Punishment aka What Is Mine

summer.

“… isn’t that right?”

Johanne smiled suddenly.

“What?”

“They’ll catch him, isn’t that right?”

“How should I know?”

“But that guy,” Lina insisted. “The one I met here on Saturday. Doesn’t he work for the police? Isn’t that what you said? Yes… something to do with the NCIS!”

“Aren’t we actually here to talk about a book?” said Johanne, and went out to the kitchen to get more wine; the ladies had brought far too much with them, as usual.

“Which you, of course, haven’t read,” said Lina.

“I haven’t either,” said Bente. “I just haven’t had the time. Sorry.”

“Nor have I,” admitted Kristin. “If that salt is going to have any effect you have to rub it into the material, like this!”

She leaned over the table and stuck her index finger into the mix of salt and mineral water.

“Why do we call this a book group…”

Lina held the book up accusingly.

“… when I’m the only one who reads? Tell me, is that what happens when you have children? You lose the ability to read?”

“You lose time,” Bente slurred. “Time, Lina. That’s what dishapearsh.”

“You know what, that really annoys me,” Lina started. “You always talk as if the only important thing in… As if the minute you have children, you’re allowed to…”

“Can’t you tell us a bit about the book instead?” Johanne suggested swiftly. “I am interested. Honestly. I read all of Asbjorn Revheim when I was younger. In fact, I’d thought about buying a copy of… what’s it called?”

She grabbed the book. Lina snatched it back.

“Revheim. An Account of a Suicide Forewarned,” read Halldis. “And by the way, you didn’t ask me. I have in fact read it.”

“Horrible,” said Bente. “You haven’t got shildren, Halldis.”

“Appropriate title,” said Lina, still with an offended undertone. “You can feel the death wish in nearly everything he wrote. Yes, a yearning for death.”

“Sounds like a thriller,” said Kristin. “Should we just take the tablecloth off?”

Bente had spilled again. Instead of pouring on more salt, she had attempted to cover the red spot with her napkin. The glass had not been picked up. A red stain was flourishing under the paper napkin.

“Forget it,” said Johanne, lifting up the glass. “Doesn’t matter. When did he die?”

“In 1983. I can actually remember it.”

“Mmm. Me too. It was quite a novel way to take your own life.”

“To put it mildly.”

“Tell me,” said Bente, subdued.

“Maybe you should have some more mineral water.”

Kristin got some more mineral water from the kitchen. Bente scratched at the stain she’d made. Lina poured some more wine. Halldis was looking through Asbjorn Revheim’s biography.

Johanne felt content.

She had barely had the energy to do more than whizz through the apartment with a vacuum cleaner, stuff Kristiane’s things into the large box in her room, and wash the tub. It had taken half an hour to make the food. She really hadn’t felt like it, but she’d kept to the agreement. The girls were having a good time. Even Bente was smiling happily under her drooping eyelids. Johanne could go into work late tomorrow morning. She could putter about with Kristiane for a couple of hours and take it easy. She was glad to see the girls and didn’t protest when Kristin filled her glass again.

“I’ve heard that everyone who commits suicide is actually in a state of acute psychosis,” said Lina.

“What rubbish!” said Halldis.

“No, it’s true!”

“That you’ve heard it, perhaps. But it’s not true.”

“What do you know about it?”

“Could well be true in Asbjorn Revheim’s case,” said Johanne. “On the other hand, the man had tried several times. Do you think he was psychotic every time?”

“He’sh insane,” mumbled Bente. “Absholutely raving mad.”

“That’s not the same as psychotic,” Kristin argued. “I know a couple of people I would describe as raving mad. But I’ve never met anyone who’s psychotic.”

“My bosh is a psychopath,” said Bente, too loud. “He’s evil. Evil.”

“Here’s a bit more mineral water for you,” said Lina, passing her a big bottle.

“Psychopath and psychotic are not the same thing, Bente. Have any of you read Sunken City, Rising Ocean?”

They all nodded, except Bente.

“It came out just after the trial,” said Johanne. “Isn’t that right? And also…”

“Isn’t that the one where he describes the suicide,” Kristin interrupted. “Even though it was written many, many years before he actually took his own life… Doesn’t bear thinking about, really.”

Her shudder was exaggerated.

“But wha’ then?” said Bente. “Can you not jusht tell me wha’ happened?”

No one said anything. Johanne started to clear the table. Everyone had had enough.

“I think maybe we should talk about something a bit more pleasant,” said Halldis, tactfully. “What are your plans for the summer?”

It was past one in the morning when her friends finally stumbled out the door. Bente had been asleep for two hours and seemed confused by the notion of going home. Halldis had promised to get the taxi to drive via Blindern, and she would make sure that Bente got safely to bed. Johanne aired the apartment thoroughly. The smoking ban had been lifted for the past hour, but she couldn’t quite remember who had made the decision. She put out four saucers full of vinegar. Then she went out onto the terrace.

It was the second hour of the first day of June. A deep blue early summer light was visible in the west; it wouldn’t get truly dark again now for a couple of months. The air was crisp, but it was still possible to stand outside without a coat. Johanne leaned against the flower boxes. A pansy drooped its head.

In the course of three days she had talked about Asbjorn Revheim twice. To be fair, Asbjorn Revheim was one of the most important people in Norwegian literature, in modern Norwegian history, for that matter. In 1971 or 1972, she couldn’t remember for sure, he’d been sentenced for writing a blasphemous, obscene novel, several years after the parody of a case against Jens Bjorneboe that should have warned the authorities against interfering with literature. Revheim didn’t just lie down and take it; he hit back with Sunken City, Rising Ocean a couple of years later. A more obscene and blasphemous book had never been printed in Norway, before or since. Some said it was worthy of the Nobel Prize for Literature. But most people felt that the man deserved another round in the courts. However, the prosecuting authorities had learned their lesson; the Director General of Public Prosecutions admitted many years later that he had in fact never read the book.

Revheim was an important author. But he was dead and had been for a long time. Johanne couldn’t remember the last time she had thought about the man, let alone talked about him. When the biography was published the autumn before, it had caused quite a stir, but she hadn’t even bought it. Revheim wrote books that meant something to her when she was younger. He meant nothing to her today, to her life as it was now.

Twice in three days.

Anders Mohaug’s mother believed that Anders was somehow involved in the murder of little Hedvig in 1956. Anders Mohaug was retarded. He was easily led and hung around with Asbjorn Revheim.

That would be too simple, thought Johanne. That is just too simple.

She was cold, but didn’t want to go in. The wind tugged at her shirt sleeves. She should buy some new clothes. The other girls looked much younger than she did. Even Bente, who smoked thirty cigarettes a day and