Under Water (Anton Modin Book 3)

by Anders Jallai

  “Cheers to all climate scientists! Go out and roll in the snow.”

  The TV brought him back to the reality of his living room. Ferdinand the Bull, Lady and the Tramp, Donald Duck. They never changed. It was nice. Continuity promotes life and good health. Dad’s tennis lessons, swim school, piano lessons with an irritable aunt…you don’t forget such things.

  He poured himself a large whiskey. He was going to get drunk—alone and deliberately. The Rock was out of the question. He scratched his cheek and felt the stubble under his fingertips. He had not taken a shower, had not eaten anything, and had not made the slightest attempt to ward off the warm and fuzzy feelings of Christmas Eve.

  How pathetic!

  He checked his cellphone and saw that he had received yet another text message from Bergman:

  Merry Christmas, my friend, we’ll be diving soon, secret mission for a foreign power!

  Diving? A secret mission? Whatever could that be?

  The sound of a well-tuned snowmobile interrupted him. The vehicle was coming up the driveway toward his property, and stopped right at the front door. The engine went silent, then heavy footsteps on the front stoop to the house, and finally three clear knocks on the door. Those were the hard, rhythmical knocks of Harry Nuder.

  Modin turned on the main light in the room and shouted, “Come in!”

  Harry Nuder entered the hall, cold, swathed in his fur coat, and with damp and bright red cheeks.

  “It’s snowing,” he said and kicked off his snow boots.

  “For the sake of the kids. It is, after all, Christmas Eve. Can I offer you a drink?”

  “I’m driving.”

  “You’re surely not afraid of running over a hare in the woods?

  “Give me a small one, then,” Nuder said and sat down heavily on the couch. His fair hair, which kept falling down his forehead, was damp and had been flattened by his cap. His face was still red and his hands cold when he finally grabbed his glass of Calvados.

  He was wearing an Icelandic sweater and camouflage pants with carpenter’s pockets. Although he was a large man, he did not take up much room. Nor did he say very much, but when he did, it came with warmth and thoughtfulness. Harry Nuder was good company.

  “How are the dogs?” Modin asked.

  “Fine, just fine. They’re growing up fast. They’ll be fine hunting dogs and good company.”

  “I still have my cat, Miss Mona, I mean. She would never allow me to be unfaithful with a dog. And I’m happy with her.”

  “Dogs are more faithful than cats.”

  “Says a dog owner,” Modin said, quite seriously. “You have to go out several times a day with a dog. Miss Mona is as lazy as I am. She sleeps most of the time during the winter and seems to really enjoy it.”

  “Are you enjoying it, Modin?”

  Modin did not reply immediately, and took a swig of his whiskey.

  “It’s not so bad, if I’m honest. I got a hint the other day that we might not be given permission to dive down to the Estonia.”

  “Then everything was in vain,” Nuder said quietly and stretched. “All that shooting. All those killings. What was the point?”

  “No point in death ever. I’m told there’s radioactivity in and around the wreck. Can’t go in there.”

  “I see. So that’s why the wreck had to be covered with a layer of concrete? And that diving ban came really quickly afterwards, too,” said Nuder and sighed deeply. “Some of my colleagues guessed as much. The authorities are guarding the wreck more closely than the Royal Palace. There’s something fishy about all of this.”

  “When you mention colleagues, do you mean colleagues from the Merchant Navy, Nuder?”

  “Yes. We often work for Russian vessels, piloting them into port. The sailors have told interesting stories. Word is, the M/S Estonia is glowing.”

  Somebody was singing “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Modin got up and turned off the TV.

  “You don’t say?”

  “Yes. Creepy, isn’t it?”

  “Have you visited your mom?”

  “No, not yet. I’m thinking of going there later, now that I know you’re not thinking of taking your own life.”

  Harry Nuder got to his feet. He peered out at Modin under his fringe.

  “Thanks for dropping in,” Modin said, and the smile that came was not forced. “I’m thinking of going over to The Rock. Will I see you there later?”

  “Don’t know. Difficult to leave mom alone on Christmas Eve. Did you know that Joint has returned from the Seychelles? Rumor has it he brought a surprise.”

  “Exciting.”

  Nuder turned around in the doorway. “Everything will work itself out with the M/S Estonia. You’ll see.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Modin raced into the village at full throttle. He was doing over sixty. He had already knocked back a couple of drinks back home, but there were neither passers-by nor police out on the roads, let alone in the forest.

  Nothing’s bleaker than Christmas Eve at seven o’clock when you’re alone. But out here in the woods, it seemed holy somehow. He drove up to the harbor area, and carved a wide arc with the snowmobile. The snow whirled up as he made an elegant 180 and ended up right in front of the entrance to The Rock.

  He could see his breath as he climbed the steps. A bronzed Joint wearing a Santa Claus hat on his head and a wide grin on his face greeted him by the door with a large half-empty mug of mulled wine in his hand.

  “For fuck’s sake, Modin! Welcome to the meal of the lost souls. We’re going to celebrate today!” Joint gave Modin a long, hard hug. He smelled of wine, tobacco, and aftershave.

  “Kent E, mulled wine for the master diver. He needs to thaw out.”

  Modin dragged off his scooter overalls and went to sit at the bar. Once again, he could hear “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer. “The room was already crowded, which surprised him, and a thick murmur hung in the air. In addition to a few local fallen heroes and the odd fisherman, there were also a number of celebrities.

  “Nice to see you, Modin. I’ve invited my friends from Stockholm, those that are not obligated to celebrate Christmas with their families, children. None of that Christmas crap here. Here you’ve got the real heroes: artists, musicians, actors,” Kent E said as he served the mulled wine.

  “And why the commotion? Why are there so many people?”

  “ABBA’s on its way.”

  “I thought they’d split up.”

  “This is special. It’s been 35 years since they made their breakthrough with Waterloo. You remember?”

  “Who doesn’t? Dancing Queen…” Modin sang. “Those were the days. Are they really coming here on Christmas Eve?”

  “Oh, sure they are. Joint has made them an offer they couldn’t refuse.”

  “Jesus, Joint must really like ABBA,” Modin said.

  “Worship is a better word,” said Kent E as he dried his eternal beer glass.

  “Then it’s going to get crowded in here,” Modin said and swallowed the rest of his mulled wine.

  “A new winter record. Joint knows what he’s doing. Anyway, it’s great, isn’t it?”

  “That’s for sure, better than sitting and listening to some local musician.”

  “Look at the equipment on stage. It’s going to be the first time they are playing together since they split up.”

  They must have made their peace with one another, Modin thought. “Mama Mia,” Kent E sang as he filled a beer mug for each guest.

  “Money, money, money,” Modin added.

  He could already feel the effects of the toddy. This was going to be awesome.

  CHAPTER 15

  Take a chance on me,” was blaring out of the stereo at The Rock. The restaurant was filling up with lone husbands and wives who had either had a fight with their spouses or simply needed relief from Christmas. They mixed in with the people from Stockholm who had no family life to speak of, or who had sacrificed it for their art.

 
“Wow, we are really turning over a lot of mulled wine tonight,” Kent E said. “The money is simply rolling in. Must be because it’s Christmas.”

  “Either that or panic,” Modin said, looking down into his glass.

  “How d’ you mean?” Kent E was pouring mulled wine while talking over the bar counter.

  “They know their lifestyle can’t last forever. Taxes going up and up, jobs becoming scarcer, the Swedish currency losing its value by the day, as it did before the war in the 1940s. In the late 1930s, people were partying and spending money on luxury items as if there was no tomorrow. Those were the days of sheer decadence. Life is always best before the crash, as you well know. An old axiom.”

  “Fuck it, Modin, you’re a die hard pessimist. And what if you’re right? Who cares? Not me, at any rate. Maybe the capitalists will become poor. Those who have never had anything have nothing to lose, don’t you agree? That’ll mean that for once, worker bees like us will be the winners.”

  “Sure, that’s how it’s going to be and so, let’s celebrate,” Modin said, nodding in Kent E’s direction. Then he picked up his glass and pushed his way over to the table he’d booked last minute. In the corner of his eye, he saw Zetterman and his wife coming in through the door. It looked as if they had had an argument. Her mascara had run. Or was it the cold?

  Modin called Kent E over and ordered a bottle of 1907 Goût Americain. Kent E was soon back and put it right in the middle of the table in a decent-sized ice bucket. He served the champagne in tall crystal flutes. At the same time as Modin received his order, five bottles of the cheaper stuff came forth for those who wanted it from behind the bar counter. This was the tradition. If someone ordered a bottle of the Russian Czar’s original champagne, brought up from the wreck of the Jönköping in the late 1990s, the rest of the guests in the bar-restaurant were treated to a glass of the copy.

  The original 1907 Goût Americain cost around three thousand dollars per bottle. The price went up every year as stocks dwindled. Joint had managed to buy up the whole batch left in the warehouse in the Stockholm Free Port from the bankruptcy trustee of the company salvaging the cargo outside the Finland coast a few years earlier; some two thousand bottles in all. Rumor had it that Modin had had his fingers in the pie with this purchase, for it was the salvaging project that he and Bergman had joined in 1997 that had gone bankrupt. Joint had been able to buy the bottles for a good price.

  A couple of hours later, at about ten, the lights in the bar were dimmed and ABBA started playing. They appeared in a cloud of smoke wearing white glittering costumes. The guests stood up and yelled out the lyrics. It was all a little out of tune, but nobody cared. There was a waft of lost youth, now that it really was a party. Who didn’t want to bawl out the nostalgia of “Dancing Queen?”

  CHAPTER 16

  After ABBA had stopped playing an hour or so later, The Rock was smoky both from cigarettes and the smoke machine, despite a ban on smoking on the premises. You could smell sweat and spilled beer. Modin went to the bathroom. On his way there, he accidentally bumped into the Wandering Stick. Modin greeted him spontaneously, and the Wandering Stick nodded. On his way back, Modin caught a glimpse of Jonas Zetterman, who was heading out the door. He bumped into Modin, but didn’t seem to notice; he was clearly in another world.

  Modin could see that Zetterman’s wife was sitting all alone at a table far away from the stage and the crowded dance floor. People were staggering around in movements that looked like the approximation of a Native American dance while others were doing the caterpillar to Blue Swedes’ “Hooked on a Feeling.” Completely crazy!

  “May I sit down?” Modin asked in a loud voice so he could be heard over the music: Ooga chaka ooga chaka, ooga ooga ooga chaka.

  “Why would you want to?” the blond Scarlett Johansson lookalike said.

  Modin grabbed a chair.

  “How do you like Grisslehamn? A bit different than Seattle, eh?”

  “Who are you?” Although she was clearly under the influence, she retained a respectful manner, and focused on him as she spoke.

  “My name is Anton Modin, I’m a local loser. And what’s your name?”

  “Kim. I’m also a loser, but not local.”

  “Do you care for a snow whiskey?” he asked, referring to the traditional glass full of whiskey-soaked snow.

  “Oh sure, anything’ll do.” She had been crying, as he established, and one cheek was red where she probably had been slapped.

  Modin made his way to the bar and ordered. While he was waiting for the drinks, he observed Kim Zetterman from a distance. She was a real beauty, and her natural charisma was accentuated by her social status. He was over the moon. The wine toddy had proved to be a firm foundation and all his troubles had flown far, far away. Maybe Santa Claus existed after all and had decided to bring him a present. Kim exuded a mysterious radiance. She didn’t look at all Swedish.

  “She’s a modern Greta Garbo,” Modin said aloud to Kent E as he handed him the drinks. “What the fuck does she see in that fat slob Zetterman?”

  “Money,” Kent E responded dryly.

  “Ha! Probably true. I’m going to get to know her anyway. Her guy hit the road.”

  “A good start,” Kent E said.

  Modin hurried across the dance floor toward Kim and sat down at the table with a snow whiskey in each hand.

  They clinked their glasses. Kim Zetterman drank greedily.

  “How are things?” he said, swallowed, and put down his glass firmly on the table.

  “Shit, for the most. I hate him when he’s like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “When he wants to own you, to suffocate you; when he suffers from control issues, arrogance, stupidity, obstinacy, intolerance, spite. He feels bad about the fact that he’s fired everyone at the hotel up on the hill, and he’s taking it out on those around him. One of them happens to be me, right now. Everyone else is on Christmas vacation.”

  “Why don’t you leave him? You have nothing in common. You’re pretty and have empathy. He’s ugly and evil.”

  “Jonas is rich,” Kim interrupted and met Modin’s gaze with a toss of the neck. “I am nothing without him, and I mean that!” She grabbed her glass with both hands and emptied it. She even chewed the snow from it.

  Modin noticed that she spoke Swedish with the faintest trace of a foreign accent. He couldn’t identify it because of the noise all around. Either she wasn’t Swedish or she had lived abroad for a long time.

  “Would you like another one?”

  “Yes, and get one quick. I want to get drunk.” She laughed joylessly and wiped away the tears from her cheek.

  “Are you going to live out here in the sticks?”

  “So it would seem. Jonas is completely obsessed with the idea. He wants to start a new life. Withdraw from the bustle and just have a good time. What for, I wonder?”

  “You, I suppose.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I’m supposed to be sitting in the corner helping him have a good time. It’s all so pathetic. From Hollywood, New York, and Martha’s Vineyard to this. What the hell is he thinking?”

  “Running from his demons, perhaps,” Modin said. “As far away as possible. He’s from here, as you no doubt know. Maybe he’s looking for his roots to try and salvage his youth. Happens to the best of us.”

  “What are you talking about?” Kim said, looking up at him.

  “His hotel project. I hear he wants to build a paradise for out-of-towners, rich people, and celebrities. But he’ll exclude the locals, as the recent layoffs suggest. He’ll be building a dream, but it isn’t yours.”

  “I don’t know why I’m talking to you. I’m drunk!”

  She stared right into his eyes with a glassy, but surprisingly clear gaze. Her mouth was open, her lips soft. He felt a sting in the region of his abdomen. He got a whiff or her perfume.

  “You can’t move out here and think you can reshape the community just to suit you,” he said. “Many h
ave tried, and it doesn’t work. Although it’s small, the community is just as complex as a big city. We have idiots, geniuses, nice people, nasty ones, rich and poor. The nasty folks will pounce on you, but we protect our own, no matter what. If you are at odds with any of us, you’d better watch out. You’ll be on your own.”

  “We’ll just buy everyone,” Kim said and with those words, she wriggled out of Modin’s growing excitement.

  “You can buy people, but not the soul of a village. That’ll be your curse.”

  “Are you a fortune teller, Modin?”

  He loved that she used his name.

  “I’d sure like to take a look at your future.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Modin went to get another refill.

  “What am I going to have now?” he asked Kent E when he reached the bar.

  “If you wanna get drunk, have a bottle of bourbon. That’s the best antidote to the Grisslehamn blues.”

  Modin agreed, and moments later, he put down a bottle of Jim Beam, two glasses, and a bucketful of powdered snow on the table

  Anton Modin and Kim Zetterman kept on drinking and talking, when the Wandering Stick came up to their table.

  “Mind if I join?”

  He sat down next to Kim and pressed gently against her. She didn’t seem to mind. He removed his dark glasses and revealed a pair of bloodshot eyes. Modin thought he’d recognize him as the Allan Beck he had known as a child. His facial traits that had already been distinct when he was a child had refined with the years—his fish eyes that were set far apart, a straight and pointed nose, a roundish forehead, and lips as thin as slits that quivered with every syllable he uttered.

  “Anton Modin, do you remember me? Allan Beck’s the name.” He was talking louder than was necessary over the general background noise.