Punishment aka What Is Mine

Aksel Seier would stay in Norway.

He would later marry Eva. A quiet ceremony with no guests and no gifts other than a bunch of flowers from Johanne Vik. But he didn’t know that yet, as he stood there in the warm yellow room with his future wife, his hands clenched at his sides, with cropped hair and a pair of pink and turquoise plaid golfing pants. Even though he would never be formally cleared of the crime for which he was sentenced, over time he would straighten his back, secure in the knowledge of what had actually happened. A journalist from Aftenposten would write an article that verged on libel, and even though Geir Kongsbakken’s name was not mentioned in the paper, the sixty-two-year-old decided shortly after that it might be wise to wind up his small firm in Ovre Slottsgate. As a result of the article and an application by Johanne Vik, Aksel Seier would receive an ex gratia payment from the Norwegian parliament that he felt was as good as an acquittal in court. He framed the accompanying letter, which then hung over Eva’s bed until she died fourteen months after their wedding. Aksel Seier would never meet the man he had been sentenced for, and never felt the need to either.

But Aksel Seier knew none of this as he stood there, groping for words, questions for the man with the chessboard wrapped around his legs. The only thing he could think about was a day in July 1969. He had moved from Boston to Cape Cod and the weather was good. Eva’s letter, the July letter, had come. As it had the summer before, and the summer before that. Every Christmas, every summer, since 1966, when Aksel left Norway without knowing that Eva would give birth to a son five months later, Aksel Seier’s son. She only told him about it in 1969.

Aksel Seier sat on a red stone on the beach with shaking hands when he discovered that he had a child who was nearly three years old.

But he wasn’t allowed to go back. Eva was living with her mother in a small place outside Oslo, and nothing must change. Her mother would kill her, she wrote. Her mother would take the boy away from her if Aksel came home. He wasn’t allowed to come back, said Eva, and he could see that she’d been crying. Her tears had stained the paper, dry patches of smudged ink that made the words nearly illegible.

Aksel Seier had never understood why Eva waited so long. He didn’t dare ask.

Not even now; he fiddled with the permanent crease in his pants and didn’t know what to say.

“Right,” said the policeman with some skepticism, and stared even harder at the piece of paper. “It says nothing here about a father…”

Then he shrugged.

“But if…”

The look he sent to the woman in the bed was full of doubt, as though he thought Aksel was lying. Eva Asli could hardly protest the man’s claimed fatherhood. All she could do was cry, unbearably softly, and the policeman wondered whether he should call a doctor.

“Take me to Karsten,” said Aksel Seier, stroking his head.

The policeman shrugged again.

“Okay,” he mumbled, and looked over at Eva again. “If that’s alright with you, then…”

He thought he saw a slight movement in answer. Maybe it was a nod.

“Come on then,” he said to Aksel. “I’ll drive you. It’s possible there’s not much time.”

“There’s not much time,” snapped Adam. “We’ve got to damn well hurry! D’you not understand?”

Johanne had asked him to slow down three times. Each time Adam responded by accelerating. The last time he had whipped the blue light out through the window and thumped it on the roof, taking a curve at full speed. Johanne closed her eyes and crossed her fingers.

They had barely exchanged a word since he explained to her where they were going and why. They had driven furiously in silence for an hour. They must be nearly there now. Johanne noticed a gas station where a fat man with bright red hair was pulling a tarpaulin over a couple of cords of wood. He raised his hand automatically as they swerved into a curve.

“Where the hell is that turnoff?”

Adam was nearly shouting, but slammed on the brakes when he saw the small, unmarked road up the hill.

“First a right, then two lefts,” he remembered and repeated: “First a right, two lefts. Right. Two lefts.”

Snaubu was beautifully situated on the crown of a hill, with a view over the valley, sunny and isolated. The house looked almost derelict from a distance. As they got closer, Johanne saw that one of the walls had recently been repanelled and painted. There were also some foundations that might be for a garage or an outhouse. When the car stopped, she felt her pulse thundering in her ears. The wind was still cold up here on the hillside and she caught her breath as she got out.

“Do you really think she’s here?” she said, and shivered.

“I don’t think,” said Adam, running into the house. “I know.”

Aksel Seier sat on the edge of the metal chair with his hands in his lap.

Karsten Asli was unconscious. They had managed to stop the internal bleeding. A doctor explained to Aksel that several more operations were needed, but that they would wait until the patient’s condition had stabilized. Something in the doctor’s eyes told Aksel that the chances were slim.

Karsten was going to die.

The respirator sighed heavily and mechanically. Aksel had to concentrate so as not to breathe in rhythm with the big bellows; it made him dizzy.

Karsten looked like Eva. Even with a tube in his nose, a tube in his mouth, tubes everywhere and bandages on his head; Aksel could see it. The same features, the big mouth and eyes, which were undoubtedly blue under the distorted, swollen lids. Aksel ran his finger over his son’s hand. It was ice-cold.

“It’s me,” he whispered. “Your dad is here.”

Karsten’s body shuddered. Then he lay completely still again, in a room where the only noise came from a wheezing respirator and a heart monitor that bleeped red above Aksel’s head.

“She’s not here. We just have to accept that.”

Johanne tried to put her hand on his arm. Adam pulled away and stormed over to the stairs leading down to the cellar. They’d already been down there three times. And up in the loft. Every cabinet and corner in the house had been searched. Adam had even pulled apart a double bed to check in all the empty spaces. He had checked the kitchen cupboards at random and even opened the dishwasher in vain several times.

“One more time,” he said in desperation, and thundered down the stairs without waiting for an answer.

Johanne stayed in the living room. Adam had broken in. They had broken into someone else’s property without a warrant. Emergency rights, he mumbled when he finally managed to open the front door. Bullshit, she answered, and followed him in. But Emilie was not in the house. Now, when Johanne finally had the chance to think, she realized that it was pure madness. Adam felt something. He felt that Emilie had been taken hostage and was being held somewhere on the farm by a man with a clean record, who had no more damning evidence against him other than that he had known some members of the families concerned.

But Adam had a hunch, and for that reason she was now standing in the middle of a strange and sterile living room in a small farmhouse up a hillside, far from civilization.

“Johanne!”

She didn’t want to go down there again. The cellar was damp and full of dust. She was already struggling to breathe and coughed.

“Yes,” she shouted back without moving. “What is it?”

“Come here! Can you hear the noise?”

“What kind of noise?”

“Come here!”

Reluctantly she made her way down the steep steps. He was right. When they both stood completely still in the middle of the concrete floor, they could hear a faint humming. A mechanical sound, regular and low.

“It’s almost like my computer,” whispered Johanne.

“Or a… air conditioning. It could be…”

Adam started to feel along the walls with his hands. The plaster fell off in several places. A huge wardrobe without doors stood against the shorter wall, which Johanne thought faced east. Adam tried to look behind it. He