The Drowned Boy

38

Nineteenth of October. Rain.

The sky was dark and threatening on the day Nicolai was laid to rest in Møller Church, and they had to battle pelting rain, wind, and fog. Trees and bushes, flags and sails were tossed around as the rain bucketed down. A modest gathering of neighbors and friends, colleagues from Zita Quick, and uncles from Barcelona followed him to the grave, which lay beside Tommy’s under the birch trees. As they came out of the church and were about to walk down the stone path to the gaping grave, the rain intensified. But the priest remained unperturbed, even though the wind tore angrily at his vestments, revealing his spindly legs and worn-out shoes. He continued on determinedly toward his destination as was expected of him, his neck bowed in humble prayer. Carmen sought shelter behind her father’s broad back and sang the last psalm as best she could. “Abide with me, fast falls the eventide.”

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the priest chanted as he threw three shovels of dry dirt on the white coffin lid. Nothing had been arranged for after the funeral this time either. In the death notice, it had said that the funeral would finish at the grave. Carmen just wanted it over and done with. Her mouth trembled as she clung to her father like an exhausted child. In part out of a sense of loss, but most of all out of panic. Because her life was out of control.

“Must be a message from above,” Skarre commented when the ceremony was over and they hurried back to the Volvo to seek shelter from the rain. “It’s been the driest and warmest autumn in memory. But today there’s a downpour.”

“What did you think of the priest?” Sejer asked. “Did he pass?”

Skarre closed the car door and dried the rain from his face.

“The priest was excellent,” he said. “A pillar of strength. Nicolai would have liked him. No avoidance or vague explanations, just the truth, and that’s the way it should be. Not even the pouring rain put him off his stride. To be honest, the stormy weather seemed quite appropriate today. What about you?” he added. “Do you feel guilty?”

“Yes,” Sejer replied. “I should have heard the alarm bells; I should have heard them and done something.”

He put a Fisherman’s Friend in his mouth and ran his fingers through his wet, coarse hair.

“He said it outright, that he wouldn’t be present at the court hearing. Then he left the apartment and went straight to the ever-after. I’ll never forgive myself.”

He stared glumly at his younger colleague. His eyes pleaded with Skarre for understanding.

“Console yourself with the fact that you would only have managed to delay it for a while,” he said in a comforting tone. “It would only have happened later. I believe that suicide is like a ticking bomb in the genes. Sooner or later it will explode and nothing in the world can stop it.”

“Thank you for that. I’ll still always feel guilty, though. But I’ll just have to live with that.”

“Everyone lives with guilt,” Skarre stated. “Welcome to the club.”

“Well, you’ll have to file a complaint with God,” Sejer commented.

“Come on, God can’t be responsible for everything. We humans have to take some responsibility too.”

“But isn’t He the almighty? Isn’t that the point of it all?”

“Yes,” Skarre conceded. “But I could talk forever about His inscrutable ways. I’m pretty unflappable, and you will never make me lose hope. The explanation will come,” he claimed.

“On the Day of Judgment, you mean?”

“Yes, why not? And you know, there’s an explanation for everything we wonder about, for all the mysteries. There is an answer. Does God exist or doesn’t He? Is there life after death or not? Everything can be answered with a simple yes or no. Imagine.”

“Good of you to simplify things,” Sejer said, “but I just can’t bring myself to believe it. We’ll never get those answers. When did you become so sure of God’s existence?”

“Oh, I’ve never been certain,” Skarre quickly assured him.

“But you said you believed?”

“I believe, but I don’t know; that’s something different. It would be easier, of course, if I experienced a miracle. It wouldn’t need to be a big one. But I’ve never really been the type for absolute certainty. And anyway, doubt makes us human.”

Sejer didn’t sleep well that night.

He tossed and turned, pushing the comforter away because he was too hot and pulling it up again because he got too cold. He kept changing positions and could not settle. And finally with the first light he sank into the restless world of dreams. He dreamed that he was running for his life through dry sand. Behind him, his pursuer had a gun; he could make out a figure in black with a hood and flapping coattails. He could clearly hear him breathing, and every now and then the man gave a kind of low, terrifying growl that scared the living daylights out of him. When he turned around to see who it was, he discovered that the white face beneath the hood was not a human face but a clock face, and that the hands were pointing to twelve. He kicked up clouds of sand in panic. But instead of moving forward, he just dug himself deeper and deeper into the sand dunes. A bullet would hit him at any second, through the left-hand side of his back, shredding his heart. Blood would flow and death would be upon him. But despite the panic, somewhere deep inside there was a rumble that this was perhaps just a dream and nothing to worry about. Still he scrambled to get away. Fascinating, all the layers between being awake and deep sleep, he mused once awake. Feeling agitated and tired, he leaned over the edge of the bed and looked down at Frank.

“That was a bad dream,” he said and groaned. Frank opened his eyes, stood up, and trotted to the head of the bed. He got a rub behind the ear and then went and lay down again. Sejer fell back to sleep, only to dream the same dream again. The feeling of kicking helplessly in the dry sand without being able to move made him panic. Later, when he woke up for the second time, he wondered what the dream might mean. There was something fateful about it, he thought, because the clock hands showed twelve. That meant that time was out — could that be it? Was his subconscious trying to tell him there was no hope? That the dizziness was his final fate? He tossed the comforter to one side and put his feet on the floor. I guess I’m ill, he thought disconsolately, and felt a sharp pain in his chest. And yes, it was the left side. Could there be something wrong with his heart? he wondered. Was his life about to collapse? He went over to the window and looked out at the town blanketed in darkness. And he was struck by a melancholy thought. He would never know the answers to life’s great questions, and God would never reveal Himself to him. But we’re modest, aren’t we? he said to Frank. I would be happy with a burning bush.