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there I find three thick, black hairs that must be his. I place
them in a matchbox, grab a glass and totter slowly but
surely back to my own room.
I put the hairs in the glass, place it on the chest of drawers,
and if I’m quick – relatively speaking, in my condition – I
can manage to get hold of some more. My heart is
hammering, I’m in motion, I cackle and pant in turns, it’s a
matter of time, of life, yes, a particular one.
In Johan and Ragna’s room it’s obvious where Johan sleeps.
I’ve worked it out from the sounds already, but the clothes
also make it clear: Ragna’s shiny red nightdress sticks out
from under the pillow on her side. As best I can, I bend over
Johan’s sheet, supported on a crutch, running a nail over
the sheet, lifting it slightly, to collect the bits and pieces
from his body in a small heap. I sneeze, my nose blocks up:
it must be flakes of skin and dust swirling around in the air.
But there, right beside his pillow, I discover what I am
searching for, the curled, short form, the hardness: a hair
from Johan’s private parts.
---
There’s no need to try and explain away what I am up to.
Something has to be done and this is my means of doing it.
But, to be honest, I don’t like it. In horror I witness myself
tie a knot in the hairs, then place them in the glass together
with a sheet of paper on which I have written Johan’s full