wind chime hanging from the ceiling. He got out of bed and shuffled over to the window.
The snow in the garden reflected enough light for him to make out the snowman down below. It looked alone. Someone should have given it a cap and scarf. And maybe a broomstick to hold. At that moment the moon slid from behind a cloud. The black row of teeth came into view. And the eyes. Jonas automatically sucked in his breath and recoiled two steps. The pebble-eyes were gleaming. And they were not staring into the house. They were looking up. Up here. Jonas drew the curtains and crept back into bed.
3
DAY 1.
Cochineal
H ARRY WAS SITTING ON A BAR STOOL IN P ALACE G RILL reading the signs on the walls, the good-natured reminders to bar clientele not to ask for credit, not to shoot the pianist and to be good or be gone. It was still early evening and the only other customers in the bar were two girls sitting at a table frenetically pressing the buttons of their mobile phones and two boys playing darts with practised refinement of stance and aim, but poor results. Dolly Parton, who Harry knew had been brought back in from the cold by arbiters of good country and western taste, was whining over the loudspeakers with her nasal Southern accent. Harry checked his watch again and had a wager with himself that Rakel Fauke would be standing at the door at exactly seven minutes past eight. He felt the crackle of tension he always felt at seeing her again. He told himself it was just a conditioned response, like Pavlov’s dogs starting to salivate when they heard the bell for food, even when there wasn’t any. And they wouldn’t be having food this evening. That is, they would be having food, but only food. And a cosy chat about the lives they were leading now. Or to be more precise: the life she was leading now. And about Oleg, the son she had had with her Russian ex-husband, from when she had been working at the Norwegian embassy in Moscow. The boy with the closed, wary nature that Harry had reached and with whom he had gradually developed bonds that in many ways were stronger than those with his own father. And when Rakel had, in the end, been unable to tolerate any more and had left, he didn’t know whose loss had been greater. But now he knew. For now it was seven minutes past eight and she was standing by the door with that erect posture of hers, the arch of her back he could feel on his fingertips and the high cheekbones under the glowing skin he could feel against his. He had hoped she wouldn’t look so good. So happy .
She walked over to him and their cheeks touched. He made sure he let go first.
‘What are you looking at?’ she asked, unbuttoning her coat.
‘You know,’ Harry said, and heard that he should have cleared his throat first.
She chuckled, and the laughter had the same effect on him as the first swig of Jim Beam; he felt warm and relaxed.
‘Don’t,’ she said.
He knew exactly what her ‘Don’t’ meant. Don’t start, don’t be embarrassing, we’re not going there. She had said it softly, it was practically inaudible, yet it felt like a stinging slap.
‘You’re thin,’ she said.
‘So they say.’
‘The table . . .’
‘The waiter will come and get us.’
She sat down on the stool opposite him and ordered an aperitif. Campari, went without saying. Harry used to call her ‘cochineal’ after the natural pigment that gave the spicy, sweet wine its characteristic colour. Because she liked to dress in bright red. Rakel had herself claimed that she used it as a warning, the way animals use strong colours to tell others to keep their distance.
Harry ordered another Coke.
‘Why are you so thin?’ she asked.
‘Fungus.’
‘What?’
‘Apparently it’s eating me up. Brain, eyes, lungs, concentration. Sucking out colours and memory. The fungus is growing, I’m disappearing. It’s becoming me, I’m becoming it.’
‘What are you babbling on about?’ she exclaimed with a grimace meant to
The snow in the garden reflected enough light for him to make out the snowman down below. It looked alone. Someone should have given it a cap and scarf. And maybe a broomstick to hold. At that moment the moon slid from behind a cloud. The black row of teeth came into view. And the eyes. Jonas automatically sucked in his breath and recoiled two steps. The pebble-eyes were gleaming. And they were not staring into the house. They were looking up. Up here. Jonas drew the curtains and crept back into bed.
3
DAY 1.
Cochineal
H ARRY WAS SITTING ON A BAR STOOL IN P ALACE G RILL reading the signs on the walls, the good-natured reminders to bar clientele not to ask for credit, not to shoot the pianist and to be good or be gone. It was still early evening and the only other customers in the bar were two girls sitting at a table frenetically pressing the buttons of their mobile phones and two boys playing darts with practised refinement of stance and aim, but poor results. Dolly Parton, who Harry knew had been brought back in from the cold by arbiters of good country and western taste, was whining over the loudspeakers with her nasal Southern accent. Harry checked his watch again and had a wager with himself that Rakel Fauke would be standing at the door at exactly seven minutes past eight. He felt the crackle of tension he always felt at seeing her again. He told himself it was just a conditioned response, like Pavlov’s dogs starting to salivate when they heard the bell for food, even when there wasn’t any. And they wouldn’t be having food this evening. That is, they would be having food, but only food. And a cosy chat about the lives they were leading now. Or to be more precise: the life she was leading now. And about Oleg, the son she had had with her Russian ex-husband, from when she had been working at the Norwegian embassy in Moscow. The boy with the closed, wary nature that Harry had reached and with whom he had gradually developed bonds that in many ways were stronger than those with his own father. And when Rakel had, in the end, been unable to tolerate any more and had left, he didn’t know whose loss had been greater. But now he knew. For now it was seven minutes past eight and she was standing by the door with that erect posture of hers, the arch of her back he could feel on his fingertips and the high cheekbones under the glowing skin he could feel against his. He had hoped she wouldn’t look so good. So happy .
She walked over to him and their cheeks touched. He made sure he let go first.
‘What are you looking at?’ she asked, unbuttoning her coat.
‘You know,’ Harry said, and heard that he should have cleared his throat first.
She chuckled, and the laughter had the same effect on him as the first swig of Jim Beam; he felt warm and relaxed.
‘Don’t,’ she said.
He knew exactly what her ‘Don’t’ meant. Don’t start, don’t be embarrassing, we’re not going there. She had said it softly, it was practically inaudible, yet it felt like a stinging slap.
‘You’re thin,’ she said.
‘So they say.’
‘The table . . .’
‘The waiter will come and get us.’
She sat down on the stool opposite him and ordered an aperitif. Campari, went without saying. Harry used to call her ‘cochineal’ after the natural pigment that gave the spicy, sweet wine its characteristic colour. Because she liked to dress in bright red. Rakel had herself claimed that she used it as a warning, the way animals use strong colours to tell others to keep their distance.
Harry ordered another Coke.
‘Why are you so thin?’ she asked.
‘Fungus.’
‘What?’
‘Apparently it’s eating me up. Brain, eyes, lungs, concentration. Sucking out colours and memory. The fungus is growing, I’m disappearing. It’s becoming me, I’m becoming it.’
‘What are you babbling on about?’ she exclaimed with a grimace meant to
Similar Books
Unknown
Unknown
The Eden Series: The Complete Collection
Janelle Stalder
Kilting Me Softly: 1
Persephone Jones
Darkness Under the Sun
Dean Koontz
Sybil
Flora Rheta Schreiber
The Pyramid
William Golding
Nothing is Forever
Grace Thompson
Series of Unfortunate Events: The Grim Grotto
Lemony Snicket
The Tiger's Wife
Tea Obreht