Only Human Read online

  Is it free? she asked, pointing at the catalogue, yes, nodded the librarian, everything here is free. Agnieszka got up and stood by the display shelf, feeling the warmth of the sun on her back as she browsed through what lay there. Between the local newspaper and a stack of events calendars lay maps of hiking routes and walking trails, and Agnieszka picked out a map for each part of Oslomarka, the forested and hilly areas surrounding the city: south, east, north and west. On the way home, she felt buoyed, her thoughts flowed freely and she hit upon the idea of familiarising herself with new places, of taking the dog for a walk in areas she had never been, she was looking forward to it already.

  Maybe that was how it was. When the police released information about the investigation it emerged that they had found several such maps open on her kitchen table, and it was as though she had made a packed lunch before leaving: there was a roll of greaseproof paper on the worktop, a bottle of squash out, as well as crumbs on the breadboard.

  This, I thought, or similar circumstances, must have been the reason she wound up on the Skådalsløypa trail, on a warm, summer afternoon, the kind of day that drives lonely, disturbed people onto the streets, out of hot, stuffy, dusty rooms where the pressure is only increasing and who knows what is building up. Is it frustrated desire, despair, anger, sorrow, just a mush of emotions without a name, which your mind does not have room for, and is released at some given moment? An explosion of white that could perhaps be called hate, or aggression, or nothing, it is nothing, a cacophony of atoms, snow.

  I pictured how he might have looked that day on the trail, wearing a baseball cap, dressed in a green army jacket and carrying a rucksack. Inside it, his home-made weapons, both blunt and sharp, in case the opportunity should arise. Perhaps he had not so much thought in words, as been led by emotions, by the fantasy of striking out, of using all his strength, of injuring, killing someone, these were the types of images he had in his head, bloody, crunching, filled with screams, but he did not so much think about it as picture it, just felt he should take the weapons, on the off chance. Take them with him, along with the bottles of beer and the shiny hipflask. Then he sat there, partially hidden by some bushes, on dry, warm pine needles, and drank, while looking at the dark pond. The trees blocked the sunlight, but now and again the brownish-black water captured a ray of light, making visible the insects hovering above the surface of the water.

  When the sun was going down, and the air was getting chilly, he began making his way home, but the alcohol had unsettled his mind, his eyes kept playing tricks on him. He thought he saw people and animals where there were only trunks, and stumps, of trees and large stones. The wind caused the branches to move, he turned to look and trod off the trail, a twig struck him across the face, it stung, making him angry, and just then a black dog appeared. Agnieszka followed close behind, giving a start and coming to a sudden halt as a man stepped out in front of her, short of breath with a dark look in his eyes, but by then it was too late to run.

  I would have been the one more likely to encounter him, after all, I usually took walks along Skådalsløypa. But not Emilie, she was barely ten years old at that time and had yet to get a dog. Whereas now she was out all the time, walking that little poodle. I thought she kept to the road but maybe not, maybe she had gone into the woods, had the misfortune to run into him on the way to Bånntjern lake or up towards the summit at Vettakolltoppen. Or had he picked Emilie out long ago, eyed her as she passed him on the road, stood outside her school taking note of what time she finished on which day, watched her walk home with her friends after the last class, tailing them? Did he know when she was in the house on her own? Did he hang back, waiting for her to come out with the dog on a lead, yes, could it have been that guy maybe, that bloody stalker type, was he the one who had grabbed her somewhere in the woods? The guy with the red baseball cap. He was the one I was picturing. Not so strange, his albino-like appearance made him stand out. His eyes were light blue, eyebrows almost white, his hair too, but it was usually shaved, only stubble and pimples on the back of his neck visible below the edge of his hat. I guessed he was about my age, or a little younger, in his mid-forties. He usually looked over my garden fence when passing, walking slowly by with heavy steps. Must be a psychiatric patient, I thought, on medication, that would explain the plodding, and the bloated, puffy face. All the same, he looked fit and seemed alert to some extent. You could see he had strong thigh and calf muscles beneath his clothes, and his jacket sat tightly around his upper arms. Initially, I was nervous every time I saw him, did not like that aggressive stare, but after a while I got used to it. He could hardly be dangerous, could he, if he was free to walk around, in full view, and nobody seemed overly concerned?

  He had a dog for a while, a Rottweiler. I do not remember exactly when he stopped turning up with it, but it was not long after we moved in, after Balder died. Georg was fourteen and Tuva had just turned nineteen. They sat on the floor together at the vet’s, both heartbroken, Balder, feeble, lying over their legs. His kidneys had failed, there was nothing that could be done, the vet said. Balder snuggled his muzzle under the sleeve of Tuva’s jacket, was unable to stir, but beat his tail a couple of times upon hearing his name. The vet crouched down beside us. He’s had a long life, he said, there’s not many people have their dog for fifteen years. We watched as he inserted the cannula into one of the front paws and opened it to allow the flow. Clear fluid ran through the tube and into Balder’s circulatory system, his body quickly grew heavier, then he twitched a few times and a little of the fluid ran from his nostrils. He’s gone now, the vet said. Georg buried his face into the curly, poodle hair and sobbed, Tuva got to her knees and stroked the dog’s head frantically, called his name, shouted it, but his eyes did not see, his tail did not wag, Balder was gone and Tuva howled. I took off the dog collar for the last time, sniffed it, smelled the scent of Balder and hoped I had red wine at home. As we walked across the square in front of the School of Veterinary Science, I became aware of a strong feeling of nausea at the sight of the empty collar in my hand. Was it really necessary for me to take it home? The kids were furious when I tried to put both the lead and the collar into a green plastic bin mounted on a post, and Tuva said that if I didn’t get a boyfriend soon then I would end up completely emotionally stunted, yeah, if I wasn’t already, that is.

  The man in the baseball cap often passed by my gate, up to several times a day on occasion. Back when he had the Rottweiler it did not seem so odd, he is just walking his dog, I thought, and has his fixed routes. Still, it was a bit strange, him stopping right outside and staring at the house, it made me uneasy. The dog would sniff and then pee, not on the gatepost, but on the gate itself. It was also peculiar how he let the dog defecate, making no attempt to hide it. Once I was even out in the garden when it happened. The dog squatted down and released the contents of its stomach exactly where the gate would swing out as I opened it, but the man showed no sign of removing it. Why I did not say anything, I do not know, instead I hurried into the house. My heart was pounding and I kept a good bit back from the kitchen window so he would not see I was watching him. When he left, I took a plastic bag, walked out, climbed over the fence, put my hand in the bag and picked up the poo, turned the bag inside out, tied it and threw it in the rubbish bin. I was afraid. I do not remember what I was thinking, how I explained the incident to myself, but I know what I saw, I mean, when I think about it now it is blindingly obvious that I reacted the way a dog would upon encountering an aggressive member of their species. They register the creeping gait and the rigid tail from a good distance off, hear the low growling, turn their head away to placate the other, and walk in an arc around it. The man, not the dog, was the aggressive one in this case. I wonder what happened to that dog. It used to wag its bobtail affectionately and stick its thick snout in between the bars of the gate if I was in the garden. I pretended not to see it and never went over to them. It was due to that hostile, barefaced gawping, I cannot stand people st
aring like that, getting too close and never letting up. This generally took place in the shop. He would suddenly be standing there, in his baseball cap and tracksuit bottoms, either grey ones or a pair of black ones with stripes down the sides, carrying a shopping basket full of bottles of beer.

  Still, it did not necessarily mean he was dangerous. Granted, he was not a pleasant sight, but you get used to unpleasantness too. Besides, he was not the only one. There was local authority housing in the area, in Slemdal, and a number of people living there could behave in an alarming manner. The woman with the wheelie bag and the sunglasses, for example. She was also in the habit of staring. To be fair, I could not see her eyes behind the black sunglasses she wore, but she would stop in front of me and stand mumbling continuously in my direction, disjointed half-sentences. Although the words were recognisable, and obscene, you cunt, you cunt, she could suddenly exclaim. I wondered if there was something wrong with me, my body language, my eyes, if she read something in them that gave her cause to despise me, to allow herself to say whatever it might be. Oh, but I was used to it. Not just around here, not just those two, but constantly, especially in town, always someone getting in my face, begging, being brazen, angry. I wanted to vomit when I caught the odour of filth, piss and unwashed bodies, I hated it and thought what is it with me, what is it, why do I attract all the borderline cases, the decrepit, the dotty or half mad? Or did I have no more of a magnetic attraction to them than other people did, and the crazy treated us all the same, as frightened idiots?

  The helicopters hung above us until dusk. I turned off the TV at midnight and lay down on the sofa to sleep. The forest at night. Face down in the heather.

  2

  OSLO, THE FIFTH OF JUNE 1939. She is writing to him. In the account book. The columns of numbers abruptly broken by furious handwriting. Confounded heat! The claw-foot table stands in the centre of the dining room. There she sits. Around her the heavy furniture, the sunshine. Outside, the veranda, then the garden, the birch trees, and the tall pine trees that screen the neighbours’ house. The boy is on the lawn. It is nice not to have him indoors. He stands facing the copse. She writes: You must understand! My nerves cannot take this strain! The boy starts making his way into the trees, probably going over to the Heyerdahls’ to play. But Mrs Esther Heyerdahl and her friends, they are not her cup of tea. When she has been over there, they speak to her as though she is slow on the uptake. They do not think she knows anything, whether it be about politics or modern child-rearing, she can sense it, in the air. Just because Esther has an education in mental hygiene she thinks she is above everyone, but no education in the world helps if you are foolish. And no matter if she is a psychologist or not, Esther is foolish. She and Alice agree completely on that.

  Thank God for Alice, she would never have managed without her. You’re my only friend, she often says, you must never leave me. Nonsense, Cessi, Alice says, laughing, you know plenty of people. Yes, but none of them are like you, Cessi says, no, and they’re certainly not like you either, she replies, after all, you’re not exactly normal, and then they would both laugh. But Alice knows what she means. They are best friends, for life. Not so strange perhaps, since they have always known one another, the same way Mama has always known Alice’s mother. Speaking of which, Mama could give Mrs Heyerdahl and those gossiping geese a good run for their money herself. There is nobody like Mama, and the boy adores her. But he stays away from his own mother. It is mean, he is mean. It is not her fault at any rate. The boy has a difficult nature. She is not able to cope. You’re of a delicate disposition, Mama says, you can’t help that.

  It feels as though someone is watching her. A malicious eye upon every single wall in the house. In the sky outside. She is not good enough. But after all a child should not be allowed to scream so that they get their way. It makes her want to scream herself. She is livid, livid, out into the garden with him, bloody child. She writes to Hartvig: You are simply too dreary to be a man, you are weak, it is unmanly. Why should I keep house for you? You are never at home. I hate you!

  Sunshine behind the curtains. The room is much too bright, she will not get back to sleep again. Hartvig is snoring. Lying on his back thinking no doubt he is well within his rights to do so. A quarter to six according to the alarm clock, but it is already far too hot. A heatwave, while she wants rain, it would better suit her frame of mind.

  She cannot manage anything. She has to organise everything on her own. Even though it is Hartvig who will soon get up with the boy, she is the one who ought to do it, feels it is her responsibility. The burden of responsibility is on her shoulders, and she just does not have the energy. This big house. She does not even know if she likes Hartvig. He is so slow and boring. She hears Margit beginning to prepare breakfast down in the kitchen. The boy turns from side to side in his bed, soon to wake up. The sun disappears, the light in the room changes, now we are in shadow, she thinks, picturing a planet in outer space, and that from it she is able to look down at herself in bed, she feels a pull, grows dizzy and experiences a falling sensation even though she is lying flat out on the mattress. When she was a child she thought feeling dizzy was lovely, but now she finds it unpleasant.

  The boy does not call out for her but for Hartvig. He takes a little time to react, first turning over on his side, breaking wind twice and sighing, before he throws the duvet aside. The smell of fart makes her queasy and she turns her back, cannot face talking to him.

  We mustn’t wake Mummy, she hears the boy say from the nursery, he prefers his father and she is only too pleased, for the moment at least, as she is so dreading getting up. Their voices grow weaker as they make their way to the bathroom and close the door behind them. A rushing sound in the pipes as the taps are turned on. Hartvig helping the boy wash. Then the door to the hall opens, and Hartvig calls out to Margit. Indolent Margit. She is the one who helps Finn get dressed. She hears them laughing and chatting in the nursery before going downstairs and all is quiet again. Very well, so she was cross with him again yesterday. But if he only understood how impossible he can be. Constantly doing things he is not supposed to, climbing up on the worktop, standing on it with his shoes on, pulling things out of drawers and cupboards, turning switches on and off, spilling water, and when he does not get his way, he howls. Very well, so she howled back at him, took hold of his arms and shook him, tugged him by the hair a little too. Then he was quiet, but afterwards he would not speak to her, and went out to Margit who was doing something in the garden, and a good thing too. What is wrong with that boy, she said to Hartvig, he is not as he should be, she cannot deal with him, but generally it is impossible to tell what Hartvig thinks. He chuckles while she is speaking, but what about? Then all this about Finn being a boy, how she needs to remember that boys are more boisterous. But does he actually think that or is it just codswallop?

  She turns over onto her back, makes to get up, but sinks back down. Is she going to have to drag herself around, force herself through every single chore? She must cover a few miles each day just moving around the house. Running up and down the stairs, four storeys from cellar to loft. The tall pine trees outside make the living room so dark, yes, there are shady, sad nooks all over the ground floor. But Hartvig will not cut back the trees, he likes them, he says.

  She feels grubby, it’s disgusting everywhere, she does not feel like doing anything. But a cigarette. When things are quiet. Once Hartvig has left, and the boy is in the garden, the weather is nice after all. She really does not know why she allows that story from November to trouble her now, so long afterwards. It is probably down to the scene that took place yesterday. That she did not manage to control her temper then either. Still, it does not happen as often as Hartvig makes out. She is only human. There is no sense in dredging up something that happened months ago. Besides, she had her reasons for doing what she did, even if she cannot quite remember what they were. It all started because the boy was to accompany her into town to pick up her wristwatch at the clockmake
r’s. Margit was ill and could not look after him and, true to form, she had also forgotten to leave out clean clothes for him. Cessi had to look for some, while at the same time the boy was making such a commotion over something or other. Then she lost her patience. After all, they had a tram to catch. She had jabbed him in the chest, had she not, again and again, out of the living room, get out, impossible child, you can’t be in the house, you changeling, had she not shouted things like that? Yes, you changeling, she shouted. The hearth, the boy tripping and crying. They had both cried, but what good was that?

  The stove had gone out and the house was cold, nevertheless, she grabbed her coat and ran out to catch the tram. Down at Honnørbryggen pier, the sea was black and gaping. Always a bitter wind there, along the jetties out towards the headland at Vippetangen. She walked and walked. She had forgotten her purse, so the wristwatch stayed where it was.

  There was no way out, of course. Nothing fixes itself. She had to pay, and she had nothing to pay with, only dark sea. That child was difficult though, he was the one who made her feel this way, angry and unhappy. Damn him.

  The stove had not lit itself, the house was empty and just as cold when she got home. There was food out in the kitchen and the boy had made a mess, but he was nowhere to be seen. By the time she found him it was getting dark. He was sitting in the outhouse with Hartvig’s torch turned on beside him, without a coat and white in the face. It was obvious he had tried to make something, tools and short lengths of plank lay on the floor. The saw was there too, and the sheath knife. Oh no, oh no, what had she allowed to happen? Her tongue tingled and the pulse at her collarbone throbbed, it was as if the boy was dead and she had come too late, he was dead and it was her fault, everything seemed to teeter on an edge, her head pounded, wave upon wave of warm pain beating against her temples. But nothing has happened, she told herself, it is not that bad. All the same, she went back out when the boy had fallen asleep, threw away everything he had cut and sawn up, and hung the tools back on the wall. She double-checked to make sure they were all in the right place. Hartvig must not notice anything.