I Can See in the Dark by Karin Fossum Read Free Book Online

to the kitchen and see Sali Singh. With his brightly coloured clothes and his expansive, barrel-shaped body, he reminds me of a Russian matryoshka doll. In which case there would be six smaller Salis inside the outer one, it’s a fascinating thought. And there do seem to be several of him, too, a different one each day. He’s inscrutable. We talk about the state of the world, and all the things, good and bad, that affect us human beings. Sali is a gentle soul, full of Indian wisdom, and I enjoy listening to his calm, deep voice with its quaint accent. He often gives me a bit of food, perhaps a taster from the day’s menu, or a small cake. He puts it in a bowl and pushes it across the table to me. He’s kind and generous and he has no ulterior motives.
    Then there’s Sister Anna, beautiful little Anna.
    One day she came walking wearily into the ward office. She slumped into a chair and propped her head on her hand. The sun was pouring through the window and made her hair glow. I could see she was suffering. That she was ruminating on something serious, and that it was making her strangely distant. But then the mood passed and she pulled herself together, she’s nothing if not an indomitable woman. She reminded us that old Waldemar Rommen was celebrating his birthday that day, he was ninety-eight, believe it or not. It was practically a provocation in itself, there was almost no life left in him. His heart gave a beat occasionally, and now and then a shallow breath would pass his lips. His hands and feet were ice cold and had blue, bunched veins; his cheeks were as pale as marble. But Anna spent the day treating him in every conceivable way. For her, birthdays are sacrosanct, let no one deny it. But ninety-eight. Hardly any respiration or circulation, hardly any intake of food or drink, almost mummified, dry and tough as driftwood. Despite all this, Anna sat in a chair at his bedside and chatted for a long time. A quiet prattle that elicited no answer. She lit candles, she brought in the flowers his family had sent by courier, asters, I’ve never liked them, they’re vulgar. Waldemar Rommen has dementia. He understood nothing of what was going on, but Anna wanted to make much of him anyway. I visited Waldemar as well several times that day. He turned away when he saw me coming, and seemed inexpressibly tired; the shrivelled face impassive.
    I sat in a chair by the bed, grasped the bony hand and held it firmly.
    ‘This is your last birthday,’ I said. ‘Take my word for it.’
    If he felt pain or sorrow about what I’d said, he hadn’t the strength to formulate it. But his eyes were full of water. I pulled my hand away and went out again, carried on with my duties. We have so many patients on our ward, and there’s a long waiting list as well. Lots of people who want our costly care and our services.
    I kept my eye on Anna all that day.
    She went about wrapped in her own thoughts and was obviously working through something difficult, because her eyes were sombre and her mouth had a sorrowful slant. I didn’t want to meddle and pry, I know how to behave, but I wanted to get her alone in the ward office. It took some time before an opportunity presented itself at last. Naturally, Dr Fischer came in and sat on and on, with his legs crossed, joggling his foot. He had the obligatory suede shoes on, and as usual he massaged his temple. We could never hear him coming. He’d steal along the corridors like an Indian hunter.
    At last we sat there, Anna and I, one each end of the sofa, and it was just the two of us, Dr Fischer had gone. She closed her eyes and nodded off, I saw her chest rise and fall in a slow, heavy rhythm. The sun flooded in through the window and her lovely face was bathed in an almost ethereal light. Suddenly she opened her eyes.
    ‘I’m not quite myself,’ she mumbled. ‘Do excuse me.’
    Then she shut her eyes again and rested her head against the wall. And I realised that something had happened.