My conversation with the deceased’s ex-wife was brief and without any great surprises. She had a slim body and her neck was almost perilously thin. Her hair, on the other hand, was raven black and her voice was spirited. She seemed far younger in body and mind than her actual sixty years of age.
Ingrid Schelderup was also visibly shaken by the death of her former husband, but her predominant focus was the situation of her son Leonard. She assured me repeatedly that she could guarantee he had nothing to do with his father’s death, and expressed her concern that he would take this very badly, given his sense of duty and responsibility. His relationship with his father was not the best, but it was far better than it had been. And Leonard was the world’s sweetest boy, who would never wish to hurt anyone. It was completely incomprehensible that his father had asked him, of all people, to try his food and then later pointed at him. The only explanation she could think of was that Magdalon Schelderup was no longer the man he had once been, even though that might seem strange to all who knew him.
The conversation dwelled on this theme for a few minutes without going anywhere. She then sat up abruptly in her chair and raised her voice: ‘You must forgive me if I am repeating myself and talking too much about my son. It is all too easy when you are a divorced woman who has only one child. And even though it is now many years since our divorce, Magdalon’s death today was a great shock.’
I immediately felt that she was opening up and assured her that I had the utmost sympathy for her situation. Then I expressed my surprise at the fact that she still regularly visited her ex-husband’s home, so many years after the divorce. She gave a sad shrug.
‘That’s what happened and how I am, unfortunately. I am still Magdalon Schelderup’s wife – even though he threw me out over twenty years ago, and is now dead. I have never got over the divorce. Latterly my life has solely been about the son of the man who threw me out.’
I started to understand the lie of the land and took a small chance: ‘So you never got over the divorce – and never stopped hoping that he would ask you to come back again one day?’
She gave a brief and serious nod.
‘Yes, terrible, but true. Winters passed and summers passed, year after year, and nothing happened. And yet I could never give up hope. I continued to live in Gulleråsen, only minutes away. That was partly so that I could see my son as often as possible, but mostly so that I could be here quickly if ever asked. For ten years, I hoped that it was Magdalon whenever the phone rang. Every time I was invited here I dyed my hair, put on my make-up and arrived dressed up and on time. And every time Magdalon asked me to do something, I said yes and smiled as beautifully as I could. In some strange way, I thought that if I could only do as he wished and come whenever he invited me, the day would then come when he would ask me to stay. And so I hoped, year in and year out, that one day he would throw her out in order to take me back – just as he had thrown me out on 12 April 1949, so that she could move in. But neither God nor life is fair.’
