The Andalucian Friend: A Novel

by Alexander Soderberg

  “She called and asked.”

  “You’re kidding me,” Anders said theatrically.

  Lars shook his head, unsettled by Anders’s attitude, which he was finding very hard to come to grips with. Anders put the box of microphones on the dashboard in front of Lars. Lars took it down and put it in his lap.

  “What about you? Who are you?” Lars countered.

  “I’m Anders.”

  “Who’s Anders?”

  Anders Ask looked out through the window.

  “None of your damn business.”

  It was just after one in the afternoon when Lars Vinge was standing on the terrace at the back of Sophie’s house, watching as Anders had picked the lock, and he wasn’t the whispering type.

  “Terrace doors are like fat girls,” Anders said, smiling at his own analogy.

  The door slid open. Lars was nervous. Anders was too loud, too fearless. Anders saw how nervous he was.

  “Poor little Lasse?” he sang from the old song. He gestured with his hand that Lars could go in. “Welcome home, darling,” he whispered.

  They were wearing disposable shoe covers and latex gloves. Lars stood in the living room, his stomach simultaneously clenching and churning. He wanted to get out, and his nervousness wasn’t helped by the fact that Anders was not only calmness personified but also had the bad habit of whistling loudly as he worked.

  “Stay away from the windows,” Anders said, opening his bag and rooting around in the bottom. “Have you got the mikes?”

  Lars didn’t like this. He pulled the little wooden box from his jacket pocket and gave it to Anders, who wandered off, inserting an earpiece and switching on a receiver, then testing the little microphones.

  Lars looked around. The living room, large and airy, bigger than he had imagined when he had been sitting some distance away looking in. It was open-plan, leading into the kitchen at the far end. A wide step running the whole width of the room separated the two spaces.

  He took out his digital camera and took a series of pictures of the room. The furnishing was a mixture of styles, in a way that he’d never seen before. But everything fit together. A low, old pink armchair next to the large sofa. Colorful cushions on the sofa … then an antique wooden chair with a light-brown seat. They ought to clash, but somehow didn’t. The wall behind the sofa was covered with pictures. Their subjects were varied but the overall result was … wonderful. There were flowers and healthy-looking potted plants here and there. The room had been furnished tastefully, intelligently, and thoughtfully … in spite of the variety. The colors and shapes made the house feel warm, made you feel you wanted to be there, to stay.… One shelf was full of framed photographs. He could see Albert, her son, from a happy little boy to the unfair face of puberty. To the right was a black-and-white portrait of a man, a solid fellow from the look of him. Lars thought he could detect a similarity to Sophie in his brow and eyes, it was probably her father. Lars glanced at several other pictures, one smaller photograph of a man in his thirties, Sophie’s husband, David, standing behind a small boy, Albert. Then a picture of the whole family, David, Sophie, little Albert, and a dog, a golden Labrador. They were standing close together, smiling at the camera.

  Behind him Anders was pulling a length of tape from a roll over by the sofa. Lars kept on looking. Sophie laughing on a white garden chair, the picture looked fairly recent, from the last year or so. She was wrapped in a blanket and her knees were pulled up. Her smile was infectious, as if it were aimed at him. He stood like that for a moment.

  Lars set his camera to macro mode, put the lens close to the photograph of Sophie, and took a series of shots.

  Anders called to get Lars’s attention, and pointed to a lamp by the sofa, then at his ear. Anders got up and headed toward the kitchen, still humming “Little Lasse.”

  Lars stared out over the living room. He wished that Sara had the same taste, the same sense of what went well together, not that bohemian style where everything for some reason always had to be Indian, cheap, and … irregular.

  There was a blanket folded over the sofa. Lars picked it up and felt it. It was soft. And without thinking he held it up to his face and smelled it.

  “Are you a pervert as well?”

  Anders was looking at Lars as he stood in the middle of the living room. Lars put the blanket back on the sofa.

  “What do you want?” Lars said, trying to look angry.

  Anders laughed. His laughter turned into a crooked smile, a smile that was evidence of his distaste.

  “Oh, little Lasse, you seem completely daft,” Anders whispered.

  Lars watched him go as he tramped up the creaking wooden staircase. Then he left the living room and went down the step into the kitchen. That too was clean and tidy. He noticed a large vase of cut flowers in the window, the high, rough island unit in the middle of the kitchen … and the dark green door to the little pantry. Dark green in a way he didn’t know existed, didn’t know it was permissible to have anything so beautiful in a kitchen. Someone with the flair and understanding to decorate a room like this probably understood a few other things. All of Lars’s senses came alive, as a thousand thoughts and feelings raced through him. There was a lot about life that Lars Vinge didn’t understand. He realized that now. He wanted to know. He wanted the woman who lived here to tell him.…

  He went upstairs, trying not to make the treads creak beneath his feet. Anders was crouching next to a bedside table in her bedroom. Lars leaned against the doorpost.

  “Can we go?” Lars whispered.

  “Have you always been this irritating?”

  Anders checked his work, stood up, and play-tackled Lars on the way out with one shoulder before disappearing back downstairs with far-too-heavy steps.

  Lars stayed where he was in the doorway, looked into the bedroom. A large double bed, covered with a bedspread. There was a beautiful iron lamp on the bedside table where Anders had just attached a microphone. The floor was covered in carpet, and the walls were pale, with just a few pictures, most of them in dark frames. Mixed subjects: a single large butterfly, a woman’s body in charcoal on light brown paper, one unframed picture, with just a deep red color to make you aware of something that wasn’t there. Then an oil painting of a large, leafy tree. It all worked. Lars tried to understand.

  At the back of the bedroom were ivory-colored double doors over in one corner, smaller than a normal door. He stepped into the room, his feet sinking into the soft carpet, and went over to check them, letting them swing out slowly. A large closet, almost like a little room. He stepped inside and found the light switch. Soft, warm light lit up the room.

  Blouses and other clothes hanging in rows from wooden hangers. Below them were drawers, new drawers made of oak. He opened one and found jewelry and watches. He opened the drawer beneath, folded scarves and more jewelry. He bent down, the third contained underwear, panties, and bras. He closed it quickly, then opened it again at once, looking down into the drawer, with an awareness that he had long since broken all his ethical rules, so he may as well carry on now.

  Lars reached out his hand and felt the underwear. Silk … soft, he couldn’t stop touching them, stroking them with his fingers, felt suddenly aroused, hard. He wanted to take a pair with him—keep them in his pocket so he could touch them whenever he felt like it. Noises from downstairs snapped him out of it. He closed the drawer, left the closet and the bedroom.

  Outside the room he took several deep breaths. He headed toward Albert’s room, pushed the door open with his fingers, looked in. It was a boy’s room, furnished as if the boy didn’t know if he was grown up or still a child. Grown-up pictures on the walls, and a yellow and black AIK football banner with the slogan “We Are Everywhere.” An electric guitar with only three strings leaning against the desk, an empty candy bag on the floor. The bed made yet still unmade, but at least the bedspread was straight. Under the bed an old telescope but no stand. He knelt down, saw some books and a black guitar case farth
er in.

  Lars took a few pictures, then looked at his watch; the time had gone quicker than he had thought. He left the room, heading for the stairs. He didn’t pause outside Sophie’s room, just acted on impulse. Into the bedroom again, open the closet, open the third drawer, take a pair of panties, stuff them in his pocket. Close the drawer, close the closet, out again.

  Anders was sitting behind a computer in what looked like an office.

  “Time’s getting on,” Lars said from the doorway.

  “Shut up,” Anders said, his eyes on the screen.

  Anders went on typing on the computer.

  “Anders!”

  Anders looked up. “I said shut up! Have a look ’round, do whatever the hell you like, just leave me alone.”

  He returned to tapping at the keyboard. Lars felt like saying something else, thought better of it, and walked out.

  He wandered about, went into the kitchen, looked at the floor to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything. Everything looked the way it should, and he backed away toward the terrace door, where they had come in, then retraced his steps. He could feel that he was breathing shallowly, high in his throat, and his forehead was wet with sweat. Anders came out of the office.

  “I just need to go to the toilet. Then we can go.”

  “No, please,” Lars begged quietly.

  Anders smiled at Lars’s anxiety, picked up a newspaper from a sideboard, and padded off toward the bathroom. Anders took his time, whistling the theme from Bonanza.

  Lars hid in the hall next to the kitchen door. No one would see him there from the outside. He stood next to a row of coats and jackets, taking deep breaths, then leaned his forehead against the wall, closed his eyes, and tried to rediscover a sense of calm. He tried to take deep breaths, but they were only reaching the top half of his chest. He attempted breathing through his nose, the same thing there—just half breaths. He felt as taut as a string on a violin. His heartbeat was thudding in his ears, his stomach felt tight, his hands were cold, his mouth dry.… A sound outside, footsteps on the other side of the door … a key inserted into the lock. Lars turned around and stared at the door, frozen to the spot. Nothing in his body made any attempt to react and run away. He just stood there immobile, scared as a small child, incapable of action, and struck with such an overwhelming sense of panic that for a moment he seriously believed he was going to die just from the emotions raging inside him.

  The lock clicked, the handle was pushed down, the door was pulled open. Lars shut his eyes, the door closed, he opened his eyes. In front of him was a short, unfamiliar woman in her sixties; she put a handbag down on the floor and started to unbutton her coat. He looked sideways at her; she met his gaze and jumped with fright, put a hand to her chest, muttered something in some Eastern European language, and her fear was replaced by something calmer. She laughed, then gabbled something in Swedish about not knowing that there was going to be anyone at home.

  She held out her hand and introduced herself as Dorota. Lars, from the vacuum-filled universe of bewilderment, took her hand.

  “Lars.”

  He heard a thunderous burst of laughter behind him and turned around. Anders was shaking with laughter, one hand over his face. “You really do take the prize!”

  Dorota looked at the two men with half a smile, suddenly unsure about who they were.

  Anders went up to her, grabbed her arm, picked up her bag from the floor, pulled her into the kitchen, and sat her down on a chair. He turned and looked at Lars. “What now?”

  Dorota was scared.

  “We’ll just go. Come on,” he said.

  Anders stared at Lars with a look of contempt on his face.

  “Great idea. We’ll just go.” He turned to Dorota. “Who are you?”

  She glanced between the men. “I’m the cleaner.”

  “You’re the cleaner?”

  Dorota nodded. He tossed her handbag into her lap. “Give me your wallet.”

  Dorota looked at Anders as if she hadn’t heard what he said, then fumbled nervously in her handbag until she found her wallet. Anders took it, pulled out an ID card, and glanced quickly at it.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Spånga,” she replied in a whisper. Her mouth was completely dry.

  Lars looked at the woman, suddenly feeling very sorry for her. Anders put Dorota’s ID card into his pocket.

  “We’ll keep this. You never saw us here.”

  Dorota was staring at the floor.

  Anders leaned closer to her.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  She nodded.

  Anders turned toward Lars, a dark look on his face, then started to walk toward the terrace door. Lars didn’t move for a moment, looking at Dorota, who was still staring down at the floor.

  Anders was striding toward the car, Lars jogged behind him to catch up.

  They sat in silence as Lars drove out of the suburb, making sure he kept to the speed limit. Suddenly Anders grabbed Lars’s collar, slapping him across the face with the palm of his hand. Lars braked sharply and made an attempt to defend himself. Anders kept on slapping him.

  “You fucking idiot … Are you completely fucking useless?” Anders was shouting now. Then he stopped abruptly, sat back in his seat, and sighed as his rage subsided.

  Lars stared ahead of him, huddled up, unsure whether the abuse had stopped. His ear was stinging and his legs felt like jelly.

  “What would you have done if I wasn’t there? Given up, told her what you were doing? You introduced yourself to her with your real name.… Haven’t you understood anything about what we do?”

  Lars didn’t answer.

  “Fucking idiot,” Anders muttered to himself.

  Lars was incapable of figuring out what to do.

  Anders looked at him, then pointed ahead at the windshield. “Go on then, drive!”

  They drove into the city in total silence, Anders still furious, Lars suffering terribly.

  “We don’t have to tell Gunilla any of this,” Anders said eventually. “It all went fine, the microphones are in place. You’ll have to test that everything’s working next time you’re out there. If not, I’ll go in on my own next time. Just keep quiet about the cleaner.”

  He got out at Eastern Station, leaving a bag containing the receiver on the car floor. He pointed at it.

  “Test that as soon as you can.”

  Then he slammed the car door and vanished into the crowd of people.

  Lars didn’t move. His whole body was full of fear and anxiety. His thoughts didn’t dare venture back to what had just happened, and instead a fury found its way into him, a fury that told him that he hated Anders Ask more than he had hated anyone in his entire life.

  The stranger who had spoken Swedish to him was gone. Jens was sitting and listening from his position by the hull of the ship, his eyes darting about, the submachine gun ready to fire at any moment. The sound he had just heard had come from over near the open part of the hold. Otherwise everything was quiet. The men working on the quayside and the Vietnamese crew must have fled when the first shots were fired. That felt like a lifetime ago, but it was really only a few minutes. Long, tough, elastic bloody minutes. He hated minutes. Minutes were always when the shit happened.

  He was starting to hear things that weren’t there again. Someone getting closer, a quick whisper, footsteps, a gust of wind … His body was pumping sweat and adrenaline, and his shirt was stuck to him.

  Once again he was filled by a sudden and intense desire to get away from there, a feeling of panic that he could remember from childhood—the urge to run.

  He was debating with himself whether he should stay hidden or fight. Then he heard a movement and a shape flashed quickly across the deck some distance away. Instinctively Jens raised the Bizon to his shoulder and fired a few shots toward the shadow. Then he took cover. The question he had been pondering just now had gotten its answer, he was going to fight. There was no going back
now. Jens waited, no sound apart from his own heartbeat pounding inside him. He would have to move, but got no farther than standing up. The weapon sounded like a chainsaw as it rattled off bullets toward Jens. He threw himself to the ground. The bullets hit all around him and the sound was deafening, followed by absolute silence. He could hear a weapon being reloaded some distance away. Jens got up and threw himself over the crates, moving forward, trying to find the person who was shooting at him.… There, up ahead, movement! He could make out half of a body behind a stack of crates, just visible. Then a submachine gun, like the one he was holding, being raised in his direction. But Jens was quicker, firing a burst at the man, who ducked behind the crates. Jens kept moving. The man peeped out quickly again. Jens was some thirty feet away, fired, hit the man in the shoulder; he spun around but still managed to raise his weapon toward Jens, who was now in the middle of the deck with no chance of any cover.

  Two guns aimed at each other. And then time stopped, as if someone had grabbed the second hand measuring the movement of the universe. Jens had time to see the man’s empty eyes, the barrel aimed toward him. Was he about to die? He couldn’t accept that. No fleeting images of his childhood, no mom smiling at him in the light of creation. Just a dark, empty sense of pointlessness about the whole situation. Was this ugly bastard going to kill him?

  The thoughts went through his mind during the long moments as he sank to one knee with the butt of the gun to his shoulder, the Russian in the crosshairs.

  Jens fired, the Russian fired.

  Their bullets must have passed each other in the air somewhere halfway between them. He could hear the whining sound as they passed him on the left, then the burning pain as one of them hit his upper arm.

  The three bullets that he had managed to fire were better aimed, and hit the Russian’s chest and neck simultaneously. His carotid artery had been punctured, blood was squirting straight out, and the man fell back limply, dropping his gun and hitting a packing crate, dead before he hit the floor.

  Jens stared, then heard steps behind him and spun around with his gun raised. The Swedish-speaking man had his pistol aimed at Jens’s forehead. Jens’s Bizon was aimed straight at the man.