'How about Ole Krantz?' I ask. 'Have you spoken to him?'
'Yes. Benedict helped me explain. Krantz doesn't blame me and the job in the gallery is still mine.'
'What about the severed bridge?' I ask.
He smiles. He tilts his head. 'The bridge has been sold,' he says calmly.
'Is that right?' I say, giving him a big blue-eyed look of innocence. 'How do you feel about that?'
He juts out his chin. 'I don't need the bridge any more, not for anything. Because I have finally connected with another person. Benedict Josef Lind will be a friend for life.'
He walks quietly towards the door. I know that I'll never see him again and I'm filled with a sudden surge of grief. The door will never creak again, he'll never return to the room we shared for so long. Then he is gone and it goes very quiet. I switch off my computer, get up from my chair. I stand in the empty living room, left to my own devices, to a reality which is almost unbearable. Dear God, this silence, all I can hear is my own heart and I no longer have a destiny to cling to. My hands are empty. Who can I turn to, where can I go? I walk softly over to the window. I look out at the long queue of people still waiting on my drive. The woman with the dead child is still at the front. I watch her for a while, she doesn't move. She doesn't appear to have noticed me, she seems paralysed. I go out into the corridor, I put my shoes on, I open the front door. I walk down the drive, crunching the gravel. For a while I stand underneath the porch light studying them one by one. A couple of them look up at me hopefully. Some poke at the gravel with their shoes. They stand there with all their problems, all their guilt and shame. They stand there with hope of happiness and true love. I take the last few steps towards the woman with the child. I stop in front of her and give her a kind look.
'Hello. Do you want to come inside?'
She does not reply. Her eyes are apathetic. There is no doubt that her child has died, his small face is lightly marbled, his eyes are sunken.
'What happened?' I ask, trying to get her to look me in the eye. 'Did you find your child dead?'
Still no reply. Only silence, only her vacant eyes.
'I really want to help you,' I say, 'but you need to talk. If you don't talk, I won't be able to help you. Do you understand what I'm saying?'
Karin Fossum
