The Living and the Dead in Winsford

by Håkan Nesser

  I stop reading at this point because I am suddenly reminded of that comment Martin made about Gunvald when we were driving through the night to Kristianstad before continuing to Poland. His suggestion that he wasn’t the father of his son. Is this where he had got the idea from? He had been talking about Strindberg’s play The Father, and said it was a question all men asked themselves, fairly seriously. But if the problem had been a key point in the drama between Hyatt and Herold, perhaps it had a special sort of relevance for Martin? A heavier weight? But so what? I thrust the thought to one side and continue reading.

  Before the question of Bessie’s pregnancy crops up in the notes there are quite a lot of descriptions of the surroundings and the house; but from the twenty-fourth of July onwards everything is about events and relationships between people at Al-Hafez, as the palace-like creation is evidently called. It is built in Moorish style and is owned by a Swiss billionaire, Martin writes. Tom Herold has rented it for two years, and since it is so incredibly hot in the middle of summer, residents and guests rarely venture outside the white stone wall that encloses the property. Inside this wall, topped with broken glass, there is everything one could possibly want: shade-providing trees (oleanders, tamarisks and a generous plane, according to Martin), a large kidney-shaped swimming pool, stimulating conversation, food, drink, a certain amount of mild drugs, and the three aforementioned servants.

  And so we have the stage setting and scenography – that thought keeps on recurring, despite everything.

  ‘Had a long conversation with Grass,’ writes Martin on the twenty-fourth of July.

  I find it hard to judge if there is anything in what he says, or if he is just paranoid. He drinks too much, and has presumably popped some kind of pills, I don’t know what, but they make him exceptionally intense and insistent. Words come flooding out of his mouth, and he pays absolutely no attention to objections – not when you are talking privately to him at least. When Herold is present, on the other hand, he usually sits there in silence and keeps his thoughts to himself.

  What Grass keeps coming back to and stressing is that his childhood friend (childhood sweetheart? Martin wonders) Bessie is in danger. She is on the brink of a nervous breakdown, and it’s her pregnancy and her husband’s interpretation of it that are the key causes of the rapidly escalating crisis. Martin can see with his own eyes that the successful young author is clearly in a state. Grass is not imagining things: anybody can see that Bessie Hyatt is unwell, she staggers between a state of manic exhilaration and almost catatonic introversion. She is always present at the obligatory, prolonged meals – which begin as soon as dusk and cool evening air begins to descend on Al-Hafez, and usually continue into the early hours – but from one evening to the next it can seem as if Bessie is two different people.

  All nine of them sit there, and it is Tom Herold who holds court. Martin uses that expression several times. It’s Herold who is very definitely the main character, and to stress this role he likes to dress up and act like a sort of Arab prince. He has a long beard now, wears a white ankle-length djellaba and a red fez. He likes to hold forth about Arabic culture and how superior it is to that of the West; he quotes Sufi poets and at every meal recites something of his own invention, often just a few intense lines composed that morning – he spends a few hours every morning shut away in his cool study. He likes to repeat these lines several times during the course of the evening, and calls it ‘tattooing the souls of the cretins’.

  Martin doesn’t describe the others present in much detail, apart from the French couple whom he hasn’t met before. He compares the novelist Maurice Megal to a short-sighted goat, but he also calls him ‘an over-cultivated snob who is careful never to say anything comprehensible, and so it is not possible to comment on it or oppose it’. His wife Bernadette, who is a good twenty-five years younger, is a ‘dark-haired, slim and mysterious woman who plays with Tarot cards and has a reputation as a hypnotist’. She demonstrates her latter skills one of the first evenings she is present, when she persuades Doris Guttmann to undress and in her naked state to perform some kind of snake dance for the rest of those present, convinced that she is a harem lady from the fourteenth century.

  ‘It’s also entirely possible,’ Martin notes, ‘that she wasn’t hypnotized at all but didn’t want to miss an opportunity of dancing naked before an audience.’

  I assume Martin must have felt both stimulated and somewhat embarrassed in this company, even if he never admits to either of those reactions. He tries to make it sound as if it is nothing very unusual, in the early days at least, but as time passes (he devotes at least four pages of text to each day) his account acquires a special focus: Bessie Hyatt. On the morning of the twenty-eighth of July he has his first (and only, I think) private conversation with her, and what she says to him in one way strengthens Grass’s case, but in another way it demonstrates how extremely dependent this young American woman is on her husband. She swears that she worships him, literally worships. She laughs and cries indiscriminately, behaves ‘with a level of controlled hysteria that is so close to the surface that you can detect it even when she is sitting still and saying nothing. Like a bridge over dark water, her face is.’ (sic!) Obviously Martin can’t ask her outright about her pregnancy, about who is the father of the child she is expecting, but the question is answered as loudly as a trumpet call as early as the following evening. In the play Evenings in Taza, we have reached the first highlight – even if that term is inappropriate in every respect as far as those present are concerned.

  To sum it up: thanks to a combination of potent recreational drugs and the efforts of the hypnotist Bernadette Megal, Tom Herold, in full view of all present, has a vision in which he discovers the rapist Ahib, who has clandestinely placed an unwanted olive-coloured bastard foetus in Bessie Hyatt’s swelling stomach. Ahib is clearly possessed by a demon, or several demons, and must die. It is a duty to kill him, and more especially it is a duty to kill him before the child has grown too big and strong inside Bessie. This performance is enacted with a series of remarkable pirouettes and poetic outpourings over twenty minutes: Madame Megal accompanies it all on the bongo drums and some sort of native stringed instrument, and the drama ends with Tom Herold howling in pain and anger like an injured lion, and Bessie throwing herself into the swimming pool.

  I stop reading after this description. Martin has three more days in Taza, but a thought has suddenly occurred to me: what is there to indicate that he wasn’t sitting in a hotel room in Copenhagen or Amsterdam, making up the whole story? What proof is there that the whole rigmarole is not an invention?

  None, so far as I can see. Why haven’t I heard anything about all this before? Why has he kept quiet about these bizarre happenings for more than thirty years? Why hasn’t he written about it? I decide to check that there really is a place in Morocco called Taza. That will have to be the next time I go to the Winsford Community Computer Centre – I realize that it’s over a week since the last visit, so it’s presumably high time.

  But then I recall that e-mail from G.

  Have always felt an inkling that this would surface one day.

  And the promise to Bergman and the conversation with Soblewski in his big house that night . . . No, there must be a reality behind these notes, I have to accept that. It actually did happen.

  Which of course doesn’t necessarily mean that every word is true. I decide to put the whole business on ice for a few days, put the notebooks back in the suitcase and the wardrobe, and think that if nothing else I should try to get hold of Bessie Hyatt’s two novels. For reasons I don’t really understand I haven’t read either of them: they are no doubt on the shelves in Nynäshamn, but those shelves are a long way away. Perhaps that nice lady in the second-hand bookshop in Dulverton can help?

  I look at Castor, lying there in front of the almost dead fire. Ask him if he wants to go for a walk. He doesn’t answer. Through the window, on the other side of the wall, I can see a whole herd
of Exmoor ponies grazing in the gathering dusk. At least twenty of them. In an hour we shall be swallowed up by darkness, both us and them.

  28

  The seventh of December, a Friday. Rain during the night, but fine the next morning. A cloudy sky, but no mist. A south-westerly wind, hardly stronger than five to six metres per second.

  I have been sleeping badly for several nights, and during the day have felt restless, neglecting the usual routines. The lack of sleep has left me feeling sluggish whenever there is still a bit of daylight: I lie in bed, try to read, but instead end up in a sort of semi-torpor. If I didn’t have the obligatory daily walk with Castor to think about I would probably allow dawn and dusk to merge, and thus sink into a state of absolute lethargy. But our walks become shorter for every day that passes, and when I looked at myself in the mirror this morning, I had the impression of a woman on the downward path. I have also drunk two of the bottles of red wine I bought in Dunster, and half a bottle of port. All I have managed to do is to buy the basic necessities at the general stores in Exford. No excursions, not to Dulverton, Porlock nor anywhere else.

  In the afternoon, after a short stroll down towards Tarr Steps, I pulled myself together even so: took a shower, washed my hair and had a complete change of clothes. Wrote in my notebook that I really must drive to Minehead on Monday to see to some laundry. I persuaded Castor to jump into the passenger seat of the car and drove down to Winsford and the computer centre.

  It was already five o’clock by the time I got there, but there were lights in the windows and Alfred Biggs immediately bade me welcome. At one of the tables towards the back of the room were the two young girls I’d met on my first visit – or at least, I thought they were the same ones. Castor went over to greet them, they asked what he was called and spent some time playing with him before returning to their screens. I felt a surge of gratitude towards them.

  ‘It’s pretty bleak at this time of year,’ said Alfred Biggs.

  ‘You can say that again,’ I said.

  ‘How are things going for you up there?’

  ‘Not too badly, thank you.’

  ‘It must be hard, being a writer. Keeping tabs on everything.’

  ‘Yes, it’s not always all that easy.’

  ‘I mean, all those words and people and things that happen.’

  ‘Yes, exactly,’ I said. ‘Not all that easy.’

  ‘But I assume you keep a notebook?’

  ‘Yes, I do. You have to keep making notes all the time.’

  ‘I must say I admire you. For keeping tabs on everything. But forgive me, I mustn’t distract you with my chit-chat.’

  He indicated where I could sit down, and went to make tea.

  E-mail from Gunvald to Martin:

  Hi. I hope all is well in Morocco. Work has been keeping me pretty busy, but virtue has its reward. My book has gone to the printer, and over New Year I’m going to a five-day conference in Sydney. I’ll stretch it out of course with a week’s holiday. Greetings to Mum, and have a Merry Christmas if we’re not in touch again before then.

  E-mail from Soblewski to Martin:

  Just a quick note to say that I’ve talked to BC and there is no problem. Let’s stay in contact. My best to your lovely wife and dog.

  E-mail from Gertrud to Martin:

  What are you up to nowadays? I got your e-mail eventually. Lennart and I have split up, so I’m as free as a bird. It would be great to meet and pick up the threads again, don’t you think?

  Nothing from Bergman, nothing from G. I was grateful for that, especially the latter. The message from Gunvald could just as well have come from a cousin or a distant acquaintance. And as for Soblewski – greetings to your wife and dog?

  Gertrud aroused suspicions, of course. Who is she, and what the hell does she mean by picking up the threads again? And why had I given her Martin’s e-mail address so casually when Bergman asked for it? But I couldn’t really get het up about it – whatever might have taken place between her and Martin belonged to a different life. For a few seconds I considered sending her a reply, just to amuse myself: but I let it pass. And didn’t write to Gunvald or Soblewski either.

  E-mail from Synn to me:

  Hello, Mum. I hope all is going well in Morocco. I’ll probably stay in New York over Christmas and the New Year – I assume you won’t be going home either. Business is going well, I’ve applied for a green card and expect to get it. I agree with Woody Allen: there’s hardly ever a good reason for leaving Manhattan. Greetings to the old bastard.

  E-mail from Christa to me:

  Dear Maria. Dreamt about you again. I think it’s odd, I hardly ever remember that I’ve been dreaming, never mind what about. This time you really were in danger, you cried for help and I was the one who would be able to help you. But I didn’t understand what I could do. There was a man in a car chasing you. You ran like mad to get away, and I really wanted to save you but I was so far away all the time. In another country, or something like that. Never mind, but it was both very clear and very horrible in any case. Write and let me know that all is well. Love, C

  I thought for a while, then wrote to both of them. I wished my daughter a Merry Christmas and reported that both I and the old bastard were in good shape, all things considered. Christa was duly informed that everything was under control down in Morocco, and that I would try hard to behave myself rather better in her next dream. I took the opportunity to pass on season’s greetings, and asked her to pass on greetings to Paolo.

  I didn’t bother to chase up the latest news from Sweden – nor news from anywhere else, come to that. Instead I thanked Alfred Biggs, and went with Castor to The Royal Oak for dinner.

  Six days have passed since my last visit.

  And it feels like a month since I sat here talking to Mark Britton that last time, which just shows how my conception of time is going off the rails. When he now comes in, less than a minute after I’ve ordered my food and got a glass of wine on the table, I suddenly feel grateful – and just as suddenly uneasy as well, in case he is only going to sit at the bar, drink a pint of ale and then leave.

  But I needn’t have worried. When Mark sees me he gives me a broad smile and sits down at my table without even asking.

  ‘How are things? How’s it going with the writing?’

  ‘Fine, thank you. A bit up and down, but that goes with the territory.’

  ‘It’s nice to see you again. You brighten up my mealtimes, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

  ‘All right, I’ll allow it. But you’d better hurry up and order or we’ll get out of step.’

  And so we are sitting here again. I think that either I’m so starved of everything to do with human relationships, or that it has something to do with this man. Most probably a combination of the two. I can feel butterflies in my stomach, and am relieved that I smartened myself up before coming here. Mark looks very smart, a little darker under the eyes than I remember, but newly shaved, well combed and wearing a wine-red pullover instead of the blue one. Corduroy trousers and a Barbour jacket that he’s hung over the back of his chair. Indeed, I think he could well be a sort of semi-noble country squire after a successful afternoon’s shooting, and I can’t help smiling to myself when I realize that I’ve given him a title that my father used to like using. Country squire.

  ‘I gather you don’t come here all that often,’ I say, ‘or is it just that we happen to have missed one another?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I usually come here at least twice a week – but I like cooking, so that’s not why I come. I reckon you need to see somebody else’s face besides your own occasionally. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Mine, for instance?’

  He leans forward over the table. ‘I prefer your face to Rosie’s and Henry’s and Robert’s, I’ll admit that. And I’m grateful that you can put up with me now and again.’

  I manage to shrug and assume a neutral smile. Being a television hostess for a quarter of a century
does leave its mark. ‘You’re welcome,’ I say. ‘Being with you doesn’t cause me pain.’

  ‘But you have done,’ he says, suddenly becoming serious. ‘Suffered pain, that is. Things are a bit rough for you up there in your house when darkness descends to gobble us up. I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘What do you mean? You’re not sitting there again and reading my mind, are you?’

  ‘Only a bit,’ he says. ‘I see a bit and guess the rest. Who could spend a whole winter up there and survive with their mind in one piece? The moor is best for people who are born on it. In the winter, at least. Cheers, by the way.’

  We each take a sip of our wine and look each other in the eye for a second too long. Or maybe I only imagine that extra second: it’s not the kind of judgement that is part of my repertoire any longer. Good Lord, I think, if he stretches out his hand over the table and touches me I’ll wet myself. I’m as emotionally unstable as a fourteen-year-old.

  The new young waiter, who is called Lindsey and is undoubtedly as gay as the Pope is Catholic, comes with our food and we start eating. A couple arrive with an elderly terrier, and there is a pause while the dogs greet each other and we indulge in doggy talk before our four-legged friends settle down under their appropriate tables. I am grateful for the interruption, as it gives me time to get a grip of myself. Mark wipes his mouth.