The Whisperer

Chapter 35

‘Have you sent the letter?’ she whispered. ‘I hope it’s not been left on a shelf somewhere, under a pile of paper, and won’t get there until summer, it’s happened before. I’m asking, because I haven’t had a reply, and days are passing. How long do you think it takes for a letter to get from here to Germany?’

‘Three or four days, I reckon,’ Sejer replied. ‘Yes, Ragna, we have sent the letter. It was franked and put in the tray for outgoing post, and it’s no longer there. Rikard will have received your letter a while ago, but you have to give him time.’

‘I will have to believe you,’ she whispered bravely.

She poured herself a glass of water.

‘I had problems sleeping last night,’ she said. ‘Do you know what I was thinking about?’

‘Tell me,’ Sejer said.

‘I lay awake thinking about Joan of Arc.’

‘The Maid of Orleans. Why were you thinking about her?’

‘She was burned at the stake,’ Ragna explained. ‘And now I’m going through the fire too.’

‘The fire? You mean Rikard’s judgement of you and your crime?’

‘Exactly,’ Ragna nodded, happy that he had followed her thought process. ‘I lay there staring at my window, just as Joan of Arc stared at the small opening in her cell wall in the hours before she was burned. They kept her prisoner in a tower. She had to find a way through the pain and suffering. The flames would lick at her, scorch her black. She needed a sign from God, proof that she had His mercy and would remain in His grace after death. So she prayed. She prayed and watched for a sign, but it was pitch-black and she could see nothing and hear nothing. She continued to pray, for hours. And then something strange happened. The moon slipped out from behind a cloud and its light shone in through the small opening that had two metal crossbars, one vertical and one horizontal. When she got up from the bed, she saw that the white light had transformed the bars into a cross on the stone floor. It was a sign from God. And Joan fell into a deep, peaceful sleep, and went to the stake with dignity.’

‘A beautiful story,’ Sejer said. ‘If it’s true.’

‘It’s a beautiful story, regardless.’

He had to agree.

‘You have presumably not prayed,’ he said, ‘but you are looking for a sign.’

‘I suppose so. But I can’t find any because I’m full of chemicals. Before, my mind was a labyrinth and I could play in there for hours, happy as a child, but now lots of the paths are closed. My brain can’t find the same solutions that it used to, if you see what I mean.’

Sejer looked serious and nodded.

‘Do you know what?’ Ragna said. ‘Once when I was a baby, my father tried to sell me on the market square.’

Without thinking about it, Sejer laughed, but she was not offended.

‘I was only a few months old, but I could sit up in the pram, and before he left home, he made a big sign. “New screaming baby for sale. Great potential. Offers accepted.” It was autumn, there were a lot of stalls and the market was full of people. My father positioned himself between the fruit, berries and fresh eggs, and held up the sign in his hand. A constant flow of people went past. They looked at me, some people made offers, old ladies in particular, they laughed and smiled and discussed their bids. But Daddy shook his head and said, too low, far too low! We’re talking about something quite unique! We stayed on the square until the sun went down. Then he tucked the sign under my blanket and pushed me home again, all the way along Kirkelina from the church to number 7. My mother said he was extremely happy when he came through the door.’

She drank some water.

‘Mummy told me the story when I was older. I was hurt at first, obviously, but then I realised that Daddy thought I was extremely valuable, and not for sale at any price. That was what he had wanted to tell the world.’

‘There is a lot of wisdom in madness,’ Sejer said, ‘if we only look for it.’ He made a note and pushed the pad across the table so she could read it.

‘Great potential. Offers accepted.’

When he later accompanied her back to her cell, the letter was lying there, shining white on the desk by the window. She did not see it until the inspector had left, and the first thing she noticed was how carefully the letter had been opened. He must have used the sharpest knife in the building. She stood looking at the letter for a long time, then took a few steps forward and inspected the envelope closely with her eagle eyes. Was it thick or thin, did it contain a single sheet of paper or three or four, had he dismissed her in a few words, or given her more, something she could comfort herself with and live with? How could she bear to read it? She snatched it up and cradled it in her lap, wanting to know how much it weighed, if it warmed her through her clothes, or if the dry paper conveyed no understanding. How silly I am, Ragna thought. Everything is too late anyway, I will never get over this.

She read the letter again and again, until she knew it off by heart. To think that he had given her such a gift, such comfort and understanding, and so many promises. She sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, with the letter in her lap. She could not bear to put it away in the drawer; instead, she stuffed it under her clothes, and felt the dry paper against her skin. At regular intervals, she put her hand on it to reassure herself it was not a dream, that it was not her sick mind playing a trick. The letter was real. The words came from her son’s heart, and they had travelled all the way from Berlin to her cell. The letter would last forever, it would exist after her death, and perhaps a grandchild might read it one day and see their father’s greatness.

She wept silently. Tears of both sorrow and joy. How lonely and bewildered he must have been as a child. She folded her hands, but she did not pray. She walked happily round the cell, to the window and back, unable to sit still. When Sejer paid an unexpected visit some hours later, he stood in front of her, solid as a pillar, almost two metres tall with silver-grey hair, and she was as bashful as a girl.

‘Did you read it?’ she whispered, breathless. ‘The letter from Rikard?’ She put a hand to her chest where the envelope was hidden.

‘Yes, I read it,’ he said.

She could see that he was slightly embarrassed too. Ragna suddenly realised that he was not in his office and therefore not in the role of interviewer. He was not going to cross-examine her any more, pressure her, question everything she said. Not that he had ever really done that. But now he was as a guest in her domain, and he behaved as a guest should.

‘I don’t know where I’ll end up,’ she told him. ‘But I will never forget you.’

‘I certainly hope not,’ he said.

‘I take my medication now, three times a day. My head feels so confined, but what happens from now on is reality.’

‘Reality is not the worst that can happen to a person,’ Sejer assured her. There were certain things that could be documented, that was all. He did not have much more to say. He had wanted to show her sympathy, to show that he knew what was going on in her life, and that he understood only too well what her son’s acceptance meant to her. He bowed and made to leave, but then stopped in the doorway.

‘I won’t forget you either. Meeting people like you makes my job worthwhile. People who have something to give.’

She was so bowled over that she blushed furiously, as she often did. She could not imagine what he felt he had got; she had given him nothing, only some tangled thoughts. But he obviously appreciated them, she could see that.

The heavy metal door did not slam as normal, as he closed it gently behind him. All she heard was the small click, and in that way, he showed her his respect. And then his footsteps disappeared down the corridor. He walked slowly. A man who had his own steady rhythm, who could not be pushed or thrown off balance. Like granite, Ragna thought. Shortly after, the doors started to slam again, one after the other in quick succession. It made her think of gunfire, but she knew it was the food trolleys making their way down the corridor. She heard the hatch open, the little click. Then Adde came into the cell and put a tray down on her desk. She gave him a friendly look, and smiled at both the glass eye and the healthy eye. There was a small card on the tray with a number, the number of her cell, 706. There was a jug of water, a bowl of fresh salad and plate of something that looked like tortilla wraps.

She decided that she actually liked this officer. Today she could afford to, she felt generous and she would not have much more to do with him anyway. She would soon be in psychiatric care and, perhaps, could go for walks in a beautiful garden under leafy trees. There might even be a pond with water lilies, and there would be a small bridge over the pond, where she would walk with her son. Adde went out. She took a bite of the tortilla and chewed it well. The food was surprisingly good, much better than normal, and so spicy that tears sprang to her eyes, and her head heated up and her nose started to run, and she laughed as though she were drunk. Goodness, she had never tasted anything like it. She drank some water, it was cold and refreshing. The second tortilla was a disappointment, dry, tough and tasteless, not like the first. She took another bite and felt something strange in her mouth, something like sausage skin, which the cook must have forgotten to remove. She pulled it out of her mouth and opened the wrap to remove whatever was left. Inside was a folded sheet of paper. It was damp and limp and yet so recognisable. Someone had sent her a message. In here, behind the walls, in her cell.

The shame flared up so fast that it took her breath away. The spices made her burn and the humiliation made her burn and her heart was racing. How naive could she be, how incredibly stupid, to believe that it was finally over, that whoever it was who had been after her all autumn had given up. She had not been so naive since that night with Walther. But then she remembered that her pursuer did not exist, and she sat for a while with her face in her hands, as she battled with her conflicting thoughts. She held the soggy piece of paper up in front of her eyes. She could not understand what he wanted from her, what kind of threat he had written in his usual, evil way, but she could see the big letters through the paper.

She got up and paced around the cell with the message in her hand. This time, she would show them once and for all who knew the truth. But then she was floored by uncertainty again. She wanted to read it, but resisted at the same time. If she read the message, it would be real, and it would be the same as letting him in, just as she had throughout the autumn. Time and again, she had read those messages, time and again she had allowed herself to be destroyed. No, she would close the door on that forever. She scrunched up the message into a greasy, soggy ball. She wanted to throw it away, but did not know where. There was no toilet in the cell, otherwise she could have flushed it down the drain. She only had a bucket with a lid, but she might be tempted to pick it out and read it. No one must see the message. She had chosen which side she was on — she had abandoned her illness, and was now somewhere in between, caught in a clamp. She carefully opened the paper ball, ripped it into tiny pieces and put them in her mouth one by one. Chewed, swallowed, drank some water, chewed, swallowed, drank some water. I am swallowing it all, she thought, my illness, everything. I will pretend this is not happening! After a while it became hard to swallow. The pieces of paper were lying in her stomach like a thick mass of porridge, and it was swelling. She drank more water. It was so hard to breathe, but soon her stomach acid would dissolve the mass and it would disappear forever. The acid would erase every word.

She sat slumped at her desk for a long time. After a while she heard the doors slamming again, and knew that they were coming to collect the tray. Or did they have another errand, and who was going to come? She stood up, hiding the metal fork behind her back, and stared at the door that was about to open.

Adde came in.

‘Wow!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’ve drunk a litre of water. Some of the others complained too,’ he laughed. ‘Some people couldn’t even eat it, it was so spicy.’

Ragna stood there staring. He stood with his legs apart, like her. Then he walked over to the desk and picked up the tray, not noticing that anything was missing.

‘New man in the kitchen,’ he explained. ‘That’s what happens when a taxi driver from Turkey gets a job as a prison chef.’

‘Taxi driver?’ she whispered, terrified. ‘Turkey?’

There was something about his eyes. They both seemed to be dead and glassy now, she thought. He had never seen or heard her, no one did. She only had herself. And the fork.

‘Your eyes are watering,’ Adde said. ‘It must have been spicy.’

Ragna felt the paper ball growing again, becoming heavier and heavier until it filled her belly. It pressed against her lungs and tried to force its way up her throat, wanting to spew out of her mouth for the whole world to see. She touched the prongs of the fork with her fingertips. They were sharp.

As Adde walked towards the door, Ragna started to make strange sounds, as if she was trying to cough something up, or was crying, or perhaps even laughing. He turned round but could not understand what was going on or what the strange expression on her face meant. He had heard the stories about Ragna Riegel, but never noticed anything.

‘Is everything all right?’ he asked, looking at her closely.

Ragna took a few steps forward.

‘Yes, Adde,’ she whispered. ‘Alles ist gut.’