Waaler?’
Harry could feel his voice trembling.
‘I want to help you.’ Waaler stood up. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this, you know . . .’
‘Like what?’
‘Like this, that you and I are enemies. Like this, that the Chief Super has to sign those papers. You know.’
Waaler walked over to the door.
‘And like this, that you can never afford to do something nice for yourself and those you love . . .’
He rested his hand on the door handle.
‘Think about it, Harry. There’s only one thing that can help you in the jungle out there.’
A bullet, Harry thought.
‘You yourself,’ Waaler said, and was gone.
11
Sunday. Departure.
She lay in bed smoking a cigarette. She studied him as he stood in front of the low chest of drawers, watched his shoulder blades moving under the waistcoat and making it glisten in shades of black and blue. She shifted her gaze to the mirror and watched the gentle, self-assured movements of his hands tying his tie. She liked his hands, liked to see them moving.
‘When will you be back?’ she asked.
Their eyes met in the mirror. His smile. That too was gentle and self-assured. She thrust out a sulky bottom lip.
‘As quickly as I can, Liebling .’
No-one said ‘darling’ the way he did. Liebling . In his strange accent and with that singing intonation that had almost made her like the German language again.
‘On the evening flight tomorrow, I hope,’ he said. ‘Will you be there to meet me?’
She couldn’t stop herself smiling. He laughed. She laughed. Damn him, he always managed it.
‘I’m sure you’ve got a throng of women waiting for you in Oslo,’ she said.
‘I hope so.’
He buttoned up his waistcoat and took his jacket off the hanger in the wardrobe.
‘Did you iron the handkerchiefs, Liebling ?’
‘I put them in your suitcase with the socks,’ she said.
‘Excellent.’
‘Have you got a rendezvous with any of them?’
He laughed, went across to the bed and bent down over her.
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’ She put her arms around his neck. ‘I think there’s a woman’s scent on you every time you come home.’
‘That’s because I’m never away long enough for your scent to fade, Liebling . How long ago is it now since I first discovered you? Twenty-six months. I’ve had your scent on me for twenty-six months now.’
‘And no other?’
She wriggled further down the bed and dragged him after her. He kissed her lightly on the mouth.
‘And no other. My plane, Liebling . . .’
He extricated himself.
She watched him as he walked over to the chest of drawers, opened one, took out his passport and plane tickets, put them in his inside pocket and buttoned up his jacket. It all happened in one sleek movement; this effortless efficiency and self-assurance that she found both sensual and frightening. Had it not been for the fact that he did almost everything with the same minimal effort, she would have said that he must have been in training for this all his life: departing; leaving.
Bearing in mind that they had spent so much time together over the last two years, she knew surprisingly little about him, but he never made a secret of the fact that he had been with a great many women in his previous life. He used to say it was because he had been searching so desperately for her. He had turned them away as soon as he realised they weren’t her and he had continued his restless search until one fine autumn day two years ago they had met in the bar of the Grand Hotel Europa in Wenceslas Square.
That was the most wonderful description of promiscuity she had ever heard. More wonderful than hers at any rate, which had been for money.
‘What do you do in Oslo?’
‘Business,’ he said.
‘Why will you never tell me exactly what it is that you do?’
‘Because we love each other.’
He closed the door quietly behind him, and she heard his footsteps going down the stairs.
Alone again. She closed her eyes
Harry could feel his voice trembling.
‘I want to help you.’ Waaler stood up. ‘It doesn’t have to be like this, you know . . .’
‘Like what?’
‘Like this, that you and I are enemies. Like this, that the Chief Super has to sign those papers. You know.’
Waaler walked over to the door.
‘And like this, that you can never afford to do something nice for yourself and those you love . . .’
He rested his hand on the door handle.
‘Think about it, Harry. There’s only one thing that can help you in the jungle out there.’
A bullet, Harry thought.
‘You yourself,’ Waaler said, and was gone.
11
Sunday. Departure.
She lay in bed smoking a cigarette. She studied him as he stood in front of the low chest of drawers, watched his shoulder blades moving under the waistcoat and making it glisten in shades of black and blue. She shifted her gaze to the mirror and watched the gentle, self-assured movements of his hands tying his tie. She liked his hands, liked to see them moving.
‘When will you be back?’ she asked.
Their eyes met in the mirror. His smile. That too was gentle and self-assured. She thrust out a sulky bottom lip.
‘As quickly as I can, Liebling .’
No-one said ‘darling’ the way he did. Liebling . In his strange accent and with that singing intonation that had almost made her like the German language again.
‘On the evening flight tomorrow, I hope,’ he said. ‘Will you be there to meet me?’
She couldn’t stop herself smiling. He laughed. She laughed. Damn him, he always managed it.
‘I’m sure you’ve got a throng of women waiting for you in Oslo,’ she said.
‘I hope so.’
He buttoned up his waistcoat and took his jacket off the hanger in the wardrobe.
‘Did you iron the handkerchiefs, Liebling ?’
‘I put them in your suitcase with the socks,’ she said.
‘Excellent.’
‘Have you got a rendezvous with any of them?’
He laughed, went across to the bed and bent down over her.
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t know.’ She put her arms around his neck. ‘I think there’s a woman’s scent on you every time you come home.’
‘That’s because I’m never away long enough for your scent to fade, Liebling . How long ago is it now since I first discovered you? Twenty-six months. I’ve had your scent on me for twenty-six months now.’
‘And no other?’
She wriggled further down the bed and dragged him after her. He kissed her lightly on the mouth.
‘And no other. My plane, Liebling . . .’
He extricated himself.
She watched him as he walked over to the chest of drawers, opened one, took out his passport and plane tickets, put them in his inside pocket and buttoned up his jacket. It all happened in one sleek movement; this effortless efficiency and self-assurance that she found both sensual and frightening. Had it not been for the fact that he did almost everything with the same minimal effort, she would have said that he must have been in training for this all his life: departing; leaving.
Bearing in mind that they had spent so much time together over the last two years, she knew surprisingly little about him, but he never made a secret of the fact that he had been with a great many women in his previous life. He used to say it was because he had been searching so desperately for her. He had turned them away as soon as he realised they weren’t her and he had continued his restless search until one fine autumn day two years ago they had met in the bar of the Grand Hotel Europa in Wenceslas Square.
That was the most wonderful description of promiscuity she had ever heard. More wonderful than hers at any rate, which had been for money.
‘What do you do in Oslo?’
‘Business,’ he said.
‘Why will you never tell me exactly what it is that you do?’
‘Because we love each other.’
He closed the door quietly behind him, and she heard his footsteps going down the stairs.
Alone again. She closed her eyes
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