something, since we're friends, for God's sake. And what is a friend?
Someone to spend time with, without too much discomfort? Because I don't really care for her that much. If she died I'd be extremely upset, but at the same time a lot would be over and done with. Grieve for her? That's not how I'd feel. It's good to be done with things.
She encourages me to go out, sometimes to a restaurant, or to the theatre. It takes an effort for me to do that. To sit there in a crowd of people, so close that you can hear what they're saying, is very stressful. One time we went to Hanna's Kitchen because it was Runi's birthday. That was a long time ago. We were sitting at a table right next to two young women, well, young compared to us, but definitely adults. They were howling and carrying on, giggling like a couple of teenagers. And they drank too much and got very drunk. I realised after a while that they were actually two streetwalkers. I'm no fool. Some of their conversation can't be repeated, it was so vile. And having them so close like that. Unable to get away! Runi makes all the arrangements if we're going to do something together. Sometimes I feel quite moved, when I hear her voice on the phone, when she asks me if I'd like to come along, and her anxiety that I might say no. She doesn't have anyone else. Life isn't easy for anybody.
If I'm ever brought before a court, they'll probably declare me guilty by reason of insanity. But I'm not. I remember everything, so I should be held accountable, shouldn't I? And you can see that my thoughts are coherent and orderly, can't you?
That I'm a normal human being and not mentally deficient? I'm sure of that.
I've pulled a plastic tarpaulin over the body. I don't plan on moving him. How could I manage that? He weighs a ton, so the most I could have done would be to lug him into a corner. I've hung an old potato sack over the window. A bare bulb hangs from the ceiling. He's lying on his back with his arms at his side. He's no longer handsome. As I've said so often, physical beauty is a fragile gift. I myself have little to lose. I'm know that I'm ugly. No-one has ever said as much out loud, but I can see it in people's eyes when I meet their gaze: the dead look they give me. 'Why can't you fix yourself up?' Runi asks me, annoyed. It scares her that I don't fight back. Let the young people be sleek in peace, is what I think now. Like Andreas, he's young and sleek. Well, not any more. My thoughts are with him. It's not that he's been forgotten or anything. He'll never be forgotten. But as for myself, I'm not so certain.
C H A P T E R 4
Andreas smoked Craven A cigarettes. Not Prince or Marlboro, like other people. Every time he was out of cigs he'd go to a kiosk, lean forward and say:
'Craven'. And they would nod behind the counter and search the shelves. Not many people bought that brand. He sought attention wherever he went, but as soon as he got it, he rejected it. Zipp knew that he himself was not fussy, and had no specific preferences whatsoever. He couldn't really tell the difference, anyway, between a Prince and a Marlboro. Or between Coke and Pepsi. He had to look at the name on the label. He wondered if other people were lying, or whether they were actually more canny than he was. Maybe Andreas was lying. He wasn't altogether trustworthy. Something was lacking. He could never say: 'One time last year' or 'last Saturday' or 'dammit, Zipp, guess what happened yesterday!' He never talked about anything in the past. Only about the present moment, or what was to come. And it wasn't because what had happened in the past was too awful to talk about; that wasn't it. And Zipp ought to know. They'd been hanging out together for eleven years. But had he ever heard Andreas say: 'Do you remember that time?' No, that would never happen.
'In 2019,' said Andreas, 'we'll be 39 years old. Have you ever thought about that?'
Zipp shrugged. No, he hadn't, and he didn't feel like doing the arithmetic, but it was probably about right. Almost 40.
'What about it?'
Andreas studied the pavement ahead. 'By then human beings will have colonised several of the planets. All the animals will be extinct. The air will be lethally polluted, and the first replicants will be living among us without our knowing.'
'You've been watching too many videos,' Zipp said. 'We need money, man!'
Andreas read aloud what it said on a poster on a wall: 'Saga Sun Trips. Clean air, crystal clear water. I know,' he said. 'Drive over to Furulund.' He issued the order in a gentle manner, as if Zipp were a long way his junior. It did not occur to him that he might be contradicted, at least not with any seriousness.
'Furulund? Why there?'
'It's quiet out there.'
'But what about the money, Andreas!'
'Just so,' he said calmly.
Zipp made a U-turn, and Andreas pulled a comb out of his pocket. He started combing his unruly hair.
'Out to get the ladies?' Zipp teased. 'Someone younger for a change?'
Andreas struggled with his curls. 'Shut up and drive.'
Zipp drove the Golf as fast as it would go, past Dynamite Industries and along the fjord. Andreas remained alert. After five minutes he told Zipp to slow down. A cyclist was coming in the other direction, a man on a racing bike. He had a touring rucksack on his back, he was wearing a helmet and cycling gloves, and he was moving at quite a speed. Andreas dismissed the man and stared through the windscreen. They were approaching a public park, which consisted of a decent swimming area, tables and benches and several large permanent barbeques which were always in use during the summer.
'Turn right,' Andreas said.
'There's just a lousy kiosk down there, and it's closed for the autumn,' Zipp objected.
'There are people here,' Andreas said. 'It's a tourist area. If we're lucky, we'll find an old lady with a handbag.'
Zipp manoeuvred the car cautiously down
towards the sea.
'Slowly. We're strangers here, we're looking for something.'
'Looking for what?'
Andreas shook his head in disbelief.
'We're going to stop someone and ask for directions.'
'Who?'
'Whoever turns up,' he said with a groan. His friend's simple-mindedness was unbearable.
'What a shitload of trouble it is to live in a society that charges 40 kroner for a pint. If it's going to be any fun tonight, we're going to need at least a thousand,' Zipp said.
The ocean poured in over the shore. Greyishgreen, foaming, and ice-cold. They came to an old dilapidated clubhouse. Outside it, pieces of broken patio furniture had been piled into a heap, a midsummer bonfire that would never be lit. The summer had been very dry. They turned into the car park and surveyed the area. In the distance they saw a figure plodding along the shoreline. Andreas opened the glove compartment and took out a cap. He pulled it down over his forehead and tucked his curls underneath. Zipp grinned when he read the words on the blue fabric.
''Holy Riders. On the Road for Jesus.' Shit, you're bad, Andreas!'
A strong wind was blowing. Andreas stuck one foot outside the car.
'A woman,' he said. 'With a pram. Excellent.'
'Why?'
'Women get so helpless when they're pushing a pram.'
He turned to look at Zipp. 'Just think what's inside.'
'What exactly are you planning to do?' Zipp was nervous. He couldn't very well object; they were friends, did everything together. But he often thought that one day they would cross a boundary too far. Andreas had his knife in his belt, under his shirt.
'First we have to see if she's got a handbag with her. If she lives nearby, she probably left it at home. Otherwise women always carry a handbag.' They waited as the figure came closer slowly. She was pushing the pram along the beach, and the wheels were sinking into the soft sand. She was very tall, with a scarf round her head and a lightcoloured coat which flapped in the wind.
'She must be two metres tall!' said Zipp, who was 1.70 himself.
'Doesn't matter. Girls don't have much in the way of muscles.'
