I Can See in the Dark Read Free Page A

a lot of communication between human beings that isn’t expressed in words, and I’m exceedingly observant. Some people don’t understand this, they concentrate on what’s being said, while others, like me, become masters of the hint, the tiny signals that tell. A quick glance at Sali and I know how he’s feeling, even though he may have his back to me. I look at his shoulders, notice if they’re hunched. Is he standing four-square, or tripping about nervously. I take in how the movement of his hands emanates from his squat body, evenly, or in fits and starts, haltingly or fluently. Sali is a big man, most of his weight is round his waist. I wonder what he thinks about Norway and Norwegians, deep down in his dusky, Indian heart. Probably nothing very flattering, we’re so unbearably spoilt. But he makes lovely open sandwiches, standing in his kitchen at Løkka. He’s indifferent to budgets, just loads the bread generously with all manner of good things. How odd that must seem to a man who can hardly be a stranger to poverty. His eyes are almost black. His oily hair takes on a bluish sheen, as he stands there working beneath the fluorescent lighting.

Chapter 7
    EDDIE AND JANNE are often at the park.
    I used to think of them as Romeo and Juliet, but that was before I knew their names. The other day they were calling to each other in the spring air, like two playful children. Look at this, Janne, no, stop messing about, Eddie, and so on in that vein. They sit close together on the bench, entwined in each other, they neck and pat and stroke, purring like cats. I’ve never seen anything like it. They’d eat each other, skin, hair and all, if only they could. And they’re never self-conscious, even when there are several of us sitting by the fountain. Some people break into soft smiles, I notice, others turn away because they don’t like it. Personally, I don’t know what to think, but surely this is something private, there should be more decorum in public. And nothing about Eddie and Janne is decorous. They always bring something to eat. When they’ve given each other a thorough squeezing, they open a bag of buns, or a bar of chocolate. They eat the way children do, with unabashed greed. Eddie is perhaps sixteen or seventeen, Janne possibly a little younger, both are slim and good-looking, clad in precisely the same costume: distressed jeans and grey hoodies. Both have dark hair, identically styled: close-shaved at the sides and with a comb of hair on the crown, you can hardly tell them apart.
    I remember Sali saying that when he first came to Norway, he couldn’t tell the difference between men and women. Everyone wears jeans, he said, and trainers. The women cut off their hair. It is not very nice, why don’t they make themselves look more beautiful? I explained that climate dictates the way we dress. Norwegian women can’t go around in saris and sandals, I said. You know what the autumns and winters are like here.
    Eddie and Janne will never get married, never have children, or own a house or a car, experience responsibility and debt and difficult days. The bond between them is only a frail alliance, although they don’t know it themselves. Sometimes a wave of sadness washes over me when I think of the impending break-up, the tears and recriminations, the bewilderment that it didn’t last, the apportioning of blame. When I’m feeling generous they put me in mind of newly opened tulips, as they sit on their bench. It’s April. The thaw is here and everything melts and runs away, there’s too much of everything. An agonising and confusing time that chills my back as I sit on the bench in front of the fountain, while my face is gently warmed by the sun. My jacket comes off and goes on again, coltsfoot squeezes up through the snow, and crisp, wafer-thin ice decks the puddles in the morning. The asphalt is bare, so summer shoes can come out of the cupboard; but it remains deep winter in the forest, with dark