inside, whom he was afraid would disappear from sight, since it might still be the case that he had just borrowed the apartment for Christmas and would disappear unnoticed, for instance with a small suitcase, for instance on 2 January, more than likely in the early morning. In this way he was tied to this murderer, of whom he had failed to notify the authorities.
Professor Andersen spent the last days of the year in his apartment, alone and indoors, only interrupted by short trips out for newspapers, the mail, food and drink. He kept watch on the window over on the other side. He recognised him now. He even observed him outside as he went out of the main door of the building and along the pavement, before he disappeared round the corner of Drammensveien. Not with a suitcase or other travel bags, fortunately. This was repeated several times. He could be gone for hours, but he always came back. Professor Andersen didn’t put on the light in his own living room, and was extremely careful not to move about in there in the few hours of daylight. But it was from the window here that he observed him, after the lights had been lit in the building on the other side of the street. He spent most of his time in his study, where he put on the light, but very often he stood behind the curtain in the dark living room and looked across at the window in the apartment in the building on the other side of the street, very carefully at that time of day when there was still daylight, motionless, on guard, so as not to arouse suspicion, something he didn’t need to bother about after dark. It was in this fashion he moved around in his own spacious apartment, from the dark living room, through the equally dark dining room, to the bright study, where he then sat down for a while and pretended to read, before he got up and went back through the rooms in the apartment, brooding, self-scrutinising, fully aware of what he was up to, but nonetheless shaken by the incomprehensibility of it.
‘It isn’t my not reporting it that worries me, or is it that after all?’ he asked himself. ‘Even if I can explain it. But why couldn’t I seek Bernt’s advice?’ he thought. ‘Why was I unable to let him, or someone else, in on this? That is the reason for it, that’s what’s behind it. The whole wretched mess, which is so extraordinary. It’s more sinister than I like to think about. Who am I? Who is sitting and standing and walking here, and not knowing where to turn, making certain that a man whom I don’t want to be associated with at all, with any of his misdeeds, doesn’t disappear from sight? If he disappears, I’m free again. But I don’t seem to want to be free again – that means something surely, but what?’ reasoned Professor Andersen.
‘I can’t pretend I’m not doing this absolutely voluntarily,’ he thought. ‘Even if I feel forced to do it. I have tied myself to this misdeed, which I don’t even dare think about, which has taken place in that apartment, after the curtains were drawn. Where is the body? The blood, all the shit, from the woman. The fair-haired woman, whom I think was young. What has that poor devil done in there? To be able to bear what he has done. Alone with the body. The blood (which he must have washed away, along with all the shit). Where is the body? It must be gone now, since the curtains are drawn back and the young man is going out in the evening and doing errands, whatever they amount to.’
‘Life really lasts too long nowadays,’ he thought. ‘In our day and age. There is probably a lot to be said for meting out a man’s life, all things taken into consideration, so it lasts about fifty-five years; then one has lived through the phases of one’s life, without wear and tear. Childhood, youth, maturity, manhood, and then a short final phase. That should be enough, everything after that is an ordeal. If one is fifty-five years old the maturing process has gone so far that one ought to realise
Professor Andersen spent the last days of the year in his apartment, alone and indoors, only interrupted by short trips out for newspapers, the mail, food and drink. He kept watch on the window over on the other side. He recognised him now. He even observed him outside as he went out of the main door of the building and along the pavement, before he disappeared round the corner of Drammensveien. Not with a suitcase or other travel bags, fortunately. This was repeated several times. He could be gone for hours, but he always came back. Professor Andersen didn’t put on the light in his own living room, and was extremely careful not to move about in there in the few hours of daylight. But it was from the window here that he observed him, after the lights had been lit in the building on the other side of the street. He spent most of his time in his study, where he put on the light, but very often he stood behind the curtain in the dark living room and looked across at the window in the apartment in the building on the other side of the street, very carefully at that time of day when there was still daylight, motionless, on guard, so as not to arouse suspicion, something he didn’t need to bother about after dark. It was in this fashion he moved around in his own spacious apartment, from the dark living room, through the equally dark dining room, to the bright study, where he then sat down for a while and pretended to read, before he got up and went back through the rooms in the apartment, brooding, self-scrutinising, fully aware of what he was up to, but nonetheless shaken by the incomprehensibility of it.
‘It isn’t my not reporting it that worries me, or is it that after all?’ he asked himself. ‘Even if I can explain it. But why couldn’t I seek Bernt’s advice?’ he thought. ‘Why was I unable to let him, or someone else, in on this? That is the reason for it, that’s what’s behind it. The whole wretched mess, which is so extraordinary. It’s more sinister than I like to think about. Who am I? Who is sitting and standing and walking here, and not knowing where to turn, making certain that a man whom I don’t want to be associated with at all, with any of his misdeeds, doesn’t disappear from sight? If he disappears, I’m free again. But I don’t seem to want to be free again – that means something surely, but what?’ reasoned Professor Andersen.
‘I can’t pretend I’m not doing this absolutely voluntarily,’ he thought. ‘Even if I feel forced to do it. I have tied myself to this misdeed, which I don’t even dare think about, which has taken place in that apartment, after the curtains were drawn. Where is the body? The blood, all the shit, from the woman. The fair-haired woman, whom I think was young. What has that poor devil done in there? To be able to bear what he has done. Alone with the body. The blood (which he must have washed away, along with all the shit). Where is the body? It must be gone now, since the curtains are drawn back and the young man is going out in the evening and doing errands, whatever they amount to.’
‘Life really lasts too long nowadays,’ he thought. ‘In our day and age. There is probably a lot to be said for meting out a man’s life, all things taken into consideration, so it lasts about fifty-five years; then one has lived through the phases of one’s life, without wear and tear. Childhood, youth, maturity, manhood, and then a short final phase. That should be enough, everything after that is an ordeal. If one is fifty-five years old the maturing process has gone so far that one ought to realise
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