32
I don’t know if it’s possible to say exactly how the throne changed hands. Exactly when violin came to power and began to rule over us rather than vice versa. Everything had gone down the pan; the deal I had tried to make with Ibsen, the coup at Alnabru. And Oleg went around with that depressed Russian mug on him, complaining life without Irene was meaningless. After three weeks we shot up more than we earned, we were high when working and we knew it was all about to go tits up. As even then it meant less than the next fix. It sounds like a cliche, it is a cliche, and that’s precisely how it is. So bloody simple and so absolutely impossible. I think I can safely say that I have never loved any human, I mean, really loved. But I was hopelessly in love with violin. For while Oleg was using violin as medicine to dull the pain of his broken heart, I was using violin as it is supposed to be used. To be happy. And I mean just that: fricking happy. It was better than food, sex, sleep, yes, it was even better than breathing.
And that was why it did not come as a shock when, one evening after the showdown, Andrey took me aside and said the old boy was concerned.
‘I’m fine,’ I said.
He explained that if I didn’t sharpen up and go to work with a clear head every bloody day from now on the old boy said I would be forcibly packed off to rehab.
I laughed. Said I didn’t realise this job had fringe benefits like health schemes and stuff. Did Oleg and I get dental treatment and pensions as well?
‘Oleg doesn’t.’
I saw in his eyes more or less what that meant.
I had no intention of kicking the habit yet. And neither did Oleg. So we didn’t give a toss, and the following evening we were as high as the Post Office building, sold half of our stock, took the rest, stole a car and drove to Kristiansand. Played fricking Sinatra at full blast, ‘I Got Plenty of Nothing’, which was true, we didn’t even have a bloody licence. In the end Oleg was singing too, but only to drown out Sinatra and moi, he claimed. We laughed and drank lukewarm beer, it was like the old days. We stayed at Hotel Ernst, which wasn’t as dull as it sounds, but when we asked at reception where the dope dealers hung out, we got only a blank look in return. Oleg had told me about the town’s festival, which had been wrecked by some idiot who was so desperate to be a guru he booked bands that were so cool they couldn’t afford them. Nevertheless, the Christian folk in the town maintained that half of the population between eighteen and twenty-five had bought drugs because of the festival. But we didn’t find any customers; we zoomed around on a dark evening in the pedestrian area where there was one — one! — drunken man and also fourteen members of a Ten Sing choir, who enquired whether we wanted to meet Jesus.
‘If he wants some violin, yes,’ I said.
But apparently Jesus didn’t, so we went back to our hotel room and had a goodnight shot. I have no idea why, but we hung around in the back of beyond. Did nothing, just got high and sang Sinatra. One night I woke up with Oleg standing over me. He was holding a fricking dog in his arms. Said he’d been woken up by the squeal of brakes outside the window and that, when he looked out, this dog was lying in the street. I had a peep. It didn’t look good. Oleg and I were agreed, its back was broken. Mangy with lots of sores as well. The poor creature had been beaten up, whether by an owner or other dogs who knows. But it was fine, it was. Calm, brown eyes looked at me as if it believed I could fix what was wrong. So I tried. Gave it food and water, patted its head and talked to the animal. Oleg said we should take it to a vet, but I knew what they would do, so we kept the dog in the hotel room, hung a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door and let it lie in the bed. We took turns to stay awake and check it was breathing. It lay there getting hotter and hotter and with its pulse getting weaker. The third day I gave it a name. Rufus. Why not? Nice to have a name if you’re going to peg it.
‘It’s suffering,’ Oleg said. ‘The vet’ll put it to sleep with an injection. Won’t hurt at all.’
‘No one’s going to inject Rufus with cheap dope,’ I said, flicking the syringe.
‘Are you mad?’ Oleg said. ‘That violin is worth two thousand kroner.’
Perhaps it was. At any rate Rufus left this fricking world business class.
I seem to remember the journey home was cloudy. Anyway there was no Sinatra, no one sang.
Back in Oslo, Oleg was terrified about what would happen. As for myself I was quite cool, strangely enough. It was as if I knew the old boy wouldn’t touch us. We were two harmless junkies on our way down. Broke, unemployed and after a while out of violin. Oleg had found out that the expression ‘junkie’ was more than a hundred years old, from the time when the first heroin addicts stole junk metal from the harbour in Philadelphia and sold it to finance their consumption. And that was precisely what Oleg and I did. We began to sneak into building sites down by the harbour in Bjorvika and stole whatever we came across. Copper and tools were gold. We sold the copper to a scrap merchant in Kalbakken, the tools to a couple of Lithuanian tradesmen.
But as more people latched onto the scam, the fences grew in height, more nightwatchmen were employed, the cops showed up and the buyers went AWOL. So there we sat, our cravings lashing us like rabid slave drivers round the clock. And I knew I would have to come up with a decent idea, an Endlosung. So I did.
Of course I said nothing to Oleg.
I prepared the speech for a whole day. Then I rang her.
Irene had just returned home from training. She sounded almost happy to hear my voice. I talked without stopping for an hour. She was crying by the time I’d finished.
The following evening I went down to Oslo Central Station and was standing on the platform when the Trondheim train trundled in.
Her tears were flowing as she hugged me.
So young. So caring. So precious.
As I’ve mentioned, I’ve never really loved anyone. But I must have been close to it, because I was almost crying myself.
33
Through the narrow opening of the window in room 301 Harry heard a church bell strike eleven somewhere in the darkness. His aching chin and throat had one advantage: they kept him awake. He got out of bed and sat in the chair, tilted it back against the wall beside the window so that he was facing the door with the rifle in his lap.
He had stopped at reception and asked for a strong light bulb to replace the one that had gone in his room and a hammer to knock in a couple of nails sticking up from the door sill. Said he would fix them himself. Afterwards he had changed the weak bulb in the corridor outside and used the hammer to loosen and remove the door sill.
From where he was sitting he would be able to see the shadow in the gap beneath the door when they came.
Harry lit another cigarette. Checked the rifle. Finished the rest of the pack. Outside in the darkness the church bell chimed twelve times.
The phone rang. It was Beate. She said she had been given copies of four of the five lists from patrol cars trawling the Blindern district.
‘The last patrol car had already delivered its list to Orgkrim,’ she said.
‘Thanks,’ Harry said. ‘Did you get the bags from Rita at Schroder’s?’
‘Yes, I did. I’ve told Pathology to make it a priority. They’re analysing the blood now.’
Pause.
‘And?’ Harry asked.
‘And what?’
‘I know that intonation, Beate. There’s something else.’
‘DNA tests take more than a few hours, Harry. It-’
‘-can take days before we have a final result.’
‘Yes, so for the time being it’s incomplete.’
