The Fire Dance

by Helene Tursten

  Gisela smiled in return and in the harsh light from the ceiling lights, Irene could see thin lines spread from the corners of her eyes like rays from the sun. Irene suspected that Gisela was about forty years old, but could easily be mistaken for twenty-five.

  “If you want Marcelo, you have to come by later in the day. He rarely arrives here before two in the afternoon. Often later.”

  “But he has to be here in time to teach class, right? He is an instructor here,” Irene said, puzzled.

  “Yes, indeed, but we’ve scheduled his classes as late in the day as possible. Often in the evenings, in fact. You see, he’s from South America—Brazil.”

  Gisela’s expression indicated that she thought that should explain everything, but Irene didn’t get it.

  “I know he’s Brazilian, but why would that keep him from giving lessons during the day?”

  “Because he’s Brazilian,” Gisela repeated. She rolled her eyes and, laughing slightly, continued, “Marcelo has no sense of time. It’s like the clock has no meaning for him. He just wanders in whenever he feels like it.”

  “It must be really difficult to have an instructor like that on the staff,” Irene exclaimed.

  “In the beginning, we fussed about it, but no more. He’s usually here by the time his classes are supposed to start, and even though they’re in the afternoons and evenings, they’re full. The students love him.”

  “What kind of dance does he teach?”

  “South American. He teaches students from the school and the House of Dance, but he also has classes for the general public. Salsa, merengue and lambada are especially popular. Marcelo has also given a class in focho, which is a Brazilian variation of foxtrot. Though, to be honest, I don’t see much resemblance to our European foxtrot. That course appeals to a group we usually don’t see here: the retirees. The class is extraordinarily popular and the participants idolize Marcelo. He flirts with the ladies and jokes around with the men, and when they leave, they look twenty years younger! It’s truly amazing, especially when you realize he hardly speaks Swedish.”

  She laughed heartily at the same time she opened the top drawer of her desk. She rummaged around and handed a brochure to Irene. It was in a language Irene did not understand. Capoeira. Boa vontade. Mestre Canelão. Nata—Brasil.

  Above the text was a photograph of two muscular men with bare chests and wide, white pants. One of them was upside down, balancing on one hand and aiming a kick at the other man while managing to keep the rest of his body in the air. The other man was dodging the kick by bending deeply at the knees so that his body was on a level plane with a hand on the floor behind him for balance. Irene knew, after many years of training in martial arts, that these men were strong and the kick would have been deadly if it had hit its mark.

  “And if that’s not enough, he wants to start a group in capoeira,” Gisela said, with a nod to the brochure.

  “But this doesn’t look like dancing at all,” Irene protested.

  “Oh, it’s a kind of dance. And then again, it isn’t.”

  “How so?”

  Gisela seemed to think for a moment and then said, “Let me show you.”

  Before Irene could say another word, Gisela stood up and led the way to the door. They walked down the stairs and into the hallway. Gisela opened the glass doors that closed off the rest of the building, and they passed through. The smell of sweat and the sound of rhythmic African drumbeats let Irene know they were heading toward the practice rooms.

  They stood in front of a closed door, now, and from within the room, Irene could hear a wailing stringed instrument above the drums.

  Gisela pressed down on the door handle and they walked into a spacious training room. A group—two girls and four boys—was warming up in front of one of the mirrored walls.

  The dark-skinned young man Irene had seen in the cafeteria had shed his knit Jamaican cap and no longer appeared at all tired. Hundreds of small braids hung down his back. Whenever he moved his head, the wooden beads at the end of each braid clicked softly. Like the men pictured on the school brochure, he was bare-chested and wore wide, white pants. He was in great shape. As Irene later learned, the man was Felipe Medina.

  The girl with the pink braids was warming up next to him. She wore white jazz pants and a lime green top. The girl was as thin as Irene had guessed when she’d seen her in the cafeteria, but now the girl’s muscles were apparent beneath her pale skin.

  The warm-up was different than what Irene was used to with her jiujitsu. The music was upbeat and the movements were swifter. Irene watched as the music segued to something smoother, and everyone in the group turned upside down to stand on their heads. Felipe, maintaining his headstand, let his legs fall into a split, while the girl in the pink braids kept hers straight in the air. The entire group remained upside down for quite a few minutes. The tempo increased, and they abandoned their positions and began to roll around on the floor, moving faster and faster as the music became more frenzied. The bare chests of the boys glistened with sweat.

  Then, as if a secret sign were given, they formed a semicircle and began to clap their hands in time with the music.

  Felipe Medina and one of the boys stepped out of the semicircle to face each other and began to move in what appeared to Irene to be an advanced kata. They changed positions at a lightning pace. Irene recognized much of their basic technique, but at the same time she could see a great deal of difference between capoeira and jiujitsu. In capoeira, there was no bodily contact. Like karate, the blows were made into the air. Of course, Irene knew there were full contact karate competitions, seldom held, because any physical damage would be serious. Powerful kicks were another similarity between karate and capoeira. Periodically, Felipe rose into the air and spun his legs like the blades of a helicopter. Irene could see that the power behind a kick like that could be deadly. Other movements were pure acrobatics, yet everything followed the beat of the music. It was dance, but then again, it wasn’t, just as Gisela had said.

  Gisele and Irene left the capoeira practitioners and returned to the hallway. The beat of the drums still echoed in Irene’s ears.

  “I understand what you meant when you said it was more than just dance,” Irene said.

  Gisela Bagge nodded and smiled. “Capoeira is an old African dance style. Slaves sold to plantations in Brazil kept up the tradition, and so that the slave owners would not forbid it, they said that it was nothing more than a traditional African folk dance. The name capoeira derives from an indigenous language of Brazil. It means bush. When the slaves escaped, they hid in the bushes, and some local tribes told the masters that they were in the capoeira. The dance is alive and well in Brazil, and it’s even become popular as a martial art. Now it’s also starting to come to Europe. It’s a good sport for dancers because there are so many dance movements in it.”

  “Can Marcelo do capoeira?”

  “Yes. He offered an intensive course this past summer. That’s why Felipe and those boys became so good so quickly. On the other hand, all of them had dance training from the get-go.”

  They entered the cafeteria, and they each picked up a paper mug of coffee. Irene withstood the temptation to throw a five-krona piece into the machine vending various pastries. She was overwhelmed by the same feeling she’d had fifteen years ago when she first met Angelika, as if she were size XXXL. On the other hand, anyone could feel hefty beside the ethereal Gisela.

  They walked back to her office. Irene put her mug down on the desk and blew her fingertips. “I still have quite a few questions. Do you have time to talk?”

  “Sure. I have a meeting at ten o’clock, but I’m at your service until then. Lilly will take my phone calls so we won’t be disturbed.”

  “Thanks. Tell me, how did Marcelo end up here at the House of Dance?”

  “He came here just over a year ago. The students wanted a course devoted to salsa, which is still quite popular. An acquaintance of mine in Oslo knew Marcelo, who had made a na
me for himself as a dance instructor over there. I managed to lure him here and he felt at home with us. Last semester he commuted between here and Oslo, but he stayed here in Göteborg this semester. Sophie had a great deal to do with that. Marcelo felt at home in the space he rented from her.”

  Irene felt this was the best opening to ask an important question. “Do you know if she and Marcelo were a couple?”

  Gisela gave Irene a long look before she replied, “Both Marcelo and Sophie are…shall we say, problematic. Let’s start with Marcelo. His problem is that he has no trouble at all with women, though I have to say, he does not see this as a problem. He sleeps with anyone he wants, and he often wants different women. For some reason, they never get angry with him. They seem to be grateful that he gives them some of his attention and warmth, even for a moment. The devil knows how he gets away with it!”

  She finished speaking with a short laugh, and Irene had to smile in agreement. But at the same time, she wondered at Gisela’s odd choice of words until she noticed the glistening shine in Gisela’s eyes. Clearly this was a dangerous man whose heat left many female hearts in disarray. She decided to tactfully leave the subject of Marcelo behind.

  “Why was Sophie problematic?”

  “I got to know Sophie when I came here as a teacher fifteen years ago. She is…she was a very unusual person. At the same time, she was tremendously gifted as a dancer. She saw dance in everything. Last year she studied choreography and received top grades. As a matter of fact, a group here at the college is preparing her work for a premiere next Wednesday. It’s a real experience, and I urge you to come and see it.”

  Gisela got up and pulled a sheet of red paper from a stack in her bookshelf. Black letters proclaimed:

  THE FIRE DANCE

  A saga in dance

  Students of the College of Dance

  with dancers from Theater Souls on Fire

  Choreography by Sophie Malmborg

  Music by Ernst Malmborg

  The picture above the text showed black silhouettes posed against the dark red background.

  Irene studied the picture and its text for a long time. Something stirred in her subconscious. A memory, a flash of recognition…no, she didn’t understand what it was.

  Gisela was also looking down at the piece of paper. With real sorrow in her voice, she said, “Now Sophie will never see her work performed.”

  Gisela had to swallow a few times before she was able to speak again. “Sophie was insecure when it came to dealing with other people—especially men. As far as I know, she’d never slept with any man. To tell you the truth, I believe men were frightened by her intensity. She never flirted or played the coquette. She’d just retreat inside her shell. I watched it happen many times. Sometimes I had the strong feeling that Sophie needed to be…protected somehow.”

  “Protected from what?”

  “People. Life. I can’t explain it any better than that. I know what she went through when that Ericksson man died in the fire. She was a suspect!” Her blue angel eyes looked accusingly directly into Irene’s.

  “So you don’t believe she was capable of such a thing?” Irene countered quickly.

  “Of course not! She never attacked anyone, ever! She was always trying to defend herself from other people.”

  “Did she have a best friend here at the college?”

  Gisela looked at Irene with sorrow and Irene could hear the sadness in her voice as she replied, “I was probably the person closest to her. I was her mentor, you could say. She needed someone who cared about her and encouraged her. At times she could be so sad, even if she didn’t show it to the outside world.”

  “You must know her mother, Angelika, then, I suppose?”

  “Oh, yes, I know Angelika fairly well. She’s worked here for over seventeen years, you see, which makes her the teacher who’s been here the longest. We knew each other from before, as well, since we studied dance at about the same time.”

  “How was her relationship to Sophie?”

  Gisela paused, as if hesitant to reveal her thoughts, but then she spoke with determination. “Angelika was never as supportive as she should have been. She saw Sophie as…somewhat unsuccessful. Angelika said repeatedly that Sophie was too tall and not good enough to be a true dancer. Yes, Sophie was tall, but she had a gift. Her mother refused to see this. Sophie yearned for her mother’s appreciation.”

  “What kind of a person is Angelika?” Irene realized that she was skirting the level of gossip, but at the same time, she knew she had to find out more about the Malmborg and Ericksson families.

  “Angelika is actually an extremely good teacher, but as a mother…unfortunately, she put more effort into her relationships with various men than with her children. She always had another guy lined up. Her last one was a Volvo executive. One of my colleagues once said she chooses her men by the bottom line, not for love. There’s something to that, I’m afraid. Once her husband died in the fire, she moved from lover to lover and from house to house with Frej in tow. Sophie was smart to choose to live with her father.”

  “Has Angelika ever remarried?”

  “No.”

  “What kind of a person was Sophie’s father?”

  “I really didn’t know him, although we met a few times. I saw that he and Sophie were very close. She was devastated when he passed away. It was a good thing that she got into choreography and was able to concentrate on her work. I know that she’d already completed her first version of The Fire Dance before she got into the department.”

  Irene looked at the clock on the wall. It was almost ten. She’d have to wrap up her conversation with Gisela.

  “How can I get in touch with Marcelo Alves?” she asked.

  Gisela thought a moment and then said, “Well, you see, one problem with Marcelo is that he doesn’t speak good Swedish. His English is just as bad. You’ll need someone to interpret for you if you want to question him. I’d suggest you come back sometime this evening, preferably after six thirty. Marcelo and Felipe work with the capoeira group then. Felipe speaks Portuguese, so he’ll be able to interpret for you.”

  Irene thought about this suggestion. Krister was scheduled to work and Jenny would be practicing with her band. Perhaps Katarina would like to go with her and watch some capoeira? She might like it.

  “All right, I’ll be back this evening. Could you be so kind as to let Marcelo and Felipe know about it?”

  “Sure,” Gisela said. She took Irene’s right hand into her two thin ones. Her hands felt like the wings of birds. “Promise me that you’ll catch Sophie’s killer. Do everything you possibly can. She…she had a tough life. No one deserves a horrible death—certainly not Sophie of all people!”

  Tears began to run down her cheeks. Gisela was the first person Irene had met during this investigation who mourned Sophie to the point of tears. Perhaps Gisela really was Sophie’s only true friend.

  * * *

  Irene turned off Dag Hammarskjöldsleden. She’d decided to take a look at Sophie’s house in Änggården and perhaps get in touch with Marcelo Alves. If he were home, she might be able to take a look around the property.

  Of course, Sophie’s residence had been searched at the end of September when she’d been reported missing. The investigators had found nothing suspicious, but nothing to show she’d left voluntarily either. She’d never had a passport and all of her bank accounts remained untouched since the day she disappeared. The day after her burned body had been identified, Fredrik Stridh and Jonny Blom had gone again to search her house. They’d found nothing that time either, though her dance stuff was there. Fredrik had said the place, “was pretty damn filthy for a girl’s house.”

  But neither her colleagues at General Investigations nor at the Violent Crime Unit had taken a look at Marcelo Alves’s apartment or Frej’s attic rooms.

  Huge noise abatement walls protected Änggården from the heavily trafficked highway and its pollution. Behind these walls were beautiful old t
ownhouses. A rose-colored house was next to a light blue one; a grey house neighbored a green one. It was a pretty scene, even if it was rather un-Swedish. They reminded Irene of the townhouses in London, when she’d been there a few years back.

  Most of the houses in Änggården were built during the first half of the twentieth century. The row houses had mostly wooden façades, while the separate houses had stucco. The trees that shaded the peaceful streets were often rare species, since many employees of the nearby Botanical Garden had lived in this area over the years. Irene knew quite a bit about the neighborhood since her mother’s best friend, Rut, had lived there for decades. Irene’s parents had almost bought a house there thirty-five years ago, when the one next to Rut’s went on the market. In the end, though, the expense held them back, and they stayed in their apartment. Irene’s mother was still living there by herself.

  Strangely enough, Irene hadn’t been in this neighborhood in over twenty years. The police rarely had business here—just a routine burglary once in a while.

  The neighborhood was an elegant step removed from the rest of the city. The houses were freshly painted, completely restored and clean. Everything gave a strong impression of neat and tidy wealth, despite the heavy fog that draped the buildings. Irene drove around on the narrow streets for a while until she found the proper address and a parking spot not far away. She slowly walked back toward the high, wrought iron fence in the stone wall, carefully inspecting the house on the other side. She saw a large wooden structure masked by overgrown bushes and fruit trees.

  Originally, the wrought iron fence had been painted black, but now it was reddish brown from rust. Its heavy hinges resisted with a groan. The entire garden gave off the scent of damp earth and decay. No one had taken in the harvest of fruit from the old trees, which had fallen to rot on a lawn that didn’t appear to have been mowed that summer.

  Like the garden, which bore evidence of abandonment and decay, the house was in rough shape. In many spots, the stucco had fallen from the façade, and the broken gutters jutted out at odd angles. The window and doorframes had revealed grey wood where paint was long gone. It was the ugly duckling of the neighborhood.