The Murder of Harriet Krohn Read Free Page B

But he shivers when he recalls that the flowers are to serve an evil purpose.
    He stands waiting edgily. His heart is thudding hard under his parka. He wants to pacify it but can’t. His heart won’t listen to him anymore. Oh, well, he thinks, let it beat as much as it wants. I’ve still got a mind, and that’s working all right. I’m the one who decides; I’m the one who orders my body to do things. It’s still my decision. He sighs so heavily that she hears and glances up. She’s wise to him, knows that something’s afoot, but she can’t interpret the meaning of his behavior. Instinctively she retreats into her craft, the thing she knows. Arranging flowers. Charlo breathes easily again. Pull yourself together, says the voice inside him. Nothing has happened, not yet. Nobody’s got anything on you. You can still turn back. You can pull out and life will go on, go on until death. He throws quick glances at the bouquet. His thoughts wander far away again; he’s only half there. He’s a cipher, a nobody. Now at last he wants to set himself free. Mentally he thinks he knows something about how the whole thing will come off. He’s been through it again and again. He’ll take charge of the moment, direct all that takes place. There is no room for unforeseen circumstances, so he brushes them hastily aside. He stares out of the window, noticing that sleet is still falling fast. Tracks, he thinks, and feels in his pockets. He wants to check that he’s remembered everything. He has—he’s thought of the whole lot. He’s thought about it for weeks. He’s practiced mentally and, sometimes, in his sleep, he’s cried out in fear.
     
    The bouquet grows.
    The shop bell chimes brightly in the silence, and he starts. A woman enters, dressed in a green coat with a black fur collar, her shoulders covered in sleet. She brushes it off with a hand in a beige-colored glove and regards him with hard, painted eyes. She’s weighing him up, isn’t she? A sharp old trout who takes everything in, Charlo thinks. All the details, a personal trait that she may later be able to describe. But he has no personal traits—he’s sure he hasn’t—and he simmers down again. She leans over one of the buckets, draws out a rose, and studies the stalk intently. He quickly turns his face away. The face that feels so large, as if it’s hanging there, proclaiming itself like a pennant. He stands looking out at the sleet. It’s most visible under the streetlights, a thick, grayish-white drift cutting across the darkness. He feels miserable. Because of his terrible destiny. I don’t deserve this, he thinks. I’m a kindhearted man. But dread destroys the soul. He’s in the process of losing himself. The girl works on. Will she never be finished? The bouquet is big and becoming expensive. He thinks about the time that’s passing, how he’s standing in here exposed and susceptible. About how it could be dangerous for him. From now on, everything will be dangerous. He’s prepared for this fear. It’s physical, but he can keep it at bay if he can control his breathing.
    “The bouquet’s two hundred and fifty kroner at the moment,” the assistant says. She looks up at him, but just as quickly looks away, still uncertain because of his sullenness.
    He nods and says, “That’s fine.” In a clumsy attempt at sociability, he adds, “It looks lovely.”
    She sends him a smile of relief. There is something nice about him after all, she thinks, and rejoices.
    I ought to have chatted and smiled, Charlo thinks. Charmed her, because I can when I want to. Then she would have forgotten me with all the others.
    “Will it be long before they’re put in water?” she asks.
    Now her voice is brighter, more open.
    He stands there cogitating dumbly. Will they be put in water at all? He doesn’t know. It’s coming up to eight o’clock and he realizes the shop will shut in a few minutes. He’ll have to wait awhile before setting his plan in motion.