Certain Signs that You are Dead Page 9

  – Whose name is?

  – Zoran Vasic. He got me the job as porter.

  Ina Sundal noted something down on her pad, must have been the name. He could have told them more about Zoran. Asked if he could ring him. Thinking about Zoran helped. Made it easier to answer questions. No, he wasn’t married, had no close relatives in Norway, lived alone, had no girlfriend.

  The policeman interrupted. – A few minutes ago you told us you got a phone call from a woman. That was one of the reasons you were away so long.

  He had said this to Ina Sundal; now he regretted it.

  – Yes.

  – Yes what?

  – A woman. Someone I know.

  – But not a girlfriend?

  – No, not a girlfriend.

  – What is her name?

  – What do you mean?

  He knew perfectly well what the man meant. Had to do all he could to keep Marita out of this, but it was too late. They could check his phone at any time, find her number.

  – I’m asking you to let me have the woman’s name.

  – Is it important?

  – That we don’t know.

  – Her name is Marita.

  Her husband was a policeman too. He might get to hear everything that was being said in this room. He thought that he could never meet Marita again.

  – What else?

  – Does this have to be written down?

  He looked at Ina Sundal, saw the shadow of a smile in her eyes.

  – Don’t worry about it, Arash. What you say in here stays within these four walls.

  He was going to have to trust her.

  – Marita Dahl.

  – How did you meet her?

  – She works at the same school as me.

  – Teacher?

  – She cleans the classrooms.

  – And what do you do there?

  – I teach.

  – Teach what?

  – Norwegian. For people from other countries. Like me.

  – Have you been back to Iran since you came here?

  Ina Sundal wanted to know this.

  – I can’t go back.

  – You can’t see your family?

  She cared about that kind of thing.

  – No—

  – Why can’t you go back? the policeman interrupted. He had a printout on the table in front of him. Arash could see it was about him, and yet still this question, as though he didn’t believe what was almost certainly written there. Or he was choosing to ignore the fact that Arash had taken part in protests at the university, had even been named as one of the leaders. Silence is the surest sign of your death. The words were there again now. They had been with him through all the hundred and eighty-four days he had spent in the Evin prison. He could have shown them the marks on his body from each and every one of those days; they would never fade.

  – I am a wanted man, he contented himself with saying. – I am on a list of enemies of the Iranian state.

  This unleashed a new round of questions. Again, how much contact did he have with other Iranians in Norway? What about asylum seekers and refugees from other countries? Arash couldn’t imagine what all this had to do with what had happened earlier that night. And then it hit him: he wasn’t just a witness, not just the person who happened to have found a dead body in a cupboard in the basement floor of the hospital. He was a suspect, and his background strengthened the suspicions against him. Suddenly he saw things from the outside, as though he were standing behind the people on the other side of the table. He was no longer the person sitting in that chair but a refugee from Iran whom he knew all about. No, Arash was not attached to any mosque in Oslo, yes, he would call himself a Muslim, though not many imams, either back home or here, would.

  – And the dead man, do you know his name?

  – Ibro Hakanovic. Swedish.

  – So you knew him?

  – No.

  He repeated what the refugee Arash who was sitting in the chair had tried to explain, that he had found the driver’s licence and the credit card in the patient’s wallet.

  – And what were you doing walking round with his wallet?

  He had already explained that too. And what the man had said when he gave it to him.

  – You said he seemed afraid? And yet you left him alone there in the corridor?

  Having placed himself outside of events, he was breathing more calmly now and following closely every movement in the face of the Arash who was sitting in the chair. Whispered in his ear what he should answer. He’d been through so many previous interrogations and that was the way he had always survived before, by stepping away from Arash and into the other, the protector able to take care of everything.

  – The patient had been assaulted a few hours earlier, he said, letting Arash look directly at the policeman. – He was very confused. I have seen many patients with head injuries. They arrive, particularly over the weekends, they’ve been fighting, been beaten up. Nothing unusual about it. Happens all the time.

  In this country, he might have added but didn’t. Thought this wasn’t the right time to start talking about alcohol and violence. Felt no call to either, didn’t need to start saying what was wrong about Norway. The Arash in the chair came from something worse, from a place where an interrogation like this could be a matter of life and death. He disliked this policeman, his persona, the part he was playing, but not more than he liked Ina Sundal’s persona. Something happened to her eyes when they met his, the pupils grew larger, and twice she’d adjusted the hairband around her blond ponytail. From his position there, outside of Arash, he saw the two officers so clearly that it almost made him burst out laughing. It had always been easy for him to see the ways in which people dealt with their insecurities, those who lived with them, and those who wrestled against them, like an enemy to be overcome. Again he thought of Marita. Perhaps he would meet her again after all, talk more to her without other people being around. Just talk; anything else would be idiotic. But when it came to women, he had always been an idiot. If it hadn’t been for a woman, he might never have joined the struggle against the ayatollahs, or even the protests over the corrupt elections. And Arash the refugee would never have ended up precisely where he was now, in a plastic chair, in an interrogation room, in a country a thousand miles from his home town.

  It was past five when he let himself in and flipped off his shoes in the hallway. Finn Olav and Tonje’s baby was awake and crying on the floor above. From his own kitchen he heard the sound of a boiling kettle.

  Ferhat was sitting at the table.

  – Guten Morgen, said Arash.

  Ferhat looked up from the week-old newspaper. – Arbeit? He preferred to speak German, spiced with a few Kurdish and Norwegian phrases.

  Arash nodded. He said nothing about the interrogation, nothing about what had happened at the hospital.

  – Have you eaten? he asked. – Gegessen?

  Ferhat pointed at the fridge. He was frugal when it came to food, usually had to be persuaded to help himself. Coffee was his only indulgence, half a jar of instant a day, maybe more.

  This wasn’t the first time Arash had had an illegal living with him. He often said yes when someone he trusted asked him. Checked the background as far as possible, said no if he picked up any hint of narcotics or prostitution. Felt he had an obligation to help others. He’d been extraordinarily lucky himself. Without the aid of others he would never have made it here. Would never have made it anywhere.

  He put bread and turkey sausage on the table.

  – It’s halal, he assured him, and Ferhat grimaced, revealing the stubs of his teeth. Arash didn’t know if it mattered to him; he hadn’t seen him praying once in the three days he’d been there, but he never asked people about things like that.

  – I’ve got a job, the Kurd revealed as they sat there with their plates. The first day he hadn’t said a word; since then there’d been a few brief, halting conversations.

  – Arbeit ma
cht frei, he added, and Arash looked closely at him, to see if he was joking. There was nothing to indicate it, and he wondered if he should ask the man if he knew where the phrase came from.

  – Where have you got a job? he said instead.

  Ferhat thought about it. – He runs a firm. Gesellschaft.

  – In Oslo?

  – Club, Ferhat nodded. – Tanzen.

  He made a movement with his shoulders, probably trying to illustrate what dancing was.

  – Drive. Fetch things. Vielleicht.

  – Without a driving licence?

  Ferhat thought about it. – He’ll fix it.

  Arash stood up, put his plate in the sink. – Does a place to live come with it?

  – Bald.

  – Well you can stay here until then.

  Ferhat looked at the untouched slice of bread. Maybe that downcast look was his way of saying thank you.

  9

  Marita with her back to the big window looking out on to the square in front of the station. Arash, facing it, could see the hills rising on the other side of the river behind her, and the afternoon light that almost broke through the thin cloud layer. He could follow all the figures crossing the square and coming closer.

  – Ham roll, please, he repeated after her, putting more stress on the ham.

  – I think your Norwegian is amazingly good, she said without looking up from the menu.

  – It’s a strange language, said Arash. – Not difficult, but strange.

  She glanced up at him. Her eyes were grey and green and suited the timbre of her voice.

  You are in love, Arash. For the first time since you came here, you are in love. You have met thousands of women. Iranian, of course, Arabic and African. Many of them understood that they can look at you as they sit behind their desks in the classroom; they don’t need to be careful about where they’re looking. And all the Norwegian women who greet every man with a smile, as though he were the love of their life. Of all these women you could have fallen in love with, you picked one that is married.

  This is a great test for you.

  This last thought took him by surprise, and he tried to discover where it came from. Peered at the people passing on the street outside as though among them there might be someone who had the answer. An elderly man pushing a pram, heading away from the station. Maybe he’s minding his grandchild, he thought, or it could even be his own child. Two young people, their arms around each other, she wearing a short shirt that left her whole stomach visible. A woman crossing the street from the car park. She was tall, with longish dark hair, walked with a slight limp.

  – How come you speak it so well? After only three years?

  He shrugged. – Each time you learn a new language, the next one gets a little bit easier.

  – How many languages can you speak?

  – Farsi, of course. Pashtun, Arabic, French, English, Norwegian. And a smattering of Russian.

  He liked the way she drew breath, to show how impressed she was.

  – I’ve always been interested in languages.

  – How long does it take you to learn a new one?

  He weighed it over.

  – I could probably discuss quite a few things within a couple of weeks.

  – What would be the first word you learn?

  He put down the menu, looked across at her, the thin dress with its tiny heart-shaped buttons down the front.

  – Pretty, he said. – Pretty, and then woman.

  He was on the verge of leaning forward to touch the hand resting on the table, or her forehead, the reddish hair. The thought that he might actually do it at any moment was almost unendurable.

  – Marita.

  She looked inquisitively at him. The sound of her name floating in the air between them.

  – I asked you if it might be difficult for you to sit here. He glanced around. – I mean, if someone you know sees us together.

  Again she appeared to direct all her concentration at the menu. – I don’t often come to Lillestrøm. Don’t know anyone here. Is if difficult for you?

  He shook his head. That was the way it was in this country. It was his business if he went to a café with a woman, regardless of who she was, if she was Christian or Jew, rich or poor, no matter what country she came from, which family.

  – You’re married, he said in a low voice.

  – Do you want me to leave?

  That was the last thing he wanted.

  – I’m very happy that you and I are sitting right here right now. As for what happens later, I have no idea.

  A tiny furrow appeared in the middle of her brow. – I feel the same way too.

  – But I can’t help thinking about the fact that you have a home. A husband. I don’t want you to get hurt in any way.

  It didn’t come out well. If he really was concerned for her welfare, he would not have asked her out.

  – Okay then, let’s talk about it, she said. – Since you think about it all the time.

  The waiter approached their table.

  – Have you decided yet? he asked.

  Marita opened the menu yet again.

  – We’ll order drinks now and come back to the food.

  – Of course, said the waiter, and Arash could hear that he was Swedish. The way he spoke reminded him of something. He knew what it was: the patient’s voice, the one who had asked if he were a Muslim, the one who’d asked about his ring, the one who’d disappeared and was murdered in the basement. He saw in his mind’s eye the steps leading down, couldn’t help it, but it wasn’t the same basement as the Evin prison. He clung on to that, closed his eyes for a few seconds, rubbed his forehead with his hands.

  – Is something wrong?

  He looked down at the table, at the uneven brown stains. – Nothing wrong.

  The sun had broken up the cloud and was shining in through the window, burning on his neck.

  – He’s very suspicious, said Marita, and realising he didn’t understand what she was talking about added: – My husband.

  Not without good reason, thought Arash, but didn’t say it.

  – Does he want you to be happy? he asked instead.

  She appeared to be thinking this over. – I don’t know, she said at last. – I don’t know what he wants for me.

  Their coffees were served. She sipped from hers, patted her lips with a serviette and left a small brown mark on it. He felt he wanted to pick it up and press it against his own lips.

  – How did you meet him?

  – Do we have to talk about this?

  – No. I’m sorry.

  She turned her head and looked out of the window for a few seconds. He was about to change the subject when she continued speaking.

  – I was with somebody else, but it wasn’t good for me. My husband seemed very different. Again she used the serviette to pat her lips dry. – We started sending text messages to each other. One day he called. And then he came to see me. And, well, you know.

  Arash didn’t know, but didn’t ask.

  – At first it was really good. Much too good. I should’ve realised. He’s a policeman, after all, and I really trusted him … I can’t carry on the way things are now. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. – Is that wrong of me?

  – No, he said, looking into her eyes. – No, he said again, as much to silence his own doubt, to drive it off into some dark corner where it was invisible and inaudible. He felt a strong urge to tell her what he felt when he saw her, what he felt when he woke up and thought of her.

  – We are two people, he began, and maybe because that was such an obvious thing to say, it made her smile. – Two grown people, he added. – We live in a country in which grown people make their own decisions about almost everything affecting their lives. If someone had told me before I came here that such a place existed, I would probably have said it was impossible. Maybe I would have said such a place would be dangerous.

  – Is it dangerous?

  He rais
ed his hand and could have placed it on her bare arm. Her fingers almost touching his, so much paler. They had marks from rings, but she wasn’t wearing any. He forced himself to look outside, at the sharp light above the hills, the last scraps of cloud disappearing, the people coming and going.

  – Your ring, she said. – There’s something written on it. Is that Persian?

  He nodded. Pronounced it slowly: – Sokoot, sokhæne khodast.

  His father had given it to him. Arash remembered him standing in the doorway, watching as he packed the few things he intended to take with him. It was his father who had got him released from the Evin prison. He’d gone to the imam, who had friends in high places. His father had done that for him even though his imprisoned son had already cost him his job. He hadn’t spoken of it afterwards. Hadn’t spoken to him at all. And then there he was, standing in the doorway as Arash was preparing to leave. He held out his hand. Arash took it, hesitantly. When he drew back, he was holding the ring. At first he thought it had slipped from his father’s finger.

  Your ring.

  His father shook his head.

  It’s your ring now.

  He wants to hand it back. But it’s impossible.

  Put it on, it will protect you.

  He does so, slipping it on to his finger.

  It was the last time they saw each other.

  – What does it mean? Her finger was still touching the black enamel.

  Arash hesitated before he said: – Silence, God’s language.

  She nodded, as though this were a truth she immediately recognised.

  – There’s something I have to tell you, Marita. But I don’t know if I should … He tried again: – At the hospital yesterday. Last night. A patient died.

  It felt so wrong to be talking to her about this. If he let her in any further, told her about the basement, and the dead patient who fell on top of him, as though the whole thing were his fault, if he took her down into that basement, she would never come up again.

  He glanced over towards the open door, felt the breeze, a warm hand touching his neck. Again looked out across the square in front of the station, checking to see if there was something out there that could hold him back, stop him from revealing any more about what had happened. A taxi stopped and a woman got out; the driver lifted her red suitcase out for her and the woman began wheeling it towards the station entrance. Her trousers and jacket were red too, and it was as though the colour was a warning that something terrible was about to happen. Two men stopped on the pavement on the far side and spoke to each other. One had his back towards the café. The other had on a suit and a white shirt open at the neck. He was unshaven, a handsome man. Arash sat watching him. Marita said something, it seemed to come from far away, and he took out a handkerchief, dabbed at the side of his neck where a drop of sweat was about to trickle down inside his collar.