He saw that she intended to say more, but stopped, and started again:
“Do you remember that we talked about my grandfather?”
“Yes …”
It’s true. Now I remember her grandfather. Even his name.
“John,” said Winter. “John Osvald.”
“You remember.”
“It’s not so different from your name.”
She didn’t smile; there was no smile in that face, and he remembered that too, that expression.
“Do you remember that he disappeared during the war?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
“No. Your grandfather had to take shelter in some harbor in England during the war. I remember you told me that. And that he disappeared at sea later. During a fishing trip from England.”
“Scotland. He was in Scotland. They had to seek shelter in Aberdeen at first.”
“Scotland.”
“My dad wasn’t even a year old when he left,” she said. “The last time. It was in the autumn of 1939.”
Winter didn’t say anything. He remembered that too. The teardrop that suddenly burned on his shoulder. Was that how it was? Yes. He had felt it. She had told him about it then and there were still tears. Perhaps they were her father’s tears most of all. He could understand but he couldn’t really understand, not then. It would be different now, if he had heard it now. He was someone else now.
“My dad’s brother hadn’t been born when they made the final journey. He was born three months later.”
A brother. He couldn’t remember that. They hadn’t spoken about a brother.
“He died of rickets when he was four,” said Johanna. “My little uncle.”
Suddenly she opened the small pack she had carried on her back and took out a letter. She held it up expectantly. A distance. She kept that letter at a distance. Winter had seen it many times. Letters that flew to people, like strange birds, black birds. Letters with messages no one wanted to have. Sometimes the addressees came to him with the message. Who said that he wanted to have them?
“What is it?” he said.
“A letter,” she answered.
“I see that,” he said, and smiled, and maybe she smiled too, or else it was just the light that moved around the room in an unpredictable way. The Indian summer out there was starting to worry about the future.
“A letter arrived,” she said. “From there. This letter.”
“From there? From Scotland?”
She nodded and leaned forward and placed the envelope in front of him on the desk.
“It’s postmarked in Inverness.”
“Mmhmm.”
“There’s no return address on the back.”
“Is it signed?”
“No. Open it and you’ll see.”
“No white powder?” said Winter.
She might have smiled.
“No powder.”
He took the letter out of the envelope. The paper was lined, thin and cheap; it looked as though it had been torn from an ordinary notebook. The words were printed, two lines in English:
THINGS ARE NOT WHAT THEY LOOK LIKE.
JOHN OSVALD IS NOT WHAT HE SEEMS TO BE.
Winter looked at the front of the envelope. A stamp with the British monarch on it. A postmark. An address:
OSVALD FAMILY
GOTHENBURG ARCHIPELAGO
SWEDEN
“It made it to you,” he said, and looked at Johanna Osvald. “All the way out in the archipelago.”
“Clever mail sorters at the terminal.”
Winter read the message once more. Things are not what they look like. No, he was aware of that; it practically summed up his opinion of detective work. John Osvald is not what he seems to be. Seems to be, is thought to be. He is thought to be dead. Isn’t he dead?
“He has never officially been declared deceased,” she said, although he hadn’t asked. “At least not by us.”
“But by the authorities?”
“Yes.”
“But you thi—”
“What are we supposed to think?” she interrupted. “Of course we hope, we’ve always had hope, but the boat sank out in the North Sea. No one has been recovered, as far as I know.”
“As far as you know?”
“Well, it was during the war. They couldn’t search without risk, or whatever you say. But we … my grandmother, Dad, none of us have ever heard anything about Grandfather being alive. Or that anyone else from that boat was found.”
“When did it happen?” asked Winter.
“The accident?”
“Yes.”
“Not long after they had to seek shelter after they made their way through the mines to the Scottish coast. The war had begun, of course. And the boat disappeared in 1940. It was in the spring.”
“How old was your grandfather then?”
“Twenty-one.”
“Twenty-one? With a year-old son?”
“Our family marries early, has children early. My dad was twenty-two when I was born.”
Winter counted in his head.
“In 1960?”
“Yes.”
“That’s when I was born, too.”
“I know,” she said. “We talked about it, don’t you remember?”
“No.”
She sat quietly.
“I broke that trend.”
“Sorry?”
“Marry young, have children young. I broke that.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t get married and I didn’t have children.”
Winter noticed that she spoke in the past tense. But she looks younger than she is, he thought. Women today have children when they’re older. I know nothing about her life now.
“How are things with your mom?”
“She’s gone. She died three years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
Her eyes slid toward the window. He recognized that look. In profile, she looked like that young girl on the slab of stone, in the sunshine.
“When did you receive this letter?” he asked, holding up the envelope. He thought about how his fingerprints were on it now, along with tens of others from both sides of the North Sea.
“Two weeks ago.”
“Why did you wait until now to come here?” And what do you actually want me to do? he thought.
“My dad went there ten days ago, or nine. To Inverness.”
“Why?”
“Why? Is it so strange? He was upset. Of course. He wanted to know.” She looked at Winter now. “He took a copy of the letter and the envelope with him.”
What did he think he would find? Winter thought. A sender?
“It isn’t the first time,” she said. “He … we have tried to investigate, of course, but it hasn’t led anywhere.”
“But how would he be able to find anything new with only this to help him?” asked Winter.
She didn’t answer, not at first. He saw that she was considering her next words. He was used to seeing that. Sometimes he could even see the words that were on their way, but not this time. She moved her eyes from him to the window and back to him and then to the window again.
“I think he got a new message,” she said now, with her eyes turned away from him. “Maybe a telephone call.”
“Did he say so?”
“No. But that’s what I think.” She looked at the letter, which Winter had put back on the desk. “Something more than that.”
“Why do you think that?”
“It was his decision, sort of. He didn’t say anything in particular when the letter arrived. Other than being upset, of course. We all were. But then, suddenly, he wanted to go. Right away. And he went.”
“And you say that was ten days ago?”
“Yes.”
“Has he found anything, then?”
Johanna turned to Winter.
“He has contacted me three times. M
ost recently four days ago.”
“Yes?”
“The last time, he said he was going to meet someone.”
“Who?”
“He didn’t say. But he was going to contact me afterward. As soon as he knew more.” She leaned forward in Winter’s guest chair. “He sounded, well, almost agitated.”
“How did it go, then?”
“Like I said, it was the last time I talked to him. There’s been no news since.” He saw fear in her face. “He hasn’t contacted me since then. That’s why I’m here.”
4
Aneta Djanali was back in Kortedala. It was a rainy day, and suddenly it was colder than early spring. Maybe autumn had arrived.
It seemed like the masses of houses on Befälsgatan and Beväringsgatan were marching away in the fog, or maybe it was like they were floating. They’re like battleships of stone, she thought. It’s like a living drawing, a film.
She suddenly thought of Pink Floyd, “Another Brick in the Wall.” The walls enclosed the people here, led them into the fog.
We don’t need no education.
But that’s what everyone needed. Education. A language. Communication, she thought.
She parked on one of the season streets, maybe spring, maybe autumn. She didn’t see a street sign. She walked toward one of the walls. Anette Lindsten lived behind it. It was a name that somehow fit in here, in this environment. Lindsten, “linden stone.” It was a very Swedish name, a compound of things in nature. That’s how it is with most Swedish last names, she thought. Everything has something to do with nature. Something soft and light, along with something hard and heavy. Something compound. Like the hovering houses. Stones in the wind.
She thought of the eyes in the crack of the door; they had also been like stone. Had she spoken with her husband? Really had a conversation? Had it been possible? Did he have a language? A language to speak with? Aneta knew one thing: A person who lacked any other method of expression often resorted to violence. Words were replaced by fists. In this way, violence was the ultimate form of communication, the most extreme, the most horrible.
Had he hit Anette? Had he even threatened her? Who was “he,” really? And who was she?
Aneta went in through the doors, which were propped open. A pickup with something that looked like a rented cover stood parked outside. She could see the corner of a sofa in the truck bed; two dining chairs, a bureau. A paper bag that contained green plants. Someone is coming or going, she thought.
A man in his sixties came out of the elevator with a packing case and walked past her and put it on the truck bed. Someone is going, she thought.
The man walked back and into the elevator, where she was waiting with the door open.
“Fifth floor for me,” he said.
“I’m going there, too,” she said, and pushed the button.
There were three apartments on the fifth floor. When they came out into the stairwell, she saw that the door to Anette Lindsten’s apartment was wide open.
That was a change from last time.
She realized that the woman was on her way out.
The man went in through the door. She could see boxes in the hall, clothes on hangers, more chairs. Some rolled-up rugs. She heard faint music, a radio tuned to one of the local commercial stations. Britney Spears. Always Britney Spears.
Aneta hesitated at the door. Should she ring the bell or call out? The man had turned around in the hall. She could see into the kitchen, which seemed completely empty. She didn’t see anyone else.
“Yes?” said the man. “Can I help you with something?”
He wasn’t unfriendly. He looked tired, but it was as though his tiredness didn’t come from lugging things down the stairs. His hair was completely white and she had seen the sweat on the back of his shirt, like a faint V-sign.
“I’m looking for Anette Lindsten,” she said.
A younger man came out from a room holding a black plastic bag with bedding sticking out of it.
“What is it?” he said, before the older man had time to answer. The younger man might have been her own age. He didn’t look friendly. He had given a start when he saw her.
“She’s looking for Anette,” the older man said. “Anette Lindsten.”
Aneta would later remember that she had wondered why he said her last name.
“Who are you?” asked the younger man.
She explained who she was, showed her ID. She asked who they were.
“This is Anette’s father, and I’m her brother. What does this concern?”
“I want to talk to Anette about it.”
“I think we know why you’re here, but that’s over with now so you don’t need to talk to her anymore,” the brother said.
“I’ve never talked to her,” said Aneta.
“And now it isn’t necessary,” he said. “Okay?”
The father cleared his throat.
“What is it?” said the brother, looking at him.
“I think you should lower your voice, Peter.”
The father turned toward her.
“I’m Anette’s dad,” he said, nodding from a distance in the hall. “And this is my son, Peter.” He gestured with his arm. “And we’re in the process of moving Anette’s things, as you can see.” He seemed to look at her with transparent eyes. “So, in other words, Anette is moving away from here.”
“Where to?” asked Aneta.
“What does that matter?” said Peter Lindsten. “Isn’t it best that as few people know as possible? It wouldn’t really be so good if all the damn authorities came running to the new place too, would it?”
“Have they, then?” said Aneta. “Before?”
“No,” he answered in the illogical manner that she had become used to hearing in this job. “But it’ll fu—” the brother began, but he was interrupted by his father.
“I think we should have a cup of coffee and talk about this properly,” he said, looking at her. He looked like a real father, someone who never wants to relinquish control. At that very moment, at that second, she thought of her own father’s shrinking figure in the half light in the white hut on the African desert steppe. The darkness inside, the white light outside, a world in black and white.
He wasn’t letting her go. She was the one who had relinquished his control.
“We don’t have time,” said Peter Lindsten.
“Put those things down and put on the coffee,” said the father calmly, and the son put down the sack he had been holding during the entire conversation and followed orders.
Winter got two cups of coffee and placed one in front of Johanna Osvald. She seemed determined and relieved at the same time, as though she had triumphed over something by coming there.
“I didn’t know where I should go,” she said.
“Do you know where he’s staying over there?” Winter asked.
“Where he was staying, at least. I called there and they said he had checked out. Four days ago.” She looked up without having taken a drink from her cup. “It’s a bed and breakfast. I don’t remember what it’s called right now. But I have it written down.” She started to look in her backpack. “I have the notebook here somewhere.” She looked up again.
“Where is it?” Winter asked. “The bed and breakfast?”
“In Inverness. Didn’t I say that?”
Inverness, he thought. The bridge over the river Ness.
“And he hasn’t contacted you since then?” he asked.
“No.”
“Did he tell you he was going to check out?”
“No.”
“What did he say, then? When he called the last time.”
“Like I said before. He was going to meet someone.”
“Who?”
“He didn’t say, I told you.”
“Did you ask?”
“Yes, of course I did. But he just said that he was going to check something and that he would call later.”
“What was he going to check?”
“He didn’t say, and no, I didn’t ask. That’s how it is with my dad; he hasn’t ever said much, especially not on the phone.”
“But it had to do with his disappearance? That is, the question of your grandfather’s disappearance?”
“Yes, I assumed it did. It’s obvious, isn’t it? What else could it be?”
“What else did he say?” Winter asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You must have talked about something else. Other than that he was going to meet someone who might have had a connection to your grandfather.”
“No. I asked how things were going in general. He said it was raining.” Winter thought she gave a small smile. “But that’s not really unusual for Scotland, is it?”
“Was he calling from a cell phone? From the hotel? From a bar or a café?”
“I don’t actually know. I assumed he was calling from …” She had a notebook in her hand now; it was open. “… from this place, it’s called Glen Islay Bed and Breakfast.” She looked at him. “Ross Avenue, Inverness. The street is called Ross Avenue. I assume he was calling from there.”
Glen Islay, thought Winter. It sounds like a brand of whisky. I recognize it, but it’s not whisky.
“Why do you assume your father called from there?” he asked.
“He might have mentioned it, now that I think about it. And anyway, he doesn’t have a cell phone.”
So there are still people who aren’t cellified, Winter thought. In my next life I’ll be one of them.
“I tried to send my cell along with him, but he refused,” said Johanna. “Said that it wouldn’t work and then he’d just get frustrated on his trip.”
“He had a point there,” said Winter.
“In any case, he hasn’t made any sort of contact since then,” she said.
“Is it really that long a time?” Winter asked.
“How do you mean?”
“Four days. After all, you did wait four days to become worried. It could—”
“What do you mean?” she interrupted. “Like I wasn’t worried the whole time. But as I just said, my father is not the type to call every day. But finally I became worried enough on top of my normal worrying that I called Glen Is … Glen Is …” She broke off and started to cry.
Winter felt immobile, like a stone. I’m an idiot, he thought. And this is something I can’t really handle. It suddenly feels personal. Now I have to find a way out.
Sail of Stone Page 3
