at anyone's house, so it doesn't matter. I stood in the doorway and peered into the kitchen, stared at the striped rug. Maybe a little pick-me-up would be in order. I had wine in the cellar. I rolled back the rug from the trapdoor, took the ring and pulled it open.
That's when something happened. I heard a sound; it was coming from the hallway. I hadn't locked the door! In my horror over the glowing coffee machine, I had forgotten to secure the latch properly. I had run into the kitchen with only one thought, to prevent a catastrophe. I stood there, frozen to the spot, staring, unable to believe my eyes. A man came walking
into the kitchen with a knife in his hand. His eyes, which were all I could see under the peak of his cap, shone with determination. He had a scarf wrapped around his face and he was looking at my handbag, which lay on the counter. There were two hundred kroner inside. But I had jewelry and silverware and more cash in the safe in Henry's study. For a few seconds there was utter silence. He seemed to be sniffing at the room, as if the smell of burned coffee surprised him. Then he looked at me. He wavered a bit, and the knife shook. I took a step back, but he came after me, pressed me against the counter, stuck the tip of the blade under my chin and snarled:
"Your cash. And fucking be quick about it!"
My knees started to shake, and that's when the accident happened. I couldn't help it. I felt a warmth sliding down my thighs, but he didn't notice—he was much too preoccupied with the knife, which was trembling, betraying his own fear. He was just as scared as I was. I cast a glance toward Henry's study. I wanted to open the safe, but my legs wouldn't hold me. He got annoyed, waved the knife at me, and shoved me with his fist. Not hard, but I flinched. His shouts were muffled by the scarf. "Hurry up, you old bag! Hurry up!"
I was just an old bag. And he was just a young kid. I could hear it in his voice. I hadn't moved. He pushed me again, and finally I managed to drag my feet across the room and into the study. I stood in front of the safe, staring at the dial, trying to remember the combination. My fingers shook uncontrollably, but my mind was a blank. I wanted to throw up, I wanted to run away. I was willing to give him everything I had; there wasn't really much inside, anyway, maybe five thousand kroner. But I couldn't remember the combination. Then he really started to get nervous. Instinctively I knew that I had to keep him calm, and I tried to explain about the combination, that I had written it down. "In the teapot," I gasped, "it's in the teapot in the kitchen!" He screamed that he didn't have time for this. He
seized hold of my dressing gown, up near the collar. I immediately pulled it tight because I was afraid, and he could see that for me this was the worst. I didn't want him to see me the way I was. With one hand he tugged at the belt and held it taut, then he raised the knife and cut it in two. The heavy white toweling fell away. I covered myself with my hands, but it was too late. He stared in disbelief, lurching back with a strange expression, not exactly disgust, but as if he couldn't comprehend what he saw. He shook his head—he had forgotten what he'd come for. But the seconds kept ticking away, and eventually he understood. It was my intestine he was looking at. It sticks out through the skin of my abdomen and ends in a colostomy bag. It was almost full, and the knife blade had sliced it in two. The contents were running down my legs. I couldn't look at his face. I turned around and rushed out of the study, but he came after me. Stopped in front of me with his knife raised.
"I don't give a damn about ... that! I want money!"
I felt it running down. It was thin, not fully digested, and the smell was starting to spread, and I'm so fastidious about things like that. Behind him, the trapdoor to the cellar was open. He didn't notice it, he was jumping around, but I could see that he had
That's when something happened. I heard a sound; it was coming from the hallway. I hadn't locked the door! In my horror over the glowing coffee machine, I had forgotten to secure the latch properly. I had run into the kitchen with only one thought, to prevent a catastrophe. I stood there, frozen to the spot, staring, unable to believe my eyes. A man came walking
into the kitchen with a knife in his hand. His eyes, which were all I could see under the peak of his cap, shone with determination. He had a scarf wrapped around his face and he was looking at my handbag, which lay on the counter. There were two hundred kroner inside. But I had jewelry and silverware and more cash in the safe in Henry's study. For a few seconds there was utter silence. He seemed to be sniffing at the room, as if the smell of burned coffee surprised him. Then he looked at me. He wavered a bit, and the knife shook. I took a step back, but he came after me, pressed me against the counter, stuck the tip of the blade under my chin and snarled:
"Your cash. And fucking be quick about it!"
My knees started to shake, and that's when the accident happened. I couldn't help it. I felt a warmth sliding down my thighs, but he didn't notice—he was much too preoccupied with the knife, which was trembling, betraying his own fear. He was just as scared as I was. I cast a glance toward Henry's study. I wanted to open the safe, but my legs wouldn't hold me. He got annoyed, waved the knife at me, and shoved me with his fist. Not hard, but I flinched. His shouts were muffled by the scarf. "Hurry up, you old bag! Hurry up!"
I was just an old bag. And he was just a young kid. I could hear it in his voice. I hadn't moved. He pushed me again, and finally I managed to drag my feet across the room and into the study. I stood in front of the safe, staring at the dial, trying to remember the combination. My fingers shook uncontrollably, but my mind was a blank. I wanted to throw up, I wanted to run away. I was willing to give him everything I had; there wasn't really much inside, anyway, maybe five thousand kroner. But I couldn't remember the combination. Then he really started to get nervous. Instinctively I knew that I had to keep him calm, and I tried to explain about the combination, that I had written it down. "In the teapot," I gasped, "it's in the teapot in the kitchen!" He screamed that he didn't have time for this. He
seized hold of my dressing gown, up near the collar. I immediately pulled it tight because I was afraid, and he could see that for me this was the worst. I didn't want him to see me the way I was. With one hand he tugged at the belt and held it taut, then he raised the knife and cut it in two. The heavy white toweling fell away. I covered myself with my hands, but it was too late. He stared in disbelief, lurching back with a strange expression, not exactly disgust, but as if he couldn't comprehend what he saw. He shook his head—he had forgotten what he'd come for. But the seconds kept ticking away, and eventually he understood. It was my intestine he was looking at. It sticks out through the skin of my abdomen and ends in a colostomy bag. It was almost full, and the knife blade had sliced it in two. The contents were running down my legs. I couldn't look at his face. I turned around and rushed out of the study, but he came after me. Stopped in front of me with his knife raised.
"I don't give a damn about ... that! I want money!"
I felt it running down. It was thin, not fully digested, and the smell was starting to spread, and I'm so fastidious about things like that. Behind him, the trapdoor to the cellar was open. He didn't notice it, he was jumping around, but I could see that he had
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