What is Mine Read online

  She folded her hands again. Locks of hair fell down heavy and gray on one shoulder. Tears flowed from the red eye. Johanne was not sure whether the old lady was crying or whether her eye was infected.

  “It struck me, like a kind of vision,” said Unni Kongsbakken, tensely. “I went into Asbjørn’s room. He was sitting writing, as usual. I threw the sweater at him. He shrugged his shoulders and carried on writing without saying anything. ‘Hedvig,’ I said. ‘Is this Hedvig’s blood?’ Again he shrugged and kept on writing at a furious pace. I thought I was going to die there and then. Everything went black and I literally had to lean against the wall to stop myself from falling. The boy had given me endless sleepless nights. He always made me anxious. But I had never, never . . .”

  Her hand hit the white tablecloth; Johanne jumped. The glass and cutlery chimed and the waiter came running over.

  “. . . never thought that he had it in him to do anything like that,” Unni Kongsbakken concluded.

  “No thank you,” Johanne said to the waiter, who withdrew with some hesitation. “What . . . what did he say then?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “No.”

  “But . . . did he admit . . .”

  “He had nothing to admit.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t quite . . .”

  “I just stood there, leaning against the wall. Asbjørn wrote and wrote. To this day I don’t know how long we stayed there on our own. It could well have been half an hour. It was like . . . like losing everything. It’s possible I asked him again, but he didn’t answer. Just wrote and wrote, as if I wasn’t there. As if . . .”

  Now she was really crying. Her tears fell from both eyes and she fished around in her sleeve for a tissue.

  “Then Geir came in. I didn’t hear him. Suddenly he was just there, beside me, staring at the sweater that had fallen on the floor. He started to cry. ‘I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to.’ Those were precisely the words he used. He was eighteen years old and he was crying like a baby. Asbjørn jumped up and threw himself at his brother. ‘Shut up!’ he screamed, again and again.”

  “Geir? Geir said that he didn’t mean to, that he . . . ?”

  “Yes,” said Unni Kongsbakken, and straightened her back. She pressed her tissue gently to her eyes before tucking it back up her sleeve. “He wasn’t able to say much more. Asbjørn literally knocked him out.”

  “But, does that mean . . . I’m not sure what . . .”

  “Asbjørn was the kindest person you could imagine,” said Unni Kongsbakken, calmer now and breathing freely; she was no longer crying. “Asbjørn was an affectionate boy. Everything he wrote later, all that awful, offensive . . . blasphemy. The attacks. It was only words. He just wrote, Asbjørn. In reality he was a very kind man. And he was very fond of his brother.”

  Johanne tried to swallow, but something was blocking her throat, just below the larynx. It was difficult. She had to say something, anything. She had no idea what.

  “It was Geir who killed little Hedvig,” said Unni Kongsbakken. “I am almost certain of it.”

  It took the emergency services over forty-five minutes to get the man out of the wreckage of the blue Opel. His leg had been ripped off at the thigh. His left eyeball had been crushed; a bloody clump had fallen out of the eye socket and dangled helplessly on his cheek. The steering wheel lay a hundred yards away at the foot of a pine tree; the wheel shaft had plunged deep into the man’s stomach.

  “He’s alive,” panted one of the rescue men. “Holy shit! The man’s alive!”

  Barely an hour later, the driver of the blue Opel was on the operating table. Things didn’t look hopeful, but there was still life in him.

  Laffen Sørnes, on the other hand, was still staring blankly at the sky with his body twisted halfway out the side window of a stolen Mazda 323. An inexperienced policeman was bending over a stream, crying openly. Three helicopters still hovered above the accident. Only one of them belonged to the police.

  TV2 was about to break the record for afternoon viewers.

  People passed outside the big windows of the Grand Café. Some were in a hurry. Others ambled down the street, aimlessly; they had all the time in the world and Johanne’s gaze followed them. She was trying to gather her thoughts. Unni Kongsbakken had apologized, got up, and left the table, without saying where she was going. She left behind her bag, a big, brown leather bag with metal details. Presumably she had just gone to the bathroom.

  Johanne felt exhausted.

  She tried to picture Geir Kongsbakken. His face kept slipping away; even though it was no more than a day since she met him, she couldn’t recall what he looked like, other than that he looked boring. Compact and heavy, like both his parents. She remembered the smell of furniture wax and brown wood. She remembered his neutral suit. The lawyer’s face was just an unclear blur in her mind.

  Unni Kongsbakken came back. She sat down again without a word.

  “What do you mean by ‘I am almost certain’?” asked Johanne.

  “Pardon?”

  “You said . . . you said you were almost certain that . . . that Geir killed Hedvig. Why just almost certain?”

  “I can’t know for certain,” said Unni Kongsbakken drily. “Not in a legal sense, at least. He has never admitted to anything.”

  “But . . .”

  “Let me continue.”

  She lifted her cup. It was empty. Johanne waved to the waiter for a refill. The waiter was getting annoyed; Unni Kongsbakken had to ask twice for more milk before he brought some.

  “Geir was unconscious,” she said in the end. “And Asbjørn was like a clam. It only took a minute or two before Geir came to. And then he was as silent as his brother. I went to get Astor. As I said, he was sitting in his study and it was quite late.”

  Again she got that faraway look in her eyes, as if she was trying to turn back time.

  “Astor was furious. First because I had disturbed him, of course, and then because of what I had to say. It was ludicrous, he shouted. Garbage. Bullshit, he shouted at me. He commanded the boys down to the sofa and bombarded them with questions. Neither of them said a word. They . . . they simply didn’t answer anything. For me, that was as good an answer as any. Even though Asbjørn was a rebel, he always had a kind of respect for his father. I had never seen him like that before. The boy looked his father defiantly in the eye and did not answer. Geir stared down into his lap. He was silent, too, even when Astor slapped him hard. In the end, Astor gave up. He sent them to bed. It was well past midnight. He was shaking when he got into bed beside me. I told him what I thought. That Geir had killed Hedvig and that he’d called Asbjørn to help him get rid of . . . the body. We only had one phone in the house and it was right outside Asbjørn’s room. Geir could have called him in the night without us hearing it. That’s what I said. Astor said nothing; he just cried silently. I had never seen my husband cry. Finally he said that I was wrong. That it wasn’t possible. Aksel Seier had killed Hedvig, and that was that. He turned his back to me and said no more. I didn’t give in. I went through everything again. The bloody sweater. The boys’ peculiar behavior. The evening that Hedvig disappeared, Geir had been at a Young Socialists’ meeting in Oslo. Asbjørn was at home. In the early hours I heard . . . sorry, I’ve already told you that. I’m repeating myself. But Astor wouldn’t listen. When the day finally dawned, he got up. He took a shower, got dressed, and went to work. From what I read in the papers, he gave an impassioned speech. Then he came home and we ate dinner in silence. All four of us.”

  Unni Kongsbakken slapped her hand lightly on the table, as if punctuating her speech with a period.

  “I don’t quite know what to say to all this,” said Johanne.

  “Strictly speaking, you don’t need to say anything.”

  “But Anders Mohaug, it was him who . . .”

  “Anders had also changed. I hadn’t noticed it earlier; the boy was always a bit strange. But then, after that eve
ning, I noticed that he was also quieter. More stooped. More anxious, somehow. It wasn’t hard to imagine why Asbjørn had presumably taken Anders with him. He was a very big boy, you see. Strong. I tried to talk to Mrs. Mohaug when the opportunity arose. She was like a frightened animal. Didn’t want to talk.”

  Unni Kongsbakken’s eyes filled again. Her tears followed a line along the base of her nose. She licked her upper lip lightly.

  “She obviously thought that Anders had done it on his own,” she said quietly. “I should have been more insistent. I should have . . . Mrs. Mohaug was never herself again after that winter.”

  “When Anders died,” Johanne ventured, but was interrupted again.

  “Astor and I never talked about the Hedvig case after that fateful night. It was as if that entire terrible night was shut away in a drawer, locked away, and hidden forever; I . . . As time passed, it was as if nothing had ever happened. Geir became a lawyer like his father. He tried to be like Astor in every way, without ever succeeding. Asbjørn started to write his books. In other words, there were plenty of other things to worry about.”

  She gave a deep sigh; her voice trembled before she pulled herself together.

  “One day, it must have been sometime in summer, in 1965, Astor came home from the office . . . Yes, he was working for the Ministry at the time.”

  “Yes, I knew that.”

  “His good friend, the general director, Einar Danielsberg, had been to see him. Asked him about the Hedvig case and Aksel Seier. Some new information had come to light that might indicate that . . .”

  She put her face in her hands. Her wedding ring, thin and worn, was embedded in her right ring finger. It had nearly disappeared under a fold in her skin.

  “Astor just said that everything had been taken care of,” she said in a still voice. “That there was no need to be frightened.”

  “To be frightened?”

  “That was all he said. I don’t know what happened.”

  Suddenly she revealed her face again.

  “Astor was an honorable man. The fairest man I have ever met. But he still let an innocent man go to prison. That said something. It taught me that . . .”

  She took a deep breath, nearly gasped.

  “We will do anything for what is ours. That’s the way we are made, we humans. We protect what is ours.”

  Then she got up, an old, old lady, heavy and slow. Her hair had fallen from the Japanese chopsticks. Her eyes were swollen.

  “As I’m sure you understand, I could never prove anything.”

  It was as if her bag had grown too heavy in the course of the afternoon. She tried to put it on her shoulder, but it just slid down. In the end she clasped the bag with both arms and tried to straighten her back.

  “That has comforted me for a long time. I couldn’t be certain about anything. The boys would never talk. The sweater was burned. Astor made sure of that. When Asbjørn died, I read his books for the first time. In The Fall of Man, the Fourteenth of November, I finally found the certainty I needed.”

  I can understand that you’ve protected your husband, thought Johanne, and tried to find words that would not offend. But now you’re betraying your own son. You’re surrendering your own son. After all these years . . . your own son. Why?

  “Geir has had over forty years of freedom,” said Unni Kongsbakken in a dull voice. “He has had forty years that did not belong to him. I think he has . . . I assume that he hasn’t done anything else.”

  Her smile was full of shame, as if she couldn’t believe what she was saying.

  “I couldn’t say anything earlier. Astor would . . . Astor would never have survived it. It was bad enough with Asbjørn. With those awful books, all the clamor, the suicide.”

  She sighed weakly.

  “Thank you for taking the time to listen to me. You’ll have to decide for yourself what you want to do with what you now know. I have done my bit. Too late, of course, but all the same . . . you will have to decide what happens to Geir. Presumably you can’t do much. He will of course deny everything. And as nothing can be proven . . . But it could perhaps help this . . . Aksel Seier. To know what happened, I mean. Goodbye.”

  Johanne watched her bent back as she made her way to the large doors of the Grand Café, and it struck her that the colors in her jacket seemed to have faded. It was as much as the old woman could do to lift her feet. Through the windows, she saw someone help her into a taxi. A hairbrush fell out of her bag as the door closed; Johanne sat and followed the car with her eyes as it drove Unni Kongsbakken away.

  The brush was full of dead hair. Johanne was surprised by how clear they were, even at that distance. They were gray and reminded her of Aksel Seier.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  Adam Stubo was sitting alone in his office, trying to suppress an inappropriate feeling of relief.

  Laffen Sørnes had died as he lived, escaping from a society that despised him. It was tragic. All the same, Adam could not rid himself of a feeling of satisfaction. With Laffen Sørnes out of the way, it would perhaps be possible to get more people to concentrate on the real sinner, the real hunt. Adam breathed easier at the thought. He felt stronger and more energetic than he had for days.

  It had been a while since he’d turned off the TV. It was revolting to see how the journalists buzzed around in a blood haze without giving any thought to the seriousness of the tragedy that had just occurred live on television. He shuddered and started to sort his documents.

  Sigmund Berli burst into the room.

  Adam looked up and frowned.

  “That was quite an entrance,” he said laconically, tapping his finger on his desk and nodding at the door. “Have we completely forgotten our manners?”

  “The crash,” puffed Sigmund Berli. “Laffen Sørnes died, as you’ve no doubt heard. But the other . . .”

  He gasped for breath, bent over slightly, and pressed his palms against his knees.

  “The other . . . the man in the other car . . .”

  “Sit down, Sigmund.”

  Adam pointed to the other chair.

  “Jesus Christ, the other one was . . . Karsten Åsli!”

  Adam felt like his heart had short-circuited. Everything stopped. He tried to focus, but his eyes were locked onto Sigmund’s chest. His tie was tucked in between two buttons on his shirt. It was far too red, with birds on it. The tail of a yellow goose stuck out from an opening on his chest. Adam didn’t even know if he was still breathing.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Sigmund shouted. “It was Karsten Åsli who crashed with Laffen! If you’re right, that means that Emilie . . .”

  “Emilie,” Adam repeated. His voice gave way; he tried to cough.

  “Karsten Åsli is about to die too! If you’re right, how the fuck are we going to find Emilie, Adam? If Karsten Åsli has forgotten her and decides to log off for good?”

  Adam got up from the chair slowly. He had to support himself by holding onto the edge of the table. He had to think. He had to focus.

  “Sigmund,” he said, in a more normal voice. “Go to the hospital. Do everything you can to get the man to talk, if at all possible.”

  “He’s unconscious, you idiot!”

  Adam straightened up.

  “Yes, I realize that,” he said pointedly. “That’s why you have to be there, in case he wakes up.”

  “And you? What are you going to do in the meantime?”

  “I’m going to go to Snaubu.”

  “But you’ve got no more on the guy than you did yesterday, Adam! Even though Karsten Åsli has been seriously injured, you can’t just break into his property without a warrant!”

  Adam pulled on his jacket and looked over at the clock.

  “I don’t care,” he said calmly. “Right now, I don’t give a damn.”

  SIXTY-SIX

  Aksel Seier was amazed at how at home he felt in the small room where Eva lived. The walls were a warm yellow color, and even though the bed was metal and it said Oslo C
ity Council on the bedclothes, it was still Eva’s room. He recognized a couple of things from the efficiency apartment in Brugata, where she’d cleaned the wound on the back of his head with iodine that night in 1965. The pale blue porcelain angel with open wings and remnants of gold paint that she’d been given for her confirmation. He remembered it as soon as his fingers stroked the cool figurine. The painting of Hovedøya at sunset that he’d given her. It was hanging above the bed, the colors paler than when he had put down fifteen kroner on the counter in a secondhand shop and taken the picture with him, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

  Eva had also faded.

  But she was still his Eva.

  Her hand was old and destroyed by illness. It was as if her face had been worn out, its expression frozen in a relentless grimace. Her body was now just a motionless shell around the woman that Aksel Seier still loved. He didn’t say much. It took some time for Eva to tell him the story. She had to rest every now and then. Aksel kept quiet and listened.

  He felt at home in the room.

  “He changed so much,” said Eva quietly. “Everything went to pieces. He didn’t have enough money to pursue the case. If he used what was left of the inheritance from Mother, he would have nowhere to live. And then he certainly wouldn’t stand a chance. It killed him, Aksel. He hasn’t even been to see me for the past few months.”