The Jealousy Man and Other Stories
- Автор: Несбё Ю
- Год: 2021
- Язык: английский
- Год: Alfred A. Knopf
- ISBN: 978-0-593-32100-3
- Переводчик: Robert Ferguson
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Jealousy Man and Other Stories». Краткое содержание книги:
A detective with a nose for jealousy is on the trail of a man suspected of murdering his twin; a bereaved father must decide whether vengeance has a place in the new world order after a pandemic brings about the collapse of society; a garbage man fresh off a bender tries to piece together what happened the night before; a hired assassin matches wits against his greatest adversary in a dangerous game for survival; and an instantly electric connection between passengers on a flight to London may spell romance, or something more sinister.
With Nesbø’s characteristic gift for outstanding atmosphere and gut-wrenching revelations, The Jealousy Man confirms that he is at the peak of his abilities.
‘We’re the same age.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Peter told me you two are the same age.’
‘I see. What else did he say about me?’
‘Not a lot, actually. Your name didn’t come up until I asked if he was really travelling completely alone to San Fermín.’
‘And did he say he was?’
‘No, not in as many words, but it’s as if he wanted to give me that impression. That you didn’t exist. At any rate, he avoided talking about you.’
‘Strange,’ I said, lifting my own glass.
‘Not if he’s made up his mind that he’s going to have me, and the two of you usually end up liking the same women.’
‘And you still think I’m a nice boy?’
‘I think you do things you know are wrong, but at least you have a guilty conscience afterwards.’
‘Yes, well, that’s always something. And what about your bad sides?’
‘I steal,’ she answered without hesitating.
‘You steal?’
‘Yes. It’s a kind of habit. I’m not a kleptomaniac, but I think I need the excitement. That’s probably why I mostly steal things I don’t really need.’
‘Like the hearts of naive boys?’
‘That’s cheap,’ she laughed, and we toasted each other.
It had grown dark and there were ominous rumblings from the clouds as we ate the last pieces of tapas and she talked to me about herself. About the boyfriends she’d had in Moscow, about her plans to move to Singapore, maybe get a job as a journalist on an English-language newspaper. But nothing about why she had swum out into the waves and almost drowned. At one point she picked up her phone; the screen lit up her face in the dark and she frowned.
‘Your mother?’ I asked as she laid it aside without answering.
‘Yes,’ she said flatly.
‘Uh-oh,’ I said.
‘Uh-oh?’
‘You might be good at stealing, but you’re an even worse liar than me. Was that Peter?’
She sighed. ‘He must have texted me twenty times since yesterday.’
‘And you think that’s too many?’
She made a face. I wanted to ask how many messages she had sent back but managed not to.
‘Thank you,’ she said, with a nod towards the empty plates. ‘That was good.’
‘Something else to drink?’
‘Definitely not. Mamma is waiting for me.’
I gestured for the bill. She watched as I signed the credit card receipt.
‘Christopher,’ she said.
I looked up.
‘I thought your name was Christopher,’ she smiled.
‘When?’
‘When I saw you.’
‘Did Peter say that—’
‘Baywatch m-aaa-n!’
The bow-legged man in the kilt and the Scotland football shirt was standing by our table. He swayed about, and his breath smelt like fresh windscreen-washer fluid.
‘My hero! I need ten euros to go to the encierro tomorrow. I’ll play you a love song.’
‘Vete!’ snarled the waiter, pointing towards the square.
I gave the Scot a five-euro note and he staggered off and disappeared into the darkness.
‘Let’s hope he sobers up before the bull run,’ I said.
‘Oh, he is not going, he is here all the time,’ said the waiter, rolling his eyes.
We stood up. Miriam shivered as the wind suddenly rose, and this time it wasn’t just a gust — the soughing in the trees around us grew louder and louder.
‘We’ll take a taxi,’ I said, and glanced up as lightning flashed. It was as if the heavens had literally burst open: the bolt looked like a thin, glowing crack that revealed something behind it, some other world. And then, tumbling from the crack, came the rain. It hit the parasols, the table, the cobblestones, and everyone was on their feet and running. By the time Miriam and I found shelter a few seconds later in a gateway arch between the square and the back yard of the hotel we were drenched.
‘We’re not going to get any taxi now,’ I said.
‘It’ll stop soon,’ she said.
I glanced up at the sky. ‘Maybe. You’re shivering.’
‘You too.’
I held up the room key. ‘Come on up, we’ll dry off in the meantime.’
We unlocked the door and I turned on the light. The rug hadn’t been replaced.
‘Have a shower, that’ll warm you up,’ I said.
Miriam nodded and disappeared into the bathroom, and I sat down on the bed in which I had slept two nights previously. The sounds of the rain and the shower mingled with each other, just as my own feelings of happiness and frustration did. The phone rang again. It was Peter. I knew I had to call him. I’d changed my explanation; now my story was that I had gone out to their village with those two Spanish girls from the barricade, that me and the blonde one had really hit it off and it looked like I would be spending the night there. He’d buy that. Wouldn’t he? I thought of the corpse in the mortuary. I wasn’t sure of anything any more. I heard the shower being turned off and put the phone back in my pocket. I couldn’t feed the lie to Peter with Miriam listening in; I knew I quite simply wouldn’t be able to handle it.
She emerged from the bathroom draped in one of the white towels, hurried across to the other bed and crept shivering in under the blanket.
‘Suddenly there was only cold water,’ she groaned. ‘Sorry.’
‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘Since I’m already wet I’ll go out and buy something. Anything you want?’
‘You’re going out to ring Peter,’ she said.
‘That too.’
‘Lie,’ she said quietly.
‘Why? We haven’t done anything.’
‘But you will lie. I’m just saying that it’s OK by me.’
I went out and descended the stairs. Stopped in the gateway and took out my phone. Had tapped in Peter’s name and was about to press Call when I realised something. The sound of the pouring rain was so loud that Peter would be bound to hear it, and it was by no means certain it was also raining in the area around Pamplona. In fact it was unlikely; before setting out we had read that even though they were so close to each other, it rained twice as much in San Sebastián as in Pamplona at this time of year.
I looked out across the square. It was deserted, but through the rain I heard a cracked voice singing — ‘Mull of Kintyre’ unless I was very much mistaken. And there, on the far side, alone beneath the awning over a closed shop, stood the Scot, thrashing away on his guitar.
I ran across the square, ducked beneath the same awning. He gave a big smile and stopped playing.
‘Baywatch m-aaa-n, what d’ya wanna hear?’
‘Can you play anything Spanish or Basqueish?’
By way of reply he at once began bellowing ‘La Bamba’.
‘Keep going until I’ve finished this conversation,’ I said. He nodded. I pressed Call and Peter answered before the second ring.
‘Martin! I was beginning to think you were dead!’
‘I thought you were dead,’ I said. I couldn’t stop myself. But he ignored it. Instead he started going on about how worried he’d been. And I told him my story.
‘So I gather,’ he said. ‘Sounds like a real party, I can hardly hear you.’
The Scot looked as though he was about to finish and I gestured for him to continue.
‘Wish me luck, Peter. And I’ll see you tomorrow!’
‘You don’t need luck, you bastard.’ He gave a short laugh, but it wasn’t as sincere as he usually sounded. ‘And make sure you’re back in time for the bull run.’
‘Sure.’
‘You promise?’
‘Yes.’
Pause. The rain splashed around us, and I could only hope the Scot’s hoarse ‘La Bamba’ was drowning it out.