Sun and Shadow

by Ake Edwardson

  “Dance band,” he said with a laugh.

  “At least they have somewhere to go.”

  “I’d prefer to stay outside.”

  “Even so.”

  Groups of people were dotted around the square outside Femman. Two police officers strolled across to where a street musician was playing the guitar. He didn’t stop playing just because they were standing over him. He started to sing. One of the officers, the older one, seemed to be swaying in time to the music. The singer increased his volume.

  “He sounds as if he’s in pain,” Patrik said.

  “It’s meant to sound like that,” Maria said. “It’s something from Spain. Flamingo, they call it.”

  “Flamenco. It’s called Flamenco.”

  “I didn’t think you knew about stuff like that.”

  “But it sounds as if he’s hurt himself.”

  “Just imagine being able to fly off there.”

  “A last-minute package to the Canary Islands.”

  “Have you been there?”

  “We were all there, the whole family ... before Mom moved out.”

  “What was it like?”

  “When Mom moved out? Just let it drop.”

  “I meant the Canary Islands.”

  Patrik paused, listening to the musician, who had launched into a new tune that sounded identical to the previous one.

  He could tell her about a swimming pool and how he’d dived from a little stone ledge where there was a palm tree and the pool was just one story below the balcony of the apartment they’d stayed in. His little sister had had water wings and his mom had walked beside her in the blue water, laughing. He’d been diving and swimming all day long and in the afternoons they’d played bingo. He’d been swimming after dark as well, and demonstrated a new dive to his parents as they’d sat at a poolside table with his sister. Watch this, he’d shouted, and they’d clapped. It was nearly as hot in the evenings as during the day, but back home in Sweden there was snow everywhere. He’d held his father’s hand.

  But there was no little sister, no mom, no trip to the Canary Islands, no swimming pool, no palm tree, no bingo. Had never been. He used to dream, sometimes, dream aloud. Maria knew nothing about that. She could visit whatever islands she wanted.

  “There was nothing special about the Canary Islands,” he said.

  Morelius was standing outside Harley‘s, waiting for Bartram, who’d gone inside to chat with the owner. Morelius stamped his feet. It had turned colder, and felt much chillier and drier after only a couple of hours.

  “It’ll take place tomorrow,” said Bartram as he came out. “They’re not thinking of changing it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Maybe that’s just as well.”

  “Does it matter when the Harley-Davidson club have their party?”

  “I suppose not.”

  “Same high jinks no matter when.”

  “Pretty girls, though,” Bartram said. “They always have some top-class babe with ‘em.”

  “Don’t you include them among the members?”

  “They’re hangers-on,” said Bartram. “Attractive hangers-on.” He stamped his feet. “I wouldn’t mind an HD chick to warm me up right now.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Get her inside all this leather.” He stroked his leather jacket. “Get down to the basics. Get what I mean, Simon? The basics.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “Now what’s the matter?”

  “I’m fed up with your chatter.”

  “Relax a bit, for God’s sake! It’s a ...” But Bartram shut up as he saw two young people approaching along the Avenue. They were only six feet away now. “Ah, some old friends! Good evening.”

  “Good evening,” Patrik said.

  “So you’re out walking again,” Morelius said.

  “It’s a free country,” said Maria.

  “Of course it is,” said Bartram. ‘Aren’t you cold?“

  “No,” said Maria, but Morelius could see her red nose and earlobes and her bare hands stuck into her pockets.

  ‘Are you on your way home?“

  “Whose home?”

  “Suit yourselves,” Morelius said. “We’re just about to pick up a car and could give you a lift.”

  “The night is yet young,” Patrik said. He’d heard that somewhere and thought it sucked so much, he just wanted to say it. Morelius looked at Bartram but made no comment.

  “It is indeed,” said Bartram. “Have you something special in mind?”

  “We’d thought of going to a pub,” said Maria.

  “You’re too young for that.”

  “Exactly. That’s just it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s nowhere we can get into.”

  “You don’t want to be sitting around in pubs.”

  “I’m not just talking about pubs. I’m talking about places. Anywhere. Any place where young people can get in and hang out.”

  “Hang out?”

  “Hang out. With other people.”

  “Okay,” Morelius said.

  “But it’s no good,” Patrik said. “There isn’t anywhere.”

  “I’m with you on that,” Morelius said.

  “What are you going to do on New Year’s Eve?” asked Bartram.

  “What?”

  “The night of the century. Of the millennium. Will we be seeing you up at Skansen?”

  “Eh?”

  “Won’t you be there? We’ll be there.”

  “You mean you’ll be working on New Year’s Eve?”

  “Of course. Both Morelius and I are on duty then, and we’ll be up at Skansen when the big moment comes.”

  “Jesus Christ! Working on New Year’s Eve!”

  “Why not? Half of Gothenburg will be up on that hillside, in any case. The younger half, at least. And we’ll be getting paid for being there.” He turned to Morelius. “We’re in luck, aren’t we, Simon?”

  “We certainly are.”

  Patrik looked at Maria and shook his head.

  “We’d better get going,” he said.

  “Go home and get warm,” Morelius said.

  “It’s a free country,” Patrik said. He enjoyed saying that, because it sucked.

  Bergenhem had finished his late shift but hadn’t gone straight home. Instead he’d driven southward and played the fourth CD from Springsteen’s Tracks, happy with you in my arms, happy with you in my heart. Last night Martina had whispered something and stroked his arm, but he’d pretended to be asleep. She’d turned away, and he really did fall asleep in the end. He’d tried not to think.

  The bay glimmered over to the right as he drove through Askim. He kept on straight ahead. Traffic was lighter as the city started to peter out. Lower, richer. The detached houses twinkled like oases as he drove past, tires singing. The last of the buses pulled up at stops that seemed deserted in the darkness, happy, darling, come the dark, happy when I taste your kiss, I’m happy in a love like this, and Bergenhem listened as he drove. It was like listening to a language he didn’t understand but nevertheless could follow every word.

  He thought about his child. He thought about his wife. He took the Billdal slip road and followed the minor roads as far as the sea, parked, and got out of the car. The lights from a fishing boat bobbed up and down around the islands in the southern archipelago. All around him were the outlines of beached sailing boats. More lights twinkled out to sea, and in the distance was a broader light that could well have been the midnight ferry to Fredrikshavn.

  Before long its crossing would be labeled a New Year’s cruise. A new millennium greeted in international waters, Bergenhem thought. Water. He squatted down and dipped his hand into the water: it felt like a glove of ice. I’m in deep water, he thought. I really must sort this out.

  Back on the main road he noticed a patrol car parked at a bus stop. The driver was standing beside his car. Bergenhem couldn’t see anybody else in the car as he drove past. In his
rearview mirror he could see the officer gazing out over the houses and treetops. Maybe he had a cigarette in his hand. We all need a break now and then, Bergenhem thought. He had the impression at first that he recognized his colleague, but he wasn’t sure now. One thing was clear: it wasn’t somebody from the Frölunda station.

  There was a sudden hard pattering on his windshield: hail, which soon turned into snow, the first of the winter. Almost November. Springsteen was still singing: and honey I just wanna be back in your arms, back in your arms again. Bergenhem drove home and crept down between the cold sheets. Martina was asleep and he pretended to be as well.

  Winter’s head lolled onto his shoulder and he woke from his doze with a start.

  “Go and lie down on the guest bed,” his mother said.

  “I’m all right.”

  “He’s resting now.”

  Winter looked at his father’s face, which had lost what had remained of the color it had possessed when he first saw him in the hospital. That was three days ago, or was it four?

  How is he still managing to breathe? Winter went up to the bed. His father’s head was turned toward the window, but his eyes were closed. The outline of the mountain peaks was sketched against the sky. An airplane was descending toward Málaga. Winter thought of Sweden, and as he did so the mobile phone rang in his pocket. He strode quickly out into the corridor and answered.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Not good, I’m afraid. Worse.”

  “I’ll try to get there tomorrow.” His sister coughed, wheezed. She tried to say something, then tried again. “It was only one hundred and two this morning.”

  “You ought to be in the hospital. High temperatures like that are dangerous, Doctor.”

  “It’s a da ..., a da ...”

  “I beg your pardon? I can’t hear what you’re saying, Lotta.”

  “It’s a damn nuisance to be suffering from the flu of the century—no, the flu of the damn millennium—when Dad’s in the state he’s in.”

  Winter didn’t know what to say. The blue light coming from the corridor was faint, but, even so, brighter than that in his father’s room. It was reminiscent of a tunnel of ice.

  “Your temperature’s bound to go down,” he said, and could hear two nurses talking softly to each other at the office desk, where the light was different, warmer.

  “I think I’ll take some pills that will knock me out,” she said. “Make or break.”

  “You know best.”

  “The hell I do. But I’m not the important one now.” She started coughing, rasping, gasping for breath. She tried to say something, but coughed once more. “I might manage to say a few words to Mom.”

  “I’ll get her,” Winter said, going back into the room and handing the telephone to his mother.

  His father mumbled something and turned his head, and Winter could see that he was awake.

  NOVEMBER

  13

  The bank, Unicaja, had eventually received the money, two minutes before closing time, following three calls by Winter to his bank in Sweden: reference number, account number, Swift code. The bank did not accept payments in Spanish currency: Winter had no alternative but to pay the exchange fees.

  He missed the feeling of having a plastic card in his hand. The notes were new and stiff in the inside pocket of his jacket. He paused as he emerged from the bank and took stock, determined to avoid crowds of people.

  Another month, but it was still just as hot. That morning Salvador, his host at La Luna, had thrust his arms out wide and said something about el cielo azul. The blue sky, constantly hovering over the people who were desperate for some cooler weather.

  Winter stood outside the bank in the main street, Avenida Ricardo Soriano. He felt hungry, more so than at any time since he’d arrived here. He turned right and bumped into Alicia. She was alone. Perhaps it was she who stopped and spoke to him.

  “Have you sorted out your financial problems, Chief Inspector?”

  “I’ve just picked up the money from Sweden,” he said, pointing at the bank window.

  “That’s good.”

  “It makes things easier.”

  “Sí.”

  “Now I can afford to have lunch.”

  She checked her watch, but made no move to leave.

  “Don’t let me keep you,” Winter said.

  “I’ve just finished my shift,” she said.

  “I see.” Winter shuffled uneasily. “I’d better have lunch before I drive out to the hospital.”

  “Have you injured yourself as well, Chief Inspector?”

  “Please call me Erik. No, my father is seriously ill. That’s why I’m here.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” She looked as if she meant it. She was wearing a skirt today, black, and a brown blouse that seemed to be keeping the heat at bay, despite its color. Winter had noticed that Spanish women seemed to survive the heat better than the men, who appeared to bluster their way through the day. The women dealt with it rather more elegantly. “I hope everything turns out for the best.” She seemed to be thinking about something, turned to look in the direction she’d come from, then turned back to face him. “Did you have anywhere particular in mind for lunch?”

  “No ... I suppose I’ll head in that direction. That way leads to the Old Town, doesn’t it? I haven’t seen much of Marbella yet. The town itself, I mean.”

  Alicia looked at her watch again.

  ‘Anyway ... there we are,“ said Winter, making as if to leave.

  “There’s a good little restaurant a few minutes down the road. I can show you it, if you like.”

  “Have you had lunch yourself yet?”

  “No, not yet. But I usually just gulp down a sandwich when I get a moment.”

  “I’ll be happy to treat you if you’d be so kind as to show me this place you mentioned,” Winter said.

  It was in the Calle Tetuán and was called Sol y Sombra, specializing in fish and seafood. There were a few tables outside under parasols, and a large room that gave the impression of being cool, with white table-cloths and open windows facing the little pedestrian plaza.

  “What do you think?” Alicia asked.

  Winter noted a large glass counter with fish, prawns, and lan goustines on ice. Behind the counter was a proud-looking man with shiny black hair and a white shirt. A party of locals was sitting around one of the inside tables. A couple outside had just been served a bottle of white wine, now covered in condensation. It seemed to be hot everywhere, despite the parasols.

  “This looks ideal. I’d like to sit inside. What do you think?”

  “Okay.”

  They sat down and the man from behind the counter came with the menu and a jug of water.

  “I’d be grateful if you did the ordering,” Winter said.

  “Are you very hungry?”

  “Very.”

  ‘Appetizer and main course?“

  “Sounds good ... maybe something to pick at first.”

  “Wine?”

  “A glass, perhaps.”

  Alicia ordered, and they were served with a carafe of wine, a basket of rye bread, and a few large, green olives. Winter poured the wine, which tasted of sun and soil.

  “Do you work as an interpreter full time?”

  “Just now I do. I’m actually a grammar school teacher, but ... well, I got a bit fed up last year, and this is how it turned out.”

  “Do you live here?”

  “In Marbella, you mean? No, if only. But then somebody who’s just been robbed probably wouldn’t see it that way.”

  “Apart from that it seems to be ... a pleasant-enough town. Not all that many tourists. But it’s hardly high season.”

  “It’s pretty good in the high season as well. Unlike where I live, Torremolinos.”

  “Oh, Torremolinos.”

  “Do you know it?”

  “Everybody the world over must have heard of Torremolinos, surely? But I’ve never actually been there. Only seen
it from a distance.”

  “That’s the best way,” said Alicia. “That’s what everybody says, unfortunately.”

  “Is it really as bad as that?”

  “Worse. Maybe not the part where I live, but on the whole ... Some people call it Terrible Torrie, and that’s a good name—although most of the awfulness is their fault.”

  “Yes, I hear it’s very popular with the English.”

  “The tattooed and shaven members of the population, that is. They’re escorted from the airport by the Guardia Civil and taken to their hotels in armored cars.”

  Winter laughed, and coughed as some wine went down the wrong way. Alicia smiled.

  “And that’s only the start of their vacation,” she said.

  “And you live in the middle of all that?”

  ‘As I said, it’s not so bad where I live, overlooking an old fishing village called La Carihuela, a couple of miles outside the town. You can walk along the beach from there to Torrie. If you dare.“

  “But you work here.”

  “The police station is nicer here,” she said, taking a sip of wine. “The ... clientele as well,” she added, looking at Winter and smiling again.

  “My head’s more or less clean-shaven,” he said.

  “But I don’t see the half-gallon glass of beer and a portion of fish and chips on the table in front of you,” Alicia said.

  “What’s this?” Winter asked, indicating the two large plates the waiter had just put down on the table between them.

  “Fish and chips,” said Alicia with a laugh. “But you’ll get something else in a minute or two.”

  Morelius looked hard at his deep-fried prawns, but they seemed to have taken root in the foil container: he threw them in the trash bin. Everyone on television was going on and on about the millennium. Nobody had ever heard that word until a year ago.

  If your work gets under your skin so much that you need to talk to a priest, you can’t be suitable for the job. You have to have a temperament that can cope with it. A surgeon at a cancer clinic can’t demand counseling after he’s been operating and perhaps speaking to a patient.