Her bike tipped and I readied myself to catch it in case she lost her grip.
“Did you see Christopher Olsen that time too?”
Amina straightened the handlebars.
“Yeah, that Friday.”
“That was Stella’s birthday.”
“We were only with him for a little while, then Stella and I took off for Stortorget and had a glass of wine. I had a match on Saturday, so nothing too crazy.”
“And you haven’t seen each other since? But you’ve talked, haven’t you? Texted each other?”
“Not exactly. But she did message me on Friday. We were supposed to meet up that night, but I had practice and I wasn’t feeling all that well. Then on Saturday I ended up with a fever.”
“So you don’t have any idea what happened on Friday?”
She was quick to shake her head. I felt doubtful.
“Then what did you tell the police? When they questioned you?”
“The truth, obviously. I couldn’t lie, could I?”
I didn’t respond.
Over the years I’ve learned that lying is an art form, a skill some people have mastered while others never will. Like other talents, I’m sure you can improve with practice and hone this skill, but essentially it seems to come down to a certain innate disposition. Stella has always been a good liar. Even in elementary school I had a hard time pinpointing her lies. They were sometimes about the most banal things.
“Have you cleaned your room yet, Stella?”
“Yes, Dad.”
One time it would be true; the next she would lie to my face. It was impossible to determine when she was telling the truth.
I presume Amina isn’t a skilled liar at all. After the incident with Roger Arvidsen she begged me for forgiveness, sobbing, and got me to promise never to tell Dino and Alexandra. A promise I kept, naturally.
She wasn’t succeeding in her lie this time either. I had no doubt that she was hiding something. Who was she trying to protect? Herself or Stella?
Or me? Did she believe I couldn’t handle the truth?
We took a left onto Svanegatan. A car sped by, going much too fast.
“Amina, do you think that Stella…？ Do you think Stella did it?”
She stopped short.
“No! Stella didn’t do anything! You aren’t thinking…？”
I didn’t know. How could Amina be so certain?
“Please,” I begged again as she mounted the bike for the last fifty meters home. “I have to know.”
“Know what?”
“Everything.”
“I don’t know everything either.” Amina put her feet on the pedals and pedaled one revolution. “I don’t know any more than you do. And neither does Stella, presumably.”
She waved over her shoulder as she biked home.
I knew she was lying.
33
When I came home that evening, Ulrika was standing in the bedroom and gazing out the window. My mind was sluggish. Every muscle in my body ached as if I had just climbed a mountain.
“What are you looking at?” I asked.
She didn’t respond. As I put my arms around her waist, I discovered that her face was full of shadows; her tears seemed to have hollowed out her cheeks and dried her lips.
“Honey,” I whispered.
“Where have you been?”
Her voice was a tremor.
I explained that I had been sent home from work, off sick at least another week. Ulrika didn’t react. Her eyes seemed devoid of life. Everything outside the window was darkness. Black, impenetrable murkiness.
“You’ve heard of Job, right?” I said.
“I’m familiar with the name.”
I rested my chin on her shoulder, but she jerked away without warning and turned around.
“You don’t seriously think this is a trial from God?”
I no longer knew what to think.
“Job was the most honest man on earth,” I explained. “But the prosecutor pointed out that it’s easy to believe in God when your life is as great as Job’s was.”
“The prosecutor?”
“Some translations use that word. It’s a euphemism for Satan.”
In the midst of all this misery, I glimpsed a smile on my wife’s face.
“As a defense attorney, I have no argument there.”
As I related the story of Job—how God allowed Satan to take away everything he owned, to take the lives of his livestock and his ten children, to make him very sick—Ulrika nodded in recognition.
“So you’re Job?”
It was hard to tell whether she was trying to be funny or just scornful.