When the Devil Holds the Candle (10 page)

We had good seats, but now and then I had trouble hearing what was said. We returned to the bar for a glass of port during the intermission. I didn't understand the play, but I didn't say so. Instead, I shrugged my shoulders expressively and said that, well, it wasn't so bad, but good Lord, I'd certainly seen better. Runi agreed. But the theater itself was magnificent, all done in red and gold, and the chandelier was a dream in crystal. Hundreds of tiny little prisms with light shining through every facet. Runi said it had been made in Czechoslovakia, and was a gift from the Savings Bank. The old one from 1870 had been gaslit, but in 1910 it was converted to electricity, and that—the wiring—was what had started the fire. "Georg Resch," Runi said importantly, "he was the one who took the initiative." She loves showing off what little she knows.

After the play, it took us a long time to leave the theater. People came pouring out from every direction, blocking the way. I was poked and jostled by strangers and I noticed all their different smells: expensive woolen coats, heavy perfumes, smoke from the first cigarettes lit outside the door. There was a buzz of voices—a surging roar that rose and fell. I thought of closing my eyes and letting myself be carried along—just surrendering. On the other hand, I have no trouble dealing with such temptations: I just think
about the day that will inevitably follow. I fixed my eyes on Runi's coat. I felt as if the crowd were almost crushing me; I could hardly breathe. It's much more pleasant to watch television or read a book. But at last we were outside, and the crowd spilled away in all directions. Runi wanted to walk; it wasn't far. I said that I'd take a taxi. I hoped the driver would be Norwegian. I'm not a racist, but I can't understand what they're saying when they speak broken Norwegian, and then they get annoyed. And things aren't easy for them as it is; no, frankly, I simply didn't want to subject them to Irma Funder. So I hoped for a Norwegian.

It was two blocks from the theater to the taxi stand on the square. I walked along the river and stopped at the corner. Stared at the endless line of young people who were pushing and shoving, cursing and yelling. I couldn't stand in that line, not for anything in the world. For a moment I stood there, hesitating and cold, unable to make up my mind, and that's not like me. I would simply have to walk. It was five minutes to midnight. As I glanced up at the floodlit church, the way a child does, I thought:
This is the witching hour.
I looked around in confusion, but I saw only the noisy people lining up for a taxi, and a few solitary souls rambling about. An empty taxi glided past, turned off its light and vanished. What if I waited at the corner until the line got shorter? At that very moment a couple walked up and joined the end of the line. Then they each lit up a cigarette. I cut across the square and chose the main street. There would be no danger as long as I stayed on the main street, which went all the way to the park. Only there did it get truly dark. The last hill was barely lit at all. I walked on the right side of the street, going as fast as I could, but my shoes hurt my feet. I tried to make myself uninteresting—because that's what I was, after all—but my shoes betrayed me. I might just as well have had a bell around my neck.
Come and get me, come and get me!
my shoes shrieked. I had money in my handbag, but not a lot. I'm not stupid. Only enough for a taxi home.

I passed the optician's and the bicycle specialist's. I thought I heard footsteps behind me, but I didn't turn to look. If I saw someone there, panic would seize me. It wasn't a long walk home; in a few minutes it would all be over. In my mind I pictured the house, my own house with its green trim, and the outdoor light that I had remembered to leave on, welcoming me home. I still thought I could hear something—footsteps. Light ones, not tapping like my own. I couldn't resist a look. And I saw them! Two young men. Then I admonished myself: There were people on the streets, and these two were going in the same direction as I was; it was as simple as that. Yet it seemed to me that they were staring at me, studying me as a possible target, but then, I thought, we women are always hysterical. We always imagine the worst: we know what it's like to grow up in the world of men. I started to walk faster, then turned around again to double-check. They were still there. I crossed all the way over to the shop windows and felt safe for a moment in their light. Then I was in the dark again. When I looked around for the third time, one of the men was gone. I sighed with relief; that was a good sign. He was already home! Still, I didn't slow my pace. I thought about everything that could happen. No, I wasn't afraid of dying. And I didn't pray to God. There were worse things that could happen to me than death. I had thought it all through and knew that I couldn't allow such things to happen to me. But that's how we think sometimes, and then it happens all the same—like that time when I was ill and had to stay in the hospital, with other people taking care of me.

I walked up the steep hill and thought about the hospital and everything that had happened then. That was a nightmare that almost overshadowed the present one. Thinking of it helped.

All this time I continued to hear the footsteps. What frightened me was the fact that he didn't overtake me. He was a young man with long legs; he should have passed me long ago. Then I saw the roof of my house. I heard my own heart pounding, my
legs hurt, and I was sweating inside the tight vest. I deliberately slammed the gate, as if someone in the empty house were listening for it and would get up from his chair. There were only a few more paces: the five steps up to the front door. I realized that I didn't have my key ready, I had to rummage in my handbag, in the little compartment. I stood under the light like a human bull's-eye. Then I found the key and stuck it in the lock. The door swung open. I could feel sobs of sheer relief rising in my throat. That young man was going home to bed.
Pull yourself together, Irma!
I peered into the dark kitchen and gasped out loud. A red eye shone at me through the dark. The coffeemaker was on, still half full of coffee. I had left the house with the coffee machine on—I could have burned down this lovely house, which is all I own. I switched it off. The kitchen smelled like a coffee shop. I turned on the light and lifted the pot from the hotplate. I had to lean on the counter for support. It had all been too much for me: the theater, the crowd, the walk through the dark town at night, the strange man, the coffeemaker on in the old house. I straightened up. It would, I vowed, be a long time before I did that again. Then I went into the bathroom. I stood with my back to the mirror and dropped my dress to the floor. I pulled the tight vest over my head and then stuck my arms into a dressing gown. It's white; yes, out of sheer defiance it is white. I never stay over at anyone's house, so it doesn't matter. I stood in the doorway and peered into the kitchen, stared at the striped rug. Maybe a little pick-me-up would be in order. I had wine in the cellar. I rolled back the rug from the trapdoor, took the ring and pulled it open.

That's when something happened. I heard a sound; it was coming from the hallway. I hadn't locked the door! In my horror over the glowing coffee machine, I had forgotten to secure the latch properly. I had run into the kitchen with only one thought, to prevent a catastrophe. I stood there, frozen to the spot, staring, unable to believe my eyes. A man came walking
into the kitchen with a knife in his hand. His eyes, which were all I could see under the peak of his cap, shone with determination. He had a scarf wrapped around his face and he was looking at my handbag, which lay on the counter. There were two hundred kroner inside. But I had jewelry and silverware and more cash in the safe in Henry's study. For a few seconds there was utter silence. He seemed to be sniffing at the room, as if the smell of burned coffee surprised him. Then he looked at me. He wavered a bit, and the knife shook. I took a step back, but he came after me, pressed me against the counter, stuck the tip of the blade under my chin and snarled:

"Your cash. And fucking be quick about it!"

My knees started to shake, and that's when the accident happened. I couldn't help it. I felt a warmth sliding down my thighs, but he didn't notice—he was much too preoccupied with the knife, which was trembling, betraying his own fear. He was just as scared as I was. I cast a glance toward Henry's study. I wanted to open the safe, but my legs wouldn't hold me. He got annoyed, waved the knife at me, and shoved me with his fist. Not hard, but I flinched. His shouts were muffled by the scarf. "Hurry up, you old bag! Hurry up!"

I was just an old bag. And he was just a young kid. I could hear it in his voice. I hadn't moved. He pushed me again, and finally I managed to drag my feet across the room and into the study. I stood in front of the safe, staring at the dial, trying to remember the combination. My fingers shook uncontrollably, but my mind was a blank. I wanted to throw up, I wanted to run away. I was willing to give him everything I had; there wasn't really much inside, anyway, maybe five thousand kroner. But I couldn't remember the combination. Then he really started to get nervous. Instinctively I knew that I had to keep him calm, and I tried to explain about the combination, that I had written it down. "In the teapot," I gasped, "it's in the teapot in the kitchen!" He screamed that he didn't have time for this. He
seized hold of my dressing gown, up near the collar. I immediately pulled it tight because I was afraid, and he could see that for me this was the worst. I didn't want him to see me the way I was. With one hand he tugged at the belt and held it taut, then he raised the knife and cut it in two. The heavy white toweling fell away. I covered myself with my hands, but it was too late. He stared in disbelief, lurching back with a strange expression, not exactly disgust, but as if he couldn't comprehend what he saw. He shook his head—he had forgotten what he'd come for. But the seconds kept ticking away, and eventually he understood. It was my intestine he was looking at. It sticks out through the skin of my abdomen and ends in a colostomy bag. It was almost full, and the knife blade had sliced it in two. The contents were running down my legs. I couldn't look at his face. I turned around and rushed out of the study, but he came after me. Stopped in front of me with his knife raised.

"I don't give a damn about ... that! I want money!"

I felt it running down. It was thin, not fully digested, and the smell was starting to spread, and I'm so fastidious about things like that. Behind him, the trapdoor to the cellar was open. He didn't notice it, he was jumping around, but I could see that he had reached breaking point. I thought he might end up stabbing me if he didn't get what he wanted. And so I pushed him. I heard him gasp as he fell backward down the steep staircase. There was a crashing and thumping and thundering on the stairs. I heard a disgusting, dull thud as he hit the cement. A faint rattling sound that lasted a few seconds. Then silence.

***

Zipp was waiting in the dark. He heard sounds from inside: a woman screaming, footsteps crossing a floor. He stared and stared through the window, but he could see only the ceiling and the top of a painting. An eternity passed. Why didn't Andreas come out again? He looked for something to stand on. In the garden there was a small gazebo with several chairs inside. He crept over to it, picked up a chair and carried it to the window, shoving it down hard into a rose bed. He could feel the prick of the thorns through his trousers. He climbed onto the chair and peered over the windowsill. He saw a kitchen table and chairs and a striped rug. Nothing else, and nobody in sight. All was quiet. Confused, he stood on the chair and waited. He couldn't imagine what had happened to them. Had this whole caper gone to hell? Had the worst possible thing happened? Were the police on the way? Damn it! He jumped down, but at that moment he heard a faint sound. Relieved, he spun round and stared at the corner of the house, but no one appeared. Was Andreas playing games with him? Had he robbed the old lady and then run off with the cash? Was he standing down there on the road counting the money, grinning and laughing at the thought of Zipp, still waiting in the dark? He climbed up on the chair again. Stood there until his neck started to ache. Suddenly he caught sight of the woman. She came through a door, wearing only a nightdress, and sank onto a chair at the table. She looked unharmed, which was a relief. He decided to stay where he was until she did something. Was she going to call the police? Had she called them already? Zipp jumped down again, ran round the side of the house, and stopped at the corner, partially hidden. No one came. He ran back to take one more look. She was still sitting there. He listened for sirens in the distance, but heard nothing. Just a faint hum from the town below. He was tired and bewildered after everything that had happened on this unreal day. He fumbled for a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and watched the tip glow bright red in the dark. He badly needed to cough but managed to suppress the urge. He smoked the whole cigarette and then got back on the chair. She was still sitting there, for God's sake, in exactly the same position. The woman was clearly in shock, that much he could see. But he couldn't very well stay there all night. He
was going to have to leave. Leave the dark garden all alone. He couldn't do that! But the clock was ticking. He had waited long enough. Without a sound, he slipped out through the gate, but the question kept churning through his mind:
Where the hell is Andreas?

***

The pounding as he crashed down the stairs, the horrible sound of his head hitting the concrete floor, I can't describe it! The impact settled in my own body as a needlelike pain. I thought to myself, surely he must have died in a fall like that! That fragile body against the hard-as-rock floor. I closed the trapdoor. At least he wouldn't be able to come up and threaten me again. Of course, I would have to call somebody—surely someone would help me. Maybe Runi, or Ingemar. No, Lord knows, not Ingemar! And the way I looked! I tottered out to the bathroom and changed the bag. It was difficult to get the new one closed, because my hands were shaking so much. I thought about what he had seen, what no one was ever supposed to see. Or hear about, know about—well, only if necessary, if it was unavoidable. But see it?
No!
The expression on his face, utter disbelief. Maybe he hadn't realized what it was; maybe he'd thought I was some kind of deformed monster, a freak. A gleaming pink intestine on my stomach that looks rather like ... well, you'll have to forgive me; it's so hard for me to talk about this. But it looks rather like a penis. And I'm a woman, after all.