The Murder of Harriet Krohn

13

Gradually she’s comforted by his assurances. She leans on him trustingly once more and concentrates on the present. On all the work that must be done. She receives his support and help and comfort, and she begins to believe that it will last.

Time passes and nothing happens. Charlo hears no more from the police. But he looks over his shoulder continually and trawls through all the papers for any news. Peace slowly returns to his life. He knows what he has to do hour by hour, and the days pass rapidly. He gets fitter. He lifts and carries and toils. The blood pumps through his body. He’s always so warm, so strong. He eats well and sleeps well. His nights are dreamless or, rather, he can’t remember his dreams at all. He wakes with a sense of bewilderment at the fact that he’s been given yet another day. That it’s lying there before him to do with as he pleases. That he’s still a free man. He’s managing financially and he has no expensive tastes. He buys food and a little tobacco now and then, and no longer drinks. This is how things should be forever, he thinks. Julie and me together. Hard work and harmony. He’s out of the shadows now. His turn has come at last.

In March, Julie takes part in her first competition with Crazy. She enters Intermediate B and comes in second. Charlo is in the stand with tears in his eyes. He’s so proud he almost bursts out of his shirt. She rides in white tie and tails, with a small black top hat and white gloves. She has braided Crazy’s mane and sprayed him with coat shine. None of the other horses glow like he does. This was what we were aiming for, Charlo thinks. We deserve this. But sometimes he gets irritated because his sight falters. Everything gradually goes hazy, or he starts seeing double. Then he has to blink a few times, and after a while his sight returns to normal. Oh well, he thinks. Maybe it’s time for glasses. Everyone has them, even small children. So why should I be any different? Time is passing and I’m gradually deteriorating. It doesn’t feel frightening, just a little irksome.

Eventually he gets around to booking an appointment with an optician. Arrives at the appointed time, sits down, and does everything he’s told. The optician is a young woman. She’s sitting on a chair with wheels and comes right up close, into his lap. She is so incredibly near that he can smell the scent of her skin. He begins reading from the board. But today his sight is fine. He can see everything quite clearly. He’s annoyed and relieved at the same time.

“It comes and goes,” he explains.

“Yes,” she says, pushing her chair back again, “sight is often variable from day to day, or hour to hour. That’s completely normal. But as things stand, I don’t think you need glasses.”

He looks at her and steels himself. “But apart from that,” he asks, “do my eyes look normal?”

She hesitates. “Do they look normal? Yes, I would have said so. Are you unhappy about them?”

She sends him a bemused smile. He laughs it off and shakes his head. He leaves and feels relieved. Presumably it’s nerves, he thinks. I’ve begun listening to my body in a different way now.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table distractedly fiddling with a pepper mill. He’s keeping an eye on the traffic outside to see if anyone comes. On a sudden whim, he unscrews the top of the mill and shakes the peppercorns out onto the table. They’re as brown and dry as mouse shit and scatter in all directions. He gathers them into a little pile. He thinks back over his life and all the things he’s done. Suppose these peppercorns stand for his deeds, both the bad and the good, and that there were some scales on the table. Could he get them to balance? He thinks of the years with Inga Lill, of the time when he was in control. Of the time when he could support her, when he still had a job. Aren’t those years worth a few peppercorns? He counts out ten and places them in an imaginary scale on the left, for the good things. Then there was the embezzlement at work. It wasn’t a large amount, but he’s forced to place ten peppercorns on the right, for the bad deeds. He stops for a moment and considers. His big deceit with Julie, gambling her money away, was unpardonable, and must be worth ten peppercorns. The scales are out of balance already. But then he remembers that he’s just bought her a horse. Pleased, he places ten peppercorns on the left. That looks better. But the worst thing of all remains. The murder, how much does that weigh? Is thirty enough? Forty?

He starts counting peppercorns. He wants to be truthful when it comes to his crime. So he takes forty peppercorns and places them on the right. He sits there for a long time, staring at the two piles. Is there any chance at all of righting this, of living with it? Yes, time will take care of everything. Much of his life is still before him. Maybe forty years, maybe more. If he does good every day for the rest of his life, couldn’t he earn forty peppercorns to go on the left, and pay his debt? Immediately he begins to count peppercorns again. You can’t judge a man’s life before it’s over. He pushes the peppercorns over to the left and leans back contentedly. Time will work in his favor, and his pupils are perfectly fine.

He sleeps well that night. Curled up in bed like a child, with his hands beneath his cheek. He drops into a light, shimmering sleep and dreams about Julie and Crazy. They’re galloping along a beach and the water flies around the horse’s hooves. His great body glints in the sun and Julie’s gorgeous hair billows like a red pennant in the wind. Fast, graceful, and unconquerable, they’re on their way to an adventure. He wakes with his head completely clear. For a while, he lies staring up at the ceiling. He follows the wire with his eyes, from the lamp and down to the plug in the wall. He throws the duvet aside, puts his feet on the ground, and stands up. He’s unprepared for what happens next. Both his legs buckle under him. He pitches forward with all his weight and bashes his head on the bedside table with tremendous force and falls flat. He feels a stab of pain, and a moment later the cold floor against his cheek. He lies there for a while, groping like a blind man. His temples are hammering. He can’t believe this; it’s past surely. There’s nothing the matter with him — the doctor said so, his blood said so. His blood is as pure as spring water. All the readings are normal. He tries to rise but can’t control his legs. This is more than he can bear. A great fury grows within him, and he hauls himself up awkwardly in a mixture of anger and tears. He sits on his bed again and punches the mattress, cursing quietly and bitterly.

He looks at his kneecaps. What the hell is wrong with them? he thinks. He stays like this for a long time. He bends his knees and wiggles his toes. His fingers, too. They’re working fine. But they’re so sensitive. He’s never felt them so sensitive before. His vision is blurred again and he can see only the vague outlines of furniture and other objects in the bedroom. He blinks repeatedly, but it makes no difference at all. He sits there immobile, not knowing what to do. Filled with anxiety, his feet planted on the cold floor. Help me, Julie; I’m fading away! But she’s not there. He’s a lone man on the edge of his bed, and he’s helpless.

Finally he gets to his feet again. His legs are just about able to carry him, and he walks haltingly across the room. He is no longer capable of trusting his own body. It’s seven-thirty, so no one will answer if he calls the medical center now. He’ll have to wait. He finds an old dressing gown. Sits in a chair by the window and listens to the ticking of the wall clock. There’s an Opel driving past, and shortly after a BMW. He keeps massaging his thighs the whole time. He wants to rub some strength back into them and make them his own legs, the ones he’s always had. Legs that do as he wants. Fear tingles down his spine. He bites his lip hard and recognizes the taste of blood in his mouth. I must call the doctor, he thinks. I must get help with this. What is lurking inside his body? He curls his fingers again. There’s nothing wrong with his fine motor control and his vision has almost returned to normal. Could it just be that he’s careless, not concentrating? Did he get up too quickly? Was he giddy? No, that couldn’t be right, because he lost all strength. It hit him suddenly. He leans on the table. The idea of a virus crosses his mind. It could be that. He’s heard so much about it. He’s heard of people who wake up paralyzed and a week later they can walk again. Most likely it’s harmless, and the doctor will find it. Something microscopic that is affecting him, certainly not dangerous.

At eight he calls the medical center, but there’s no answer. This means that they don’t open until nine, and he spends a long hour waiting. He loiters, filling in the time. He eats a slice of bread slowly and washes it down with a cup of coffee. His eyes are always moving to the street to check for unfamiliar cars. At five past nine he calls the medical center for the second time. Briefly he explains what has happened. It’s quiet for a few moments at the other end, as if she’s sitting reading something. He waits. Then she’s back on the line. He’s told to come in at once.

He considers this as he sits in the waiting room, the fact that he was told to come in immediately. As if he really is in a mess and there isn’t a second to lose. What have they written in his notes that’s given him such easy access. What do they think? He speculates about bone cancer and wonders if something has attacked his joints. An infection maybe or a tumor. He looks at the other people waiting, but he can’t meet their eyes. He feels too uneasy. He clutches a magazine but can’t concentrate on the royal family. The doctor appears at the door and calls Charlo’s name. He’s being seen before everyone else. He studies the doctor’s face, but it is impassive as always. His smile is the usual calm one, his voice pleasant. Charlo sits down, perched on the very edge of his chair.

“So,” the doctor says earnestly. “Your symptoms have returned?”

“Yes,” Charlo replies. He looks at the computer screen but can’t read what’s written there. “I got up this morning and fell flat on the floor. To be honest, it’s really beginning to annoy me.” He feels bitter sitting there. He feels afflicted. But the enemy is invisible; it’s like shadowboxing, and he feels a trifle exhausted.

The doctor reads his notes and nods.

“I think we’d better have you admitted for tests.”

Charlo gapes. “Admitted?”

“To the Department of Neurology at the Central Hospital,” the doctor continues steadily. “It’ll only take a couple of days. Not all diseases can be diagnosed with blood samples, so you’ll probably have some other tests. Mainly just to exclude things.”

“But, hospital?” Charlo stammers. He’s filled with anxiety again. He’s got a thousand questions. He’s never been in the hospital before. He’s never had anything wrong with him, never injured himself.

“We need some specialist help,” the doctor says. “You mustn’t alarm yourself unduly.”

“But,” says a fraught Charlo, “I’ve got a daughter, and I’ve got to collect her from school. She’s got to go to the stables; we’ve got a horse. He needs tending daily. I work at the riding center myself as a handyman. I’m needed there every day.”

The doctor nods evenly. “I’ll give you a sick note, of course. As I say, it’ll take a couple of days. I think we ought to get to the bottom of this now. Don’t you agree?”

Charlo nods disconsolately. “Yes, of course. But what more can you tell me? Have you got any theories? I mean, do you recognize this?”

The doctor is silent for a few moments. He takes his eyes off the screen and looks at Charlo. “It wouldn’t be right for me to start speculating,” he says. “I’ll leave that to the specialists. You’ll be in the best of hands.”

“But neurology?” Charlo blurts out. “Why there, exactly?”

“We can’t be certain it’s neurological,” he says quickly, “but we’ve got to begin somewhere. Try to keep calm. You’re doing the sensible thing.”

Charlo waits while the doctor writes out a referral. He sits studying his hands, occasionally glancing around the consulting room. He catches sight of a wall chart of the human body, with all the bones and muscles and sinews depicted. It’s quite a machine, he thinks. It’s a wonder it works as well as it does, year after year. Hardly surprising that once in a while something goes a little wonky. Perhaps it won’t be serious. But the idea of going into the hospital is an impossible one for him. He feels small. He thinks about Inga Lill and of all that she had to endure. The doctor finishes. He asks if Charlo is in any pain, if he needs any medication. He says he doesn’t. They shake hands. The doctor wishes him the best of luck. Charlo steals out of the office and stands in the street breathing in the fresh air. It all seems unreal to him. He walks and feels as fit as a fiddle. All his muscles are working, his skeleton thoroughly up to the job. At three o’clock, he picks up Julie outside the school.

She looks at him with troubled eyes.

“Neurological?”

She’s frightened by the word, too. Medical would have been better, Charlo thinks. Less ominous.

“Can you get a bus to the stables?” he asks. “It’s just for a couple of days, and then I promise I’ll be back again.”

She nods and looks at him solemnly. “You needn’t worry about me,” she says calmly. “I’ll find a way.”

He drives, thoughts buzzing in his head. Now, he thinks, when everything was working out so well. Now, when there’s order and happiness and work, this threatening cloud appears and throws a dark shadow over it all. He tries to shake it off. His hands clutch the steering wheel hard, and once again he has the feeling of being perfectly healthy.

“We’ll miss you,” Julie says, “even if it is only for a couple of days. Møller is so used to you doing everything for him. He sings your praises — d’you realize that?”

Charlo nods contentedly. “You know what?” he says, “I love that feeling of being indispensable. I’d forgotten how good it is.”

After that they say no more. The landscape glides past. He sees the apple trees blossoming white and pink, and the grass is bright green between the patches of wet snow. Could it be that all this will be taken away from him? He doesn’t often think about death. Now he sees everything in vivid relief: the lofty sun, the deep blue sky. The hum of the engine, Julie’s breathing. He feels so alive. Yes, it will be taken from me, he realizes, because all people die. But it won’t happen yet. I’ve earned some good years with Julie. He gives her a sidelong glance. It’s us two against the rest, he thinks. We are strong. We’ll make it.

A week later he’s standing outside the hospital with a small overnight bag in his hand. The bag contains pajamas, a toothbrush, and slippers. Washing things, some underwear, and a book. He feels a little cold and confused. It’s a bit like standing at the frontier of a foreign country, a country whose customs and language you don’t know. He can see the outline of a wheelchair inside the door. People are going in and out of the building. He steps through the wide entrance and asks his way to the Department of Neurology. Even saying the word makes him go cold. The term is redolent of mystery and horror. The woman at the desk gives him directions, and he walks toward the elevator. Is there pain and indignity in store? Lack of experience makes him feel uncomfortable. Eventually he finds the place he’s supposed to be and seats himself in a comfortable chair.

First he has to answer a whole host of questions. They’re put to him by an experienced nurse. No, he’s never been in the hospital. No, he isn’t allergic to anything and doesn’t take any medicine. No, he isn’t aware of any special hereditary conditions in his family. The nurse takes her time; there’s no end to the things she needs to know. He answers as best he can. He racks his brain and tells the truth. Then she shows him to his bed, which is in a double room. Both beds are unoccupied. He puts his bag down and goes to the window. He’s on the tenth floor and has a panorama of the whole town. He turns and looks at his bed again. Are they expecting him to get into it? He’s only just got up. He sits in a chair by the window and takes in the magnificent view.

The room is large and there’s a lot of equipment above the beds, equipment he can’t even begin to understand. Eventually he goes to his bed anyway, pulls off his clothes, and puts on his pajamas. Creeps in under the crisply folded duvet. It feels strange lying there like that. He’s well after all; nothing is troubling him now. Only his thoughts. He lets them wander freely, because he can’t be bothered to channel them.

An hour later, he’s fetched by a nurse. He follows her, half-clothed. It’s been a long time since he’s displayed his body to anyone, and he’s no spring chicken anymore. He feels terribly embarrassed. Feels that everything about him is wrong, the balding head, the hanging stomach. But the nurse is young and pretty. She’s courteous and friendly. Yet he’s well aware that he’s only one of many. She’s certainly not interested in him or his destiny, not really. She’s careful and vigilant and pleasant while doing her duty. In the end, he withdraws into himself. He just wants the time to pass so that he can get it over with and go home again, to Julie. To that fragile, free life of his. They say nothing as they work except there, that’s done, now you’re finished, Mr. Torp. You can go back to your room.

He goes back to his room and gets into bed again. Registers that an elderly man is sleeping in the other bed. He picks up his book and starts reading, realizing that he’s hungry. Presumably now they’re in the office looking at my results, he thinks. Standing there with furrowed brows as they nod at each other and agree. He doesn’t know what they’re agreeing about. He can’t concentrate on his book, so he lays it aside. He lies there looking out of the window at the cloud formations.

They keep it up for three days.

He goes from room to room and lies down for them on couches. He closes his eyes and holds his breath. He follows instructions and cooperates. Answers everything truthfully. He puts himself in their hands. It’s like falling: he doesn’t know where he’s going to end up or what kind of accident awaits him. The feeling of helplessness is overwhelming. They talk among themselves, and he can’t understand what they’re saying. The various machines put the fear of God into him, but none of them hurt. Not until he’s given a lumbar puncture. Out of sheer fright, he concentrates hard on what they ask him to do. Breathe calmly, in and out. It’ll soon be over. It’s going fine, Mr. Torp.

Now they’ve been through everything. He lies in bed waiting, feeling at their mercy. Afterward he’ll recall this moment. The doctor appears in the door, accompanied by a female nurse. He’s carrying a sheaf of papers. Charlo sits up in bed and feels a slight rushing in his head. He’s going home at last. His body has been examined in every possible way. Julie is waiting; they’re going out to eat. Everything will be as before, he hopes. His back is sweating.

“Mr. Torp,” the doctor begins. “We need to have a little chat.”

He comes over to the bed, bringing a chair with him. Charlo doesn’t know whether his seating himself comfortably like this is a good sign or not. Perhaps he’s simply grabbing the opportunity to take the weight off his feet for a bit, or perhaps what he has to say will take a long time. Or he’s sitting down to emphasize something serious. For there is a sense of gravity in the room now. Charlo glances at the sheaf of documents. That’s his future, that’s his sentence. The nurse remains standing at the foot of the bed. Charlo raises the support and adjusts his pillow. His heart is beating hard under his pajamas.

“We’ve carried out a number of investigations, and from the results we can say a bit about your problems.”

“Right.”

He nods solemnly, clasps his hands, and sits in his bed like an old man.

“Some diseases are diagnosed primarily by their symptoms. In other words, we don’t always have physical findings.”

Charlo sits, nodding. He can hear that rushing again. It’s louder now.

“In your case, we have some findings. And together with other observations, and the symptoms you’ve described yourself, we’re fairly certain about what we’re dealing with. I mean, we have the criteria for a definite diagnosis.”

Charlo is so nervous that he sits there gaping. He sees the doctor steeling himself, his mouth tightening.

“Let me put it this way. You’re suffering from a disease of the central nervous system. It’s chronic. I’ll try to explain it so that you’ll understand, because this is quite complicated.”

Charlo nods and waits.

“It concerns the myelin sheaths surrounding your nerves. You see, your nerves are covered by something like an insulating material. Or a lining, if you will. And this lining can, in certain cases, be attacked by what we call a sclerosis. Over time, this sclerosis will destroy the lining, and small holes will appear in the tissue. Gradually the tissue will turn hard, rather like scar tissue. We can see this on x-rays. In your case, the myelin sheaths are slightly frayed. This in turn causes the impulses to be delayed. The impulses that cause your arms and legs to move in the manner and at the speed you’re used to.”

“I see.”

Charlo drinks in the information. He tries to keep up but feels himself flagging. He can’t see clearly. His head feels dizzy.

“The results from your spinal fluid also support this theory. You say that you’ve had several clinical attacks, and localization of these also corroborates the theory. You often suffered from colds as a child. And you’ve also had some problems with your sight; that’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

He has to strain to form the little word. He feels paralyzed sitting there in bed.

“Clinical neurological examination has revealed reduced sensitivity in various parts of your body. Only a small amount so far, but this, too, fits in with the pattern of disease we’ve built up. There’s also an indication of reduced neurotransmission. Unfortunately we can do nothing about the tissue that’s already been attacked. It’s impossible to mend. But we can curtail the attacks with medication. If that’s appropriate. It depends on the development of the disease.”

“The development?”

Charlo’s mouth goes dry. He doesn’t know what the doctor’s talking about or driving at.

“This disease is very variable. Just how badly you’ll be affected is impossible to predict. Some people manage extremely well. In fact, only a third or, I should say, a quarter of all patients experience major problems. The prognosis isn’t necessarily that bad. We just have to hope that yours will be a less severe case, and such cases do exist.”

“But what happens if I get worse? Will I keep falling down?”

“As I said, I don’t want to make predictions,” the doctor says. “We need time; we must see how it develops.”

“But could I become paralyzed? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Only in the very worst case. Let’s be positive. There’s no reason for it to happen to you.”

“But it could happen?”

“In the worst case, yes. But the odds that you’ll avoid it are considerable.”

Charlo sweeps a hand over his balding head.

“So, is there a name for this thing? What is this disease we’re talking about?”

The doctor lowers his eyes and looks at his papers.

“The disease is named after what is actually happening to you. Sclerosis in the tissue surrounding the nerves.”

“Yes?”

The doctor looks at him earnestly.

“Multiple sclerosis.”

Charlo falls back onto his pillow. His eyes dart around the room; it seems to be swimming in front of him. No, he thinks, they’re wrong. People with multiple sclerosis become paralyzed. They end up in wheelchairs. They don’t live all that long. I must get home, he thinks. Julie and I are going out to eat. I can’t just lie here listening to this nonsense.

“Do you want to call somebody?” the doctor says quietly. He nods toward the phone. It looks as if he wants to leave the room. He has nothing more to say.

“Multiple sclerosis?” Charlo whispers. “Are you absolutely sure?”

The doctor glances at the nurse.

“We’re fairly certain. Your symptoms are typical of the disease. Try to be calm. For all we know, you may have many good years ahead of you.”

Yes, that’s what he’s always believed. Many good years with Julie and Crazy. His mouth is so dry. He wants to get out of bed. He wants to stand and prove to himself, and to the two people in white, that he’s well and can use his legs. And as long as he’s well, his legs will work. His hands begin to shake uncontrollably. In desperation, he clasps them beneath the duvet.

“As things are,” the doctor says, “you can go straight home. You must stay in contact with your medical practitioner. He’ll discuss medication and suchlike more closely with you, should you begin to need it.”

Charlo nods feebly. This must be a bad dream, and he’ll wake up soon. Then they just go, and he’s left lying there alone. The room feels large and cold, so he pulls up the duvet. He wants to hide away from everything. This isn’t happening, he thinks. Why do catastrophes always head my way? He’s so shaken that he feels nauseated. Suddenly he pushes the duvet aside, gets up, and walks across the room to the mirror. He stands staring at himself: his broad face, his gray eyes. Fear has made them lighter. For a while, he stands there immobile, his hands propped on the washbasin. Then he goes back to his bed, packs his few belongings, and dresses. A nurse appears and asks if he needs a taxi. He gives a slight shake of his head. No, he’s got his own car. He doesn’t need help of any kind. He clenches his fists. Feels that he’s on the verge of tears. There’s a pressing at his throat, a stinging under his eyelids. Even so, she stands there watching him with a mild expression. So that he can blurt out his despair if he wants to. Lay his head against her uniform and sob like a child. But he doesn’t do it. He turns his back and hunches his shoulders. Hears her leaving and closing the door. He puts his quilted jacket on and looks around the room. Then, with rapid steps, he makes for the door.

He gets home and collapses into a chair.

His bag thumps to the floor. He can’t be bothered to unpack. It can stay there with his slippers and pajamas, reminding him of this awful day. Multiple sclerosis. The words are like a big, slimy insect inside his mouth, and suddenly he retches. There are tears in his eyes. He sits crumpled and despairing in his chair, as he remembers the doctor’s words. Those damned sheaths decaying. It’s unbearable. He imagines his nerves as a network of brittle, worn-out wires that can no longer conduct electricity. From now on, he’ll get slower and weaker. From now on, he’ll find that his legs won’t obey him, and his brain will send messages that never arrive. He tells his feet to drum on the floor. They do so without difficulty, and he’s not slow, either. Take it easy now. Don’t cry. The prognosis isn’t that bad. Of course he’ll be one of those who’ll manage the disease well. He’s sure of it. He gets up and takes a few turns around the room. He talks sternly to himself. There are two voices inside him now, arguing.

Why should you get off more lightly than other people? D’you think you’re invincible?

Haven’t I been through enough in my miserable life as it is? This is completely unfair. I don’t deserve it.

You’re forgetting something important. Think about what you’ve done. Consider that.

So I must be punished now — is that what you mean?

You’ll have to atone in some way or another. It’s your reckoning we’re talking about, and it doesn’t balance.

I do Harriet Krohn no good by sitting in a wheelchair.

Don’t say that. One day you’ll die. The debt must be repaid before that.

I don’t owe anything. I’ve been unlucky, damn you!

On an impulse, he goes to the bookcase. He looks at the encyclopedia and pulls out volume eight. He finds the letter M and begins to search. Multiple, multiple personality, and here, multiple sclerosis. His eyes move down the page. Disseminated sclerosis, from the Greek skleros, hard, and Latin disseminare, scatter. A chronic disease of the nervous system, the cause of which, despite intense research, remains unknown. Examination of the brains and spinal cords of patients who have died of multiple sclerosis show a decrease in the myelin layer that surrounds the nerve fibers. There is also an increase in the connective tissue in the brain and spinal cord. This causes scar tissue that is harder than the normal tissue of the central nervous system, and the name of the disease derives from this. These changes are often spread out in the brain and spinal cord, and the term multiple refers to this phenomenon. Many hypotheses have been advanced for the cause of the disease, but none have yet been proven. Infection, especially viral infection, poisoning, lack of certain elements in the diet, allergies, and many other causes have been blamed. The two major theories are that either the disease is caused by a viral infection with a very long latent period that takes years to manifest itself and develops very slowly or the disease is linked to autoimmunity. In other words, the organism has a reaction to its own tissue.

So, is he allergic to himself? He shakes his head and reads on.

The symptoms are muscle stiffness and poor control of movement, especially in the legs. Impaired or double vision is also very common. Muscle tightening and reflex twitching can be very troublesome. As yet there is no treatment that can cure the disease. Hormone treatment, especially with ACTH and similar products, appears to shorten the acute attacks of the illness. There are multiple sclerosis associations in countries across the world, including Norway.

He slams the book shut.

No, he’s not joining any association; he’s not acknowledging this. He doesn’t want to know about other people who are suffering from the same thing. He doesn’t want to talk to them. He goes to the window and stands there with his hand in front of his mouth. Lays his brow against the cool glass. It’s happening now, inside his body. His nerve coverings are being eaten up, and he can’t prevent it. It’s happening as he stands here, breathing into his hand, and it will go on for the rest of his life. Oh, God, now he’ll have to pay. He glances quickly up at the sky. It’s just the same damn blue. Terrifying images appear in his mind’s eye. Him, sitting in a chair with a rug across his knees. A catheter partly hidden beneath the rug. Useless, white uncoordinated feet. His face and body distorted by cortisone, an unpleasant whiff of disease, a vanishing physique. An onlooker of life. Watching while others live, do, and work. Or even worse, he’s bedridden. One morning he wakes and can’t get up. He must go to a nursing home and wither away in a corner with a bunch of geriatrics. Pale, dry people with distant, glassy eyes. Drinking red juice through a straw and not allowed to smoke. He can’t tear himself away from the window, from this position. His mouth is as dry as sandpaper. He’s vibrating like a cymbal. Someone has struck him hard, and there’s a singing in his ears. Here comes his neighbor Erlandson, who raises a hand and waves. He can’t wave back. He can’t make any decision. The next step is impossible. Easy does it. Go into the shower. You must get air into your lungs, Charlo. There’s plenty of time left. Maybe.

He goes into the bathroom. Stands in the shower for a long time under the stream of water, soaping his sick body. He looks down over his thighs, arms, and hands and feet. He sees everything in a different light. Are there more secrets inside his body? Is there more lying in wait, soon to break out and knock him to the ground? Inga Lill, you don’t know it, but I’ll have to go through hell. Why you and me? What about Julie? What horrors are lurking in her genes? Are we a blighted family? What’s the point of living an honest life, when everything’s ordained from the start and can’t be altered? What’s the point of sweating for Møller, when I may end up in a wheelchair? He steps out of the shower, feeling his diagnosis like a severe increase in weight. It lies particularly over his shoulders and breast. The diagnosis clings to him like something clammy that can’t be washed away. The minutes spent in the shower give him no sensation of being cleansed. He dries himself hard with his towel. His movements are defiant. But the rage, which is beginning to smolder inside him, finds no vent. He takes a few quick breaths in the steamy room.

He’ll have to call Julie. But first he must prepare himself. He can’t tell her the truth; he’ll have to sidestep it and come up with something that sounds harmless. Something curable that can’t be inherited and isn’t contagious. He goes to the phone and dials her number. The voice at the other end makes tears come to his eyes, and for an instant he wants to blurt out the whole thing. Receive some care and comfort and sympathy. Everything he needs so badly. But he pulls himself together, gets back on track, and is strong once more.

“Well,” he says, “it’s all over now, I’m back at home again, thank goodness.

“What did they say? Well, there’s not a great deal to tell. Some sort of virus, that’s all, inside some nerves. It’ll get better by itself, presumably. And if it doesn’t, I’ll get some medicine.

“No, I’m not off sick now. I’m ready for work, no restrictions at all. Just keep on working.

“No, they don’t know how I got it. It’s a mystery, they say, but people manage fine for years. There’s nothing to worry about. It could have been worse. You know, I’m feeling great, not at all downcast.”

“Will you pick me up?” she asks now.

“Yes, I’ll fetch you. Where would you like to eat? Shall we go to Hannah’s Kitchen?”

“But it’s so expensive.”

“I couldn’t care less about that,” he blusters.

She laughs. He relaxes a bit. Perhaps with willpower he can keep the disease at bay. He’s heard of such things. He believes that anything’s possible. He can steel himself and force the illness to retreat. Make himself immune.

“I’ll be with you in half an hour,” he says into the receiver, “just got to change my clothes.” He puts down the phone and goes into the bathroom. Stands before the mirror buttoning a shirt. He finds a pair of gray pants and examines himself. He looks good. He doesn’t look like a sick man, so he needn’t behave like one, either. But even so. Pain, decay. Helplessness. In and out of the hospital. What sort of life can he expect? Help with everything. A body that gradually goes downhill and ultimately becomes useless. The remainder of his life on Social Security. He bustles around the house, wrestling with a jumble of thoughts. He starts at the sound of the doorbell.

Sejer is standing on the doorstep, dressed in a newly pressed light blue shirt, suave and authoritative.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Torp.”

His gray gaze is sharp. Charlo backs into the hallway, defiance swelling in his breast. Why can’t they leave him in peace! He’s got so much else to worry about now. He’s a sick man and he’s got to meet Julie. He glowers at Sejer.

“What’s the problem?” Charlo snaps.

He fills the doorway, his eyes hard. He’s not available today, not at any price. His mind is already full of catastrophes, of putative outcomes for what has befallen him. He gasps for breath and plucks up courage.

“I’m busy.”

Sejer holds his gaze.

“We’d like you to accompany us to the station, Mr. Torp.”

He glances in the direction of the road. Charlo comes to the doorstep again. Now he glimpses the patrol car. A uniformed officer is at the wheel.

“No,” he says angrily, “you’ll have to excuse me. It’s just not convenient!”

Sejer produces a thin smile.

“I see, but I’m afraid it is convenient for us.”

He’s standing there as firmly as ever, just as powerful and authoritative. Charlo shakes his head determinedly and moves back a couple of paces.

“The thing is,” he says impetuously, “I was discharged from the hospital an hour ago. I’ve had a lot going on, and on top of that I’ve got an appointment. In fact, I’m running late.” He looks at his watch demonstratively. He’s simmering, quivering. He’s frightened he’ll lose his temper and shout.

“We know you’ve been at the hospital, Mr. Torp. I’m sorry if we’ve turned up at an inconvenient moment,” Sejer says. “But you’ve got no option this time. We want to interview you down at the station. Now.”

An interview. Not a chat. Charlo folds his arms and gives the policeman a bitter look. He remembers that he must appear innocent. This isn’t happening, he thinks. This is just one of my dreams. It seems familiar.

“Surely it’s possible to do it another day,” he says, waving his hand irritably. “My daughter is waiting for me, and we’re going out to dinner. I’m just leaving.”

Sejer takes a step forward. “Phone your daughter right away and cancel the engagement.”

His voice is now a resonant command.

“How long will it take? I could call and postpone it for an hour or two. Would that do?”

“No. You must call and cancel, and then come with us.”

Charlo gasps for breath. This persecution infuriates him so much that sweat beads on his brow. He turns on his heel and goes into the living room, lifts the handset, and dials Julie’s number. He crushes the spiral of telephone cord between his fingers.

“Hi there, it’s Dad again. I’m going to be a little late. Something’s cropped up that I have to deal with first. Yes, I will explain. Just wait for me and I’ll be along in a while. No, you don’t need to worry. It’s just some stupid detail, but it can’t wait. I could phone when I’m ready to leave if you want. I’ve got to go now; someone’s waiting. No, he’s not a friend of mine. It’s just some mess from long ago that I’ve got to clear up. Right away. I’ll call as soon as I’m finished. See you soon.”

He cradles the phone and stays there brooding. He feels he’s standing beside himself, that everything is unreal. But he knows this is no dream. The blow has fallen; they’ve come for him.

He gets into the back of the patrol car.

He thinks about the thing that’s stricken him. His central nervous system will slowly let him down. Everything outside the windows seems distant. He’s a tourist on his own street, in his own life. He’s lived on this street for years, but now he sees it all for the first time: the low, brown timber houses; the neat hedges; the occasional ornamental shrub by a house wall, soon to flower and decorate the whole street. A young officer with curly hair is driving the car. Charlo meets his gaze in the mirror and looks away resentfully. He won’t give them anything — not a thought, not a word. They don’t know what he’s made of, how composed he can be. He lowers his head and contemplates the zipper of his jacket. He curls his toes and they feel spry. My God, what toes I’ve got. They obey his smallest command! The doctor has made a mistake. Sejer is taking a shot in the dark. He’s gambling everything now, and he’s going to lose. I won’t break, he thinks. I must just keep a clear head. I mustn’t give myself away.

The officer drives slowly. The car is a Ford Mondeo. The short drive to the police station takes an eternity. He has the constant feeling that he’s seeing the town for the first time, in a sort of sudden attack of clear-sightedness. There’s Cash & Carry, there’s Tina’s Flowers. There’s the model on the billboard in her skimpy lace underwear, smiling prettily as always. There’s the church on the hill above the town and the fire station with its splendid towers. He sees the courthouse looming up on the right.

Sejer opens the door for him and Charlo steps out. He straightens up in the sunshine, filling his lungs with air. He’s struggling with a kind of numbness, and he mustn’t let it take hold. He must tense every muscle in his body and be alert. Stay ahead. Like playing chess, he thinks. He was a good player at one time. He stands there awhile, drinking it in. The sun glittering on the windows, a beautiful tree with bare branches, people strolling in the streets. This is what they want to take away from him. But it’ll cost them dear, he thinks as he walks through the door and into the dim reception area. The building envelops him.