Pets (21 page)

“Our final will at the great noontide,” Armann repeats. Now his voice is more in keeping with his condition.

“But Armann, aren't you just a little late with it? It's nearly midnight. The time is ten, nearly eleven at night.”

“Noontide
. . .
midnight.” He drawls as if these big words were full of lead. “Who was that outside? Who is
. . .
” He seems to be completely collapsing.

“Relax, Armann,” Greta says encouragingly.

Jaime suggests that they help him into the bed, but Greta would rather he rested on the sofa. I can tell Saebjorn is disgusted that such an elderly man has drunk himself stupid, and I tell myself that my friend's rationalism can sometimes be utterly unbearable.

“He didn't need much,” is the only comment that Havard has to make about Armann.

“Noontide
. . .
noon can't come round unless there is midnight first.” Armann carries on.

Another antithesis from the mouth of the linguist. Noon, the warmest time of day, the opposite of midnight, the coldest time, when people search for warmth, when they want homes, alcohol, duvets, embraces, to enter one another.

“Evening comes for each one of us,” he carries on with equal difficulty. “Our last will
. . .
we have high hopes at noon
. . .
but all hope has died by midnight.”

“That is really profound, Armann!” Havard is amazed at what seems to be Armann's grand finale.

“The glasses
. . .
” he asks. Greta answers by saying “there, there,” and tells him to lay his head down, everything is alright, he should just rest.

“Have my glasses been found?” he repeats in a weak voice. Havard reminds him that he came here to fetch them; they are lying on the table.

“Please help yourselves,” Armann groans. He sounds as if he is talking in his sleep. “Help yourselves, my good friends.”

8

I think of what Armann said to me on the plane: that he often felt he was in some kind of limbo. Reflecting on it, I feel it is strange that he should talk about limbo being his favorite word; that word has always made me feel rather uncomfortable. Apart from its cheerful sound, which is reminiscent of words such as bimbo and mambo or something of the sort, its meaning isn't exactly positive, and the first image that arises in my mind is of little children playing some innocent game. Then I hear heavy music and all at once the children are inside some dark limbo, from which they never escape. Armann is too old to take part in this strange game, but when I picture him on the sofa, I think it is probable that he is in some other kind of limbo, perhaps the one he tried to explain to me on the plane without me understanding what he meant.

When Greta asks if I have a dustpan and brush, Saebjorn answers that she is bound to find something like that in the big cupboard in the kitchen. She goes into the kitchen, opens the cupboard, and walks back into the living room, whistling a tune I recognize.

“Wasn't that somebody knocking?”

I hadn't heard anything.

“No doubt this neighbor again,” Havard suggests.

“I'm quite sure someone was knocking,” Greta says again, but she doesn't seem willing to go to the door. Besides, it should be the job of one of the men. I hear someone stand up and the front door opens, but nothing happens to show that Greta was right.

“Have a look outside,” Saebjorn calls out from the living room, and then I hear someone dial a number on his cell phone.

“I don't see anyone,” Jaime answers. But it sounds like he is going outside as Saebjorn suggested; the door is still open and I can feel the cold come in, as if it's crawling along the floor and creeping into every corner of the flat.

Saebjorn has started to talk to someone on the phone. He says he is at my place. He and Jaime had come here to fetch some CDs I had bought for them, but he'll be there quite soon. I imagine he is talking to his girlfriend, Klara.

I feel sorry for Jaime when he comes back in and closes the front door. He is shivering and tells them through his chattering teeth that he didn't see anyone outside. Saebjorn switches off his phone and suggests to Jaime that they get going.

“It's something supernatural,” Havard says. “Isn't it just Emil's ghost? Hasn't he just had an accident and
. . .
”

“Don't say that!” Greta stops him.

“Well, things happen,” Havard answers indifferently.

“Isn't it just Emil in person?” Saebjorn suggests, more cheerful than he has been up until now.

“I must have imagined it,” Greta says, and I think I have to agree with her. At least it wasn't me.

While she is tidying up in the living room—it sounds as though she is moving things and carrying glasses into the kitchen—Saebjorn says that maybe I didn't feel like having any visitors this evening and had made myself scarce before they arrived. I know he is joking, but I begin to wonder if Havard, who hasn't yet made any comment on Saebjorn's idea, is pondering whether there is some truth in it.

“Not to mention the fact that you climbed through the window so Emil hasn't been able to come home again,” Saebjorn continues, still with the same humor.

Havard doesn't respond.

“Maybe he is trying to frighten us by knocking on the door,” Jaime suggests. “He wants us to think it is a ghost.”

For a moment I feel as if I'm taking part in an adventure story for teenagers, that I, the missing man whom everyone is searching for, can't be bothered being in the story any longer and have started reading it instead, without telling the other characters that I have been found and that they can stop searching. But I'm beginning to worry that this conversation will lead to some conclusion. Havard, who doesn't normally keep his thoughts to himself, hasn't commented on my friends' speculations, and I am really afraid that he will stand up any moment now and look for me in the only suitable hiding place in the flat.

“Is he completely out?” Saebjorn asks. He is most likely referring to Armann. He hasn't made a sound since he told all the others to help themselves.

“He has gone completely,” Greta answers, and I think of limbo again; he has gone off to his own private mysterious realm. “Oh, he's really sweet like that,” she adds.

I was waiting for Havard to stand up and follow his suspicion into the bedroom, but it hasn't happened yet. On the other hand, Saebjorn asks Greta to talk to him and the next moment they are standing in the hall between the bathroom and the bedroom.

“What is the time?” I hear Havard ask Jaime, but can't concentrate on what is happening in the living room because Saebjorn has started talking to Greta.

“Are you going to stay here longer?” he asks in a whisper, and she nods in reply. She is going to wait a while for me.

“Do you think you can keep an eye on them? It doesn't look like this Havard is going to leave straightaway.”

“Keep an eye on them?” Greta asks, no doubt with a smile.

“I have to go, perhaps I'll come back later or at least phone.”

Greta laughs in reply and says she is used to looking after such little boys. Besides, Armann isn't likely to get into trouble at the moment. Saebjorn shushes her and asks her to keep her voice down. They move into my bedroom.

“I just don't trust this fellow Havard completely,” Saebjorn continues in a whisper.

Really? I say to my friend, though more to myself here on this side of the blue sheet.

“I mean, there are things of value in here,” he adds, almost as if he is letting her in on a secret. I know exactly what he considers valuable. He is thinking about the CDs, the thirty-six discs I have just bought, and the other two-thousand in the specially made shelves, as well as all the records—my collection which, to my surprise, none of these guests who have come here today for the first time seem to have admired. Saebjorn, on the other hand, hasn't caught sight of the valuables which Havard brought—the ship and the one hundred and fifty year old book which are lying here in front of my feet.

“You don't have to worry about Havard,” Greta says. “I think he is about to go, wasn't he going to meet his friend downtown?”

It's obvious that Greta thinks Saebjorn is worrying unnecessarily. She laughs and whispers that it's not a problem. She'll wait here and Havard will go soon, it's not as though there is a criminal in the place. They go back out again and Havard meets them with a question, do they know the name of the fiancée of the former president of Argentina? Miss Universe from Chile. He says he can't understand that Jaime doesn't know it, he comes from Chile and doesn't know the name of the former Miss Universe who also came from Chile. If I know Jaime well it's something that he absolutely does not want to know.

“Cecilia Bolocco!” Greta says without thinking.

“Hey, you're right!” Havard shouts. “Now I remember: Cecilia Bolocco! Greta! You know it! And the man from Chile hasn't a clue what I am talking about!”

“Who do you think tries to remember such things, Havard?” When Greta says that, when she tries to defend Jaime, who I'm sure has become nervous around Havard, I am quite certain that we have a lot in common, that our short acquaintance in the bus has convinced us both that we have some kind of connection.

While Havard continues to fuss over Jaime's ignorance, Saebjorn asks his friend if he wants a ride in the car, he is going to look in at Klara's and then go home, he has to wake up early the next morning. I imagine that Jaime is on his way to work—he works as a night watchman for the broadcasting company—and it turns out that I am right. When he accepts the ride, he says he has to return home before he goes to work. I know they don't need to be reminded to take the CDs with them, but I wish I could ask Saebjorn to take Havard with him. Or at least offer him a ride.

“So you are leaving?” Havard says, and it doesn't sound as if he regrets their departure.

Saebjorn asks if he wants to come with them, he can drive him downtown, but Havard declines the offer. He says he is going to wait a little longer for me, he isn't going downtown before eleven-thirty at the earliest. “Thanks very much just the same,” he says in an exaggerated manner, which I know must annoy Saebjorn.

While my friends are leaving I use the opportunity to turn over. It is a great relief to lie on my back, and I stretch my stiff legs too. I hear Greta say goodbye to Saebjorn and Jaime, and they seem to leave without saying a word to Havard. I gaze up at the mattress, up at the drooping, starless night sky, this worn material that has been the basis for my sleep for far too long. And for the first time since I crawled under the bed there is complete silence in the flat. Nothing is said for perhaps thirty seconds, there is no music, I can only hear my own breathing. And it is uncomfortable. It is as though Greta has frozen still; she seems to have accompanied Saebjorn and Jaime to the front door, but I don't hear her come back. I feel almost as if I am hiding from no one, and, strange as it may sound, I am relieved when Havard says “well, well” and announces that he is going to have one more drink. I'm waiting for him to say that he is going when he has finished his drink, but Greta takes over: “How did you and Emil get to know each other?” she asks.

9

I expect Havard to answer Greta's question with some nonsense, some rubbish about our long friendship, but I'm relieved when he says that we don't really know each other much:

“We really don't know each other at all,” he says, and Greta sounds amazed. She says something I can't make out because some kind of banging drowns out her words; someone seems to be hitting the back or seat of an armchair. Then Havard says that he was with me in England several years ago, we had been working together and some relative of mine had sent us to London to look after his animals.

“Yes, you told us earlier, didn't you?” Greta interrupts. “What kind of animals were they?” Her voice is full of childish enthusiasm, which, I have to say, surprises me.

“He had a rabbit and some kind of guinea pig,” Havard answers. “A snowy white albino guinea pig. Then there was the lizard. An iguana lizard. Some kind of miniature prehistoric monster. And a cat.”

Greta gets excited at this information. She laughs and says it's like a whole zoo and tells him that she has been looking after some little hamsters for the past two weeks. “Well, sort of,” she adds: she has been staying with her sister in London too. There were two little hamsters in the bedroom where she slept, really crazy little things which slept all day and kept her awake all night. Then one of them gave birth to several babies, which it had been trying to eat when they found him. “Or her, I should say.”

“That's exactly what these stupid creatures do,” Havard says.

“How do you mean?”

“They eat their offspring.”

“Yes, but only if they think someone is going to take them away,” Greta answers, as if objecting to Havard's low opinion of hamsters. “They don't have babies just to eat them,” she adds.