by Håkan Nesser
Malik didn't like coming home late. Admittedly his wife rarely had dinner ready before seven, but an hour, preferably an hour and a half, with the newspaper and a whiskey and water in his study was something he was reluctant to miss.
Over the years it had become a habit, and a necessary one at that. A sort of buffer between work and a wife growing increasingly conscious of her importance.
Today there was time for only a quarter of an hour. And it was to go some way toward compensating for the loss—of both the precious minutes and his taillight—that he skipped the newspaper and devoted all his attention to the whiskey instead.
Well, not quite all. There were those telephone calls as well. What the devil was it all about? “The Rise and Fall of Flingel Bunt.” What the hell was the point of phoning somebody and then playing an old sixties hit? Over and over again.
Or once a day, at any rate. Ilse had answered twice, and he had taken one of the calls. It had started the day before yesterday. He hadn't mentioned to her that whoever it was had called again yesterday evening…. No need to worry her unnecessarily. No need to tell her that he recognized the tune, either.
Quite early in the sixties, if he remembered rightly. The Shadows. 'Sixty-four or 'sixty-five, presumably. Irrelevant anyway: the question was what the hell it signified, if it signified anything at all. And who was behind it? Perhaps it was just a loony. Some out-of-work screwball who had nothing better to do than to phone decent citizens and stir up a bit of trouble.
It was probably no more than that. Obviously, one could consider bringing in the police if it continued, but so far at least it was no more than a minor irritation. Which was bad enough on a day like today.
A pain in the ass, as Wolff would have put it. A scratch in the paintwork or a shattered taillight.
There came his wife's call. The food was on the table, it seemed. He sighed. Downed the rest of the whiskey and left his study.
“It's nothing to get worked up about.”
“I'm not getting worked up.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“You always think I'm getting worked up. That's typical of the way you regard women.”
“All right. Let's talk about something else. This sauce is not bad at all. What have you put in it?”
“A drop of Madeira. You've had it fifty times before. I listened for longer today.”
“Really?”
“A minute, at least. There was nothing else.”
“What else did you expect there to be?”
“What else did I expect there to be? A voice, of course. Most people who make a phone call have something to say.”
“I expect there's a natural explanation.”
“Oh yes? What, for example? Why ring somebody and just play a piece of music?”
Malik took a large sip of wine and thought that one over.
“Well,” he said. “A new radio station, or something of the sort.”
“That's the silliest thing I've ever heard.”
He sighed.
“Are you sure it was the same song both times?”
She hesitated. Stroked her brow with her index finger, the way she did when a migraine attack was in the offing.
“I think so. The first time, I put the phone down after only a few seconds. Like I said.”
“Don't worry about it. It's bound to be just a mistake.”
“A mistake? How could that be a mistake?”
Hold your tongue, he thought. Stop nagging, or I'll throw this glass of wine in your face!
“I don't know,” he said. “Let's drop the subject. I had a little accident today.”
“An accident?”
“Nothing serious. Somebody skidded into me from behind.”
“Good Lord! Why didn't you say something?”
“It was a minor thing. Nothing to speak of.”
“Nothing to speak of? You always say that. What shall we speak about then? You tell me. We receive some mysterious telephone calls, but we should just ignore them. You have a car accident, and you don't think it's even worth mentioning to your wife. That's so typical. What you mean, of course, is that we should just sit here every evening without saying a word. That's the way you want it. Quiet and peaceful. I'm not even worth talking to anymore.”
“Rubbish. Don't be silly.”
“Maybe there's a connection.”
“Connection? What the hell do you mean?”
“The telephone calls and the car crash, of course. I hope you took his number?”
My God, Malik thought, and gulped down the rest of the wine. There's something wrong with her. Pure paranoia. No wonder the hotel wanted to sack her.
“Have you heard anything from Jacob?” He tried to change the subject, but realized his error the moment the words left his mouth.
“Not for two weeks. He's too much like you, it would never occur to him to phone us. Unless he needed some money, of course.”
The hell he would, Malik thought, and hoped that his grim inner smile wouldn't shine through to the outside. He had spoken to their son a couple of times in the last few days, without having to shell out a single guilder. And although he would never admit it, he regarded his son's passive distancing of himself from his mother as a healthy development, and a perfectly natural one.
“Ah well,” he said, wiping his lips with a napkin. “That's the way young people are nowadays. Is there anything worth watching on the box tonight?”
When the fifth call came, he was lucky enough to be able to answer it himself. Ilse was still watching the Hungarian feature movie on Channel 4, and when he answered it on the bedroom extension he was able to tell the anonymous disturber of the peace to go to hell in no uncertain terms, without a risk of her hearing him and guessing what it was about. First he established that it really was “The Rise and Fall of Flingel Bunt;” then he listened to it for half a minute before delivering a series of threats that could hardly be misunderstood before replacing the receiver.
However, he had no way of knowing if there really was somebody listening at the other end.
Maybe there was somebody there. Maybe there wasn't.
But that tune? he thought. Was there something? … But it was just a faint shadow of a suspicion, and no clear memories at all cropped up in his somewhat overexcited brain.
“Who was that?” asked his wife as he settled down again on the sofa in the television room.
“Jacob,” he lied. “He said to say hello to you, and didn't want to borrow a single nickel.”
5
On Friday he made a detour past Willie's garage to discuss repairs to his car. Having been guaranteed absolutely that it would be ready for collection by that evening, he left it there and went the rest of the way to his office on foot. He arrived fifteen minutes late, and Wolff had already gone out—to negotiate a contract with a newly opened hamburger restaurant, he gathered. He sat down at his desk and began to work his way through the day's mail, which had just been brought in by Miss deWiijs. As usual, most of it was complaints about one thing or another, and confirmation of contracts and agreements that had already been fixed on the telephone or by fax, and after ten minutes he realized that he was sitting there humming that confounded tune.
He broke off in annoyance. Went out to fetch some coffee from Miss deWiijs's office instead, and became involved in a conversation about the weather, which soon came around to focus on four-footed friends. Cats in general, and Miss deWiijs's Siamese, Melisande de laCroix, in particular. Despite the regular ingestion of contraceptive pills and despite the fact that the frail creature hardly ever dared to stick her nose outside the door, for the last couple of weeks she had been displaying more and more obvious signs of being pregnant.
There was only one other cat in the whole of the block where Miss deWiijs lived—a thin, arthritic old tom that as far as she knew was being taken care of by a family of Kurdish immigrants, although he preferred to spend the waking hours of day and night outdoors. At least when the weath
er was decent. How he had managed to get wind of the shy little Madame Melisande de laCroix was a mystery, to say the least.
A mystery and an absurdity. To be sure, Miss deWiijs had not yet been to the vet's and had the pregnancy confirmed. But all the signs pointed very clearly in that direction. As already indicated, and unfortunately.
Malik liked cats. Once upon a time they had owned two, but Ilse hadn't really been able to put up with them, especially the female, and when they discovered that Jacob was apparently allergic to furry animals, they had disposed of them by means of two rational and guaranteed painless injections.
He liked Miss deWiijs as well. She radiated a sort of languid feminine warmth that he had learned to prize highly over the years. The only thing that never ceased to surprise him was that men had left her unmarried and untouched. Or rather, there was nothing to suggest that this was not the case; and the indications were that she would stay that way. She would be celebrating her fortieth birthday next May, and Malik and Wolff had already begun discussing how best that occasion should be celebrated. Needless to say, it was not a day that could be allowed to pass unnoticed. Miss deWiijs had been working for them for more than ten years, and both Malik and Wolff knew that she was probably more vital to the survival of the firm than they were.
“What are you thinking of doing if you're right about the state of your cat?” he asked.
Miss deWiijs shrugged, setting her heavy breasts a-bobbing under her sweater.
“Doing?” she said. “There's not much else one can do but let nature take its course. And hope there won't be too many of them. Besides, Siamese cats are easy to find homes for, even if they are only half-breeds.”
Malik nodded and finished off his cup of coffee. Clasped his hands behind his neck and thought about what else needed to be done today.
“I'll drive out to Schaaltze,” he decided. “Tell Wolff I'll be back after lunch.”
It was only when he was in the elevator on his way down that he remembered he didn't have a car. He recited an elaborate curse under his breath, wondering how he could be so absentminded, and considered briefly going back up. Then he recalled that it was possible to get there by bus. It was unusual for him to travel by public transportation nowadays, but he knew that Nielsen and Vermeer sometimes used to travel in on the Number 23 from Schaaltze, and if the bus goes one way, surely it must go the other way as well?
The bus stop was on the other side of the shopping center and post office, and he was about halfway there when he had the feeling that somebody was following him.
Or observing him, at the very least. He stopped dead and looked around. The sidewalk wasn't exactly teeming with pedestrians, but nevertheless, there were enough of them to prevent him from detecting anybody behaving oddly. He thought for a second or two, then continued toward the bus stop. Perhaps he was just imagining things, and in any case, it was probably best not to make it too obvious that he suspected something. He quickly convinced himself of this, lengthening his stride and trying to keep all his senses on the alert.
He was amazed by his reaction, and how quickly and almost naturally he'd accepted the feeling and the suspicion. As if it were an everyday occurrence, almost.
Why on earth should anybody be following him? Ryszard Malik! Who the hell could be interested in such an everyday and insignificant person?
He shook his head and thrust his hands into his overcoat pockets.
What kind of stupid imagining was this? Ilse must have infected him with her silly nonsense, that must be it!
And yet … he knew it was true. Sensed it, rather. There was somebody behind him. Not far away. Somebody dogging his steps. Perhaps it was somebody who'd walked past him, he thought, and then turned around and started following him, some ten meters or so behind. You would be bound to notice such a maneuver in some vague, intuitive way…. Or had there been somebody standing in the foyer when he went out into the street? Somebody who'd been waiting for him? Good God, that would be worrying.
He came to the bus stop and paused. The bus had evidently just left, as there was nobody waiting. He backed into the little shelter and began surreptitiously watching passing pedestrians. Some were walking fast and purposefully, others more slowly. Occasionally somebody would stop and step into the shelter beside him to wait for the bus, shielded to some extent from the wind. Stand there with that half-friendly half-distant air that strangers on the same mission usually adopt. A young man with a black-and-yellow-striped scarf that was almost brushing the ground. Two old women in threadbare coats, carrying shopping bags. A slightly younger woman in a blue beret, with a slim leather briefcase. A boy in his early teens with some kind of facial tic, scratching his groin continually without taking his hands out of his pockets.
Not especially likely candidates, he had to admit, none of them. When the bus came, everybody got on apart from the two old women. He let the others go first, paid somewhat awkwardly, and managed to find an empty seat right at the back.
So that he wouldn't have anybody behind him, he told himself.
During the journey, which took barely twenty minutes—more or less the same as by car, he noted with a degree of surprise—his mind indulged in an unequal struggle with refractory and importunate questions.
What the hell am I doing? asked his thoughts, soberly. This is utter lunacy! Madness!
But there is something, insisted his emotions. Don't try to convince yourself otherwise.
I'm going crazy, maintained his thoughts. My life is so damned monotonous that I'll clutch at anything that might introduce a bit of excitement.
You are in danger, countered his emotions. You know you are, but you daren't admit it.
He looked out the filthy window. The Richter Stadium with its pompous clock tower was just passing by.
Why do my thoughts say “I” and my emotions “you”? he asked himself, confused. No doubt it has something to do with my macho syndrome, or so Ilse would …
Then he suddenly realized that he was sitting there humming that tune again under his breath.
“The Rise and Fall of Flingel Bunt.” There was something about it. About that as well. Something quite specific. A memory of something he'd taken part in that was now drifting under the dark surface of the well of forgetfulness, without his being able to pin it down.
Until he got off the bus and was on his way across the street to the factory. Then it struck him, and as it did so he realized that he would do well not to dismiss suspicions and threats out of hand in the near future.
That was as far as Ryszard Malik's imagination and powers of insight stretched; but as his son would say afterward, the less he knew and suspected, the better, no doubt.
And what happened to Melisande de laCroix's presumed pregnancy and Miss deWiijs's fortieth birthday were questions that, as far as Ryszard Malik was concerned, also disappeared rapidly into the dark void of the future.
6
Although it was a year and a half since Ilse Malik had resigned from her job at Konger's Palace, she still hadn't managed to develop much of a social life. She played tennis with an old girlfriend once a week—on Tuesday afternoons. She went to visit her sister in Linzhuisen when her husband was away on business, which was at least once a month. She was a member of the association Save Our Rain Forests, and every spring and fall she used to sign on for one of the evening study circles but she always left after the first meeting.
And that was all—apart from the season ticket for the theater that all the hotel employees were given and which she still made use of even though she was, strictly speaking, no longer entitled to it.
But nobody wanted to be strict, and this particular Friday (they always went on the Friday after the premiere) she was going to see A Doll's House. She didn't know how many times she'd seen it already, but it was one of her favorites, and it would have taken a lot to keep her from going.
Perhaps there might be a glass of wine and a bite of cheese afterward, and a chat with Bernadette, the onl
y one of her former colleagues with whom she had had and still had any kind of close contact.
As it turned out, she had more than just one glass of wine. The part of Nora had been played exceedingly well by a young and very promising actress on loan from the Burgtheater in Aarlach, and a new managing director had taken over at the hotel less than a month before. There was much to talk about. When Ilse Malik clambered into a taxi outside Kraus a few minutes after half past eleven (Bernadette lived close by and preferred a short walk and a breath of night air), she felt unusually contented with the evening and with her existence in general, and promptly started a conversation with the cabbie about movies and plays. Unfortunately it ebbed out after a minute or so, when it transpired that he hadn't set foot inside a theater since having been forced to attend a play by an overzealous drama teacher at college more than thirty-five years before. Of all the movies he had lapped up in recent years, he hadn't come across a single one that could measure up to The Creature from, the Black Lagoon.
In any case, shortly after twenty minutes to twelve he pulled up outside the Maliks' house in Leufwens Allé—the temperature had risen by some five degrees, thank goodness, and the roads were good. Ilse paid, and added a generous tip, rounding it up to fifteen guilders despite the cabbie's distressing lack of culture, and got out of the car.
The house was in darkness, which surprised her somewhat. Malik seldom went to bed before midnight, especially on a Friday night when he had free run of the place. There wasn't even a light on in his study upstairs; but of course, it was possible he was sitting in the darkened TV room, which was at the back facing the garden.
But the fact that he'd switched the light off in the hall when he knew that she hadn't come home yet was sheer stupidity. She made a mental note to tell him so as she fumbled in her purse for her keys. He didn't normally lock the outside door when she was out, but something told her he'd done so this evening.
