43
They parked at what seemed to be a safe distance, and got out of the car. It wasn't completely dark yet, and it was easy to pick out the outlines of the houses at the edge of the lake. The wind was now no more than a distant whisper in the forests to the northeast, and the air felt almost warm, Van Veeteren noticed.
Spring? he thought, somewhat surprised. Reinhart cleared his throat.
“It must be that cottage farthest away,” he said. “There doesn't seem to be anybody at home in any of them.”
“Some people occasionally manage to sleep at night,” said Van Veeteren.
They continued walking along the narrow dirt road.
“Do you think she's in there?”
“I don't dare to think anything about this case anymore,” said Van Veeteren, sounding somewhat subdued. “But no matter what, we need to get in there and take a look. Or do you think we should summon Ryman's heavy tank brigade?”
“Good God, no,” said Reinhart. “It takes four days to mobilize them. Let's go in. I'll lead the way if you like.”
“The hell you will,” said Van Veeteren. “I'm oldest. You can keep in the background.”
“Your word is my command,” said Reinhart. “For what it's worth, I don't think she's at home.”
Crouching down, and with quite a long distance between them, they approached the ramshackle gray house with the sagging roof. Slunk slowly but deliberately over the damp grass, and when there was only another ten meters or so still to go, Van Veeteren launched the attack by rushing forward and pressing himself up against the wall, right next to the door. Reinhart followed him and doubled up under one of the windows.
This is ridiculous, Van Veeteren thought as he tried to get his breath back, keeping tight hold of his standard- issue pistol. What the hell are we doing?
Or is it serious business?
He forced the door open with a bang and charged in. Ran around for a few seconds, kicking in doors, but he soon established that the cottage was just as empty as Reinhart had anticipated.
If she was going to shoot us, she'd have done so long ago, he thought, putting his pistol away in his pocket.
He went into the biggest of the three rooms, found a switch, and turned on the light. Reinhart came in and looked around.
“There's a letter here, addressed to you,” he said, pointing to the table.
The chief inspector came forward to pick it up. Weighed it in his hand.
The same sort of envelope.
The same handwriting.
Addressed to the same person.
Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren, Maardam.
And the feeling that he was dreaming simply refused to go away.
The precision, Van Veeteren thought. It's this damned precision that makes it all so unreal. There's no such thing as coincidence, Reinhart had said; but in fact the reverse was true. He understood that now. When the feeling of coincidence suddenly disappears completely, that's when we find it difficult to rely on our senses. To have faith in what they tell us about happenings and connections.
Yes, that must be how things work, more or less.
There were two basket chairs in the room. Reinhart had already sat down on one of them and lit his pipe. The chief inspector sat on the other one and started to read.
It took him only a couple of minutes, and when he had finished, he read it once again. Then he looked at the clock and handed the letter to Reinhart without a word.
At my mother's interment there was only a single mourner. Me.
Time is short, and I shall express myself briefly. I don't need your understanding, but I want you to know who these men were, the men I have killed. My mother told me-a week before she died-about how I was conceived.
My father was four men. It was the night of May 29-30, 1965. She was seventeen years old, and a virgin. They raped her repeatedly for two hours in a student room in Maardam, and in order to stop her screaming they had stuffed one of the men's underpants into her mouth. One of the other men's tie was knotted around her mouth and the back of her neck. They also played music while I was being made. The same record, over and over again-afterward she found out what the tune was called, and bought it. I still have it.
Once they had finished impregnating my mother, they carried her out and dumped her in some bushes in a nearby park. One of my fathers said that she was a whore, and that he'd kill her if she told anybody what had happened.
My mother duly kept silent, but after two months she began to suspect that she was pregnant. After three, she was certain. She was still at school. She tried to kill me, using various tricks and methods she had heard about, but failed. I just wish she had managed it better.
She spoke to her mother, who didn't believe her.
She spoke to her father, who didn't believe her and gave her a good hiding.
She spoke to her clever elder sisters, who didn't believe her either, but advised her to have an abortion.
But it was too late. I wish it hadn't been.
My grandfather gave her a small sum of money in order to get rid of us, and I was born a long way away in Groenstadt. That's also where I grew up. My mother had found out my fathers' names, and was given some money by them when she threatened to expose them. When I was ten, she threatened them again, and received some more money, but that was all. They paid. They could afford it.
I knew from an early age that my mother was a whore, and I knew that I would become one as well. And the same applied to drinking and drug-taking
But I didn't know why things were as they were, not until she told me about my fathers shortly before she died.
My mother was forty-seven when she died. I am only thirty, but I've been whoring and taking drugs for so long that I look at least ten years older. I received my first clients before my fifteenth birthday.
In addition, I have the urge to kill inside me. I was told the facts in October, and when I got to know my fathers a bit later on, I made up my mind.
It was a good decision.
My mother's life was a torment. Torment and indignity.
So was my own. But it was good to understand, to understand at last. I could see the logic. What else could possibly be the outcome of a night of lovemaking like the one when my fathers brought me to life?
What life?
I am the ripe fruit that grew out of a gang bang. It is that same fruit that is now killing its fathers.
That is completing the circle.
To be sure, that sounds like a sort of dark poetry. In a different life I could have become a poet instead. I could have written and read-I had the ability inside me, but never had the opportunity.
When I have finished, nothing living involved in that night will have survived. We shall all be dead. That is the logical outcome.
My mother-who had my father's underpants stuffed into her mouth while the act of love took place-gave me the task, and in her name I have murdered them all. Doing so has given me great joy, more joy than anything else in my life. At no point have I felt any guilt or regret, and nobody will ever come and call me to account.
I am also pleased that my mother saved some of the money she extracted from my fathers. It has been a great help to me, and I like the thought that in this way they have paid for their own deaths.
I say again: it has given me great satisfaction to kill my own fathers. Very great satisfaction.
