Babylon

by Camilla Ceder

  Tell still didn’t know what to say.

  ‘But . . . I’m beginning to look at it pragmatically. It was for the best, I think.’

  Tell nodded uncertainly and leaned against the stained kitchen table, which wobbled.

  ‘I’m renting the place furnished,’ she said, pointing at the table. ‘Most of my furniture is still at Göran’s. There’s no point fetching it until I’ve found an apartment, or a house.’ She laughed. ‘So where should I settle? Do I let him keep the bookcase? Questions you don’t really consider when you start wondering whether you have the courage to leave a doomed relationship – or whether you have the courage to stay.’

  Tell waited. Beckman had hardly said a word about her marriage, not really, although he had read between the lines and gathered that it had been stormy.

  ‘By the end, I really wanted him to hit me, just once,’ she said suddenly, waving away Tell’s awkward protests. ‘Yes, Tell, today you’re just going to have to deal with the fact that I can’t do small talk . . . I provoked him to make him lose his temper. If he hit me it would mean a definitive end. I would have won and he would have lost. That would have made it easier to go, but he never did.’

  She rubbed her forehead with the palm of her hand.

  ‘Recently, I was just trying to get at him in every possible way. Telling him how unhappy he made me, how disappointed I was, how our life was so different from what he’d promised. I wanted to reclaim ten years of my life, and the only way I could do that was if he admitted it had all been his fault.’

  ‘But you made your mind up in the end?’

  ‘It’s strange, I don’t remember when . . . But I do have a crystal-clear memory of the moment I decided to live my life with Göran. There’s no point in talking about that now, of course, but I remember exactly what he meant to me and how I . . . I don’t really understand it myself. Perhaps the Göran I thought I knew never existed. Perhaps he existed only in my head. Then suddenly, one day, it just dawned on me. I was fighting tooth and nail to get close to him, pleading and whining, offering compromises, then screaming insults at him. I was trying to get as close as I thought I wanted to be, ought to be with my life partner. Otherwise why would we call it a life partner?’

  ‘And the more you fought, the more he pulled away, I suppose?’

  Suddenly the whole thing seemed embarrassingly obvious to her. ‘Of course. And to make it even more complicated, I think a part of me was also frightened of closeness.’

  She ignored Tell’s confusion.

  ‘This pattern, I mean. On a subconscious level I shared the responsibility for forming it. Because I didn’t have the courage to be close to someone either, to be vulnerable in that way.’

  ‘But is that what you have to do?’ Tell asked with a hint of panic.

  Beckman had long since passed the boundaries of what Tell could relate to, but her words affected him nonetheless.

  ‘Of course. That’s what real love is. Sooner or later, you have to make that choice, unless you want it to slip through your fingers.’

  He looked down at his hands, his expression troubled, and Beckman sighed.

  ‘I don’t know . . . I just don’t know any more. Maybe I’ve never really known what I wanted, and that’s why I’ve never had the courage to fully commit. To anything.’

  ‘That’s just not true. You’re one of the most competent police officers I have ever worked with.’

  ‘I know I’m good at my job.’ Beckman moved over to the window and stood with her back to him. ‘I was in such a panic when I found out I was pregnant. It was a mistake, a one-off with Göran weeks ago. I could see only obstacles and demands, I thought it would be embarrassing; that I would just look pathetic.’

  She turned around to face him. A single tear crept down the side of her nose; apart from that she was quite composed.

  ‘Then everything changed and it all fell into place: me and Göran. Our genes, our history, joined together in this child. I was completely absorbed by that way of thinking, blinded. Do you understand? This sudden change of heart, and then I didn’t get to keep it. I didn’t get to keep the child or the strength that came with it. The wonderful feeling that everything, even the impossible, is possible. That it’s possible to say goodbye to cynicism, to stop sneering when people say things like love conquers all. It was real for a little while. This new child. And everything else seemed unimportant.’

  She wiped her eyes, then went over to the sink, poured a glass of water and drank it in one.

  Tell undid his top button. He wanted to get out of here. He wasn’t used to this sort of talk. He was the wrong man in the wrong place, and he was no use to Beckman. He could see only himself in what she said, himself and Seja and all their problems. Whatever those were.

  Beckman’s words simply reflected his own questions. Would the exact moment come when he knew he wanted to spend his life with Seja? Deep down, did he really want to share his life with another person?

  He was far from sure about his ability to make such a commitment.

  He had been nervous around Seja in the beginning. But, at the same time, he had been afraid; he felt the cowardice that had been his constant companion for such a long time.

  Seja was on his mind, but Beckman was standing in front of him; she jumped as if she had felt a sudden stab of pain and placed one hand on the side of her stomach. He got up to help.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be lying down?’

  She held up her hands as a shield, protecting herself from his distracted concern.

  ‘No, it’s OK. It’s not that painful any more.’

  Tell remained standing, his arms hanging awkwardly at his sides.

  ‘I’m sorry I can’t be more help. I’ve . . . been distracted ever since we brought in Axel Donner, the whole circus. Everything that happened, there was a fire in the apartment, it was all so quick, yet it seemed to be in slow motion . . . You know how it feels sometimes. It’s as if I’m drifting up in the air and I can’t get back down to earth. I’ve got a sense of unreality that just won’t go away.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do,’ she said after a short pause. ‘Nothing more than you’ve already done. You came to see if I was all right. I know you find these things difficult, and that makes your visit all the more touching. But I’m fine, don’t you worry. I’ll get through this, even if I’ve had to make a lot of adjustments lately. I’m looking forward to picking up where I left off, to building something new, something good.’

  When she moved into the hallway, he took it as an indication that she wanted to be alone.

  ‘Every coin has a reverse side. That’s been very clear to me lately, particularly over this past week. Even if you don’t see the positive side until much later.’

  For a moment his hand rested on the door handle. ‘Sometimes I just wish that I was a bit better at seeing the silver lining sooner. It would save a lot of unnecessary suffering.’

  ‘True.’

  Beckman smiled slowly and Tell smiled back; he came down to earth with a sudden growing understanding. He was back.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Tell. I’m off work for the next week. Then I’ll be back.’

  Tell walked through the courtyard and out onto the street; he had the feeling that Beckman was watching him from the kitchen window. He didn’t get his phone out until he reached Slottsskogsgatan.

  He would have preferred to see her face to face, but he was still pleased when Seja answered.

  ‘I just wanted to say that I love you. Very much.’

  As he ended the call, he realised that, oddly enough, he hadn’t heard her reply, and yet his body felt warm and soft.

  He pulled off the bandage and threw it in a bin.

  He had heard a child in the background, which meant that her friend Hanna was there with her son. He made a decision: to Pennygången for a quick check on the situation, then back home to throw a few things in a bag. He could definitely be in Stenared by five.

  65

&nb
sp; Gothenburg

  Valand was abuzz. Trams were screeching and rattling as they rounded the corner from Kungsportsavenyn to Vasagatan, and the taxis right behind them revved impatiently. Shoppers emerging from the Pressbyrå mini-market stepped straight out into the cycle lane and cyclists rang their bells amidst the in-line skaters and strollers. Röhsska Museum stood calm and solid, like a colossus in the midst of the chaos.

  Karlberg felt foolish, sitting in the passenger seat of an armoured car transporting priceless treasures. Cecilia Lindgren was waiting on Teatergatan, a back door leading into the museum standing wide open behind her.

  ‘Welcome at last,’ she said when Karlberg had retrieved the unassuming bag from the back seat. ‘You’re leaving it in safe hands.’

  ‘I’m just glad to get rid of it, to be honest. Sorry it took so long, a few other things came up. But now . . .’

  Lindgren took the bag with both hands, her lips slightly parted. She was wearing a short knitted skirt which looked as if it might be rather warm for this time of year, and bright rose-patterned tights. Karlberg glanced down at her legs and suppressed a smile. The first drops of rain began to fall from a darkening sky.

  ‘Would you like to come in while I take a look at these?’

  ‘Er . . . yes. Thank you, that would be interesting.’

  ‘Rain again! Whatever happened to the nice weather?’

  Their footsteps echoed off the walls, which carried within them the smell of dust from stone and fabric, and which had remained cool even in the early summer heat. Hence the knitted skirt and tights. Karlberg felt as if knowledge from every epoch had settled within these walls, in the air which every visitor breathed, which Cecilia Lindgren breathed . . .

  ‘I’m working on a project at the moment,’ she said as they walked. ‘I’m studying the museum’s artefacts from the Middle East. We can go along to the office I’m using in a little while, but first I’d like to show you the architecture exhibition room. It contains a lion and dragon from Babylon. Here we are.’

  ‘I’m not sure . . .’

  She led Karlberg to the centre of the room. Only then did he see what she meant. Each side of the opening leading to the foyer was adorned with a huge relief made up of glazed tiles.

  ‘Impressive,’ was all he could muster.

  ‘They certainly are. I wanted you to get an idea of what . . .’ She gestured towards the cloth bag. The reverence with which she was looking at the reliefs was remarkable given that she must have seen them countless times.

  ‘They were found during German archaeological digs, and they are the only examples of Babylonian culture we have in Sweden. Do you know much about Babylon?’

  ‘Er . . . I vaguely remember from my RE lessons that they built a tower reaching up into the sky.’

  ‘About two hours’ drive from Baghdad, across the desert, is what is called the cradle of civilisation. Many Sumerian towns were located there; the best known is Babylon, with its notorious tower of Babel. At least according to the Bible it became a symbol of hubris, avarice and materialism; the Babylonians tried to construct a tower which would reach all the way up to God, and He punished them by confusing their languages. These reliefs come from a hill that was the centre of the city.’

  She pointed to the pictures. ‘There would have been sixty lions on either side. The dragon – the animal sacred to the gods Marduk and Nabo – comes from the gate itself.’

  Karlberg nodded, trying to summon up the same enthusiasm as Cecilia Lindgren. The lion’s mouth was wide open, its tail high in the air; a depiction of strength. The dragon had the head and tail of a snake, but the front legs of a lion and the hind legs of a bird of prey.

  With Karlberg trailing behind her, Cecilia Lindgren headed back through the foyer. They entered a room which wasn’t particularly large, but the high ceiling gave an impression of space. She offered Karlberg a chair by a window looking out over a rain-soaked Vasagatan. She spread a cloth over a table next to him then, with infinite care, she unwrapped twenty-nine artefacts from the padded cloth and arranged them in a straight line from one side of the table to the other: two necklaces, earrings and hair slides, a dozen or so clay figures, two bowls and a number of seals.

  Karlberg was certainly curious, yet he couldn’t take his eyes off the expression on Cecilia Lindgren’s face. It almost embarrassed him; he felt as if he ought to leave the room and give her the privacy the occasion demanded.

  ‘Some of the jewellery is just incredible,’ she said eventually. ‘The style is actually quite similar to the pieces that were dug up in Nimrud. Not quite as showy, perhaps, but still, if they were cleaned so that you could see they were gold . . . Have you heard of the Treasures of Nimrud?’

  ‘No . . .’

  ‘Sixty-five kilos of gold, silver and precious stones in the form of jewellery, bowls and goblets was discovered beneath a palace in the city of Nimrud in northern Iraq. The jewellery was worn by three historically important queens and symbolised their power over Iraq. It was thought that these artefacts had been stolen during the invasion, but they were later found in a bank vault where they had been placed for safe-keeping. I think these items date from approximately the same period, perhaps six to eight hundred years BC. Have you noticed the gold leaves decorating the necklace and these two bracelets? Such precise work!’

  ‘And the other items?’

  ‘Well . . . they’re a bit of a mixed bag,’ she said after some hesitation. ‘Some are probably considerably older than the ones I showed you before. I would guess that the representations of women and animals are approximately seven thousand years old.’

  She held up a fragment of clay which didn’t look like anything remotely recognisable to Karlberg. He thought he might just be able to distinguish the outline of a pair of narrowing eyes.

  ‘A pair of eyes is widely thought to be a symbolic representation of a god. Otherwise I would say that most of these figures were meant to somehow glorify the ruler, or they had religious or symbolic significance. They would have played a role in rituals of praying to or appeasing the gods, to influence nature, to prevent unforeseen disasters . . . Or to drive out evil; we think bowls like these, inscribed with religious quotations and spiritual invocations, would be placed in the corner of a room, or buried under the threshold of the house, to capture demons and other creatures.’

  She showed him something that looked like a small stamp. ‘Can you see IM marked on the seals? And on a number of the figures. Iraq Museum.’

  ‘Our contact at Glyptoteket in Copenhagen, Alexandr—’

  ‘Alexandr Karpov, yes. He’s more of an expert in this field than I am.’

  ‘. . . said this had something to do with the war in Iraq.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘So these objects come from Iraq?’

  ‘If I mentioned the Land Between Two Rivers, what would you say?’ When she smiled, her laughter lines reached all the way to her temples. ‘And if I said Mesopotamia?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say very much at all.’

  She laughed. ‘What I mean is that these items come from the place we now call Iraq – and its neighbouring countries. Some of them are from the Iraq Museum, as I said. Some might have been stolen – from graves, for example. Which makes them even more interesting in a way: nobody has had the opportunity to analyse them yet. So, do you know anything about the war in Iraq?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Sort of. Well, only what’s been on the news, really.’

  ‘OK, so perhaps you know that on the night American soldiers entered Baghdad, Iraq’s national museum was plundered; this was an event of world importance. There were pictures from the cradle of human civilisation and the dawn of science. The origins of writing, mathematics, astronomy . . . The innermost rooms of the museum were emptied. Things were smashed to pieces, stolen.’

  ‘And sold?’

  Cecilia Lindgren nodded. ‘The suspicion is that those responsible were linked to the illegal international art trade. It took two days
to empty the museum, and another day or so before the first artefacts turned up on the Internet.’

  She folded her arms over her chest, her fingers digging into her upper arms.

  ‘May I ask how all this ended up in the hands of the police?’

  ‘It’s a very long story. But our theory is that one particular individual bought these items on a trip.’

  ‘A trip where?’

  ‘He was in Istanbul a while ago.’

  ‘Not impossible. Hmm. At any rate, it’s fantastic that they’ve been found; let’s just hope that—’

  ‘What are you doing now?’ Karlberg heard himself say, and could have bitten his tongue a second later. Timing, it was all about timing. And his was usually terrible.

  Cecilia Lindgren did indeed look surprised.

  ‘What do you mean by now?’

  ‘I just think what you’re doing is really interesting – Oh no, inane flattery, it’s getting worse and worse. – and I wondered if you’d like to join me for some lunch . . . so that we can carry on chatting about what happened when the museum was plundered?’

  ‘OK, if you hang on a minute, I’ll just get my coat. Good job it’s waterproof.’

  To Karlberg’s inexpressible surprise, this beautiful woman was smiling at him.

  66

  Gothenburg

  Sitting outside the Marmalade Café, Rebecca Nykvist was just finishing a letter to Henrik’s parents. It had ended up as a brief but conciliatory account of their relationship, which had been more good than bad, in spite of everything. She hoped that was true.

  After tucking the letter into her handbag, she listened in to the conversations around her. They were all about trivial things. Rebecca envied these people for their ordinary lives so much that it hurt. She wrapped her hands around the scalding glass of tea and watched her palms turn crimson. Her skin was burning.

  A man came out of the Co-op with a newspaper and made his way clumsily across the tramlines. He glanced over the tables and their eyes met.