The Blind Goddess

MONDAY 9 NOVEMBER

The paintings hung on the walls in dense profusion. It made for a pleasing impression, even though they did rather overpower one another. She recognised some of the signatures. Well-known artists. One rainy evening she had offered the proprietor a tidy sum for an almost metre-square picture of Olaf Ryes Plass. It was painted in watercolours, but was not like any watercolour she had ever seen: it looked as if it had been done on brown paper which had not absorbed the paint. It was rough and violent, full of urban life and vigour. In the background you could see the block where she lived. But the painting hadn’t been for sale.

The tables were too close together, which was the only annoying aspect of the place. It was difficult to conduct a private conversation when the neighbouring table was in such close proximity. There weren’t many customers on a Monday; it was so quiet that they’d rejected the table to which they’d been ushered and insisted on one at the other side of the room. For the moment there were no fellow diners next to them.

The black oilcloth that covered the table was in elegant contrast to the white damask napkins, and the wineglasses were perfect, with no fussy adornment. The wine itself was superb; she had to give him credit for his selection.

“You don’t give up,” said Karen Borg with a smile after tasting it.

“No, I’m not renowned for surrendering, at least not to beautiful women!”

It would have been banal, even rather impertinent, coming from anyone else. But Peter Strup made it sound like a compliment, and she realised-not without a degree of self-reproach-that she felt gratified by it.

“I couldn’t say no to a written invitation,” Karen replied. “It’s years since I last had such a thing.”

The invitation had been on top of her pile of mail that very day. An ochre-coloured card of quality paper from Alvøen, deckle-edged and headed in fine print: Peter Strup, High Court Barrister.

The text itself was handwritten, in a manly but neat and legible hand. It was a humble request to meet him for dinner at a particular restaurant, considerately enough only two blocks away from where she lived. The time proposed was that same evening, and he had ended by writing:

This is an invitation in the best sense. With your polite rejection fresh in my mind, I leave it to you whether to accept. You don’t need to let me know, but if you come, I’ll be there at 7 p.m. If you choose not to, I promise you’ll hear no more from me-at least not on this matter!

He had signed off with his first name, like an American gesture of familiarity. It seemed a bit presumptuous, but only in this one respect. The note itself was tasteful, and gave her a free choice. She could turn up if she felt so inclined. She did. But before finally deciding she rang Håkon.

It was over a fortnight since she’d asked him to keep his distance. Since then she’d been wavering between a fierce desire to phone him and panic at what had happened. It had been the best night of her life. It threatened everything she had, and showed her that there was something inside her that couldn’t be controlled, tempting her out of the secure existence she was so dependent on. She didn’t want to have an affair on the side, nor did she want a separation, under any circumstances. The only rational conclusion was that Håkon had to be held at bay. But at the same time she was sick with desire and had lost several kilos in weight while striving towards a decision whose ramifications she still could not envisage.

“It’s Karen,” she said when she finally got through to him at the third attempt.

He gulped so hard that he started coughing. She could hear him moving the receiver away, but what she couldn’t hear was that the cough and the excitement at her call had made him vomit, and he had to grab the wastepaper bin. The bitter taste was still burning his mouth when he was eventually in a condition to speak.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “Something went down the wrong way. How are you?”

“I don’t want to talk about that now, Håkon. We will talk about it, but later. I have to think. I need to work things out. Be a good chap. Give me a bit more time.”

“Why are you phoning then?”

A mixture of despair and the faintest surge of hope made him sound unjustifiably impatient. He could hear it himself, and hoped the telephone line would take the sting out of his tone.

“Peter Strup has invited me out to dinner.”

There was complete silence. Håkon was absolutely taken aback, and inordinately jealous.

“I see.”

What more could he say?

“I see,” he repeated. “Have you accepted? Has he given any reason for the invitation?”

“Not yet,” she replied. “But I’m sure it has something to do with the case. I’m tempted to go. Do you think I should?”

“No, of course you shouldn’t! He’s a suspect in a serious criminal investigation! Have you gone completely crazy? God knows what he might be up to! No, you can’t go. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

She sighed, and realised what a mistake it had been to phone him.

“You know he’s not a suspect, Håkon. Go on, admit it. You’ve got nothing on the man at all! The fact that he’s shown a peculiar interest in my client is hardly enough to put him in the spotlight. Actually, I’m rather keen to find out what’s prompted this interest, and dinner with him might produce an answer. That would be advantageous for you too, wouldn’t it? I promise I’ll tell you whatever I can get out of him.”

“We’ve got more on him,” Håkon countered pathetically. “We have more than just this attempted poaching of clients. But I can’t tell you anything. You’ll simply have to take my word for it.”

“I think you’re jealous, Håkon.”

He could hear that she was smiling, damn her.

“I’m not in the least jealous,” he shouted, his gastric juices rising into his mouth again. “I’ve got a genuine professional concern for your safety!”

“Well, well,” she said. “If I should disappear this evening, you can arrest Peter Strup. I’m going. I’ve made up my mind.”

“Wait a minute. Where are you meeting him?”

“None of your business, Håkon, but if you really want to know: the Wine Bar on Markveien. Don’t phone me. I’ll phone you. In a while. A few days, or weeks.”

She rang off and a derisive monotone buzz took her place.

“Damn,” Håkon muttered. He spat again into the wastepaper bin and then removed the plastic liner, knotted it tight, and went off to dispose of its evil-smelling contents.

The food was out of this world. Karen enjoyed a good meal. Her own repeated culinary efforts were always a disaster. A metre of cookery books on the shelf hadn’t made any appreciable difference. In the course of her years with Nils he had gradually taken over the cooking. He could make gourmet meals out of sachets of soup; she could ruin a prime steak.

Seeing him again, she thought Peter Strup more attractive than his photographs in the newspapers. According to the press he was sixty-five. He looked much younger in photographs, but it was probably because the numerous tiny wrinkles didn’t show. Now, sitting across a table from him, she could see that life hadn’t treated him as leniently as she’d previously thought. Nevertheless the lines on his face gave him more credibility, made him look more experienced. His impressive dark grey hair covered his head like a steel helmet. A Viking chieftain with a glint of granite in his eyes.

“How are you liking it as a defence counsel?” he asked with a smile over the port, after three courses and cheesecake.

“All right,” she replied, not giving anything away.

“Is your client still in the same psychotic state?”

How did he know about the Dutchman’s state of health? But the question slipped from her mind as fast as it had occurred to her.

“Yes. It’s a shame for the poor chap. It really is. They haven’t even arranged the medical for the court yet-he’s too far gone for them to do it! He ought to be put away. But you know how it is… Frustrating. There’s not much I can do for him.”

“Do you visit him?”

“Yes, I do. Every Friday. It seems as if somewhere deep inside his disturbed brain he sets store by it. Strange.”

“No, it’s not that strange,” said Peter Strup, gently wafting away the smoke of Karen’s cigarette.

“Sorry, is that troubling you?” she asked apologetically, stubbing it out half-smoked.

“No, not in the slightest,” he assured her, picking up her pack and shaking out another one to offer her. “It’s not troubling me at all.”

She declined the cigarette anyway, and put the pack in her handbag.

“It’s not surprising that he welcomes your visits. They always do. You’re probably the only one who calls. It’s a glimmer of light in his existence, something to look forward to beforehand, and something to keep him going till the next time. However psychotic he is, he still registers what’s going on. Does he talk?”

It was a totally innocent question, quite natural in the context. But it put her immediately on the alert, cutting right through the genial atmosphere and the comfortable mild intoxication induced by three glasses of wine.

“Only meaningless mumbling,” she said in an offhand tone. “But he smiles when I go in. Or at least he makes a grimace that could be taken for a smile.”

“So he doesn’t say anything,” Peter Strup continued casually, looking at her over the top of his glass of port. “What does he actually mumble about?”

Karen’s jaw tightened. She could feel she was under interrogation, and didn’t like it. Up to that point she’d been enjoying the meal, and felt at ease in the company of a courteous, knowledgeable, and charming man. He’d been recounting anecdotes from legal and sporting life, telling her jokes with triple layers of meaning, and spicing the whole with an attentiveness that would have made more attractive women than Karen feel flattered. She had opened up too, more than she usually did, and confided some of her misgivings about life as a lawyer for the rich and powerful.

Now he was cross-examining her. She wouldn’t let herself be drawn.

“I don’t want to talk about a specific case. Least of all about this particular one. I have my duty to my client to think of. Anyway it seems to me you owe me an explanation for your so patently obvious curiosity.”

She had folded her arms, as she always did when she felt annoyed or vulnerable. Now she felt both.

Peter Strup put down his glass and sat like a male mirror image with arms folded and his gaze fixed on hers.

“I’m interested because I think I have an inkling of something that concerns me. As a lawyer, as a person. There’s a possibility I could protect you, from something that could be dangerous. Let me take over the defence.”

He unfolded his arms and leant towards her. His face was too close to hers, and involuntarily she tried to back away-in vain, as it happened, because her head was soon pressing against the wall.

“You can regard this as a warning. Either you let me take over the Dutchman, or you’ll have to accept the consequences. I can assure you of one thing: you’d definitely do yourself a service by withdrawing. It’s probably not too late.”

It had become very hot in the room. Karen could feel her cheeks reddening and a rash starting on her neck from her slight allergy to red wine. The underwiring in her bra dug into the damp flesh beneath her breasts. She rose abruptly to get away from it all.

“And I can assure you of one thing,” she said in a low voice as she reached for her handbag without taking her eyes off him. “I won’t hand this man over for any amount of persuasion. He’s asked for my services; I’ve been appointed by the Court; I’m going to help him. Regardless of any threats, whether from criminals or from high court barristers.”

Even though she had spoken in subdued tones the scene had drawn a certain amount of attention. The few customers in the other half of the room had fallen silent and were openly watching the two lawyers. She lowered her voice even further, and said almost in a whisper, “Many thanks for the meal. It was very good. I don’t expect to hear from you again. If I do hear a single word from you about this case, I’ll report you to the Lawyers’ Association.”

“I’m not a member,” he smiled, wiping his lips with the large white napkin.

Karen Borg stomped out to the cloakroom, threw on her coat, and got home in one minute and forty-five seconds. She was furious.

The night was still young when she woke up. The digital numerals on the clock radio shone the time at her in their fiery red glow: 02:11. Nils’s breathing was slow and even, with funny little snores on every fourth breath. She tried to join in the rhythm, to link herself in rest to the big sleeping figure by her side, to breathe in unison, to force her smaller-capacity lungs to the same tempo as his. They protested by making her feel dizzy, but she knew from experience that after the dizziness sleep would usually return from its nocturnal elusiveness.

But not tonight. Her heart flatly refused to decrease its speed, and her lungs wheezed in protest against the change of rhythm. What had she been dreaming? She couldn’t recall, but the feelings of grief and impotence and indefinable anxiety were so overwhelming that it must have been something quite sinister.

She gradually eased herself over to the edge of the bed, and reached down to the plug of the extension phone on the bedside table and extracted it. Then she slipped out of bed as gently as she could, without waking Nils-she had had countless nights of practice-and tiptoed from the bedroom, pausing at the door to take her dressing gown.

Only a little lamp above the telephone table made it possible to see anything at all in the corridor. Karen felt round the cordless phone and lifted it gingerly off its base. Then she went straight through the door on the other side of the living room into what they called the office. The light was on; books on psychology covered the large thick pine desktop that was attached to two square supports descending from the sloping ceiling. Bookshelves lined the room from floor to ceiling. But they weren’t sufficient; in various places piles of books a metre high stood on the floor. This room was the snuggest in the house, and there was an armchair with a footstool and a good reading lamp in one corner. Karen sat down.

She knew his number by heart, despite having rung it only once in her life, just over two weeks ago. She still remembered the number he’d had as a student, having rung it at least once a day for six years. For some reason it seemed a greater act of betrayal to telephone him with Nils asleep three rooms away than to make love with him on the living-room floor with Nils out of town. She sat staring at the phone for several minutes before her fingers eventually, almost of their own accord, picked out the right digits.

After two and a half rings she heard a muffled hello.

“Hi, it’s me.”

She couldn’t think of anything more original.

“Karen! What’s the matter?”

He suddenly sounded wide awake.

“I can’t sleep.”

A rustling noise indicated that he was sitting up in bed.

“But even so, that’s no excuse for waking you,” she said apologetically.

“Yes, it’s perfectly all right. Honestly, I’m glad you’re phoning. You know that. You must always ring me if you feel the need. Anytime. Where are you?”

“At home.”

There was silence.

“Nils is asleep,” she explained, anticipating his question. “I pulled out the plug on the bedroom extension. Anyway he always sleeps like a log at this hour of the night. He’s used to me waking up and wandering about. I don’t think he’ll be worried.”

“How did the dinner go?”

“It was pleasant up till coffee. Then he started to go on and on. I don’t understand why he’s so interested in the boy. He was quite pushy, so I had to put him in his place. I don’t think I’ll be hearing from him again.”

“Yes, you seemed pretty livid when you left.”

“When I left? How do you know?”

“You left the restaurant at 22:04 precisely and virtually ran home, looking fairly irate.”

He gave a little laugh, almost apologetic.

“You beast! Were you spying on me?”

Karen was both indignant and gratified.

“No, I wasn’t spying on you, just taking care of you. It was a chilly way of passing the time. Three hours in a doorway in Grünerløkka isn’t exactly enjoyable.”

He had to stop and sneeze twice.

“Damn, I seem to have caught a cold. You ought to be grateful.”

“Why didn’t you show yourself when I came out?”

Håkon made no response.

“Did you think I’d be cross?”

“There was that possibility, yes. As you were yesterday, on the phone.”

“You’re sweet. You’re really sweet. I definitely would have been hopping mad. But I’m very touched to think that you were standing there all that time keeping an eye on me. Were you being Håkon then, or a policeman?”

There was a subtle invitation in the question. Had it been daylight he would have given a clever and diplomatic answer, as he knew she would prefer. But it was the dead of night. Without really deciding, he said what he actually thought.

“A prosecuting attorney doesn’t do bodyguard duties, Karen. A police lawyer sits in the office and doesn’t bother with anything except documents and legal cases. It was me myself on watch. I was jealous, and I was concerned. I love you. That was why.”

He felt satisfied and calm. Whatever her reaction might be. It came as something of a shock, and knocked him completely off balance.

“I’m probably a little in love with you, too, Håkon.”

Suddenly she burst into tears. Håkon didn’t know what to say.

“Don’t cry!”

“I’ll cry if I like,” she sniffed. “I’m crying because I don’t know what to do.”

She began to sob convulsively. Håkon had difficulty catching what she said, so he waited till she’d stopped.

It took ten minutes.

“I shouldn’t have wasted my phone bill on that,” she sighed at last.

“You can talk forever for the price of one unit at night. You can afford it.”

She was more tranquil now.

“I’m planning to go away,” she said. “To the cottage by myself. I’ll take the dog and a few books. It feels as if I can’t think here in the city. At least not here in the flat, and at the office all I’ve got time for is the battle to get through my work. Can hardly even manage that.”

She started snuffling again.

“When are you going?”

“I don’t know. I promise I’ll phone before I go. It might be a week or two yet. But you must promise not to ring me. You’ve been so patient.”

“I promise. Word of honour. But-could you say it just once more?”

After a short pause, she did.

“I may be a little bit in love with you, Håkon. Maybe. Good night.”