Free Invisible Murder by Lene Kaaberbøl Page A

allowed to attend. Maybe more out of necessity than desire on Ida’s part, but Nina had to take what she could get. Morten gently maneuvered his way out of her arms and went to say goodbye to Anton.
    N INA STOOD THERE for a moment in the hallway, listening to his light, energetic steps descending the stairs. Then she turned around and went back to the kitchen. Ida had turned up her music, and a significant amount of bass penetrated the wall, reaching Nina and the chaotic kitchen table that still hadn’t been cleared. Anton had brushed his teeth and was in bed in his room with a comic book and his bedside light on, and Nina suddenly felt utterly miserable. Alone.
    Two weeks, she thought, glancing at the calendar. Come on. The world won’t fall apart in two weeks.

 
    ÁNDOR HAD HIS half of the window wide open, but it didn’t seem to do much good. There was hardly any draft, just lots of construction dust and street noise. He had taken off his shirt and trousers and was sitting on his bed in just his underwear, studying. Sweat trickled down his chest from his armpits, and the paper stuck damply to his fingers every time he turned a page.
    He had left his door ajar to admit at least a trickle of cross ventilation; to Ferenc, that was obviously an invitation.
    “When’s your big exam?” Ferenc asked.
    “Thursday.” Sándor was hit by a surge of nerves at the mere thought. But he had it under control, he told himself. He knew his stuff. He just needed to take another look at—
    His thoughts were interrupted when Ferenc suddenly grabbed hold of him. “Good. We of the Sándor Liberation Committee have officially nominated you the best-prepared student in the history of this university. And we’ve also decided that it’s high time we intervene to prevent your body’s ability to metabolize alcohol from atrophying completely. Put some clothes on, pal.”
    Sándor found himself standing in the middle of his room, still wearing only his underwear and desperately clutching
Blackstone’s International Law
.
    “Knock it off, Ferenc. I can’t—”
    “I’m afraid the Committee’s decision cannot be appealed. Please don’t force us to resort to violence.”
    Ferenc wasn’t alone. Out in the hallway stood Henk, a Dutch exchange student who was studying music like Ferenc, and Mihály, who was in Sándor’s class. And also Lujza.
    Ferenc threw Sándor’s trousers in his face.
    “Here. Hop to it, or you’re going as you are.”
    Sándor’s whole body was stiff with passive resistance. It’s just for fun, he told himself, relax. But he couldn’t force the appropriate you-guys-are-crazy grin onto his face, and his lack of response gradually caused the others’ broad smiles to fade.
    “Come on, Sándor,” Ferenc said.
    He finally “hopped to it,” as Ferenc put it. He could move again. He set
Blackstone
on his desk and then balanced awkwardly on one foot while he tried to stuff his other foot into his chinos.
    “You guys are crazy,” Sándor grumbled, and their smiles returned.
    Ferenc patted him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit,” he said in the fake British accent he was cultivating because it went so well with his Hugh Grant style. Lujza smiled at Sándor, candidly and warmly like in the old days before the baptism.
    I can always get up extra early tomorrow, Sándor promised himself. After all, he
was
better prepped than anyone else he knew.
    W HEN THEY GOT downstairs, there was a police car parked across the street from them. Two officers were just getting out.
    Sándor was trying to close the defective front door without much luck. The others stopped to wait for him.
    “Just leave it,” Ferenc said. “In five minutes someone else will come out, and then it’ll be wide open again.”
    Sándor gave up. When he turned around, the two police officers were a few meters away. The older one, a muscular man whose light-blue uniform shirt had big sweat stains under his arms, checked a printout he had in