by Per Wahlöö
‘That doesn’t matter,’ said Sergeant Tornilla.
He put out his hand, took the paper and placed it back in its file.
‘The person who wrote that is probably an even worse seaman than you are,’ he said jokingly.
He smiled in a friendly way and let his fingertips play against each other for a while.
‘But it doesn’t matter all that much, as you can understand what he’s saying, can’t you?’
Willi Mohr did not bother to reply, and anyhow the question could be regarded as a rhetorical one. Instead he silently contemplated the result of his first direct lie.
The man in uniform went on smiling.
‘Who was it who did the cleaning? Was it you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you clean up after Ramon Alemany too, when he had left?’
‘Yes.’
His fatigue began to come back. Naturally he should not have answered. Thought Willi Mohr.
Sergeant Tornilla picked up the packet of Bisontes, tapped it against the edge of the desk so that a cigarette shot half way out and politely handed them across. Then he took his lighter out of his pocket and lit it.
‘Smoking before the siesta is a bad habit,’ he said. ‘I fall into it myself sometimes, especially when I’ve got some hard work to do. But when I’m at home, my wife usually keeps me in order. As I said before, from many points of view one should marry. You should have a family.’
He played with the lighter and smiled at Willi Mohr, who was drawing long, deep drags on his cigarette.
‘So,’ he said, summing up, ‘you don’t know where Ramon Alemany went to, or in what way he left the boat. You didn’t notice when he left the fo’c’sle and took all his possessions with him, but you’re sure he went on the evening of the twenty-first and not on the morning of the twenty-second. The dinghy, which he obviously used, was not found until two days later, drifting outside the harbour. Naturally you don’t know how it got there.’
Willi Mohr smoked.
‘On the other hand, you’re certain that Ramon Alemany has not returned to Spain and is not here now, as you’ve said several times before.’
He opened the file and took out another paper, and this time did not hand it over, but simply absently eyed through the typed text.
‘This is your own account which you gave to the French gendarmerie in Ajaccio on the twenty-fourth of April,’ he said. ‘I presume you remember it so well that you don’t need to read it? Briefly, it says that when you woke up on the morning of twenty-second, Ramon Alemany and all his possessions had gone. As you had no rowing-boat left on board, no one knew about this until Colonel Thorpe and his wife came back that evening. Where had they been, by the way?’
‘At a friend’s somewhere out of the town. Maretti, or something like that.’
‘Quite right. Mazetti was the name of the friend, Lieutenant-Colonel, to be precise. You’ve a good memory. Otherwise then, you didn’t know anything either about why Ramon Alemany had run away or where he had gone to. Well, it’s of no great interest.’
He slipped his lighter into his pocket with a swift movement, as if preparing to go on to something else. When he spoke again, his bantering tone had gone.
‘There are two dates that interest me considerably more than this twenty-second of April. Namely, one the day before, and two, a day two weeks later, the fifth of May, to be exact. Let’s try to reconstruct both those two days. First the twenty-first of April, the day before you discovered that Ramon Alemany had gone. What did you do that day?’
Willi Mohr drew the back of his hand across his face, as if to wipe away his fatigue and confusion. He was at a decisive point and knew he would have to be very careful.
‘We had been there three days, I think,’ he said hesitantly.
‘Quite right. You came into Ajaccio on the eighteenth of April. When did you go ashore for the first time?’
‘The day after we got there.’
‘With Ramon Alemany?’
‘Yes.’
‘And on the twenty-first, what happened then?’
‘In the morning, I rowed the Englishman and his wife ashore. They were going to visit those Mazettis.’
‘Did you know that they were staying there overnight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were they usually away from the boat so long?’
‘No, that was the first time.’
‘Shouldn’t someone have stayed on board when neither the Colonel nor his wife was there?’
‘Yes, someone had to be there to be able to fetch them when they wanted to come on board again. We were lying out at a buoy just inside the breakwater. The Englishman used to blow a whistle from the pier when he wanted fetching.’
‘So it had been decided that either you or Ramon Alemany was to stay on board?’
‘Yes.’
‘And yet you both went ashore as soon as it was certain Colonel Thorpe had left the town?’
‘Yes.’
‘And left the yacht unguarded?’
‘Yes.’
‘It doesn’t sound very conscientious, does it?’
‘No.’
‘Did you perhaps have an important errand that demanded that both of you were present?’
‘No.’
‘Was it your idea to go ashore?’
‘No.’
‘So it was Ramon Alemany’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you go with him then? You could have stayed on the boat?’
Willi Mohr did not reply at once, but looked at the portrait of the Caudillo. Finally he said: ‘I didn’t want to let him go alone.’
The answer was a dangerous one but truthful.
Sergeant Tornilla’s next question showed that he was either going to ignore the logical continuation or else save it for some later opportunity. He said: ‘So you went ashore. What happened then?’
‘We walked round just looking for a while.’
‘For how long?’
‘All the afternoon.’
‘And nothing unusual happened?’
Willi Mohr looked at the portrait again. The photograph had been heavily touched up and there was a vague halo round the General’s egg-shaped head. Screwed to the bottom edge of the frame was an engraved brass plate, and to gain time, he laboriously spelt his way through the inscription.
General Franco, al frente del movimiento bajo cuya espada, invencible se cubren de gloria los Ejércitos nacionales, el general Franco, al frente del movimiento salvador, vindica ante el mundo entero, con una emocion de admiración y respeto universales, el nombre sagrado de nuestra querida España, Caudillo de España por la gracia de Dios.’
He understood the thread of this harangue only, but at once thought of the labourers up on the road works and the Asturians along the road to Santa Margarita and the nuns and their syringes and dirty black robes. Then he grew conscious of the silence in the room and lowered his gaze to Sergeant Tornilla, who was sitting absolutely still, waiting for an answer, his gaze steady and his fingertips together.
‘Ramon Alemany drank,’ said Willi Mohr.
‘A lot?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he get drunk?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he usually get drunk?’
‘This was the first time during the trip.’
‘Was there any unpleasantness?’
‘The police came.’
‘Why?’
‘He was very drunk and was accosting women outside a bar.’
‘Was he arrested by the police?’
‘No, but they took us down to the quay and let me take him on board.’
‘Had you been drinking yourself?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I very seldom drink.’
‘You told me yourself that you’d been drunk in the puerto, didn’t you?’
‘That was much earlier.’
‘That’s right. That was much earlier.’
Sergeant Tornilla looked at him long and thoughtfully, before picking up a piece of paper apparently at random from the desk.
‘Good, that saves you the bother of reading aloud again.’
Sergeant Tornilla smiled gently and silently ran through the typed sheet. Then he looked at Willi Mohr and said, as if answering a question that had never been put: ‘Senora Thorpe once more. Seems to enjoy telling what she knows, that lady. She went of her own accord to my colleague in Majorca and told him this some time ago. She happened to hear the story by chance in Ajaccio after you had gone, and she also says she was very upset, as she has always been very particular about the people working on board the Monsoon behaving properly. Was pleased to testify to your good character. According to my spokesman, the German behaved with presence of mind and irreproachably, she says, while the other man behaved worse than a pig.’
He placed the paper in the file and added: ‘She doesn’t say anything about the cleaning this time.’
As usual, the little joke was a prelude to a change of scene. Tornilla straightened his back a fraction and placed his hands on the desk, palms down on the blotter, as if just about to rise
‘We’ll go on to the next day,’ he said, ‘that is, the fifth of May. What were you doing on that day?’
Willi Mohr had felt danger coming and had held his breath. Now he felt a great liberating relief.
‘Don’t know,’ he said.
‘Try.’
‘I don’t even remember where I was.’
‘You were in Ajaccio.’
‘That’s possible.’
‘It was your last day in Corsica.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘How did you leave the island?’
‘By boat.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘To Marseilles.’
‘How did you get a ticket?’
‘I bought it.’
‘You had stayed in Ajaccio for ten days after signing off the yacht. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where did you live?’
‘In a boarding-house.’
‘What did you do during those ten days?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Didn’t you go out?’
‘Seldom.’
‘Who were you waiting for?’
‘No one.’
‘Did you pay your hotel bill?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you pay for your boat ticket?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you visit the Spanish Consulate in Marseilles?’
‘Yes.’
‘What for?’
‘To get an entry-visa.’
‘Did you pay the stamp fee?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you came here?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you pay for the trip yourself?’
‘Yes.’
‘You always pay for yourself?’
‘Yes, when I have money.’
‘Did you pay the fee at the Consulate in French currency?’
‘No.’
‘You had money with you when you entered the country, although you didn’t declare it at the currency-customs at the border?’
‘Yes.’
‘From whom did you get all that money?’
Willi Mohr did not reply to the question. He looked stubbornly at the shiny black boots under the desk and waited for the question to be repeated, or followed by another one. The seconds went by, lining themselves up into a long, silent minute. And another and another. And yet another. And yet another. And yet another. But of course he was misjudging the time; a minute did not go by so quickly. He glanced at his watch. It was ten to twelve. He began to watch the second hand wandering round the face of his watch with small, short steps. One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten.
He shuddered and found he had lost count. Then he raised his head. Sergeant Tornilla was still sitting there with his hands on the desk, watching him, but his gaze was unclear and his face with its plump cheeks and strong dark eyebrows looked relaxed and expressionless.
He’s had a stroke and lost his power of speech, said Willi Mohr silently to himself, and the next second he thought that if this were a joke and designed to distract him, then it had not worked. He tried to stare into those brown eyes, but was able to hold his gaze for only a few seconds.
He crossed his legs and looked at the portrait instead, again spelling his way through the inscription on the brass plate. Then he cleared his throat and said: ‘What does that mean there beneath the portrait?’
Sergeant Tornilla neither moved nor spoke.
Willi Mohr realized that he was sitting uncomfortably and changed his position again. He tried to relax and think of something else, such as the cat or the dog, but it did not work and instead of relaxation he felt a rising desire to talk or listen or at least move.
He listened, but all there was to hear was the silence. Not a sound came from the man in uniform and even the buzzing of flies had stopped. When he looked up, he saw only two small flies circling round the light, always exactly opposite each other, the glass shade between them, engaged in a grotesque, silent roundabout dance.
He dug into his pocket for his Ideales, took out the packet and placed it on the edge of the desk, sat a moment with the unlit yellow cigarette an inch away from his lips until he said, calmly and politely: ‘Please would you give me a light?’
Silence.
After a minute or so, Willi Mohr took the cigarette out of his mouth and carefully put it back into the packet. Then he sat still. He made no attempt to look into the other man’s eyes, but looked intently at his hands instead. Somewhere or other he had read that no man could help being irritated if one demonstratively looked at his hands.
Sergeant Tornilla’s hands were lying absolutely still. His fingers were short and a little fat, but only slightly sunburnt, very well-kept, with neatly polished nails.
Willi Mohr raised his right hand and scratched the back of his neck, a purely reflex action which annoyed him intensely. When he began to itch again, he controlled himself and kept his hands still.
A little later he had to change position again because his right leg had begun to go to sleep. As he was moving anyhow, he took the opportunity to scratch his head and between his shoulder blades. That was a big mistake; he saw he was behaving like a caged monkey in a menagerie and the measures he was taking were also quite pointless, as the itch immediately grew worse and spread to other parts of his body.
He began to think about the silence. Despite its elasticity it had from the beginning been very small and enclosed and compact, but as it continued it began to vibrate. The more it was extended, the more brittle it became, and the higher grew the number of oscillations. It undoubtedly had a breaking-point but he did not know this point’s place in time and was convinced that Tornilla did not either. But he knew that sooner or later he would open his mouth and begin talking. He would answer and the answer would be a very full one. Then it would be over. But first the silence must reach breaking-point. Perhaps that was not so far away. He felt the pressure within him mount and grow explosive and importunate. Many months ago he had become aware that this pressure existed, but it had never been anywhere near as strong as it was now.
Strangely enough he was not sleepy. But that was not strange at all. The crucial moment was all too close.
Nevertheless he went on trying to find ways out, inventing possibilities.
There were only three. That the man on the other side of the desk would collapse, that someone would come into the room, and that the telephone would ring.
The light might possibly go out, but that would not make any essential difference.
The thought of Tornilla collapsing was unrealistic, and in all probability no one would come into the room. So there was the telephone left. He had never heard the telephone ring of course, but on the other hand he had never before been here in the daytime. He delved even further into the w
orld of clichés and thought: There’s always got to be a first time.
For nearly an hour his whole mind was concentrated on the telephone. Then he decided to count to a thousand, slowly and silently to himself, without moving his lips, and if the telephone had not rung by the time he had finished—
The thought broke there.
One—two—three—four—five—six—seven …
… five hundred and ninety-eight—five hundred and ninety-nine—six hundred—six hundred and one …
Willi Mohr fainted and fell off the bench. He lay on the stone floor with his eyes closed, half on one side with his head thrown back and his knees bent.
Sergeant Tornilla leant forward in his chair and placed his wrists against the edge of the desk. He moved his shoulders and legs and exercised his fingers. Then he yawned, took a cigarette out of the green packet and lit it. As he smoked he sat hunched up slightly, his left elbow on the arm of the chair and his finger running over his cheek up towards his eyebrows, as if to check whether the growth had already begun to make itself felt. His gaze was directed straight out into the room, but it looked as if he were not really seeing anything.
