine on the tablecloth. “Those children do have a father. Ooops! Salt! Mineral water! Tone is so… so hysterical about everything. I mean, we can’t just hole ourselves up simply because there’s a monster on the loose!”

“They’ll catch him now,” said Lina. “Now they know who he is. He won’t be able to hide forever. He won’t get far. Did you see that the police have issued a wanted poster with a photo and everything? Don’t waste all the mineral water!”

Adam hadn’t called. Not since Johanne had ignored the ringing phone the night before last. She couldn’t decide whether she was upset or not. She didn’t know why she didn’t want to speak to him. Then. But not now. He could call now. He could come around, in a few hours, when the girls had finished giggling and tottered out of the apartment. Then Adam could come. They could sit at the kitchen table and eat leftovers and drink milk. He could borrow the shower and an old football shirt from the States. Johanne could look at his arms as he leaned over, supporting himself on the table; the shirt was short-sleeved and he had fair hair on his arms, as if it was already summer.

“… isn’t that right?”

Johanne smiled suddenly.

“What?”

“They’ll catch him, isn’t that right?”

“How should I know?”

“But that guy,” Lina insisted. “The one I met here on Saturday. Doesn’t he work for the police? Isn’t that what you said? Yes… something to do with the NCIS!”

“Aren’t we actually here to talk about a book?” said Johanne, and went out to the kitchen to get more wine; the ladies had brought far too much with them, as usual.

“Which you, of course, haven’t read,” said Lina.

“I haven’t either,” said Bente. “I just haven’t had the time. Sorry.”

“Nor have I,” admitted Kristin. “If that salt is going to have any effect you have to rub it into the material, like this!”

She leaned over the table and stuck her index finger into the mix of salt and mineral water.

“Why do we call this a book group…”

Lina held the book up accusingly.

“… when I’m the only one who reads? Tell me, is that what happens when you have children? You lose the ability to read?”

“You lose time,” Bente slurred. “Time, Lina. That’s what dishapearsh.”

“You know what, that really annoys me,” Lina started. “You always talk as if the only important thing in… As if the minute you have children, you’re allowed to…”

“Can’t you tell us a bit about the book instead?” Johanne suggested swiftly. “I am interested. Honestly. I read all of Asbjørn Revheim when I was younger. In fact, I’d thought about buying a copy of… what’s it called?”

She grabbed the book. Lina snatched it back.

“Revheim. An Account of a Suicide Forewarned,” read Halldis. “And by the way, you didn’t ask me. I have in fact read it.”

“Horrible,” said Bente. “You haven’t got shildren, Halldis.”

“Appropriate title,” said Lina, still with an offended undertone. “You can feel the death wish in nearly everything he wrote. Yes, a yearning for death.”

“Sounds like a thriller,” said Kristin. “Should we just take the tablecloth off?”

Bente had spilled again. Instead of pouring on more salt, she had attempted to cover the red spot with her napkin. The glass had not been picked up. A red stain was flourishing under the paper napkin.

“Forget it,” said Johanne, lifting up the glass. “Doesn’t matter. When did he die?”

“In 1983. I can actually remember it.”

“Mmm. Me too. It was quite a novel way to take your own life.”

“To put it mildly.”

“Tell me,” said Bente, subdued.

“Maybe you should have some more mineral water.”

Kristin got some more mineral water from the kitchen. Bente scratched at the stain she’d made. Lina poured some more wine. Halldis was looking through Asbjørn Revheim’s biography.

Johanne felt content.

She had barely had the energy to do more than whizz through the apartment with a vacuum cleaner, stuff Kristiane’s things into the large box in her room, and wash the tub. It had taken half an hour to make the food. She really hadn’t felt like it, but she’d kept to the agreement. The girls were having a good time. Even Bente was smiling happily under her drooping eyelids. Johanne could go into work late tomorrow morning. She could putter about with Kristiane for a couple of hours and take it easy. She was glad to see the girls and didn’t protest when Kristin filled her glass again.

“I’ve heard that everyone who commits suicide is actually in a state of acute psychosis,” said Lina.

“What rubbish!” said Halldis.

“No, it’s true!”

“That you’ve heard it, perhaps. But it’s not true.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Could well be true in Asbjørn Revheim’s case,” said Johanne. “On the other hand, the man had tried several times. Do you think he was psychotic every time?”

“He’sh insane,” mumbled Bente. “Absholutely raving mad.”

“That’s not the same as psychotic,” Kristin argued. “I know a couple of people I would describe as raving mad. But I’ve never met anyone who’s psychotic.”

“My bosh is a psychopath,” said Bente, too loud. “He’s evil. Evil.”

“Here’s a bit more mineral water for you,” said Lina, passing her a big bottle.

“Psychopath and psychotic are not the same thing, Bente. Have any of you read Sunken City, Rising Ocean?”

They all nodded, except Bente.

“It came out just after the trial,” said Johanne. “Isn’t that right? And also…”

“Isn’t that the one where he describes the suicide,” Kristin interrupted. “Even though it was written many, many years before he actually took his own life… Doesn’t bear thinking about, really.”

Her shudder was exaggerated.

“But wha’ then?” said Bente. “Can you not jusht tell me wha’ happened?”

No one said anything. Johanne started to clear the table. Everyone had had enough.

“I think maybe we should talk about something a bit more pleasant,” said Halldis, tactfully. “What are your plans for the summer?”

It was past one in the morning when her friends finally stumbled out the door. Bente had been asleep for two hours and seemed confused by the notion of going home. Halldis had promised to get the taxi to drive via Blindern, and she would make sure that Bente got safely to bed. Johanne aired the apartment thoroughly. The smoking ban had been lifted for the past hour, but she couldn’t quite remember who had made the decision. She put out four saucers full of vinegar. Then she went out onto the terrace.

It was the second hour of the first day of June. A deep blue early summer light was visible in the west; it wouldn’t get truly dark again now for a couple of months. The air was crisp, but it was still possible to stand outside without a coat. Johanne leaned against the flower boxes. A pansy drooped its head.

In the course of three days she had talked about Asbjørn Revheim twice. To be fair, Asbjørn Revheim was one of the most important people in Norwegian literature, in modern Norwegian history, for that matter. In 1971 or 1972, she couldn’t remember for sure, he’d been sentenced for writing a blasphemous, obscene novel, several years after the parody of a case against Jens Bjørneboe that should have warned the authorities against interfering with literature. Revheim didn’t just lie down and take it; he hit back with Sunken City, Rising Ocean a couple of years later. A more obscene and blasphemous book had never been printed in Norway, before or since. Some said it was worthy of the Nobel Prize for Literature. But most people felt that the man deserved another round in the courts. However, the prosecuting authorities had learned their lesson; the Director General of Public Prosecutions admitted many years later that he had in fact never read the book.

Revheim was an important author. But he was dead and had been for a long time. Johanne couldn’t remember the last time she had thought about the man, let alone talked about him. When the biography was published the autumn before, it had caused quite a stir, but she hadn’t even bought it. Revheim wrote books that meant something to her when she was younger. He meant nothing to her today, to her life as it was now.

Twice in three days.

Anders Mohaug’s mother believed that Anders was somehow involved in the murder of little Hedvig in 1956. Anders Mohaug was retarded. He was easily led and hung around with Asbjørn Revheim.

That would be too simple, thought Johanne. That is just too simple.

She was cold, but didn’t want to go in. The wind tugged at her shirt sleeves. She should buy some new clothes. The other girls looked much younger than she did. Even Bente, who smoked thirty cigarettes a day and would soon need treatment for her alcoholism that was no longer a joke, looked better than Johanne. More trendy, at least. Lina had given up taking her shopping ages ago.

It would be too simple.

And in any case, who would want to protect Asbjørn Revheim from persecution and punishment?

He was only sixteen in 1956, she thought, and filled her lungs with night air; she wanted to clear her head before she went to bed.

But in 1965? When Anders Mohaug died and his mother went to the police? When Aksel Seier was released without any comment other than that he should be happy?

Asbjørn Revheim would have been twenty-five by then and was already an established author. Two books, as far as she could remember. Already established, after only two books. Both had caused passionate debate. Revheim was seen as a threat at the time. He wasn’t someone people would want to protect.

Johanne was still holding the biography. She looked down at it, stroked the cover. Lina had insisted that she keep it. It was a good picture. Revheim’s face was narrow, but masculine. He had an open smile. Almost arrogant. His eyes were small, with astonishingly long lashes.

She went in but left the door to the terrace open. A whiff of vinegar teased her nose. She found herself feeling disappointed that Adam hadn’t called. When she got into bed, she decided to start reading the book. But before her head even hit the pillow, she was fast asleep.