others are in a hurry, I let them go ahead of me. It amuses me. I laugh at them when they're not looking. Laugh at their life-or-death expressions. It's only on bad days that I cry. But I don't have many bad days. Or didn't. Sometimes I do cry, almost astonished at the crack that opens without warning. When I look at pictures from poor countries. Children with flies on their lips, toothless old people with no flesh on their bones, scabs and sores, with no water; they look at me reproachfully. Maybe part of the blame is mine.
Somebody is to blame. But I've never done anything about it.
I'm glad that Henry disappeared. I saw it coming. Saw his expression when I got undressed at night. Not disgust, just a terrible embarrassment, and I didn't help him. That wasn't my job. Henry was supposed to help me. That's what the doctor said, let your husband help you. But he couldn't do it. It's easier to live alone. And this way he won't have to deal with everything that happens. That's good. My son Ingemar never mentions his name. I tell him that he doesn't have to, only that he has to try to understand. He doesn't love me, I realise that. He doesn't hate me either, I've never thought that he did, but the only life I know I've dumped on to his shoulders. He's a decent person too. Works for the Pricing Commission. He doesn't owe any money, and he doesn't drink. I don't know exactly what he does at his job, maybe he decides what things should cost. Everybody complains about the price of everything, and everybody's salary is too low. 'Let's go on strike!' they all shout. 'We're not going to stand for it any more, we've been passed over, we're not appreciated, the others have got something, why shouldn't we!' No-one ever grows up these days. Everywhere I go I see whining children. Runi, for example, she whines a lot.
Once in a while I wish that Ingemar would come over and we could go into town together. Arm in arm. Irma Funder walking along the street with her grown-up son. He's not tall or handsome, but quite nice-looking. He gets his heavy face from me, and it suits him. He's extremely serious. The kind of person who has thought things through. It's true that he doesn't have any great ambitions, but he fulfils his obligations, and he never complains. Walking through town with Ingemar. We go to a cafe. He pays and carries our tray to the table. Pulls out my chair. But he never comes. It's been a long time since he came to see me. If I suggested it – how about the two of us going into town? – he would look at me in surprise. But now I'm happy as long as he stays away.
The house is old. Henry said it was built on clay. That it was just a matter of time, or enough rain, before it would pull loose and slide away, slip unhindered down the slope and crash into number 15. He was always so worried, Henry. I love this house. I know every nook and cranny, the contents of every drawer. Each step on the stairs when I leave for work. Left for work. Everything is mine, and old and familiar and always the same. Ingemar once sat here at the table – that was a long time ago – and he'd got it into his head that the house should be painted. Red, Ingemar said. It's white now, with green paintwork. I would get so scared, every time I stepped through the gate. Scared that something huge and red would loom up, and I'd stand there screaming. I'm telling you these snippets of my life because it's important to me that you see that I'm clear-headed, that I remember things, that I'm not crazy. Of course people will judge me. But I prefer to be my own judge. There is no excuse. Nor would I want any. But there is an explanation. Andreas was just a boy. I didn't want him dead. What am I saying? I certainly did want him dead, in that one evil moment. I stood there and thought: Now I'm going to kill him, I have to do it! Was I all alone with that thought? That horrific moment when I destroyed him. I remember a strange light in the room. Where did it come from? Have you ever seen it?
*
The woman moaned and carried on. She was oblivious to everything, to the fact that she was shivering or that the child might get cold because she was standing there holding him. She was all alone with the little bundle with the wet mouth, the thing she loved more than anything else. Sobs! A faint bleating. She could hardly breathe as she listened. He wasn't breathing. She shook him and took a few steps, and finally air filled his lungs. And he started crying again.
She stumbled around among the rocks until the child calmed down. Carefully took off his hat and found a scrape on his bald head. With one arm she hugged the child to her breast as hard as she dared, with her other hand she struggled to pull the pram up the slope. She slid back, dug her feet hard against the ground to steady herself, gasping in desperation. Finally she reached the top, soaked with sweat. Her arms ached. She put the baby in the pram and spread the quilt over him. One of the wheels was bent and it was difficult to push. Luckily she had her keys in her coat pocket. When she reached home, she lifted the carrying cot out of the frame, put it on the back seat of the car, fastened it with a seat belt and drove to the emergency department. She cursed the two men who had robbed her. Hatred and anger came and went in her body like tongues of fire. May terrible things happen to them! May they crash their car on the way to town, suffer a head injury and be paralysed from the waist down!
The baby was sleeping. Safe and sound. But he had that mark on his head. A tiny scrape. It took her eleven minutes to drive to the hospital. She lifted him out of the carrying cot and took him inside.
A doctor examined the cut. Took off most of the baby's clothes and shone a light into the dark pupils of his eyes. The baby drooled and flailed his arms.
'He looks fine,' the doctor said. 'You should report the handbag snatching.'
'No,' she said wearily. 'The only thing that's important is my baby.'
'What's his name?'
She smiled shyly. 'He hasn't been baptised yet. I'll know his name day when I find a name. None of them are good enough,' she said proudly. The doctor wrote out a bill since her money had been stolen. It was really just a token amount. Forty kroner. Then she went home and nursed the baby for a long time. She sat next to his cot, couldn't make herself leave him. Then she changed her mind and carried him to her own bed. Spread the quilt over both of them and turned off the light. Tried to calm down, but couldn't. She didn't believe in God. She had formally withdrawn from the state church. But in the dark, lying under the quilt, she sensed the contours of some kind of purpose. It overwhelmed her. The fact that they did mean something after all, her and the baby, beyond what she meant when she thought clearly about her own life. Something was keeping them company as they lay there together. She felt herself observed. And later, another thought, that someday she would die. Or the boy would. That it might happen suddenly. She placed her hand on his head. It fitted perfectly in the palm of her hand. He didn't move. He was sound asleep.
Zipp and Andreas were busy drinking up her money. Zipp was hunched over like an old man; it had all been too much for him. Andreas was rocking his chair back and forth, silently making his point. Whoever mentioned the baby first would ruin the evening. That awful, unexpected event which had befallen them.
What they had planned was a quick and easy play, over in a couple of seconds. Wham! Four hundred kroner. No harm done.
Andreas studied the fan on the ceiling. It was revolving slowly, and it reminded him of a scene in a film that he liked. They drank some more, patiently waiting for the intoxication to spread over their brows like a cool rag. Life began to look better as time passed, the girls were prettier, the future brighter. Zipp wiped the foam from his upper lip. And then it slipped out.
'What do you think happened to the baby?' Andreas uttered a huge, world-weary sigh. He set down his glass without a sound.
'Babies are soft like rubber. The skull hasn't even grown together, it's elastic.'
He met Zipp's frightened eyes. 'It's made up of soft plates that slide over each other under pressure. Clever, huh?'
'You're making that up!'
Zipp's eyes flickered. Andreas always had an answer, but he could be a shameless liar. At the same time, that's what he wanted. To have an answer at all costs. The woman with the pram had been a bad choice. The beer tasted just as good as always, that wasn't it. But that baby, God damn it, he was just a tiny bundle. Zipp pressed against the edge of the table and tried to steady his heart. He could still see it. That ridiculous blue plush vehicle on its way over the edge. The way it shook and lurched downwards before ramming into a rock, tipping forward and toppling over. The tiny hands flailing helplessly. A deserted kiosk, an abandoned car, shit, that was nothing. But a live human being!
'If anything happened, it'll be in the papers tomorrow.'
'Cut it out, Zipp. Just relax!'
Andreas stared up at the fan again. It was revolving in slow motion and did nothing to keep the smoke away. But he liked the way it moved, the steady pace, the big blades like a propellor overhead. The sight made him hum under his
breath that song by the The Doors, about never again being able to look into his friend's eyes. Zipp cleared
