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.
“Lower your weapon.… I’m not going to hurt you,” he said calmly.
“Lower your own weapon,” Jens said, completely foolhardy because of the adrenaline coursing through his body.
The man hesitated, then lowered his gun, and Jens did the same.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, staring at Jens’s shoulder.
Jens took a look, felt the wound, it seemed to be superficial. He shook his head.
“Come on! Leave him.”
Jens looked at the man he had just killed. Thoughts involving luck, fate, gratitude, angst, guilt, and distaste were flying around his head without finding anywhere to go.
“Come on!” the Swedish-speaking man repeated. Jens followed him.
He noted that the man had a microphone by his chin and an earpiece in his left ear. He said something in a low voice, then stopped abruptly.
“We have to wait,” he whispered.
No activity anywhere, no sound, just waiting. Jens looked at him; he was calm, evidently used to this sort of thing.
“My name’s Aron,” he said.
Jens didn’t answer.
The man put a finger to his earpiece, then stood up. “It’s clear now, we can go up.”
In the middle of the deck Mikhail was on his knees with his hands behind his head, with Leszek standing behind him, an HK G36 with telescopic sight in his hands.
Aron gestured to Jens to follow him. They went past Mikhail and up the steps to the bridge, into the cabin, where they found the dead helmsman lying in a pool of blood. The captain was hiding under his desk, pale and shocked, clutching a large monkey wrench in his hand. He got up, looked at the dead helmsman, then out the window. He saw Mikhail kneeling on deck, and a flash of hatred crossed his eyes. The captain pushed past Jens and Aron as he hurried from the bridge, down the steps, and across the deck. Mikhail didn’t have a chance to defend himself before the captain hit him with the wrench and he collapsed. He stared down at the big Russian, who was now trying to protect himself as the captain hit him over the arms and legs again and again, all the while cursing him in his own language. Jens and Aron watched the attack from the bridge.
“What are you doing on board?” Aron asked.
Mikhail had curled up into a ball down below. “I was getting a lift home from Paraguay.”
“What were you doing there?”
“All sorts of things.”
“How do you make a living?”
Jens looked away from the violence.
“Logistics,” he replied.
“Have you got any goods on board?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m asking.”
The captain was working hard with the wrench.
“I think that’s enough now,” Jens said, gesturing with his thumb toward the attack below.
Aron didn’t seem to understand, then he let out a short whistle and signaled to Leszek, who intervened and put a stop to the captain’s brutal attack. The captain spat at the bleeding Mikhail, who was lying unconscious on deck. He headed back toward the bridge.
In that short instant everything seemed to relax. Leszek dropped his guard, Aron was about to repeat the question he had just asked Jens. Mikhail took the opportunity to get to his feet with some primordial force. It all happened in a flash as the body full of broken bones ran the short distance across the deck to the railing and jumped, managing somehow to heave itself over. At that moment Leszek let off a burst with his automatic weapon. Mikhail vanished. Jens heard him hit the water below.
Aron and Leszek leaped into action. They rushed toward the railing, taking aim and moving in opposite directions, peering at the water and talking between themselves. Every now and then they fired off some shots toward the water. The search went on for ten minutes, then they realized there was no point going on. The man must have drowned. Either because of the injuries inflicted during the beating or because one of their shots had hit him.
The diesel engines throbbed impatiently belowdecks. The ship was at the quayside, but everyone wanted to get moving. Shots had been fired, everyone had fled, and the police were probably on their way. Rotterdam was one of the world’s largest ports. If they could get away from the quay, they would be able to hide among the other traffic in the harbor.
They worked together to loosen the heavy ropes securing the ship to the quayside, then hurried on board. The gangway fell into the water as the ship pulled away.
Lars had gone home, where he found two bottles of red wine in one of the kitchen cupboards. He drank one immediately, then opened the other and forced himself to drink another couple of glasses. He was soon drunk, his face hot. He glanced out at the rear courtyard, feeling sorry for himself and the cleaner, wondering what she was doing now. The alcohol shifted into second gear and stopped him from cursing himself.
The sun beating down on the windows was making the apartment unbearably warm.
He pulled off his shirt and drank more wine. He went into the living room, where he threw his shirt on the floor and poured himself a glass of the vintage cognac on the bookcase; it tasted crappy but he forced himself to take several deep gulps, fighting the urge to throw up. He curled up on the sofa and stared out into thin air.
A quarter of an hour later, the change hit Lars Vinge. He turned bitter, and his insides took on a crooked smile as he thought about all the morons he had been surrounded by over the years. His mom and dad, his childhood friends, everyone he’d worked with, everyone he’d met … Anders Ask. He cursed them all, feebleminded and infantile, unlike him.… This was pretty much the extent of the information washing around his marinated head. That was why he didn’t often drink, he lost control and went temporarily mad. It had been that way since the very first time he had ever gotten drunk, but he didn’t pause to consider that now. He was fully occupied making excuses for the darkness inside him.
An hour later Sara came home and glanced disinterestedly at him.
“Are you ill?”
He didn’t answer. She went into the kitchen, then came back shortly after.
“Have you been drinking wine?”
There was an accusing tone to her voice. Lars didn’t move, just went on hugging his naked torso.
“Are you drunk?”
He didn’t answer.
“What’s the matter, Lars?”
He stood up, picked up his shirt from the floor, and pulled it on.
“None of your business,” he said, then went out into the hall and put on his shoes, and left the apartment.
In the nearest bar he ordered a vodka and tonic, and got into a debate with an alcoholic retiree about whether Sweden was too soft about sending people to prison. Lars flared up and embarked upon a confused discussion about rehabilitation versus punishment. It didn’t take long for him to lose his train of thought. The obvious line of argument wasn’t coming to him the way it usually did. The drunk old man and the bartender burst out laughing at Lars’s reasoning.
The bar closed and Lars wandered the city streets in the middle of the night, taking an unsteady piss against a parking meter. He was giggling at nothing, pulling faces, and giving the finger to passing cars and people. Then everything went black.
He woke up in a doorway on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan at half past four in the morning when a paperboy stepped over him. He slowly lumbered home with his hands in his trouser pockets, drunk and hungover at the same time. Back home, he saw in the hall mirror that he had a cut on his forehead and completely empty eyes. He fell into bed like a log beside Sara, waking her up. She got up, taking her duvet with her, hissing that he stank of drink.
Three hours later Lars woke up with the morning sun in his face. Sara was gone, her side of the bed unmade as usual, he hated that. He pulled the covers over his head and tried to get back to sleep, but he had ants cra
wling around deep in his soul.
He drank his morning coffee with trembling hands, trying to pull himself together and remember who he was. He found nothing, it was empty, everything was gone.
“I still want you to help me!” Sophie called upstairs, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.
“Coming!” he called, sounding irritated.
She looked at the towel, decided it was too old to hang back up, and threw it in the bin.
Albert came downstairs as she was putting aluminum foil over the steaming potato gratin. She pointed at a gift box on the table. Alongside it was wrapping paper, tape, and some yellow ribbon. Albert sat down and started cutting the paper.
She moved the ovenproof dish from the stove to the counter, hurrying when the heat started to come through the oven gloves and letting the dish drop the last half inch onto the counter.
Albert measured the paper against the box. “Who’s it for?”
“Tom.”
“Why?”
“It’s his birthday.”
He started folding the paper neatly but applied the tape messily. She got annoyed and took over, doing it properly … then regretted doing so.
They drove the few miles to her childhood home. The thick green foliage made everything feel lush and verdant. The houses were surrounded by oaks, birches, and apple trees. She liked the way the evening sun was casting a golden glow over everything.
On the drive leading up to the house they were met by Rat running toward them. Rat was a little white dog, no one knew what breed, it was just small and white, and barked at anything that moved, and occasionally bit someone.
“Run it over,” Albert said in a low voice.
Neither of them liked the dog.
“Would you be sorry if Rat died?” he went on.
Sophie smiled without replying.
“Would you?” he asked again.
She shook her head and Albert smiled at her conspiratorially.
Tom was mixing drinks in the sitting room—Sinatra was singing Jobim songs.
“Hello, Tom.”
With his mouth full of olives he gestured to Sophie to wait, but she didn’t. Yvonne came to greet them. She kissed Albert on the forehead, then pressed Sophie’s lower arm and disappeared. She had white sneakers on her feet, as usual. At the age of seventy, Yvonne still moved as though she thought of herself as an extremely attractive woman.
Jane’s boyfriend, Jesus, from Argentina, was sitting on the rug in front of the television, watching something with the sound turned down.
“Hello, Jesus.”
She pronounced it Hessuss. He said “Sophie” in a friendly tone, then went on watching the television, cross-legged.
Jesus was different. She didn’t know how, exactly, but every time she found herself judging his behavior, or trying to figure out his rather odd attitude, she turned out to be wrong. Jane was happy with him in a way that Sophie didn’t understand but was jealous of. They left each other alone, and when they met up they smiled at each other. Whether it was when they were reunited after Jesus had been in Buenos Aires for three months or when they met in the kitchen after she’d been on the phone, the smiles were always the same, so big and wide that they both looked like they were about to start laughing.
Sophie went into the kitchen. Jane was sitting at the table trying to slice vegetables on a chopping board. She was a hopeless cook. Sophie put the potato gratin that she had brought with her in the oven, kissed her sister’s hair, and sat down beside her. She looked on as Jane made heavy work of dicing a cucumber. The resulting pieces were all shapes and sizes, and Jane swallowed her frustration and pushed the chopping board across to her big sister, who took over.
“Where have you been?” Sophie asked.
Usually at dinner on Sundays there was Sophie and Albert and Sophie’s mom, Yvonne, and Tom. Jane and Jesus came when they came, there was no pattern to their visits, only joy when they did show up.
“Nowhere, here and there,” she replied, shaking her head. “I don’t know.”
Jane leaned her chin on her hand, half lying over the table, resting on her elbow. She always sat like that. The posture seemed to have a calming effect on her. She watched Sophie as she sliced vegetables on the chopping board.
“Look at me,” she said.
Sophie turned toward Jane.
“Have you done something?”
“Like what?”
“With the way you look?”
Sophie shook her head. “No, why?”
Jane was staring at her intently. “You look … more relaxed, happier.”
Sophie shrugged.
“Has something happened?” Jane wondered.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you seeing someone?”
Sophie shook her head. Jane was still looking at her.
“Sophie?” she whispered.
“Well, maybe.”
“Maybe?”
Sophie met Jane’s look.
“So who is he, then?”
“A patient … a former patient,” Sophie said quietly. “But we’re not seeing each other, not like that.”
“So how are you seeing each other?”
Sophie smiled. “I don’t know.…”
She swept the vegetables into a large bowl. It looked messy, she felt like trying to tidy it up but stopped herself. She hated anything that could be seen as showing what a good girl she was when she was at her mother’s. Jane was still sitting in the same position, watching Sophie as she worked. Suddenly she jumped as she remembered something.
“Of course, God, we’ve been in Buenos Aires! I don’t know what’s up with me, I’m all over the place. We went to visit Jesus’s family. We got back on … Thursday.”
She hesitated over which day, then decided that that was right. Jane was a fairly chaotic character. At first glance it was easy to assume she was playacting, but that wasn’t the case at all. She was disorganized and occasionally far too happy, which sometimes alarmed the people around her, who tended to judge her as being rather false. But those who weren’t scared by her tended to like her, the way people who aren’t scared usually do.
They sat down at the table, Yvonne and Tom at either end, the others spread out around it. As usual, Yvonne had set the table nicely, she was good at that, one of her better skills. Dinner passed much as it usually did: small talk, laughter, and silent concentration from everyone present, to make sure that things were kept in check and no old injustices or misunderstandings bubbled up.
After dinner Sophie and Jane settled into a couple of easy chairs on the veranda. Jesus disappeared into the library, where he sank into an English book. Albert was upstairs playing cards with Tom to the sound of the Goldberg Variations, which Tom put on the worn-out old gramophone whenever he got the chance.
In their wicker chairs under the infrared heater, the sisters drank their way to intoxication and chatted into the small hours. To start with Yvonne had eavesdropped on them, pretending to be busy with something just inside the terrace door. They caught her red-handed a few times, but she refused to admit she was listening—she was a bad liar. Eventually Tom came and told her to leave them in peace.
Yvonne had been a bit neurotic throughout Sophie’s childhood. Her hysteria had avalanched after Georg’s death. She went from smiling housewife to disillusioned egotist, dragging them all along with her. Sophie and Jane were permitted to mourn their father, as long as they recognized that Yvonne was bearing the greatest loss. Her mood swung from anger and depression to sudden demands for understanding and way too much love from her daughters. Jane and Sophie didn’t know what to do, and their relationship with their mother became distorted, based upon a somewhat confused image of consideration and care. One consequence of this was the deterioration of their own relationship. Yvonne’s unhealthy behavior became a barrier between the sisters. They seldom shared any happiness or laughter, and spent most of their time alone in their rooms and competing for their mother’s attention.
>
Then Tom showed up in their lives. They moved into his house a few blocks away. A larger villa with big windows, impressive paintings on large walls. Thick, white down quilts on big beds made of cherrywood. Tom drove them to school in his green Jaguar with pale-brown leather seats, and a vague smell of tobacco smoke and aftershave. Yvonne spent her days at home, painting talentless pictures. She changed over time, emerging from her grief and becoming something like a mother again, but still focused on not giving up her role as victim, to which she had become so attached.
Over the years, once Sophie was grown up and Yvonne reached her fifties, Sophie started to like her again, which she hadn’t for a very long time. Occasionally Yvonne could be wise, human, and warm all at the same time—which was when Sophie recognized her. But all too often she behaved as if an old, unresolved aspect of herself was trying to get out—full of hysteria, irritation, and an unhealthy curiosity, a fear of being left out, of losing some invisible and unfathomable sense of control. A few weeks ago she had gone around to Sophie’s, had a cup of tea, and asked Sophie how she was. The question had come out of nowhere and had left her bewildered. Out of habit, Sophie had replied that everything was fine, but she could see from the way her mother looked that the question was genuine. That made her stop and think, and without realizing why she had started to cry. Yvonne had held her in her arms. It had felt simultaneously nice and wrong, but she let herself stay, close to her mother, crying over something she didn’t understand. Maybe it was just some sort of tension inside her letting go, or maybe Yvonne had realized something that only a mother could understand. Sophie had felt lighter afterward. They never spoke about it again.
The heating and the wine they had drunk warmed them from different directions, creating a wonderfully centered concentration of heat. They shared a pack of cigarettes they had found in the freezer. Yvonne had always kept her supplies there, and that was where the sisters had always stolen them from. They chain-smoked until the pack was gone, then ordered a taxi, which arrived with another pack and two bags of salt licorice. Tom wandered past and clucked at the fact that they had drunk a bottle of wine he had been saving for years. They burst into laughter, gasping for breath. Then they got sentimental as they remembered summers when they were little, the smell of toasted bread and tea in the kitchen of their summer cottage, their days by the shore and Grandma’s gentle questions that always seemed designed to strengthen their self-confidence. They talked about their dad, then sat in silence for a while. That always happened when they talked about him, as they were left wondering mutely why he had died and left them so early. Georg had been kind, handsome, and safe, that was how Sophie remembered him. She often wondered if he would still be the same if he had lived. Georg Lantz had died in a hotel in New York during a business trip, dropping down dead in the shower. She only remembered the good things about him. His laughter, his jokes, and how thoughtful he was—how big and relaxed, and that attractive thing she always noticed in older men who had never let themselves be tempted into the murky swamp of bitterness. As if he radiated a desire for things to be well, as if that had been his gift to his wife, his two girls, and God. She still missed him badly, and sometimes talked to him when she felt lonely.
The Andalucian Friend Page 9
