The Drowned Boy

  39

  WHEN THE DAY finally came that Dr. Chen called him with the MRI results, he was on his way back to the car after a short trip into the town center. His senses were so clear that day, as if everything was for the last time. November with its bare branches and soft drizzle, the smell of wet leaves, heavy leaden clouds, birds migrating south in great skeins across the gray sky. He noticed an Opel with dirty windows, an old man in an electric wheelchair whirring along the pavement, a teenager on a bike. He saw all these things with crystal clarity. He sprinted back to the car, let Frank into the back, and then settled in the driver’s seat. He put the phone to his ear, aware of his accelerating heartbeat.

  “We’ve found something,” Dr. Chen said. “Are you sitting down?”

  The words vibrated in the air. Her voice was remarkably neutral, which immediately made him nervous. That’s not what you were supposed to say, he thought. You were supposed to say everything is fine, that I’m perfectly healthy and that life will go on. You were supposed to say it was nothing more than a misunderstanding, and that it is all over now. That I can breathe out again.

  “What kind of something?” he asked in a thin voice. He, the detective inspector who normally spoke in a clear bass, was whispering like a girl.

  “Acusticus neurinoma,” Chen replied. As if the diagnosis was the most natural thing in the world.

  “I see,” he said, “but I’m afraid I don’t speak Latin. What is that in everyday language?”

  “I know,” she apologized. “I was just quoting from the letter from the hospital. An acoustic tumor is a benign tumor and is generally located in the inner ear. It presses against the vestibular, or balance nerve, which is why you get so dizzy. Have you noticed any hearing loss?”

  He had to think for a moment. Yes, maybe, a little in the right ear, but his anxiety about the dizziness had overshadowed it.

  “A tumor,” he hesitated. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “No, no, everything should be fine,” Chen reassured him. “It is in all likelihood benign. But it won’t be smooth sailing. You see, it’s not going to be easy to remove it as it’s in the inner ear, which is very delicate. In other words, it’s hard to get to it.”

  “Do I have to have an operation?” he asked in alarm.

  The electric wheelchair was approaching his car. The old man didn’t even bother to look at him; he was obviously on an urgent mission.

  “Yes, you will have to have an operation—if you don’t want to go through life with your head spinning like a drunkard, that is,” she explained. “It is absolutely possible to remove it. In fact, there are several different ways in which it can be done. But it is a complex operation, so it’s not easy. The surgeon will have to decide which method is best for you, so I’ll get back to you.”

  “But tell me one thing,” he said feebly. “Will I need an anesthetic?”

  “My dear man,” Chen said with a laugh, “we’re not living in the Middle Ages. Of course you’ll be under general anesthetic, so don’t you worry.”

  He thought about it and tried to calm himself. He looked at Frank in the mirror; he was lying peacefully with his head on his paws, blissfully unaware of how serious this was. You superficial little mutt, he mumbled to himself, as he held the cell phone tight in his sweaty hand.

  “We could use what is called a gamma knife,” Chen continued. “In which case, we go in through the auditory canal and remove the tumor from there. It is the cleanest method, if you like. Then there is another more invasive method where we go in just under the temporal bone using a scalpel and remove it from there. Both methods are very successful, so we just need to determine which is best for you. We often leave the tumors where they are, believe it or not. But as it is bothering you, we must do something; don’t you agree? I’m afraid you will have to be prepared to be added to the waiting list. The system works well, but it is often slow.”

  She paused. He could hear her breathing, fast and easy. The electric wheelchair had now cleared the car and the old man whirred on, eyes straight ahead on his steady course. The windshield was covered in small drops of condensation.

  “But you must be a busy man, Detective Inspector, so I will try to bump you up the list,” she said.

  The relief flooded through him, making him feel warm and light. I’ve got a few years left, he thought, how wonderful!

  “So I’ll be hearing from the hospital then?”

  “Yes, you’ll get a letter. And otherwise, you’re fit as a fiddle. All the tests were good. And there is no doubt that you will be living on this earth for a while yet.”

  Then she said goodbye and he sat quietly in the car for some time. He couldn’t seem to get moving again. His pulse was back to normal and his breathing was slow and steady. Benign, she’d said, benign. What a relief! More left of life, after all. It was almost too good to be true. Then thoughts started to crowd his mind once again, just as the old man in the wheelchair disappeared around the corner. A cure was within reach. But first, they would have to stick a knife in his ear.

  40

  THE COLD WEATHER arrived finally in December, with heavy frosts.

  The puddles had a top layer of paper-thin ice in the morning, the grass stood like pins, and hoarfrost covered the bare silver branches. Tommy, Carmen, and Nicolai slipped in and out of his mind. The case was due to be heard on June 24, but new cases took priority. Because people never stopped; they flared up at the slightest offense. They shot each other with guns and stabbed each other with knives. Then they said that they hadn’t meant to. I didn’t want this to happen, he provoked me, fell onto the knife, it was him or me. In all honesty, it was self-defense. I plead not guilty, because it was all a terrible accident, and I deeply regret it. A couple of thousand people disappeared or were reported missing every year, but most of them turned up again safe and sound. They often gave vague explanations of where they had been and what they had done. Thousands of convicted criminals evaded prison, failed to return from prison leave, or simply went on the run before being convicted. Some were found floating in swimming pools, others under a tree in the woods. Always, he mused, almost always under a tree. And the circumstances were not necessarily suspicious. Many had made the same choice as Nicolai. A fast and dramatic exit from time.

  He had his operation on January 20.

  It took place at eight o’clock in the morning at Oslo University Hospital, and he was more nervous than he liked to admit. His heart was racing as they wheeled him into the operating room, ten milligrams of Valium having no apparent effect. He was a big man. The white light on the ceiling blinded him, so he closed his eyes. He said a silent prayer, and then immediately felt ashamed. He didn’t believe in anything, certainly not a higher power. But now he had no other comfort than his pathetic prayer. Let everything go well; help me get through this. And a wretched, embarrassed amen.

  They had decided to use the gamma knife and he was grateful for it. When he came to, the first thing he felt was immense relief that it was all over. He had struggled with the dizziness for so long, and now his head felt clear and light. He was allowed to go home right away. Ingrid came to collect him and they went back to her house for something to eat. Frank was waiting there, and he was overjoyed to see him.

  “Next time there’s something wrong, don’t wait so long,” Ingrid reprimanded him. “You’re impossible.”

  He raised his hand and promised.

  41

  DETECTIVE CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT Holthemann retired at the age of fifty-eight. He was not the sort of person who made friends and was not particularly good with people, but he was an extremely skilled administrator and was well respected in Søndre Buskerud Police District. He always managed to meet his budgets and the ranks were well disciplined from the top down. Despite Holthemann’s cantankerous nature, Sejer knew that he would miss the sound of his stick in the narrow, busy corridors and his reprimanding bass and piercing eyes. People pooled together to buy a cake. As if retirement was something
to celebrate. Holthemann didn’t know what to think, what it all meant, now that it was over. But he certainly stepped down from his important position with high blood sugar. Skarre aspired to carry on Holthemann’s legacy, despite his young age, and even Sejer had been asked to apply for the position. But he wasn’t tempted by administration; he wanted to be out in the field. He had always wanted to be close to tragedy, in the front row of life’s drama, where he met people. And when it came to Carmen Zita, he still questioned what had happened. But he had gotten nowhere with the young mother. She was strong, proud, and stubborn, and she had kept repeating her story of a seizure and the ensuing confusion.

  It was as if he was wading through heavy snow. It was hard work and progress was slow. He thought about what Nicolai had once said, that Carmen was like a piano string and would never break. We’ll see, he mused. Everyone has a breaking point, even you, little Miss Carmen; I won’t give up. And so time passed, week by week, with periods of intense cold and heavy snowfall. Freezing cold black nights and blinding white days. Glittering sun and drifting snow: a pitiless winter. In March, the sun began to melt the snow and slowly but surely it trickled away and spring made an appearance. He thought of the promise he had made to himself that he would fight for justice, that somehow or other he would dig out the truth. But deep down, he had no idea how he would do it. It tormented him day and night for long periods. There was not a shred of evidence, just an elaborate story. The beautiful owned the world, he thought despondently, and everyone would be taken in by Carmen’s tears. She would win, because that was how she was. She was like the scorpion; she would get across the river alive.

  42

  HE DID NOT see her again until early summer. He first noticed her as he walked across the square and could not believe his eyes. He stood there staring with a smile on his lips. Because Carmen Zita really was a sight to behold as she walked between the market stalls in the cobbled square. He managed to pull himself together and went over to say hello, but could not hide his surprise as she stood there blooming in front of him. A Jack Russell danced at her feet.

  “Well, well, well,” he said, astounded. “Things have obviously moved on since I saw you last. What wonderful news; when is the baby due?”

  She laughed and patted her small, round belly, which was noticeable as she was otherwise so slim.

  “Four months,” she said. “I’m past the first trimester.”

  She laughed again, unashamedly happy.

  “I’ve had amnio and the baby’s fine,” she told him. “I’m so lucky.”

  Sejer thought about Tommy, who had not met Carmen’s expectations, with a heavy heart. He understood her anxiety and that she needed reassurance; of course he did. Many would have done the same, he admitted. Elise and I would have done the same, because that’s how people are. That’s life—everyone wants perfection, everyone wants a child without disabilities or deformities.

  “And who is the lucky father?” he asked. He wanted to be friendly, because nothing was certain in terms of the hearing. And he had to accept the court’s ruling no matter what, and any doubt was very definitely in Carmen Zita’s favor. He knew all this, but still it bothered him, because sometimes the system failed.

  “His name’s Anders,” Carmen said with a smile. “He’s not particularly happy about it. He says that it’s all a bit too fast; but, well, it’s happened. And anyway, it doesn’t matter if Anders is worried about it,” she said cheerily, “because I’m not. If there’s something I’m good at, it’s being a mom.”

  Quite, Sejer said to himself. Then he thought about Anders, who wasn’t particularly happy about becoming a father. It wasn’t the best start in life for a new baby, but she didn’t care about that. She really was quite a force to be reckoned with, so full of hope and optimism. He’d seldom seen the like. And maybe the child would grow up and have a good life; it was absolutely a possibility. What do I know? he deliberated. I don’t hold the truth about people and life.

  “Your case is coming up on the twenty-fourth,” he said in a kind voice. “How do you feel about it, Carmen? Are you dreading the final judgment?”

  “No, what have I got to worry about?” she twittered like a lark. “I can only tell the truth, and the truth always wins in the end. Isn’t that what they say? And you know, sometimes it hurts, but that really is the only way. Friis is very optimistic. He says that everything will be fine, and I trust him. And being pregnant will help as well. The judge will have more sympathy for someone who’s going to be a mother. They can’t lock me up, because I have to look after the baby. Because no one else can take my place. It’s my job. And I won’t run away from my responsibility. I’m going to do this,” she said with determination and force. She tugged at her lovely dress and looked very pleased with herself. The Jack Russell sniffed around Sejer’s shoes. It was a short-haired brown, white, and black terrier: small, energetic, and neat.

  Yes, Sejer thought, disheartened. The jury will believe your story, I’m sure. Carmen Zita from Granfoss was obviously not a hardened criminal. She was a young, whimsical girl he would never understand. It annoyed him intensely that the truth might always remain a secret. He patted the little dog on the head.

  “Well, I guess I’ll see you in court then,” he said with a smile. “And no matter what you might think, Carmen, I wish you well.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “That’s kind of you. We’re friends now, aren’t we? Tell Jacob Skarre I’ve forgiven him all the stress.”

  “Yes, of course we’re friends,” he said. “You take good care of yourself and the baby. See you in court.”

  Then she carried on across the big market square and disappeared between the stalls. With a growing baby in her belly, a dog dancing at her feet, and her head held high.

  43

  TWENTY-SECOND OF JUNE. Evening.

  Dear diary,

  You are my dearest and nearest confidant. I have so much on my mind today, it’s now or never. And I just have to say this once and for all. I’m no worse than anyone else. Do you understand what I’m saying? But I was put to an impossible test, and even though I’m strong, it was just too much. The thing is Tommy dragged me down into the mud, and suddenly I was just the girl up at Granfoss with a disabled son. You know how people talk, it’s unbearable. And it was definitely not what I’d planned for my life. What I’m writing now is really important, because it’s the truth, and my case is coming up in only two days. I have to face the fact that I might be convicted. I just hope I can get away with a fine! Because then Dad could pay it and everything would finally be over for good. The way things are now, I might be convicted of negligence and moving the body, because I moved him from the bathtub to the pond. The inspector explained it all to me, and it doesn’t sound good. I dreamed about death all through the long winter. He’s sticking to me like a shadow and disturbs my sleep. Sits on the rug beside the bed baring his teeth.

  On August 10, I ran a full bath and poured in lots of bubble bath, so the bubbles were almost over the edge. Because Tommy loved soap bubbles and I so wanted to be good and kind. You have to believe me. Tommy was being so difficult that day. Maybe he wasn’t feeling well, what do I know? He was whining and complaining and didn’t want anything, didn’t want to be held or washed. He hit me with his little fists and tried to get me to go away. And I hate being rejected when I’m trying to be nice, I guess everyone does. I can only say I’m sorry, I really, really am. Because I just got so angry, you have to forgive me, dear diary. I am who I am, and children with Down syndrome are like that, they’re difficult and obstinate and insistent. If there’s something they don’t want to do, they’re impossible. I tried to force him, but he wouldn’t be forced. It was like banging my head against a brick wall. I was on my knees beside the bathtub, holding him up with my left arm and trying to wash him with my right. I did look after him since he was the boy I’d been given, but I had the most terrible thoughts, that I had a child who wasn’t normal, who had things wrong with him. I w
as sitting on the floor with a retard, and I didn’t deserve it. I mean, what had I done? I hadn’t broken any rules, I hadn’t done anything to deserve being so unlucky. They say that everyone is worth the same. But that’s not true, because there are idiots and they take up a lot of space and time. They’re a burden to the rest of us. Is there anyone who has a child with Down syndrome who can put their hand on their heart and say that they hadn’t hoped for something else? When they told me in the maternity ward, I wanted to scream. But I kept myself together for Dad’s sake, and for Nicolai, obviously. He was in shock as well, even though he never admitted it. But he did take it better than me, I’ll give him that, thanks to his cautious nature—in fact, he was almost a coward. His emotions never really came to the surface. He just moped around, and that’s not healthy. So we took our slow, listless baby home with us. We took him home with heavy hearts. We had no choice, he was what we got. And we couldn’t hand him back and say that we’d changed our minds. But oh, if only we could have done that! It would have been a joy, instead of all the sorrow and rage, bitterness and desperation. Family and friends came flocking to see the new baby, and I was so embarrassed, because they could see something was wrong. They could tell by his eyes that he wasn’t normal. There were no delighted exclamations and I couldn’t handle it. I just wanted to hide my face in shame because I was so embarrassed. And then they didn’t know what to say, and it was all so awkward. I balled my hands and ground my teeth. My cheeks burned with humiliation. I thought about all these things as I sat there by the bathtub, with my difficult, soapy, slippery child in my hands.