The Murder of Harriet Krohn

1

A man is walking through the darkness.

He is visible beneath the streetlights for a few moments. Then he is swallowed up by shadow until he emerges again under the next light, as if his existence only flares up momentarily. That’s how he experiences it; that’s what his life is now. He comes to life and starts to glow, only to go out again — on and off like a hot, quivering fever. His fists are clenched in his pockets as he thrusts on through the darkness, but he arouses no interest. Nobody turns to look at him. He’s an ordinary middle-aged man with thinning hair. As he walks along, he thinks, with something approaching amazement, that it’s not visible from the outside. The thing I’m just about to do. How little people know. I’m moving in the midst of them, and they walk the streets immersed in their own affairs.

The faces coming toward him are expressionless. There’s no happiness in them, no joy over life or the day, or the falling snowflakes. The life they own for just a brief span, and take for granted, glides past slowly as they dream of another life in another place. Of love, tenderness, all the things that human beings need. He walks on and on; he’d rather turn back, but he knows it’s too late. He’s come too far. He can barely comprehend how he’s got to this point, but he pushes the thought away and allows himself to drift onward, spurred by necessity and fear. He stares into the bottomless chasm that opens in front of him. The leap scares him out of his wits, yet is enticing. He curls his fingers inside his pockets. He’s so fearful for them as he imagines the pruning shears going through the thin skin and the blood spurting from the stumps. He feels faint. He’s unable to banish the image. He must get to a different place, even if the name of that place is disaster. He bears a huge shame, a miserable life. He can’t take any more; he must act now. Occasionally he raises his eyes and peers at the unsuspecting passersby. They can’t see all the horror that’s slowly growing inside him. Is this really happening? Isn’t the town a set; isn’t this a film? The façades seem like papier-mâché and everyone else like extras. No, this is real. He clenches his fists and feels the muscles tightening. He’s on the move now and gets ready, as if he’s being propelled along a track.

His lower lip is cut and he doesn’t know when it happened. The sweet tang of blood in his mouth tastes good. Later, when it’s all over, people will grieve, cover their eyes and condemn. Even though he can explain. He knows he can explain, step by step, about the weary way, about the great abyss beneath him, if he’s given time. If they’ll only listen to his story. But people haven’t got time; they’ve got their own tales of hard luck. Oh, his burden is so heavy. He’s so alone! Such are his thoughts as he walks along the street, with his hands deep in his pockets and his face turned to the slushy pavement.

He’s of medium height and powerfully built, and he’s wearing a green parka. The parka’s hood is gradually filling with snow. His face is wide, his eyes gray and close-set. Not a handsome man and not all that shy, either. A high forehead, a wide jaw, and a strong, unshaven chin. He’s wearing decent boots, but the leather is worn and leaking water, so his toes are numb. He hardly notices, there’s so much to think about. No, he dare not think at the moment. He empties his mind, turning himself into a purely purposeful organism that doesn’t look back. He must reach his goal now and not allow fear to intervene. It surrounds him, lying there like a colorless gas; he hardly dares draw breath. He passes a shop selling mirrors and catches a glimpse of his own face that makes him look away in horror. His face is so naked, his eyes deep in shadow. He keeps moving with a resolute step, his figure strong and compact, his shoulders broad and round. Each time his boots make contact with the pavement, the slush spurts in all directions with a sodden, slurping sound. Nothing can stop him. All the same, if I met someone now, he thinks, an old friend for example, we might make small talk or reminisce about the past. We might have a beer at The Dickens, and everything would be different. But no old friend appears. He has no friends — not anymore. No work either. He’s become reclusive, turned in on himself. He lives with fear and sorrow and worry. His world is small and mean. It’s November 7 and sleet is falling. Great wet flakes. He lights a cigarette and inhales deeply, filling his lungs with smoke. It makes him cough, but he knows it will pass. Soon he catches sight of a Jet service station with its garish, neon-yellow signs. He gazes up at the large H&M posters. They cover the front of the block on his right. How strange, he thinks, that the buxom girl in the lacy underwear is naked on a bleak evening like this. She looks relaxed in spite of it all, though he is wet and chilled. But this is hardly something that troubles him. It’s a fact he registers only vaguely, as if looking at himself from the outside. Soon he sees the door to the florist’s. He slackens his pace at once. He makes his final approach, peering furtively in through the shop window. He can’t stop now. He’s on that track, and before him is the plummeting slope that vanishes into darkness. At the same time, he feels himself flinching. He feels shaken. He can’t understand how it’s happened, how he’s come so close to the precipice. That before him lies a deceitful mission, a despicable purpose. Before him: good old Charlo. Charles Olav Torp. A perfectly ordinary man. A little unlucky perhaps, a little weak, but apart from that a thoroughly decent chap. Or is he a decent chap? He thinks he is, as he clenches his teeth and pushes at the heavy door. It opens inward. He hears the sound of a bell. Its delicate tinkle disturbs him. He would prefer to arrive soundlessly, unnoticed and unheard.

He stands in the middle of the shop. Immediately the smell of the place assails him, sweet and stupefying. It’s too much and for an instant he feels giddy and has to take a sideways step to regain his balance. He hasn’t eaten for a long time; did he forget? He can’t remember anymore. The day has passed in a fog, as if he’s only now waking up on the edge of the abyss. His eyes take in the premises. It’s like a mini-jungle of flowers and greenery, leaves and petals. He can make out artificial blooms and watering cans, plant food and leaf shine, wreaths of dried roses. An indescribable profusion of flowers. He reads their exotic names: chrysanthemum and erica, hibiscus and monstera. A young girl is standing behind the counter. She reminds him of his daughter Julie, but she isn’t so beautiful because Julie is the loveliest, the best. His heart beats tenderly whenever he thinks of his daughter, but he also feels a gnawing pain, and his own betrayal hits him with its full horror.

He swallows and straightens and looks at the young girl once more. She’s slender and her fair hair is in long braids. He notices her thin wrists, so amazingly pale and delicate. She’s young, he thinks, and her bones are as pliable as a kitten’s. She could probably do the splits or a backbend. Her skin is healthy and pink and almost unbelievably clear. Her eyes are lowered modestly. The floor is covered with flowers in blue and red plastic buckets. He can see roses, crimson and yellow, and other flowers whose names he doesn’t know. He stands looking around diffidently with his hands in his pockets. For a moment, he’s overcome. He feels terribly exposed in the bright light, alone with this young girl who is still waiting. She’s looking at him now, uncertain but receptive. She likes being there, likes her work. Soon the shop will close and she can go home to her little apartment and a hot bath. Something nice to eat, perhaps, maybe something good on television. Or a long chat on the phone with a close friend. He doesn’t know why, but he can tell that she’s happy, that she’s content with the way things are. Some people are content, he thinks. They must be or the world would stop, and the undergrowth would spring up and hide all traces of humanity. How beautiful: a bright green planet with no people, just a few grazing animals and flapping, shrilling birds. The girl is thin, but she looks healthy. She probably eats only as much as she needs, he thinks. Maybe she exercises and doesn’t put on any weight. Or she’s inherited the trait from a slim family.

He muses, kills time, feels that his heart is thumping tirelessly. His cheeks are hot, even though he’s just been trudging the streets for an eternity, going around and around the town that’s gray with sleet and mist. He had stood on the riverbank and stared down into the water, and considered that as a solution. To jump from the bank and allow himself to sink to the bottom. It would be quick, he thought; he’d see his life pass in front of his eyes. Inga Lill’s illness, Julie’s despair, his own sick mania for gambling. He pushes the thoughts away. It’s all becoming real for him. What he’d pictured in his head for days and weeks is now materializing. This is the first step. So harmless and respectable, buying a bunch of flowers. The girl waits patiently, but she’s becoming uneasy because he doesn’t speak. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, withdrawing her hands and then resting them on the counter once more. Her fingers are adorned with thin rings and her nails are painted red. She pushes her braids over her shoulders. They are as bright and shiny as nylon rope, and a moment later they’ve fallen forward again and are hanging over her breasts. And he knows that when she gets into bed at night and takes the bands off, her hair will be fluffy and full after the braiding. How young these girls are, he thinks, how smooth, how translucent. They make him think of rice paper, porcelain, and silk. They make him think of fragile glass. He can see her veins, a delicate network of green beneath the skin of her wrists. Life is pulsing there, with nutrition and oxygen and everything she needs to keep herself alive. He takes another deep breath. The light inside the shop, the powerful scent of roses, and the cloying heat are almost overpowering. He sees stars. He feels his pulse rise and clenches his fists hard, the nails pressing into his skin. Pain, he thinks. This is really happening. No, nothing has happened, not yet. But time is moving on, and sooner or later I’ll get there. When I do, will it be awful? The girl behind the counter makes another attempt to smile pleasantly, but he doesn’t return the smile. His face is immobile. He knows that he ought to smile, so that he’ll seem like an ordinary customer, a man about to do something gratifying. Buy a bunch of flowers. But he’s no ordinary customer and this is not enjoyable.

He approaches the counter hesitantly, his sturdy body moving with a rolling gait. He’s uncertain about his voice as he hasn’t used it for a while, so he puts some extra force behind it.

“I want a mixed bunch,” he says, and the loudness of his own words makes him start. My feet are wet, he thinks. My boots aren’t watertight. Cold perspiration is trickling down my back, but my cheeks are boiling hot. I’m not certain this is real. Shouldn’t it feel different? Shouldn’t I feel more present within myself? I’m having so many strange thoughts. Am I losing control? No, I’m focused; I’m secure. I’ve made a plan and I’m going to stick to it. His chain of thought is interrupted by the girl speaking.

“Is it a special occasion?” she’s asking.

The voice is sweet and childish, slightly put on; she’s making herself sound younger than she is, protecting herself, so that he’ll treat her gently. It’s what women do and he forgives her for it, but only because she’s young. Grown-up women should behave like grownups. He can’t abide the same affectation in older women, making the most of their reputation as the weaker sex, when they’re really tough, resilient, clever, and more calculating than men. It makes him think of Inga Lill. She did it frequently, especially in the beginning. She would make her voice sugary sweet, ingratiating herself and hiding behind all that femininity. It made him feel boorish because he was simple and direct. Inga Lill, you’re dead now. You don’t know what’s happening, and thank God for that. I’m losing the plot, he realizes; I’m getting hung up on details. I must get to the point soon. How old is she? he asks himself, studying the girl. Could she be eighteen? She’s older than Julie, who’s sixteen. It doesn’t matter. I don’t know her and we won’t ever see each other again. They’ve got so many customers here, and she’ll hardly remember any of them because she’s young and lives like all young girls, in a dream for much of the day, a dream of all the wonderful things in store for her.

She pulls up her sleeves and comes out to stand among the flowers.

Her sweater is tight-fitting and deep red; she’s like a flower, a slender tulip, fresh, taut, and vivid. Oh yes, it’s a special occasion all right. Good God, if only she knew! But he doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want to reveal more of himself than necessary. Buying flowers is a normal daily activity and can hardly be linked to the other thing he’ll be doing later on. What is it he’s about to do? Where will it end? He doesn’t know. He’s heading for the edge of the precipice to find a solution. A transition to something else. He looks around the place. The business has a good reputation. A large number of customers come in every day; he imagines a steady stream of people in and out. An infinite number of faces, an infinite number of orders, bouquets of many colors. He’ll hardly stand out in his green parka. He’s careful to lower his eyes, drawing the girl’s attention away from himself. What blooms there are in the large buckets! He can barely believe they emerge from the damp, black earth. To earth shall you return, he thinks, and out of the earth come the flowers. Dandelions or nettles. It’s precisely the way it should be: death isn’t as bad as its reputation, on that point he’s quite decided. The girl waits patiently. She’s a floral designer and has professional pride. She’s an artist with flowers. She can’t just throw something together, any old mixture. It’s all about creating a composition, about shape and color and scent. She never makes two bouquets the same. She’s got her own signature, but she needs something to get her started. A little inspiration, an idea. It’s not forthcoming. Charlo is taciturn and uncooperative.

“For a lady?” she probes. She notes his unwillingness and can’t comprehend it. It makes her feel uncomfortable. He seems disinterested, as if he’s running an errand for someone. He seems awkward and nervy. He appears to be pouring sweat. His body sways gently and his jaw is clenched. Perhaps he’s going to visit someone who’s ill, she thinks. You never can tell.

Charlo nods without meeting her eyes. But then he begins to realize that if he’s helpful and pliant, he’ll be able to leave the shop sooner. He must clear his head now, he mustn’t become preoccupied; he’s got to see the plan through. My nerves, he thinks, are as taut as wires. He knew it would be this way. Once more he focuses on his objective.

“Yes,” he says, “for a lady.” Again his voice has too much of a bark about it, and on a sudden whim, which he feels is wise, he adds: “It’s her birthday.”

Relieved, the florist’s assistant begins working. Everything falls into place and the slight frame gathers itself. The shoulders relax, the delicate fingers pick up a pair of tongs, and she bends over the buckets and picks out the flowers, one by one. Her fingers hold the stalks so gently. She seems to have a plan; there’s no more hesitating, no uncertainty. Her eyes survey the buckets. It’s a professional gaze, self-assured now. White lilies, blue anemones, sweet peas, and roses. Slowly a plump, pastel spray takes shape in her hands. She begins in the center of the bunch with a lily, around which the other flowers cluster, nodding and dipping. But they are still held firm, each flower protecting and supporting the other. It’s an art. He watches this, becoming deeply fascinated and falling in love with what’s being created. But he shivers when he recalls that the flowers are to serve an evil purpose.

He stands waiting edgily. His heart is thudding hard under his parka. He wants to pacify it but can’t. His heart won’t listen to him anymore. Oh, well, he thinks, let it beat as much as it wants. I’ve still got a mind, and that’s working all right. I’m the one who decides; I’m the one who orders my body to do things. It’s still my decision. He sighs so heavily that she hears and glances up. She’s wise to him, knows that something’s afoot, but she can’t interpret the meaning of his behavior. Instinctively she retreats into her craft, the thing she knows. Arranging flowers. Charlo breathes easily again. Pull yourself together, says the voice inside him. Nothing has happened, not yet. Nobody’s got anything on you. You can still turn back. You can pull out and life will go on, go on until death. He throws quick glances at the bouquet. His thoughts wander far away again; he’s only half there. He’s a cipher, a nobody. Now at last he wants to set himself free. Mentally he thinks he knows something about how the whole thing will come off. He’s been through it again and again. He’ll take charge of the moment, direct all that takes place. There is no room for unforeseen circumstances, so he brushes them hastily aside. He stares out of the window, noticing that sleet is still falling fast. Tracks, he thinks, and feels in his pockets. He wants to check that he’s remembered everything. He has — he’s thought of the whole lot. He’s thought about it for weeks. He’s practiced mentally and, sometimes, in his sleep, he’s cried out in fear.

The bouquet grows.

The shop bell chimes brightly in the silence, and he starts. A woman enters, dressed in a green coat with a black fur collar, her shoulders covered in sleet. She brushes it off with a hand in a beige-colored glove and regards him with hard, painted eyes. She’s weighing him up, isn’t she? A sharp old trout who takes everything in, Charlo thinks. All the details, a personal trait that she may later be able to describe. But he has no personal traits — he’s sure he hasn’t — and he simmers down again. She leans over one of the buckets, draws out a rose, and studies the stalk intently. He quickly turns his face away. The face that feels so large, as if it’s hanging there, proclaiming itself like a pennant. He stands looking out at the sleet. It’s most visible under the streetlights, a thick, grayish-white drift cutting across the darkness. He feels miserable. Because of his terrible destiny. I don’t deserve this, he thinks. I’m a kindhearted man. But dread destroys the soul. He’s in the process of losing himself. The girl works on. Will she never be finished? The bouquet is big and becoming expensive. He thinks about the time that’s passing, how he’s standing in here exposed and susceptible. About how it could be dangerous for him. From now on, everything will be dangerous. He’s prepared for this fear. It’s physical, but he can keep it at bay if he can control his breathing.

“The bouquet’s two hundred and fifty kroner at the moment,” the assistant says. She looks up at him, but just as quickly looks away, still uncertain because of his sullenness.

He nods and says, “That’s fine.” In a clumsy attempt at sociability, he adds, “It looks lovely.”

She sends him a smile of relief. There is something nice about him after all, she thinks, and rejoices.

I ought to have chatted and smiled, Charlo thinks. Charmed her, because I can when I want to. Then she would have forgotten me with all the others.

“Will it be long before they’re put in water?” she asks.

Now her voice is brighter, more open.

He stands there cogitating dumbly. Will they be put in water at all? He doesn’t know. It’s coming up to eight o’clock and he realizes the shop will shut in a few minutes. He’ll have to wait awhile before setting his plan in motion. Until the traffic dies down in the streets. Until people have got home and he can wander past the houses unseen.

“About an hour or two,” he replies, and watches as she packs the stems in damp tissue. She wraps them in cellophane, which crackles ominously, then in white paper.

Charlo has turned away once more, and when he turns back, he sees that she’s putting the bouquet in a cone-shaped shopping bag. The bag has the words “Tina’s Flowers” prominently printed on it in blue and red. He gets out his wallet to pay, his hands shaking slightly. The girl avoids looking at him and instead stares at his wallet, which is brown and tattered. Her young, alert eyes notice that the zipper is broken, the leather is worn, and the seams are gaping. She sees the little red-and-white sticker announcing that he’s a blood donor. He pays, replaces his wallet, and gives her a little smile. She smiles back, noticing that his left front tooth is chipped, and that he’s never bothered to repair it. It makes his smile rather charming. Charlo glances quickly at the elderly woman who’s waiting. The snow on her shoulders has melted and the wet patches shine in the light. She looks at the time. She’s in a hurry and marches up to the counter. Her nose is sharp and red in her long, lean face. Deep creases at the corners of her mouth, blue bags under her eyes. He knows that he’ll always remember this face. At last he can leave. The door bangs, the bell jingles.

The air outside seems strangely fresh. He walks through the streets carrying the bag. He’s visible under a streetlight for a few seconds and then gets swallowed up by darkness, only to become visible again under the next. The bag swings in his hand. All that trouble she went to over the bouquet, all that skill and experience, all to no purpose. The flowers are merely an entry ticket. That’s how he’ll get into the house.

And right into Harriet Krohn’s kitchen.