Good Night, My Darling

against her throat, and it wasn’t until that point that Berit began to resist. Justine grabbed a book from the bookshelf, a Dostoyevsky, and she slammed the corner of the book right on the bridge of Berit’s nose. She heard the cracking sound, felt the body underneath her go still. The whites of her eyes shone; she had fainted for a moment, perhaps more from the shock than the pain. Justine ran quickly up the stairs into her bedroom, got her long scarf, wrapped it a few times around the throat of the unconscious woman, and pulled.

She held on tightly until she had no more doubt. She heard the telephone ring. She lifted the receiver; it was a man, Nathan? No, Hans Peter. Nathan doesn’t exist anymore; his body was broken to bits in a waterfall on the other side of the ocean. That was a long time ago and all was forgotten.

She silently put the receiver back in place.

She knew exactly what to do. Even though she didn’t think about it in advance, it all came to her; a voice was leading her: get the cloth totes from the cleaning closet, the two white cloth totes with Konsum written on them. Then the scarf. Don’t look at the body’s face. Loosened the scarf from her neck-there came an unpleasant puff of air-tied it to one of the handles of the tote. Knotted it like a belt hard around Berit’s waist.

The bird circled above her. Go and sleep, she told him; you can hurt youself here in the darkness. But he didn’t obey her; he sat on her shoulder the whole time she dragged the body down all the stairs. He made her forget what she was doing for a moment.

He took off toward the upstairs once she started down to the basement.

“I’ll return soon!” she called. “You know that I’ll come back; then you’ll get something good, a raw egg, a nice raw hen’s egg, the kind you like, maybe even with an embryo in it.”

She had left Berit in the hallway. There were stones in the basement, she remembered where they were. Her father had brought them home. He had bought them from a business acquaintance who had promised to help him build an outside grill. Nothing came of that outside grill. Flora was against it. She suddenly heard the nagging voice: you never finish anything you start. Are these supposed to be here in the garden until the day we die? It’s slovenly, Sven. I will not have it.

One day, her father had gotten angry, and he carried every single stone into the basement. He did it in ten minutes; he was pale and enraged. Afterwards he took the boat and went out on the lake.

Justine carried up one of the stones. With a great deal of effort, she put Berit’s coat on her body, and the ugly brown plaid cap. She almost forgot the gloves which were on the hat shelf. When she discovered them, she tried to put them on Berit’s fingers, but stopped, sniffling, and pressed them into the body’s jacket pocket.

Then she got dressed herself.

She dragged the kick sled to the stairs, and now came the hard part, struggling to get the lifeless body down and place it on the kick sled. She was conscious of the pain in her foot the whole time, but it was as if the pain didn’t reach her. She steadied herself on it and it bit and ached, but it was a damped and suppressed pain. She would deal with that later.

She heaved her burden onto the kick sled. The runners slid slightly; the dead person’s arms fell out against the snow. Justine tried to place them back in her lap, but they fell back, having no stability. So she had to go inside and look for some string. First she didn’t find anything; she pulled out every drawer in the kitchen, dumped its contents onto the floor.

And now came the first moment of panic.

She went to the mirror. She saw her own face in there, and spoke her name out loud: “Justine. You deserve this, don’t forget! Think about it the whole time!”

Her hands had begun to shake, she lifted them and gave herself two hard slaps on her cheeks: Calm, calm, don’t become hysterical; you know what he thinks about that.

Then it was over.

Right after that she found the ball of string. It was in the niche by the window, she remembered using it the other day for… no, she didn’t remember why. She lifted the scissors from the floor and went back outside.

Berit was sitting hunched over, ready to fall off. Justine tied her to the kick sled, her waist, her hands, her legs. The head hung, the strangled neck. Don’t look at the exploded eyes, don’t look. She drew the cap down as far as possible and went to get the stones.

Each Konsum tote could hold five stones.

The night was dark and misty. She was aware of an airplane high above her, heard its motor. With a great deal of effort, she managed to transport the kick sled to the lake. The runners cut through the snow the entire time. It was easier once she got out on the ice. She pushed the sled as far as she dared, frightened by the rumbling and sharp sounds coming from out there. She kept walking until her feet started to get wet. She saw a layer of water over the ice.

Then she stopped, and got ready to run. She ran, limping, at the kick sled, gave it a push, made it slide quite a bit forward. But it was not far enough. The ice still held. She would have to try going a little bit further. She lay on her stomach, pulling herself forward. The water seeped into her coat, but she wasn’t freezing; it rather felt like burning. She placed her hands on Berit’s backside and pushed again. The kick sled slid forward about ten meters. There was a breaking and cracking sound, then the kick sled tipped forward. She saw how it slowly slid into the water, saw the swinging runners, how everything sank and disappeared.

Back in the house, the pain in her foot resumed. She took off her wet clothes and hung them in the drying cabinet.

In the shower, she discovered the marks on her arms, marks and wounds from fingernails. It smarted like venom when she spread lotion on them.

But it wasn’t until she went to the bedroom door that she noticed Berit’s bag. It was still standing next to the chair where she had been sitting.

Chapter THREE

The following morning, she awoke with a heaviness on her chest. She tried to scream, but her throat was like a rasp. She kicked at the blankets and felt the bird; he had never gone into her bed before.

She had hidden Berit’s bag in her wardrobe. When she came out in the upper hallway, she saw another bag, a dark blue tote with Ludings Forlag on it, and a logo with a number of book spines. It had been thrown into a corner. She now remembered that Berit had brought flowers and a bottle of wine with her. She felt completely empty.

She folded the blue tote and put it in the wardrobe, too. She spent the rest of the day with Hans Peter. She was able to suppress all those other events. She had thought about him; he was working his way into her consciousness. She felt a kind of tenderness when she remembered his collar bone, his neck, his hands. They were not like Nathan’s; they were softer, milder. He gave her a happy contentment.

She had thought about taking care of Berit’s bag after he left, but she didn’t have the energy. Exhaustion knocked her out. She crept into bed; his aroma was in the sheets, his nearness.

Tor Assarsson called again on Monday morning.

“I just can’t deal with going to work,” he said. “I was hoping that you’d be home.”

“I’m home.”

“It is hellish. Everything is so damn hellish.”

“I understand. Have you heard anything new?” “No.”

“Wait until the mail comes. Maybe she wrote you, from Rome or Tobago. Maybe she just picked up and left in order to get some distance.”

“You think?”

“It’s not completely impossible.”

“Maybe you’re right. Let’s hope so.”

He said he had to come over and talk to her in person. She was able to hinder that. “Wait for the mail first,” she had said. “What time does it usually arrive?”

He said he didn’t know. He was normally not at home during the work week.

She promised to let him come over after lunch.

She thought about Hans Peter.