I Can See in the Dark Read Free Page B

and frosty nights.
    I often think about the old people in their beds at Løkka. Those cavernous faces, those bony hands always groping for something to hold on to. They, who have seen and understood the most about life and how it should be lived. I know so much more now, they think, I understand things at last, but it’s too late. Now the greenhorns are coming to take over, and they won’t listen to us, lying here twittering like birds.
    Arnfinn comes to the park a little later in the day.
    He appears on the paved path, ignores
Woman Weeping
, takes short, tentative steps because he’s frightened of falling. With an apologetic look he seats himself on his usual bench and listens to the splashing water. He has hands that tremble violently much of the time. At first I thought he had Parkinson’s. Then, having kept him under observation for some time, I realised that he’s an alcoholic. He has periods when he doesn’t drink. Often this is when his Social Security has run out, he’s certainly on Social Security. But usually he has a hip flask in his pocket. Of vodka or brandy, or whatever it is he pours into himself. Clearly, this flask is a sovereign remedy. After a few pulls he slowly relaxes. His breath comes calmly and easily, his features soften, his eyes glisten. He wears an old windcheater and thick, stained trousers which are too short for him, lace-up shoes he doesn’t bother to tie. This is the costume he always wears whatever the time of year, and I can even picture him sleeping with his clothes on. Imagine him simply collapsing on a sofa, wearing his shoes and everything. He talks to himself a bit, sits there mumbling unintelligibly, but he cringes if I turn my eyes in his direction. I don’t know if he eats anything. His hip flask looks very refined, it speaks of a different time when perhaps he had a job, a family and responsibilities. It could be made of silver, possibly it was a fortieth or fiftieth birthday present; now he’s probably sixty-something. He often has this hip flask with him. He pats his pocket to make sure it’s there. His hands are like great, meat-coloured clubs. Presumably he’s done a lot of manual work, you can see that his body is well used. His hair is grey and his face florid, the arteries in it are blocking up. This process forces the blood to find new passages beneath the skin.
    When we’re sitting in the park, he sends surreptitious glances in Miranda’s direction. It’s hard to guess his thoughts when he sees that little cripple, she’s often screaming and impossible to ignore. Sometimes she hits her mother with her fist. That’s human beings for you: if we can’t find the words, we fall back on the fist.
    One day, when Arnfinn and I were alone in the park, he tottered off down the path without his hip flask. It lay there on the bench after he’d gone, silver and shining, but I didn’t notice it until he’d vanished amongst the trees. I was curious, and went over immediately to take a closer look. It really was a most elegant hip flask, with a screw top and a cap to drink from, and last but not least, a neatly engraved inscription.
    Here’s to Arnfinn
.
    I unscrewed the top and held the flask to my nose. It contained a small amount of liquid which was almost odourless, so I concluded it must be vodka. I stood with the hip flask in my hand, unsure of what to do. Obviously if I left it there, someone would take it. So I put it in my inside pocket; it didn’t take up much room. Naturally, I’d return it at some point. I reasoned that its loss would be a large one for him, once he felt his pocket and realised it was missing. I returned to my own bench with the trophy close to my heart. I sat and admired the dolphins spouting water. This was in the morning. I was on late shift that day, and wasn’t due at work until two o’clock. I kept half an eye out for Arnfinn, in case he came back for his hip flask. But he didn’t show up. He’d probably collapsed somewhere, on