After the Fire

by Henning Mankell

  ‘I hardly remember my grandmother. I was only six or seven when she died. We were already living in Sweden by then; I was born in Uddevalla. My mother met a sailor called Lars Modin, who was fifteen years older than her and had moved here from Germany. Ulrike came too, with her few memories of my grandfather. My first recollections are of sunshine: warm summer days, a great stillness. My grandmother had her own apartment on the top floor of our house. She used to eat with us, but I never went up to visit her; she wanted peace and quiet. I was frightened of her – not because she was strict, but because she hardly ever spoke. I don’t remember her voice. Then she died, and my mother passed away too when I was thirteen. She was only forty, but she had a massive brain haemorrhage. I stayed with my father until I was twenty; he died a few years ago. A lovely old man who kept himself smart in his room in a care home. I didn’t learn much from Roswita about my German heritage; it was only when my father died that I found the items that you came across in my wardrobe. There isn’t really any more to say.’

  I had no reason to doubt the veracity of what she said. I realised that was the most important thing I could tell her.

  ‘That’s a remarkable story, and I believe you. And of course I won’t tell anyone else.’

  ‘I had to explain, but I don’t want to talk about it any more. It’s my story, not yours, not ours. Mine.’

  I offered to cook her a simple meal, and to my surprise she accepted the invitation. Louise had left a fish pie in the freezer compartment; I put it in the microwave and got out the cans of beer I had bought. We ate and drank and talked about anything apart from what she had just told me.

  We said nothing about her journey home, we just carried on chatting and finished off the beer. I had a lot of questions I wanted to ask her. I was convinced that she would soon move away; I felt as if she didn’t fit in at all in the small town where she lived and worked. However, I didn’t mention it. I had come to realise that she liked to choose the moment when it came to sharing information about herself.

  ‘I’ll have to stay the night,’ she said when it was almost midnight.

  I had been expecting her to say that.

  ‘We’ll manage somehow,’ I said. ‘You take the bed and I’ll put a mattress on the floor. It’s a bit cramped, but it’s OK.’

  I put a pan of water on the hob and gave her a towel.

  ‘I’ll go and see to the boats; when you’ve had a wash and got into bed, turn out the light. I can find my way around in the dark.’

  ‘I’ve never slept in a caravan,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I’ve never even slept in a tent.’

  I picked up my jacket and was just about to leave when she touched my shoulder.

  ‘I can take the mattress,’ she said. ‘The bed is yours. But don’t expect anything.’

  I just shook my head and went outside. When I turned I saw that she had drawn the curtain.

  I switched off my torch and stood motionless in the darkness. I could hear the sound of a cargo ship in the distance, ploughing through the waves, although I couldn’t work out in which direction it was going. It was a moment of absolute timelessness. I have always felt that time, the passage of the year, was a growing burden, as if days and years can be measured in grams and kilograms. The timelessness I experienced as I stood there on the jetty was almost like weightlessness. I closed my eyes and listened to the night breeze. There was no past, no future, no worry about Louise, no burned-out house. Above all there was no botched operation, no young woman who had lost her arm.

  I felt tears scalding my eyes.

  It wasn’t me, standing there on the jetty. It was the child I had once been.

  I managed to pull myself together. I wiped my eyes and noticed that the light in the caravan had gone off. I went into the boathouse and fetched a bar of saltwater soap, then I stripped off and climbed down into the ice-cold water. I worked up a good lather, then dipped under the surface. By the time I got dressed my fingers were blue, my legs were shaking and my teeth were chattering.

  I jumped up and down on the jetty to get my circulation going; only to get cramp in one leg. I had to massage my calf muscle before I was able to walk back up to the caravan. The pain had driven home the truth: I was a man of almost seventy who was tired, slightly hungover and wanted to sleep more than anything. Softly I opened the door; the light from the small lamp in the kitchen area cast a faint glow over the room. Lisa had turned to face the wall; only her head was visible above the covers. No doubt she was awake but wanted me to think she was asleep. I rolled out the mattress, fetched a pillow and a blanket from the cupboard, undressed to my underpants, switched off the lamp and lay down.

  When I was studying medicine, before I met Harriet, a group of us went to a bar. It was someone’s birthday; he had plenty of money, and was treating us. At the end of the evening I joined forces with one of the female students because we were going in the same direction. It was winter, cold and icy. She was a fairly anonymous member of the group; not pretty or funny, just pale and quiet. She spent most of her time alone and seemed perfectly happy to do so; she never really sought out the company of anyone else. Just before we were about to say goodnight, she slipped on a patch of ice. I caught her before she fell, and suddenly I was holding her close. It happened in a second. We could feel each other’s bodies through our thick winter coats. Without either of us saying anything, I went home with her. She had a small bedsit; I can still remember the scent of soap. As soon as we got through the door she was tearing at my clothes. I still think she was the most passionate woman I have ever met. She raked her nails down my back and bit my face. When we finally fell asleep at dawn, the sheets were spattered with blood. A glance in the bathroom mirror told me that I looked like someone who had been hit by a hail of shotgun pellets.

  We didn’t speak during the night. In spite of her wildness she didn’t utter a single word. When I woke up in the morning, she was gone. She had left a brief note on the table.

  Thanks. Close the door when you leave.

  Later that day we met in a lecture on ethics. She nodded at me as if absolutely nothing had happened. I tried to speak to her during the break, but she simply shook her head. She didn’t want to talk. I’m not even sure she wanted to remember.

  I never went to her apartment again after that night. When we qualified, we went our separate ways; many years later I saw her name in a death notice. She had died suddenly, and was mourned by her parents, brother and sister. She was forty-two years old and working as a GP in the northern province of Västerbotten at the time.

  When I saw the notice I felt a deep and unexpected wave of grief. I missed her, although I didn’t understand why.

  ‘I can tell you’re not asleep,’ Lisa said.

  She didn’t turn over. Her words bounced off the wall.

  ‘I never sleep particularly well,’ I replied.

  She rolled over. I could just make out her face in the light shining faintly through the curtain.

  ‘I was asleep,’ she said. ‘Then all at once I woke up and didn’t know where I was. It’s worse than the worst nightmare, that split second when you don’t know where you are. It’s as if you don’t know who you are either. While I was dreaming someone has taken my face and my body and replaced them with something I don’t recognise; I don’t know who they belong to.’

  ‘I never have nightmares in the caravan. It’s as if there isn’t room in here. Nightmares need space, or a proper bedroom at least.’

  ‘It’s the opposite way round for me.’

  The conversation stopped as abruptly as it had begun.

  ‘I have to repeat what I said when you slept on my sofa,’ she said after a while. ‘I hope you’re not expecting anything just because I’ve stayed over. But perhaps you’ve already got the message?’

  ‘One always expects something,’ I replied. ‘But that doesn’t mean you have anything to worry about.’

  ‘What is it you expect?’

  ‘Do I have to answer that?�
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  ‘I can’t force you.’

  ‘Well, of course I’m expecting you to ask me to join you in bed, and then we’ll make love.’

  Lisa laughed. She didn’t sound annoyed or surprised.

  ‘That’s not going to happen.’

  ‘I’m too old for you anyway.’

  ‘I’ve never slept with a man I wasn’t deeply in love with.’ She turned to face the wall once more. ‘Let’s go to sleep. If we carry on talking I’ll be wide awake.’

  ‘You started it,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I know. Go to sleep.’

  It was a long time before I nodded off. The temptation to get up and squeeze into the bed was ever-present. Either she would open her body to me or push me away.

  I stayed on the mattress and listened to her breathing gradually grow heavier until she was asleep.

  In my dream the searing light was there once more. I tried to get out of the burning house, but to no avail. The staircase was missing. There was no way down from the first floor. When I turned around, my grandmother was standing there. She shouted to my grandfather to tell him that dinner was ready; they were having boiled pike.

  At that point the dream ended abruptly, with no conclusion.

  I was woken by the sound of an engine. I sat up and discovered that the bed was empty, and Lisa’s clothes and handbag were gone. I ran outside; her boat was just pulling away. When she saw me she waved and pointed to the jetty. I walked across the damp grass; she had left a folded piece of paper under a stone on the bench. The name of her newspaper was at the top.

  You were sleeping so deeply that I didn’t want to wake you. But at least you know a little bit more about who I am now.

  I climbed down into the water. The cold sliced through my body. I counted to ten out loud before heaving myself onto the jetty, then I ran back to the caravan and got into bed.

  I woke several hours later, finally feeling rested. I decided I needed to work out how I was going to deal with the risk of being arrested. As I yanked back the curtain the fitting came away from the plastic wall; I threw the curtain out of the door. If it didn’t want to be there, I wasn’t going to waste time trying to fix it.

  I went outside. If I was going to be able to think clearly, I needed to move. I put my binoculars around my neck and made my way down to the skiff. It was half full of water, and I had to bail it out before I set off for the skerry where my tent was.

  The wind was a north-easterly. Far away on the horizon I could see a dark bank of cloud. I rowed to the skerry as fast as I could in order to warm myself up and get my circulation going.

  The tent was empty, but I could see straight away that someone had made a fire among the stones. Next to a juniper bush lay empty tins that had contained American corned beef. There were no other traces of the person who had been using my campsite. I walked around the skerry to see if I could find anything; an empty milk carton was jammed between some smaller rocks, but it could simply have drifted ashore.

  I wondered whether to leave a message for the mysterious visitor. I crawled into the tent and stretched out on my sleeping bag.

  As I lay there with the grey light seeping in through the porous fabric, I thought that Lisa Modin was closer to me than I had dared to believe possible. The age difference between us was considerable, but I was starting to believe that she needed me in some way, just as I needed her.

  It was an exciting prospect. I headed home without leaving a message on the skerry. To give myself more exercise, I rowed around my island before mooring at the jetty.

  I would make a plan. Not just for the next few days, but for the future. I would suggest to Lisa that we took a trip together. If there was a place she dreamed of visiting, I would pay for us to go there. If she didn’t have anywhere specific in mind, I would make suggestions. Somewhere hot. The Caribbean perhaps, or even further afield – a Pacific island.

  For the first time since the fire I was in a good mood. I hurried up to the caravan, eager to start formulating my thoughts. As I stepped inside, my phone rang. I recognised the number.

  It was Louise. She was talking fast, and her tone was forced. The line was bad too; I asked her to slow down. She said she didn’t have much time. I could tell that she was frightened and on the verge of tears. Stammering, almost shouting when I interrupted her to say that I could hardly hear her, she told me that she had been arrested. She was being held by the police in Paris and needed my help. I tried to ask her what had happened, but she wasn’t listening; she just kept repeating that she needed help.

  The connection was broken. Her voice echoed inside my head. I tried her number but couldn’t get through.

  I had never heard her sound so scared. I went outside, taking the phone with me in case she called again. I sat on my grandfather’s bench even though the wind had increased, and I immediately started to shiver.

  My passport had been lost in the fire, but I knew that it was possible to obtain a provisional passport at the larger Swedish airports. I called the bank and managed to speak to the clerk who had helped me before. My new card had arrived.

  I didn’t need to give the matter any more thought. I called Jansson and asked him to pick me up in an hour. Naturally he wondered if the engine was giving me trouble again.

  ‘No. I just need transport, nothing else.’

  I dug out an old bag left over from Harriet’s time and packed my Chinese shirts, my underwear and my phone charger. I gathered up the cash I had, then wrote a note to Alexandersson. I didn’t want anyone to think I’d done a runner. I told him that my daughter was in trouble and needed my help, and I hoped to be back in a few days.

  I was waiting on the jetty when Jansson arrived, punctual as usual. We shook hands; he was always very particular on that point.

  ‘I expect you’re going to the harbour,’ Jansson said. ‘When do you want to come back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The sea spray was fresh and cold as we sped across the water. Jansson dropped me off by the petrol pumps, and I gave him a hundred kronor as usual. By the time he left the harbour I was already on my way to the coastguards’ office. I had folded the piece of paper and written Alexandersson’s name on one side.

  As I was passing the chandlery I couldn’t resist popping in to ask Margareta if my wellington boots had arrived. They hadn’t.

  ‘I’m going away for a few days,’ I said. ‘Perhaps the boots will be here when I get back.’

  ‘You can never tell when orders will arrive,’ Margareta said. ‘You can’t rely on anyone these days.’

  Oslovski wasn’t at home, but when I looked in the garage, all the tools were in their proper places.

  The curtains were closed.

  I got in the car and drove off.

  I hoped to find a flight leaving for Paris that evening. I would leave my country with a slight bow.

  PART THREE

  The Bedouin in the Bottle

  CHAPTER 14

  During the drive to Arlanda many thoughts about Louise passed through my mind, along with memories from my younger days: hitchhiking by the roadside, travelling from town to town, sometimes even crossing the border into a new country. I remembered drivers who had stopped, but turned out to be drunk. On one occasion I was picked up by a young woman. She was driving an expensive sports car, and there was barely room for my rucksack between my legs. In broken English she informed me that she had just murdered her husband. I recalled with particular clarity that she said she had stabbed him in the back. She tried to excuse her actions by saying that he hadn’t had time to realise what was happening; I don’t know what I said in response. She suddenly slammed on the brakes and told me to get out of the car in the middle of nowhere in the dark. I don’t remember how I continued my journey.

  Just as my hitchhiking to Paris always led me to Belgium, especially the city of Ghent, if I travelled by train I always ended up in the central station in Hamburg at three o’clock in the morning. I used to change trains there
for Paris, where I would either stay or go on to Spain or Portugal, perhaps even across to North Africa. Homeless beggars used to wander around the deserted station in Hamburg; this was only about fifteen years after the end of the Second World War, so I always imagined that these elderly men in their long, dirty overcoats were soldiers who had survived the Western or Eastern Front. There was a dark imprint of horror in their eyes. However, I don’t recall ever giving any of them money, either because I had no German currency or because I felt too poor. The pale light transformed the enormous space into a theatre set, where the actors had left long ago but the lighting technician had forgotten to switch everything off before he went home. The few nocturnal wanderers, the passengers and the cleaners were acting out a drama that had no beginning and no end.

  When I had reached Arlanda and parked my car, I stepped straight into a world swarming with people. Long queues stretched from every check-in desk. I hadn’t a clue what to do. I couldn’t tell you when I was last in an airport.

  It was a while before I managed to pull myself together sufficiently to start looking for a ticket office. According to one of the big electronic information boards, the 19:30 Air France flight to Paris was delayed by two hours. That was the only departure I could find, but luckily there were still spaces. I paid with the credit card I had collected from the bank earlier in the day. I was holding the ticket in my hand when I realised I had an important question for the woman behind the glass in her blue uniform.

  ‘I’ve left my passport at home,’ I said. ‘As a Swedish citizen, I assume I can travel to France without it?’

  ‘As long as you have ID, that’s fine,’ she replied. ‘Otherwise the police here in the airport can issue a passport which is valid for one journey.’

  I went and sorted out a provisional passport, then changed some money, found the right check-in desk and went through security. In the departure hall I bought a cheap suitcase on wheels. I transferred the contents of Harriet’s old bag into it and purchased some more shirts and underwear. I sat down by one of the huge windows overlooking the tarmac, where the planes were squatting at their gates like beasts in their stalls.