goatee that made his face look even longer.
“He did have some diazepam in his urine. Not much, but…”
“As in… Valium? Was he poisoned?”
Stubo straightened his back and laid his arm along the back of the sofa. He needed to hold onto something.
“No, not at all.”
The pathologist scratched his little beard with his index finger.
“He was not poisoned. I am of the opinion, however, that a healthy boy of five years should absolutely not be taking medicine that contains diazepam, but all the same, there’s no question of poisoning. Of course, it’s impossible to say what kind of dose he was originally given, but at the time of death, there were only traces left.
He stroked his chin and squinted at Stubo.
“… enough to harm him. The body had gotten rid of most of it already, unless he was only given a ridiculously small amount. And I can’t imagine what that would be good for.”
“Valium,” said Adam Stubo slowly, as if the word itself held the secret, the explanation as to why a boy of five could just die for no apparent reason.
“Valium,” the pathologist repeated, equally slowly. “Or something else with the same substance.”
“But what is it used for?”
“Used for? You mean: what is diazepam used for?”
For the first time, the pathologist got a slightly irritated look just above his eyes and he glanced over at the clock, openly.
“Surely you know that. Nerves. It’s widely used in hospitals for pre-op purposes. Makes the patient drowsy. Calms them down. Relaxes them. It’s also given to patients with epilepsy to prevent severe convulsions. Both children and adults. Kim didn’t suffer from anything like that.”
“So why would anyone give a five-year-old…”
“I’ll have to stop there for today, Stubo. I’ve actually been working for eleven hours. You’ll get a preliminary report in the morning. The final report won’t be ready for a few weeks. Have to wait for all the results before I can finish it. But, generally speaking…”
He smiled. Had it not been for the expression in his small, close eyes, Stubo might have suspected him of enjoying all this.
“You’ve got a major problem. The boy simply died, just like that. For no apparent reason. And that’s it for today.”
He looked at the clock again, before taking off his white lab coat and putting on a parka that had seen better days. When they were both through the door, he locked it with two keys and then put a friendly hand on Stubo’s shoulder.
“Good luck,” he said drily. “You need it.”
As they passed the autopsy room on the way out, Adam Stubo turned away. Fortunately it was pouring rain outside. He wanted to walk home, even though it would take him well over an hour. It was May 16 and past six o’clock. In the distance he could hear a school band practicing the national anthem, out of time and out of tune.
THIRTEEN
Something had happened. The room seemed lighter. The oppressive feeling of an old-fashioned sickroom was gone. The metal bed had been pushed against the wall and covered with a bright blanket and lots of colorful cushions. Someone had carried in a wing chair. And in it sat a well-dressed Alvhild Sofienberg with her feet on a footstool. Her slippers were just peeking out from underneath a blanket. Someone had managed to breathe something that resembled life into her gray, wispy hair; a soft curl fell onto her forehead.
“You look so much younger,” exclaimed Johanne Vik. “Alvhild, you look so well, sitting there.”
The window was wide open. Spring had finally come. The National Day celebrations had left behind an early summer feel that had lasted for a couple of days now. The smell of old onions was not noticeable. Instead, Johanne breathed in the smell of damp earth from the garden outside. An old man had raised his hand to his cloth hat as she crossed the yard. A good neighbor, explained Alvhild Sofienberg. Gardening was his hobby. He couldn’t bear seeing the garden going to seed when she was ill. Her smile was softer at the edges now.
“To tell you the truth, I hadn’t expected to see you again,” she said, drily. “You didn’t seem very comfortable when you were here last. But I can understand why. I really wasn’t well. In fact, to be honest, I was very ill.”
She tossed her head, a gesture that she immediately rectified.
“I am still seriously ill. Don’t be fooled. The strange thing is that I feel as if death has been standing over there by the wardrobe, waiting, for several weeks, but now has suddenly gone for a stroll and disappeared. Maybe he’s busy with other people at the moment. I’m sure he’ll be back soon. Coffee?”
“Yes, please. Black. I can get it myself, only…”
Johanne started to get up. Alvhild’s look made her sit down again.
“I’m not dead yet,” she said tersely. “Here.”
She poured some coffee from a thermos on the table beside her and handed the cup to Johanne. The porcelain was beautiful, nearly transparent. The coffee was pretty thin too.
“Sorry about the coffee,” said Alvhild. “It’s my stomach. It’s not up to much. And to what do I owe the honor?”
It was incredible. When Johanne had decided to go and visit the old lady once more, she hadn’t been certain whether she would find her alive.
“I’ve found Aksel Seier,” she said.
“Oh, you have?”
Alvhild Sofienberg lifted her cup to her mouth, as if she wanted to hide her curiosity. The movement irritated Johanne in a way she couldn’t quite explain. “Yes. I haven’t found him bodily, if you know what I mean, but I know where he is. Where he lives. Well, that is to say, it wasn’t actually me who found him, but my… well, Aksel Seier lives in the U.S.”
“The U.S.?”
Alvhild put her cup down again, without having touched the contents.
“How… what is he doing there?”
“I have absolutely no idea!”
Alvhild put her hand to her mouth, as if she was frightened to show her teeth. Johanne sipped the light brown liquid in the blue porcelain.
“At first when I found out, I was surprised that anyone with a record would be given an entry visa to the U.S.,” she continued. “They are incredibly strict about things like that. Then it dawned on me that perhaps the rules were different at the end of the sixties, when he went over. But they weren’t. Aksel Seier is in fact an American citizen.”
“That wasn’t mentioned at all when…”
“No, I’m sure it wasn’t. But that’s not so strange. He was born in the U.S., on a trip his parents made in connection with a short-lived and disastrous attempt to emigrate. He kept his American citizenship, though he was of course Norwegian as well. There was no reason whatsoever to make a point of this during his trial or subsequent appeal. He was presumably only asked in summary if he was Norwegian. And he was. Or rather, is.”
Alvhild Sofienberg was astounded. There was a sudden quiet in the room and Johanne jumped when the door opened and the man in the hat popped his head in.
“That’s it for today,” he grumbled. “What a mess. Don’t know that I’ll be able to train those roses. And the rhododendrons have seen better days, Mrs. Sofienberg. Well, good afternoon.”
He withdrew without waiting for an answer. It was cooler in the room. The open window started to rattle and
