reception that never was. I thought no one would be at the church besides Inger and Brandt, and they could have come back for coffee in my kitchen. The flowers and wreaths must have been placed on the grave. Wasn’t that customary ? I wanted to see if they were there, though it was nearly dark.
But I never got that far. I could just make out the flowers – the white ones were still visible, even in the gathering darkness – but I had a strange feeling. Turning my head,I listened. Footsteps? Someone running? The sound of my own breathing drowned out what I might have heard. I tried to stop breathing and found I couldn’t. But there were footsteps. There was someone running. And then I ran myself, as fast as I could, to the churchyard exit. The heavy gate creaked.
19
Come on in – there’s nobody in here but me and a big bluebottle fly.
Raymond Chandler, THE LITTLE SISTER
I opened the door. Brandt’s lodger. I haven’t described him. I won’t bother now; it’s irrelevant.
‘Have you seen Brandt?’ he asked. Lowering my gaze, I stepped aside so that he could come in. I had slept for hours but cried so much in my dreams that I felt exhausted.
The lodger had expected Brandt the day before. Having made dinner, he thought the doctor must have been delayed at the surgery. But Brandt never came. So the lodger ate his dinner, did the washing-up and waited. Then he called the surgery and Brandt’s mobile several times, but either he reached an answering machine or made no connection. He slept badly and was unsure whether to report the doctor as missing to the police.
Brandt’s hand on my neck. Dusk. I was looking forward to seeing him again. My stomach hurt. ‘Do sit down,’ I said. ‘Life ends so abruptly,’ I ventured. ‘Or can do.’
‘Do you think he might be dead?’ The lodger hadn’t shaved. The shadow of his stubble made his features all the more prominent.
‘Of course not!’ I said. ‘Can I offer you a wee dram?’ I heard the voice of my grandfather in my own. He always offered his guests a wee dram.
Brandt was a grown-up. We didn’t need to worry about him. So we drank one aquavit and then another. We chatted about Brandt, about how unlike him it was not to call. But today was a Saturday and his day off. Polite conversation between strangers. The aquavit helped, but not much. The drink was sharp yet smooth on the tongue, with a taste of caraway and aniseed, but mostly of alcohol. I sipped, then knocked the rest back in one.
‘Would you like another?’ I asked.
‘Perhaps he met a woman on his way home from work,’ the lodger suggested, sounding unconvinced.
‘Perhaps he did,’ I said, looking out onto the square. ‘Perhaps he met a woman.’
There was a dead fly on the windowsill, a lot of dust and some mysterious black spots.
‘He didn’t come to the church yesterday either,’ I said. ‘I found that odd, but thought I knew why.’
‘Was the funeral yesterday? He didn’t mention it.’
I went to the phone and called Brandt’s secretary, but no one answered. The lodger looked out of sorts. Perhaps he needed a cigarette.
‘And then there’s the dog,’ he said.
‘Is it still at Brandt’s house?’
‘Yes. I don’t care for dogs much, but I took his for a walk.’
‘He can’t have met a woman, then,’ I said. ‘Not while he’s looking after a dog.’
‘Which he isn’t any longer,’ the lodger replied.
20
With the carefree ingratitude that becomes spoiled children so well, the boy reaches out for the marmalade, while Mrs Andersen, who always smells so chastely of soap and ironing, carefully removes the shell from his egg.
Tove Ditlevsen, VILHELM’S ROOM
When the lodger had gone, I drank another shot of aquavit. After that I stared out of the window, then rang Brandt’s mobile. No answer. Wedging Inger’s casserole dish under my arm, I went next door and knocked. I could hear raised voices inside, hers and Lasse’s. I rang the doorbell,
But I never got that far. I could just make out the flowers – the white ones were still visible, even in the gathering darkness – but I had a strange feeling. Turning my head,I listened. Footsteps? Someone running? The sound of my own breathing drowned out what I might have heard. I tried to stop breathing and found I couldn’t. But there were footsteps. There was someone running. And then I ran myself, as fast as I could, to the churchyard exit. The heavy gate creaked.
19
Come on in – there’s nobody in here but me and a big bluebottle fly.
Raymond Chandler, THE LITTLE SISTER
I opened the door. Brandt’s lodger. I haven’t described him. I won’t bother now; it’s irrelevant.
‘Have you seen Brandt?’ he asked. Lowering my gaze, I stepped aside so that he could come in. I had slept for hours but cried so much in my dreams that I felt exhausted.
The lodger had expected Brandt the day before. Having made dinner, he thought the doctor must have been delayed at the surgery. But Brandt never came. So the lodger ate his dinner, did the washing-up and waited. Then he called the surgery and Brandt’s mobile several times, but either he reached an answering machine or made no connection. He slept badly and was unsure whether to report the doctor as missing to the police.
Brandt’s hand on my neck. Dusk. I was looking forward to seeing him again. My stomach hurt. ‘Do sit down,’ I said. ‘Life ends so abruptly,’ I ventured. ‘Or can do.’
‘Do you think he might be dead?’ The lodger hadn’t shaved. The shadow of his stubble made his features all the more prominent.
‘Of course not!’ I said. ‘Can I offer you a wee dram?’ I heard the voice of my grandfather in my own. He always offered his guests a wee dram.
Brandt was a grown-up. We didn’t need to worry about him. So we drank one aquavit and then another. We chatted about Brandt, about how unlike him it was not to call. But today was a Saturday and his day off. Polite conversation between strangers. The aquavit helped, but not much. The drink was sharp yet smooth on the tongue, with a taste of caraway and aniseed, but mostly of alcohol. I sipped, then knocked the rest back in one.
‘Would you like another?’ I asked.
‘Perhaps he met a woman on his way home from work,’ the lodger suggested, sounding unconvinced.
‘Perhaps he did,’ I said, looking out onto the square. ‘Perhaps he met a woman.’
There was a dead fly on the windowsill, a lot of dust and some mysterious black spots.
‘He didn’t come to the church yesterday either,’ I said. ‘I found that odd, but thought I knew why.’
‘Was the funeral yesterday? He didn’t mention it.’
I went to the phone and called Brandt’s secretary, but no one answered. The lodger looked out of sorts. Perhaps he needed a cigarette.
‘And then there’s the dog,’ he said.
‘Is it still at Brandt’s house?’
‘Yes. I don’t care for dogs much, but I took his for a walk.’
‘He can’t have met a woman, then,’ I said. ‘Not while he’s looking after a dog.’
‘Which he isn’t any longer,’ the lodger replied.
20
With the carefree ingratitude that becomes spoiled children so well, the boy reaches out for the marmalade, while Mrs Andersen, who always smells so chastely of soap and ironing, carefully removes the shell from his egg.
Tove Ditlevsen, VILHELM’S ROOM
When the lodger had gone, I drank another shot of aquavit. After that I stared out of the window, then rang Brandt’s mobile. No answer. Wedging Inger’s casserole dish under my arm, I went next door and knocked. I could hear raised voices inside, hers and Lasse’s. I rang the doorbell,
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