The Redbreast

22

Doctor Buer's Surgery. 22 December 1999.

The old man looked at his watch. He had been sitting in the waiting room for a quarter of an hour now. He'd never had to wait in Konrad Buer's day. Konrad hadn't taken on more patients than he could manage in his schedule.

A man was sitting at the other end of the room. Dark-skinned, African. He was flicking through a weekly magazine, and the old man established that even at this distance he could read every letter on the front page. Something about the royal family. Was that what this African was sitting reading? An article about the Norwegian royal family? The idea was absurd.

The African turned the page. He had the type of moustache that went down at the ends, just like the courier the old man had met the previous night. It had been a brief meeting. The courier had arrived at the container port in a Volvo, probably a rented car. He had pulled up, the window had gone down with a hum and he had said the password: Voice of an Angel. He had had exactly the same kind of moustache. And sorrowful eyes. He had immediately said he didn't have the gun with him in the car for security reasons, but that they would drive to a place to get it. The old man had hesitated. Then he thought that if they had wanted to rob him, they would have done so at the container port. So he had got in and they had driven to the Radisson SAS hotel, of all places, in Holbergs plass. He had seen Betty Andresen behind the counter as they went through reception, but she had not looked in their direction.

The courier had counted the money in the suitcase while mumbling numbers in German. Then the old man had asked him. The courier had said that his parents came from some place in Elsass, to which the old man said, on a whim, that he had been there, to Sennheim. An impulse.

After he had read so much about the Marklin rifle on the Internet at the University Library, the weapon itself had been something of an anticlimax. It looked like a standard hunting rifle, only a little bigger. The courier had shown him how to assemble it and strip it; he called him 'Herr Uriah'. Then the old man put the dismantled rifle into a large shoulder-bag and took the lift down to reception. For a brief moment he had considered going over to Betty Andresen and asking her to order a taxi for him. Another impulse.

'Hello!'

The old man looked up.

I think we'll have to give you a hearing test as well.'

Dr Buer stood in the doorway and made an attempt at a jovial smile. He led him into the surgery. The bags under the doctor's eyes had become even bigger.

'I called your name three times.'

I forget my name, the old man reflected. I forget all my names. The old man deduced from the doctor's helping hand that he had bad news.

'Well, I've got the results of the samples we took,' he said, quickly, before he had settled into his chair. To get the bad news over and done with as fast as possible. And I'm afraid it has spread.'

'Of course it's spread,' the old man said. 'Isn't that what cancer cells do? Spread?'

'Ha, ha. Yes, it is.' Dr Buer brushed an invisible speck of dust off the desk.

'Cancer is like us,' the old man said. 'It just does what it has to do.'

'Yes,' Dr Buer said. He looked relaxed in a forced way, in his slumped sitting position.

'Like you, doctor. You just do what you have to do.'

'You're so right, so right.' Dr Buer smiled and put on his glasses. 'We're still considering chemotherapy. It would weaken you, but it could prolong… um…'

'My life?'

'Yes.'

'How long have I got left without chemo?'

Buer's Adam's apple bobbed up and down. 'A little less than we had first assumed.’

‘Meaning?'

'Meaning that the cancer has spread from the liver via the blood stream to -'

'For Christ's sake, will you just tell me how long.' Dr Buer gaped blankly.

'You hate this job, don't you?' the old man said. 'I beg your pardon?’

‘Nothing. A date, please.’

‘It's impossible to -'

Dr Buer jumped in his chair as the old man's fist hit the desktop so hard that the telephone receiver leapt off the cradle. He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped when he saw the old man's quivering forefinger. Then he sighed, took off his glasses and ran a tired hand over his face.

'This summer. June, perhaps earlier. August at the latest.’

‘Great,' the old man said. 'That'll do fine. Pain?’

‘Can come at any time. You'll be given medicine.’

‘Will I be able to function?’

‘Hard to say. Depends on the pain.'

'I must have medicine that enables me to function. It's important. Do you understand?’

‘All painkillers -'

I can take a lot of pain. I simply need something to keep me conscious so that I can think and act rationally.'

Happy Christmas. That was the last thing Dr Buer had said. The old man stood on the steps. At first he hadn't understood why the city was so full of people, but once he had been reminded of the imminent religious festival he saw the panic in the eyes of people dashing along the pavements in search of last-minute Christmas presents. Some shoppers had gathered round a pop group playing in Egerstorget. A man wearing a Salvation Army uniform was going round with a collection box. A junkie stamped his feet in the snow, his eyes flickering like stearin candles about to go out. Two teenage girls, arm in arm, passed him, rosy-cheeked and bursting with stories to tell about boys and expectations of their lives to come. And the candles. There were candles in every damned window. He raised his face to the Oslo sky; a warm, golden dome of reflected light from the city. My God, how he longed for her. Next Christmas, he thought. Next Christmas we will celebrate together, my darling.