Before I Burn: A Novel by Gaute Heivoll

whenever it went quiet she pricked up her ears. She could hear him getting out of bed and mumbling something, but she couldn’t make out the words. Then she dropped off and snatched a couple of hours’ sleep at around midnight. She slept lightly, as though hovering just under the surface. Fragments of dreams drifted by, but everything was distorted and unrecognisable as if it belonged to someone else.
    Then she was awoken by someone descending the stairs. Keys jangled as he threw on his jacket. The lock clicked. Silence in the house after the sound of the car faded.
    After a while she got up.
    She sat listening to the clock’s regular tick above the refrigerator. Steam rose from her cup like long, ragged flags fluttering in the wind and dissipating.
    Much later, she saw a car approaching from across the plain at great speed. It was still dark outside. The headlights shook. The car slowed down as it came to the crossroads, then turned left, and the headlights cut like a knife through the white, transparent mist hanging over the field.
    It was him.
    The car drew to a halt outside the kitchen. She heard the car radio blaring for a few seconds before it went quiet, she heard the door opening, his steps on the gravel. She heard him talking to himself in the yard. She was almost used to it now. He would suddenly ask himself a question. Or reprimand himself. She had heard that on several occasions, but had said nothing about it to Ingemann. Initially it had happened while the music was playing, later also when there was complete silence. At first this had frightened her. She had been sitting alone in the living room with some sewing when she heard Dag talking upstairs. She had the impression there was someone with him. A second person. Someone from his old class? She had gone upstairs and knocked on his door, and when he opened it only he was there. His face had frozen into a strange grimace, and it was this expression that had frightened her. But then his whole face softened, everything melted, the bizarrely distorted face seemed to slide away, and she saw it was him.
    She got up now, went to the door and stood listening with the steaming cup in her hand. The yard had gone quiet. Then he came in.
    ‘What are you doing up?’ he asked.
    ‘Would you like some coffee?’ she said.
    ‘Coffee in the middle of the night?’
    ‘Why not?’
    She filled a large, white cup and put it down on the other side of the kitchen table, in what was actually Ingemann’s place.
    ‘Are you hungry?’ she asked. ‘We’ve got some fresh bread, you know.’
    He sat down at the table while she took some bread from the cupboard and cut three white slices that fell to the side one after the other. He said nothing. He smelt of spring nights and exhaust fumes.
    ‘Have you been gadding about?’ she asked.
    ‘You could say that,’ he replied.
    She put out some jam that had been in the freezer since the previous summer, some clove cheese and Prim spread. All of this she served in a semi-circle around him. She got out some milk, too, and poured it into a glass.
    ‘Come on, eat,’ she said.
    ‘You don’t need to wait up for me,’ he blurted, raising his eyes.
    ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she said with a little smile, flicking the hair off her forehead.
    ‘You couldn’t sleep?’
    ‘No. I suppose I’m just like you,’ she said. ‘You don’t sleep either, do you.’
    He didn’t respond, just looked at her and smiled. They didn’t say anything for a long while. It felt good. There was quite some time before morning broke, before Ingemann got up and the day began. Only the two of them now. It was good, somewhat unaccustomed, crystal clear, and she wished it could go on and on. He ate greedily; she sliced more bread and placed it on the edge of his plate while essaying a smile. It was wonderful to see him showing a healthy appetite. That was how it had always been: the more he ate, the better she felt.
    ‘It’s cold out tonight,’ he said,