When the Devil Holds the Candle (2 page)

For a paralyzing second I was struck by something that I think is important, important because it helps explain both to myself and to you, who are reading this, how it could happen—I mean, the whole thing with Andreas. I suddenly became aware of the tremendous set of rules governing that room. In the silence, in the hands that were working, in the closed faces, there was a set of rules that I must submit to and follow to the letter. I stood in the silence of the kitchen and felt those rules descend on me like a cage from the ceiling. And it struck me with enormous force: within that set of rules I was invulnerable! If I stayed within that clear framework of diligence and propriety, no one could touch me. That
within
meant I could be around people without offending them, without causing anybody to look askance at me; it meant feeling a sense of peace because I was like everyone else. Because I thought the same way. And then in my mind I saw a narrow street with high walls: this was to be my life. And a terrible sadness overwhelmed me. Until that moment
I might have believed in freedom, the way children do; children believe that anything is possible. But I made a decision, even though I was so young and might not have entirely understood it then. I obeyed a primeval instinct for survival. I didn't want to be alone. I decided that I'd rather be like them and follow the rules. But something departed from me at that instant—it rose up and flew off and vanished forever. That's why I remember the moment so clearly. There in the kitchen, in the yellow-green light, at the age of six, I lost my freedom.

That silent, well-mannered child. In Christmas and birthday pictures I'm sitting on my mother's knee and looking at the camera with a pious smile. Now I have an iron jaw that shoots pain up into my temples. How could things have ended up this way? No doubt there are many different reasons, and some of what happened can be put down to pure coincidence, the fact that our paths crossed on one particular evening. But what about the actual crime? The impulse itself, where does that come from? When does murder occur? In such and such a place, at such and such a moment in time? In this case, I can share the blame with circumstance. The fact that he stepped into my path, that he was the sort of person he was. Because with him I was no longer Irma: I was Irma with Andreas. And that was not the same as Irma with Ingemar, or Irma with Runi. Chemistry, you know. Each time, a new formula is created. Irma and Andreas destroyed each other. Is that true?

Does it emerge over a period of years? Does a crime lie dormant in the body's individual coding? Is murder a result of a long, inevitable process? From now on, I will have to view my life in the light of the horrible thing that happened, and to view that horrible thing in the light of what has been my life. That is what everyone around me will do. They'll look into my past life for something that might explain whatever part of it can be explained. The rest will be left to float in a gray sea of theories.

But to return to the past: I stood, in the silence of the kitchen, and my wordless presence made the silence shrill. Before, it had felt beautiful, but now they couldn't stand it any more. Mother turned around and crossed the room, bent down and sniffed at my hair.

"Your hair needs washing," she said. "It smells."

For a moment I considered going to fetch my art supplies. Instead, I left the kitchen, went out to the garden, climbed over the fence, walked past the abandoned smithy and into the woods. Among the spruce trees there was a pleasant gray-green darkness. I was wearing brown sandals, and on the dry path I came across an anthill. I poked at it with a twig, gleeful at the chaos I was able to create, a catastrophe in that well-ordered society that might take weeks to repair. The desire to destroy! The joyous sense of power as I scraped inside that anthill with the twig. It felt good. I looked around for something to feed them. A dead mouse, something like that. Then I could stand there and watch while they devoured it. They would drop everything, forget the catastrophe: having something to devour would come first, I was sure of that. But I didn't find anything, so I kept on walking. I came to a derelict farmhouse, sat down on the front steps, and thought about the story of the people who had lived there, Gustav and Inger and their twelve children: Uno, Sekunda, Trevor, Firmin, Femmer, Sexus, Syver, Otto, Nils, Tidemann, Ellef, and Tollef. It was incomprehensible, yet true, and all of them were dead now.

Yes. The God that I don't believe in knows that I've seen Andreas. I think back to that terrifying moment when I felt it coming—the desire to destroy him. At the same instant I saw my own face reflected in a windowpane. And I remember the feeling, a sweet pressure, like warm oil running through my body. The certainty that this was evil. My face in the bluish glass: the hideous, evil person you become when the Devil holds the candle.

September 1.

A boy was walking through the streets alone. He was wearing jeans and a Nike jacket, black with an olive green yoke and a red-and-white swoosh on the back. They were expecting him home by 6
P.M.
He might make it. A faint glow from a hazy sky hovered over the town. The wind was picking up. It was September and perhaps a bit melancholy, but that's not what he was thinking. Up until now, life had been good.

The boy was about seven, thin and nice-looking. He was walking along with his hands in his pockets. In one pocket there was a bag of sweets. He had been walking for fifteen minutes and had begun to sweat inside his jacket.

He raised a hand to wipe his forehead. His skin was the color of coffee. His hair was thick and curly and black, and the eyes in his dark face sparkled.

Then, behind him, a car turned into the street. In the car were two men, peering out of the windows. They both felt that right now life was very boring. This town wasn't exactly brimming with surprises. It just sat there, split in half by a gray river, in its mediocrity. The car was a green Golf. Its owner went by the nickname of Zipp: the sound of a zip fly opening in a tight pair of jeans, or more specifically, one being opened with
trembling fingers and blazing cheeks. His real name was Sivert Skorpe. Zipp had blond, wiry hair, and his young face always wore an inquisitive expression. Bordering on sheeplike, some might say, though he usually had luck with the ladies. He wasn't bad-looking, and besides, he was gentle, playful, and simple. Not entirely without depth, either, but he never turned his thoughts inward, living his life oblivious to what existed inside. His companion looked like a faun, or something else from a fairy tale. He didn't try to compete. He seemed to have set himself above the chase, as if girls should come to him, or something like that—Zipp could never understand it. He drove at a leisurely pace. Both young men were silently hoping that something would happen. Then they caught sight of the boy.

"Stop!" said the passenger.

"What the hell. Why?" Zipp grunted, and stepped on the brake. He didn't like trouble.

"I just want to have a little chat."

"Shit, Andreas. He's just a kid."

"A little black kid! I'm bored."

He wound down the window.

"You're not going to find any money on that brat. And it's money we need. I'm thirsty as hell."

The car drew up beside the boy. He cast them a glance and then looked away. It wasn't good to look people in the eye. Or dogs. Instead he fixed his gaze on his shoes and didn't slow his pace.

"Hey, pops!"

A young man with reddish-brown curls was staring at him from the car window. Should he answer? The man was grownup. The car was following him.

"Helluva a nice jacket you've got." The man nodded with admiration. "And it's a Nike! Your dad must make good money, right?"

"My grandfather gave it to me," the boy muttered.

"If you were a size bigger, I'd swipe it from you," the man said, laughing. "But it'd be a bit tight on me."

The boy didn't reply, just kept his eyes firmly fixed on the tips of his shoes.

"I'm only kidding," the man went on. "Just wanted to ask for directions. To the bowling alley."

The boy risked a glance. "It's over there. You can see the sign," he told him.

"Oh, yeah. I was only kidding, as I said."

He gave a low, ingratiating laugh and stuck his head all the way out of the window.

"Want a lift home?"

The boy shook his head vigorously. He could see a doorway up ahead.

"I live over there," he lied.

"Is that right?" The man was laughing hard. "What's your name?"

The boy didn't answer. He had said his name often enough to know what the reaction would be.

"Is it a secret?"

"No."

"Well, then, what is it, boy!"

"Matteus," he whispered.

Dead silence. The man in the car looked at his companion.

"What the hell," he shouted. "That's really cool! Is it really Matteus? The Gospels and all that shit?"

He clucked his tongue. "Where are you from?"

Smiling, he looked at the black curls and brown cheeks. For a moment there was a flash of yearning in his eyes that the boy couldn't possibly see.

"Right over there," he said, pointing.

"No, I mean what country are you from? You're adopted, aren't you?"

"Give it up, Andreas," Zipp groaned. "Leave him be."

"Somalia," the boy said.

"Why didn't they give you a Norwegian name like other children who are adopted? Not that it matters." He tossed his head. "I feel a little faint every time I meet black or Chinese children named Petter and Kåre. Shit, it's really starting to get to me."

He laughed out loud, revealing a row of sharp, white teeth. Matteus pressed his lips together. His name had been Matteus when they found him, the people he called his mother and father, at an orphanage in Mogadishu. They hadn't wanted to change it, but sometimes he wished that they had. Now he just stared at the doorway up ahead, clutching his bag of sweets in a brown fist and casting a glance at the car. Then he turned and took a few steps up the gravel path toward the house that wasn't his at all. He saw a rack holding rubbish bins. He slipped behind them and crouched down. A nauseating, rotting smell came from the rubbish. The car accelerated away and disappeared. When he thought they were out of sight, he crawled out and continued on his way. He was walking faster now. His heart, which had been pounding, began to calm down. The incident had made his stomach churn, giving him a vague presentiment of what awaited him in his future. A car was coming down the street. For an awful moment he thought they might have turned around and come back. They realized that he didn't live here, and they had come to get him! His heart was pounding hard again as he heard the car approach. It stopped on the other side of the street.

"Hey, Matteus! You off out again? You sure do get around, Pops!"

Matteus ran. The men laughed and the engine started up. The car disappeared, headed into town. It was 6:15 when he reached his front door.

***

Zipp and Andreas supposed that they knew each other pretty well. In fact, they were aware of little, insignificant things, such as one another's likes and dislikes, and something about how each functioned in the world. Apart from that, each was too preoccupied with himself to look to the other for anything new. Zipp knew that Andreas's preferred brand of beer had a blue cap. That he liked the Doors and didn't like mustard on his sausages. And that no girl was ever good enough for him. This was something that Zipp couldn't understand. The girls were always giving him the once-over. Andreas is too good-looking, Zipp thought. His looks gave him an indolent, sauntering look that occasionally irritated Zipp. There was something intractable about Andreas, something invulnerable and sluggish that almost made you want to hit him, or stick out your leg to see him lose his balance. If that was even possible. Furthermore, Zipp knew where Andreas lived and worked. He had been up to his room and visited his workplace, the Cash & Carry. He worked among racks of paint tins, bread knives, and Teflon frying pans. It was a place for old ladies. Andreas was the only guy who worked there.

Andreas knew that Zipp's father had died years ago, but he couldn't remember what his name was or how he had died. He also knew that Zipp was unemployed and was always bumming money from him. He liked having company and he owned a car. The car had belonged to his father, of course. Zipp's mother didn't know how to drive, but she did pay for the gas. She did shift work at some kind of home. Andreas rarely saw her—almost always, she was either at work or asleep. In the basement he and Zipp had a little room, a place where they could hang out when they were broke. It was pleasant to stick with the familiar. Zipp was predictable, and Andreas liked that. And last, but not least, being friends with Zipp felt safe.

They didn't have much to offer one another, yet they still spent time together. Anything was better than solitude. If Zipp ever suggested including a third or a fourth person, Andreas would talk him out of it, saying that it would just complicate things. Besides, they didn't have room for women in the car, which was a good argument. They'd quarreled a few times, but their spats never ever developed into fights. They agreed on most things; when they didn't, Andreas usually managed to turn the conflict to his own advantage, so effortlessly that Zipp never even noticed. They had crossed a few boundaries. Insignificant things: once where they had stolen money and some cartons of cigarettes from a kiosk; another time, when the Golf's battery died, and the idea of trudging through the streets like a couple of schoolboys didn't appeal to them, they had stolen a car. But they hadn't driven far. At bottom, they were quite cowardly. They never resorted to violence, and they had never owned a gun between them, although Andreas had a knife; it had been given to him as a confirmation present. Occasionally it hung from his belt, hidden under his shirt. The knife made Zipp uncomfortable. Sometimes they drank too much, and then the knife would swing like a pendulum on Andreas's narrow hips, readily accessible. Not that Andreas set out to provoke anyone, or let himself be provoked by others. Usually he had just the opposite effect on people. They felt good in his company; they would relax and sit staring into his pale blue eyes. But when Andreas drank, he changed. A restlessness would come over him, and the lazy boy would develop an almost feverish agitation. Then his thin fingers couldn't keep still; they'd be in constant motion, plucking at everything. Zipp was always amazed by this: he himself became dull and sleepy when he drank too much.