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.
‘Are you in love, Martin?’
I was taken aback. ‘Maybe I am,’ I answered, swallowing.
‘Because you sound as though you are.’
‘I do?’
‘Yes. Now that I know what that sounds like, it’s what you sound like.’
I swallowed again. ‘See you,’ I said.
‘See you.’
I shoved a soaking ten-euro note onto the end of one of the strings sticking out from a tuning peg on the Scot’s guitar and headed back across the square.
‘What did he say?’ asked Miriam once I was back in the room. She’d pulled the blanket right up to her nose.
‘That I sounded as though I was in love.’
‘Well, you look cold anyway. Go and dry off.’
I went to the bathroom, took off my clothes and with the last remaining towel tried in vain to rub myself warm. As I was standing there I saw a large insect walking along the wall by the toilet bowl. It looked injured, limping and dragging its leg along behind it. I moved closer, thinking to put it out of its misery, and then saw that the legs were stuck together and had left a thin trail behind them. I bent down and peered in behind the toilet bowl. There, beneath the pipe, in a place that would be hard to reach with a cloth, lay a small pool of some dark, dried matter. I put my finger into it, already with a pretty good idea of what it was. Beneath the blackish coating it was damp and sticky. I examined my fingertip in the light. There could be no doubt about it; it was blood.
‘You look pale,’ said Miriam as I returned to the bedroom with the towel wrapped around my waist.
‘I’ve been using factor fifty.’
She laughed softly. Lifted up the blanket. ‘Come here and warm yourself.’
I got under the blanket and snuggled up to her.
‘Keep your hands to yourself,’ she said, turned on her side and pressed her nose into the pit of my neck. She was like a little oven, and the warmth she radiated gave me more goose bumps than the cold outside.
I lay completely still, not daring to move for fear of breaking the spell. Or of waking from the dream. Because that was what it felt like. Like being in a dream that was partly sweet and partly nightmarish. The blood, the rug, the corpse in the mortuary. And there was another thing.
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘Did you know that Peter got himself a tattoo that day he met you at the hospital?’
‘No. What kind of tattoo was it?’
‘He didn’t mention it?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘This business about my name being Christopher, was that something he told you?’
‘No. Is it?’
‘It’s my middle name.’
‘Is it?’ she laughed. ‘But that’s fantastic.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Fantastic.’
I didn’t know if it was just my imagination, but it felt as though she had wriggled a little closer to me. And neither of us was cold any more. But I didn’t move. Nor did she. Outside, the rain had changed from a hammering to a steady drizzle. The hoarse, suffering voice of the Scotsman was still audible — he must have been the only person out there. His song must have been one with many verses.
‘I’ve heard that song before,’ I said. ‘I just can’t remember where.’
‘He told us it was an old Irish song,’ said Miriam. ‘About the merrow with the red cap.’
‘Merrow?’
‘It’s Irish for mermaid.’
The mermaid in the red cap. I thought of my dream. Of rising up through the cold dark water to the surface and the light. Something else rose to the surface too.
‘When you say he told us, do you mean you and your mother?’
‘Me and Peter. We walked past him as he was playing not far from the restaurant we’d eaten at. Peter gave him fifty euros and asked him to sing “The Red Capped Merrow” again.’
I closed my eyes and cursed inwardly.
Even though Peter wasn’t especially musical he must have heard that the guy who was singing ‘La Bamba’ was the same person he and Miriam had been listening to. OK, but if he had noticed then I could perhaps convince him that the Scot had moved on to the little village and started busking there. Anyway, if the jig was up then the jig was up. Oddly enough the thought made me calmer.
‘Of course, fifty euros was far too much,’ said Miriam. ‘But I don’t think Peter did it to impress me. I think he did it out of... how shall I describe it? A sense of duty?’
I nodded and folded my hands behind my head. ‘I think you’re right. Peter understands that money can help, that it’s practical to have money, but not that it can impress, or make others feel small. In fact, he can be embarrassed about the fact that he’s so privileged. And I know he sometimes experiences it as a burden and an obligation. He told me once he envied me.’
‘Envied?’
‘He didn’t explain it, but I think he sees in me something he can’t have, the naive innocence of the ordinary person, the freedom of not having enough money and power to feel obliged to take responsibility. Just the same way I see in him the naive innocence in the fact that he actually believes he has a moral responsibility for the rest of the world, that he’s one of the chosen ones, that his inherited wealth is proof that a guiding hand is at work in this world.’
‘But you don’t believe that?’
‘I believe in chaos. And in our ability to see connections where none exist, because we find chaos intolerable.’
‘You don’t believe in fate?’
‘Should I?’
‘You predicted that you and I would lie in the same bed together.’
‘You heard the prediction, maybe subconsciously that was what made you invite me into your bed. Anyway, I said that we’d be clothed.’
‘We’re wearing towels. And we’re not kissing.’
I was about to turn towards her, but then noticed the slight resistance in her body and desisted. Stared instead up at the ceiling.
‘Maybe we always do that,’ I said. ‘Try to make sure that some prediction or other we believe in will actually come true. Maybe that’s what our lives are about.’
We fell silent and listened as the sound of the falling rain grew even lighter. Soon people would be back on the streets again. The taxis would be driving round. Miriam would go to her mother. I glanced at the clock. In a couple of hours’ time I would have to get up for my bus, but that was fine, I wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight anyway.
Now the rain had stopped completely. The Scot was no longer singing, but other voices were raised here and there across the square. Miriam changed position. I thought she was going to get up, but then she lay still. It was so quiet we could hear the drops of rain from the gutter as they hit the cobblestones beneath the open window with a sound like a deep, heavy sigh. I made up my mind.
‘What I’m going to tell you now isn’t to frighten you off Peter,’ I said. ‘It’s just something I think you ought to know.’
‘And what is that?’ she said, as though she’d been expecting this.
‘I think,’ I said, and swallowed, ‘that Peter has murdered someone.’
‘All right,’ she said. ‘But that doesn’t necessarily make him a bad person.’
‘It doesn’t?’ I said, astonished.
‘I hope not. I’ve murdered someone too.’
The people had all gone home and the birds were not yet awake, so all was still outside by the time Miriam had finished her story. She told me she had been telling the truth when she said she didn’t lie to friends. ‘But you weren’t a friend then, Martin. You are now.’
It wasn’t true that the man she had married hadn’t managed to consummate the marriage. Once he threatened to call for assistance she had allowed him to take her. Rape without violence, that was what she called it. She’d blocked the details from her memory and recalled only the vodka stink of his breath. And when they got into bed he had fallen asleep at once. What really happened next was that she had held a pillow over his face. And didn’t take it away again. She’d sat on top of the puny boy, trapped his arms beneath her knees and kept on pressing until she felt his resistance stop, and then carried on pressing.