by Per Wahlöö
‘Take this,’ he said.
Jensen slid his right hand under the back of the man’s neck to raise his head gently so he could swallow the pill.
He suddenly thought of the nurse and the fact that he had once seen her cry.
Within a couple of minutes, the man on the sofa was asleep.
Inspector Jensen sat motionless, watching him calmly and without expression.
CHAPTER 19
Exactly one hour and ten minutes had passed when the man on the sofa woke up again. He opened his eyes and looked at Jensen in bewilderment. After a minute or so, his face cleared.
‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘Now it comes back to me.’
‘Is the pain still bad?’
‘No, it’s all right now. Thanks.’
The words came huskily, as if the man’s throat was dry. Jensen poured a little fruit soda into the plastic cup and supported the man’s head. He drained the cup thirstily.
‘We were talking about your political activities.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘You explained where you stood.’
‘You do understand that we’re right?’
‘No, but I’d be interested to hear what comes next.’
‘There’s no more to tell.’
‘What happened in September?’
‘Oh yes. That.’
The man lay in silence for a few moments. Then, without taking his eyes off Jensen, he said:
‘I can’t explain what happened. I don’t understand it.’
‘But you know what happened to you personally.’
‘I know what happened to several of us.’
He broke off again.
‘But I can’t explain it,’ he said.
‘Let’s just stick to the facts,’ Jensen said amiably. ‘Plain and simple facts.’
‘Facts. There are no plain and simple facts.’
‘What your job is, for example.’
‘I’m a sociologist. Used to work at the alcohol research unit.’
‘Was it complicated work?’
‘Yes, very complicated.’
‘Taxing?’
‘Not physically taxing. I was just one of many in the statistics section. We collated figures that came in from the alcohol retailers, the police and the detox clinics. It was easy work in itself.’
‘A lot of responsibility?’
‘Hardly. Our statistical tables were sent on to higher authorities, where they were worked over. That’s to say, they were put through the mill over and over again and sent from one authority to another. When they finally got to, well, whoever they were meant for, they were distorted beyond all recognition. Improved, if you like. Even we, the ones who’d put them together in the first place, had no chance of recognising them.’
He shook his head.
‘No, it was a simple job.’
‘So what was the difficulty? The complicated part?’
‘The difficulties were of an ethical nature.’
‘Ethical?’
‘Yes. First and foremost, the fact that the whole procedure went against the basic principles of statistical science. The figures we got in were works of fiction from the very start. Then they were further falsified, quite consciously and almost entirely openly. Knowing that made it hard to endure it there.’
‘Did your colleagues share your way of seeing it?’
‘A few of them did. Most just got on with the job, like robots, without thinking or asking questions. In other words, their attitude to their work was the same as almost everyone else’s in this country.’
The man paused for a moment before going on.
‘But the really unbearable thing was having to deal with the issue per se.’
He looked at Jensen.
‘As a policeman, you’ve doubtless had plenty of dealings with the alcohol legislation and the way it’s applied?’ Jensen nodded.
‘Drink-driving laws? Being drunk in public places? Domestic alcohol abuse? All that stuff.’
‘Yes.’
‘Each law more insane than the last one? The number of suicides, especially among the drunks?’
‘I’ve experienced plenty of sudden deaths,’ said Jensen.
The man laughed.
‘There, you see,’ he said. ‘I don’t need to explain.’
‘No,’ said Jensen. ‘What was it you found unbearable?’
‘The hypocrisy, of course. The duplicity. The cowardice. The ruthless profiting from it all. Do you know what alcohol costs here?’
‘Yes.’
‘They impose several thousand per cent tax. That’s an old right-wing idea, dictated by stupidity and greed in equal measure. It’s proposed as one among other measures for combating abuse. The dearer the price of the alcohol, the fewer the cases of drunkenness. A completely absurd thesis, but even the teetotal brigade within the so-called labour movement were tricked into accepting it. Or rather, perhaps, pretended they believed in it. It makes no odds, because they’re all as bad as each other; extortion or criminal stupidity, it’s all the same.’
‘Go on.’
‘With what? Can’t you see the bigger picture? We know people have to have alcohol, some so they can bear to carry on living, some for the courage to do away with themselves. So the prices are hiked, and the state’s put to work, first criminalising the use of alcohol and calling it abuse, and then poisoning the drink with substances that supposedly wean them off it, which in turn generate deeper depression and lead to even more suicides.’
‘You ought to watch your tongue.’
‘Why ought I? Are you thinking of pulling it out?’
Jensen had made the comment out of sheer routine and force of habit. He felt a vague sense of surprise and stroked the tip of his nose.
‘We’ve got the highest suicide rate in the whole world, and rates of drunkenness as high as in the most perfidious capitalist dictatorships. We’ve also got the lowest birth rate. Since the regime finds this worrying and is also a little bit ashamed of its own impotence, they try to lie it all away.’
‘Well,’ said Jensen, ‘what actually happened in September?’
‘Just a minute, let me finish my argument. So what do they do then? Well, they punish the individual for being forced by them to become an alcoholic, just as they punish people they’ve forced to live in substandard housing. They also punish the workers because they haven’t bothered to teach them that work can be a meaningful end in itself. They even persuade us to pollute the very air we have to live in. Whole classes of society have to endure this curious form of punishment. The only ones who can escape are the profiteers, who can afford to live abroad or buy big houses in the forest or their own islands in the archipelago. It all hangs together, emanates from the same evil root. Now do you understand why I find my work unbearable?’
Jensen did not answer that question. He looked past the man on the sofa and said:
‘Was it that way of thinking you wanted to launch through your demonstrations?’
‘Among other things. But anyway, launch isn’t the right word. We weren’t presenting anything new. We just wanted to remind people about a phenomenon they already knew about deep inside, though they’d done all they could to forget it.’
‘What phenomenon?’
‘The class struggle. Can I have something else to drink?’
Jensen took the plastic cup and filled it up again.
‘Thank you. Can I ask you something?’
‘What?’
‘Do you drink alcohol yourself?’
‘Yes,’ said Jensen. ‘Or I used to, anyway.’
‘Every day?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘The same reason you take tablets. I was in pain.’
‘Was that the real reason?’
Jensen looked at the man for a long time. Finally he said:
‘If we can go back to what happened in September.’
‘I can’t explain it. Everything changed. And everybod
y.’
‘How did you yourself change?’
‘I didn’t change. At any rate, I had no sense of doing so. It was the world around me that changed. Do you think that sounds strange?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was, very strange.’
‘When did you first become aware of it?’
‘The third Saturday in September. The twenty-first.’
‘In what context?’
‘We used to demonstrate on Saturdays.’
‘I know.’
‘For practical reasons. Most people were at home and off work then. This autumn we upped the tempo because of the election campaign. Not that we had much hope of success. I mean, the Accord’s propaganda machine had been steamrollering away all spring and summer. They had every conceivable resource, as usual. We had nothing at all. We weren’t even thinking in terms of the election result, yet we still thought we knew …’
He gave a start, suddenly on the alert. His eyes darted to and fro.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ said Jensen. ‘Just a drunk getting a bit carried away down in his cell. What did you think you knew?’
‘That there was pause for thought at the highest levels. Voter turnout had been going down every time over a period of quite a few years. Rumour had it that it was starting to annoy the regime. In its supreme stupidity, it didn’t understand why people weren’t voting for its excellent system. I’m talking mainly about leading figures in the trade union movement and former members of the social democratic party. The capitalists, the ones really pulling the strings, knew better of course. At any rate, that was the reason why the election campaign was so intensive and waged on such a broad front.’
‘And what did your lot do?’
‘We thought we’d do what we could to annoy them even more. That was why we focused so much on the demonstrations. It didn’t seem to help, though. People were as indifferent as ever. Until that day, the twenty-first of September.’
‘Did you demonstrate that day?’
‘Yes. We organised an anti-imperialism protest march. It was going to start in the suburbs as usual and move in towards the centre. And we were going to round off with a public meeting. They mostly followed the same pattern.’
Jensen nodded.
‘I went out to the assembly point by taxi with two friends of mine. A printer and his wife. My best friends. They were the same age as me, and members of our society. We’d known each other for years. Worked together a lot.’
‘Worked? On what?’
‘We did a lot of the society’s practical work. Printed leaflets, did poster designs. Made placards and banners. Lots of other stuff, too. We had a duplicating machine and produced a little news-sheet for distribution to members. Yeah, we’d known each other a long time and very well.’
‘Did they have any children, those people?’
‘No.’
‘What was the woman’s job?’
‘She worked in an archive at the Ministry of Justice. Later it turned out that …’
‘Yes?’
‘No, nothing.’
‘Are you married?’
‘No. Why are you asking me this?’
‘Routine,’ said Jensen. ‘Anyway, to get back to that Saturday.’
‘Yes. So we went out to the assembly point, but for some reason we got held up and were late. I don’t remember why. Does it matter?’
‘No.’
‘When we got there, they’d already moved off. We met them as we were coming off the motorway.’
The man fell silent and looked towards the window. Outside it was sleeting, and big wet flakes were sticking to the glass.
‘It was a clear, very blustery day. I remember the wind tugging at the flags, and the people with the banners had a job to keep them up straight. As soon as we caught sight of it in the distance we remarked to each other how beautiful it was.’
‘Beautiful?’
‘Yes, with the red flags whipping in the wind. And our comrades struggling with the breeze to keep the placards and banners up.’
‘How many marchers were there?’
‘A couple of thousand or so. We rarely got more than that. Often not even that many. There were quite a few children as well. Those with small children usually brought them along to demonstrations.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, various reasons.’
‘Such as?’
‘So the kids had the chance to learn something sensible from an early age. To show anybody watching that there were in fact people who had children and thought they were fun to be around. And not least because there wasn’t anywhere else for them to go, of course. Daycare provision is virtually nonexistent in this country, and socialists don’t tend to have domestic servants.’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. So we met the march just as we came off the motorway and even as we passed, we noticed something unusual was happening.’
‘What?’
‘There were groups of people at the sides of the road, arguing with the demonstrators. Some were shouting insults, others were throwing things – empty bottles and cans. In one place I saw some of them scuffling with a uniformed police constable.’
‘Why?’
‘The police were trying to stop them rushing out into the road and attacking the marchers. At that stage, the police must have had orders to make sure the demonstrators were left in peace. You ought to know that better than I do. Am I right?’
Jensen nodded.
‘Yes, that’s correct,’ he said.
‘Admittedly most of the people driving past or on the pavements seemed totally uninterested, but there were some counter-demonstrations as well.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘We got out of the taxi and joined the march.’
‘And then?’
‘It was the same the whole way along. Lots of people were standing along the pavements hurling abuse at us. Some threw eggs and tomatoes. My friend’s wife got hit in the forehead by a tomato. It made her laugh. In a few places, people even threw small stones, and some tried to run up and grab our signs off us. The police stopped them. There were several cars following alongside the march the whole time, and the people in them were spitting and swearing at us.’
‘What kind of people was it who attacked you?’
‘I didn’t get the impression that they were any particular kind. Most of them were well dressed and there were just as many elderly as middle-aged or younger ones. Men and women.’
‘How did your group react to this?’
‘We felt encouraged for the first time in ages.’
‘Encouraged?’
‘Yes, really. After all, our big problem was that nobody took any notice of us, not even the police. That was the first time we’d provoked any kind of counter-demonstration, or any reaction at all, come to that. We felt our message wasn’t falling on deaf ears any more.’
‘Was anyone hurt?’
‘I don’t think so. Nothing serious happened. The weapons employed were very largely verbal ones, you might say. People generally contented themselves with shouting and swearing and throwing bits of harmless rubbish. Tomatoes and empty beer cans can scarcely hurt anyone.’
‘What happened next?’
‘Our rally was the liveliest and rowdiest one I’d ever experienced. By that time, an awful lot more people had assembled in the opposing camp. They yelled and booed and barracked the speakers. But we had loudspeakers and loudhailers and were able to stick to the planned programme.’
‘Did the opposition seem to be organised?’
‘No. That was one thing we were pleased to notice. The troublemakers had no organisation at all, and that was one reason they couldn’t really cause us any serious disruption, of course. It was as if each individual was acting spontaneously on their own. We talked about that afterwards, and my friend said he’d been struck by the fact that they were people of such widely differing ages. The obvious conclusion otherwise would hav
e been that it was an organised counter-operation. That the regime had sent out patrols of some kind to undermine what we were doing, as part of its election propaganda. But it was clear that that wasn’t the case.’
‘How did the meeting end?’
‘The usual way. We passed a resolution and then packed up our kit and everyone pushed off home.’
‘And the next demonstration? What happened there?’
‘Hang on a minute. There was one very peculiar incident, after the meeting. Something that seemed completely incomprehensible. I’ll try to tell it as I remember it.’
Jensen regarded him expectantly.
‘When the meeting broke up, I went off with my friend and his wife. We’d been planning to go to our society HQ and finish off some posters we’d started the night before. My friend had a red flag rolled up under his arm.’
The man on the sofa lapsed into silence and seemed to be collecting his thoughts. Jensen said nothing. Down in the cells, the solitary alcoholic gave a series of hoarse, hacking coughs.
‘Our premises are in a basement over on the east side. To get there you have to take the ferry over the canal, unless you’re going by car of course. Pedestrians aren’t allowed through the tunnel or across the bridges, as you know. There weren’t many people on the ferry, and nobody seemed at all bothered about us. We sat on our own, chatting about what had happened. We all thought the same thing, namely that we ought to be encouraged by it. We got off the ferry when it had docked and walked the rest of the way; our HQ isn’t that far from the ferry station. On the way you go through a rather posh, upper-class district. You know that area between …’
‘I know the area you mean.’
‘We were walking three abreast along the pavement, not saying anything at that point. The street was empty except for two elderly people standing outside the entrance of one of the buildings. I assumed they lived there and were on their way in. The man must have been around sixty-five or maybe nearer seventy, and the woman looked about the same age. They were both well dressed, typical old-school, upper-class, right-wing types. The man was wearing a grey felt hat, black overcoat and galoshes, and he had an umbrella with a crooked, silver handle. I naturally wouldn’t have registered those details if it hadn’t been for what happened next.’ The man on the sofa fell silent again and shook his head.
