A thought that perhaps he had moved made her take a second look at the envelope, but there was nothing to indicate the sender’s address.
Why send a letter when he could just as easily have called? Was the content such that he could not bear to give it over the phone? Was it an invitation to his wedding? That was the kind of event one chose to send out formal notices about. No, he would not be so cruel.
Erik had finished his chocolate and begged for more. Ann tore off a piece of paper towel and wiped his hands and mouth.
“I’ll give you a little more, but that’s all,” she said and felt a pang of guilt. It was Erik who was her life, the one she loved and longed for. What did a silly letter mean?
For a moment she considered throwing it out, but it was such a painful thought that she immediately dismissed it.
She tore open the envelope. Inside was a full-size sheet of paper. The text consisted of only a few lines:
Dear Ann,
I hope you are well. I just wanted to tell you that Viola has broken her hip and is at the Akademiska Hospital. It happened in the hen house. She is in the orthopedic wing, 70E. I’m working mostly.
She would be grateful to have a visitor.
Regards, Edvard
Ann read it again. So typical of Edvard. Short sentences, a jumble of hen houses and hospitals. No personal information other than that he was working. As if that was new. Nothing about how he was or what he was thinking.
She read it a third time. Perhaps Viola was in bad shape? She was over ninety years old, after all. That must be it, Ann thought, otherwise he would not have written. He thinks she is going to die and knows I would not forgive him if he had not told me. Perhaps Viola asked him to write? Perhaps the idea had been hers alone?
After Edvard left his family many years ago he had lived in Viola’s house in Gräsö. It was an old archipelago homestead from the 1800s, and Edvard rented the whole upstairs. He had eventually acclimatized to the island, found a job with a builder, and regarded himself as a permanent Gräsö inhabitant. For Viola it was both a security and a comfort to have Edvard as a tenant. She lacked family, and after he had lived there for a couple of years she decided that it was Edvard who would be her heir.
At first Viola had seen Ann as a threat, someone who would perhaps convince Edvard to move away. But in time the old woman had accepted her, seemingly against her will and gruffly, as was her manner. She had perhaps hoped that Edvard and Ann would become a couple on Gräsö.
Viola herself had had an unhappy love affair in her youth—Victor, an old childhood friend of the same age. At some point Viola had let slip that she once, seventy years ago, had hoped that they would marry. But nothing came of it. Victor went to sea, was away from the island for a few years, came back and took over his parents’ farm. They still saw each other. Victor came by almost every day. Ann saw them as the world’s most devoted noncohabiting couple.
Perhaps it was there, in the old peoples’ unconsummated life together, the material source for why Viola had let Ann come close. She saw that however intimate Ann and Edvard were, they didn’t manage to make it.
Ann didn’t know anything about what it meant to break a hip, but imagined that for an old person it could mark the beginning of the end. Perhaps Viola sensed this and wished to see Ann one last time?
Candy and juice had perked Erik up and he crawled down from the chair. Ann watched him as he disappeared into his room. He was largely independent now and she thanked the gods for it.
Of course she had to visit the old woman. She wanted to go to the hospital immediately, but she couldn’t take Erik. Ann also didn’t want Viola to meet him, since he was the reason why Ann and Edvard had broken up.
She decided she would go there tomorrow directly after the morning meeting at work. She would spend the evening with her speculations. She read the letter one more time and wished she could have seen Edvard when he wrote it.
Twelve
Lorenzo Wader ordered a Staropramen, then took the beer to the room beyond the bar, lit a cigarillo, and leaned back in an armchair. The little man would arrive in ten minutes.
Lorenzo did not trust him, why should he? A little rat spreading gossip. But he was a useful rat. Lorenzo smiled to himself and gave a couple of the other hotel guests a nod as they walked past on their way into the bar. They had exchanged a few words the day before and the men had told him they were attending a seismology conference with participants from around the world. Lorenzo had pacified their curiosity by telling them that he was a businessman who was looking for new markets and contacts, which was true. He wanted to expand.
At the agreed-upon time the rat slunk in through the entrance, gave the receptionist a worried look, caught sight of Lorenzo Wader, and steered a course toward him.
Lorenzo put down his cigarillo and stood up.
“On time,” he said simply and stretched out his hand.
They sat down. Olaf González shot a glance at the beer but gave no indication of an intention to order one for himself.
“Well,” Lorenzo said, “what’s new?”
“Armas is on his way to Spain,” González said.
The high pitch of his voice was accentuated by the slight Norwegian accent.
“He is going by car.”
It was clear that he had more to say, but Lorenzo did not help him along. Instead he sat quietly, sucking on the revived cigarillo, and reached for his beer.
“I have been fired,” Olaf González said, and this was followed by the whole story of how unfairly he had been treated.
Lorenzo Wader understood that his story also contained a veiled critique of himself, or at least an expectation of his support.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Lorenzo said, “but I am sure it will turn out for the best.” He wanted to keep the rat in a good mood, without promising too much.
“I gave him the package and the next day he came down to Dakar. He was furious. I thought he was going to kill me.”
“But you only lost your job,” Lorenzo said. “Why? Do you have any dirty laundry?”
“What do you mean ‘dirty laundry’?”
“Does Armas know anything about you that is not so flattering?” Lorenzo explained.
González stared at him. How stupid you are, Lorenzo thought.
“How did you know?”
Lorenzo sighed.
“Would you like a beer?”
The waiter looked insulted, unexpectedly shook his head, and Lorenzo perceived a small movement.
“Stay seated,” he said and González sank back into the chair. “You have done a good job,” he went on, “and the bullet hit its mark, that is the important thing. This is the good news, much more important than the unfortunate fact that you lost your shitty job at a shitty restaurant. This is how you must see it. It is called perspective.”
Lorenzo studied the man on the other side of the table. He knew too little about González, but on the other hand he knew the type and trusted his first impression. González was for sale, and right now he was in a spot. Lorenzo knew that his prospects of getting another job in this town were limited. This was to Lorenzo’s advantage, even though he would have preferred to keep him positioned at Dakar.
He could finish him off, but González was still useful. He knew the town and the restaurant business.
“What do you want with Armas anyway?” González asked.
Lorenzo winced at this word choice, but he answered with a smile.
“Nothing bad,” he said.
“I don’t believe you,” González said with unexpected vehemence.
“Why spend so much time on him if this isn’t something big? I’m not that stupid.”
“I never said you were. Why did I contact you? I am so tired of shady types and barflies with an inflated sense of their own importance. I wanted to have an experienced contact here. Someone who could introduce me around town.”
Not a single word revealed Lorenzo Wader’s real purpose, that of
establishing himself in Uppsala. One of Lorenzo’s runners had gotten in touch with González a few weeks ago and had asked him to give Armas a package. The payment for his troubles had been two thousand kronor, enough to indicate that this was not your usual mail delivery.
When González had accepted, Lorenzo got in touch with him directly. The transaction was completed and the money changed hands.
The next step was already planned, and in this González had no role to play, but even so Lorenzo decided to keep him in a good mood. He could be useful in the future.
“Olaf, it is partly my fault that you have become unemployed,” Lorenzo said, “and this is regrettable, but of course you shall remain untainted. There will be other jobs.”
Olaf González could not repress a smile.
“Call me Gonzo,” he said.
Thirteen
Two days at Dakar and Eva was completely exhausted. Her arms and legs ached, but above all it was the stress of trying to perform that drained her. She was supposed to respond both to her clients’ wishes and to Tessie’s orders, because orders were what she gave. Without reservation, without a smile, except for a wry expression now and again that Eva interpreted as critical oversight. With her stress level, Eva also had trouble understanding Tessie’s rapid commands in broken Swedish.
But all in all, Eva felt she was managing all right. Feo was the one who gave her constant encouragement. His thin face shone with kindness across the counter where the chefs placed their finished plates.
“Take it easy, take it easy,” he repeated. “It’ll be fine.”
Eva smiled at him and couldn’t help laughing when he made faces at Tessie.
“America is great but not the greatest,” he whispered, “for that is love.”
Already on the first day he complimented her on her hair.
“Your hair is as beautiful as silk.”
Even Donald chuckled. He glanced briefly at Eva across Feo’s shoulder and shook his head.
But it was true that Slobodan’s hairdresser had done wonders. Patrik and Hugo had stared in amazement at her when she came back from the salon.
“What have you done?” Patrik asked.
“Wow!” Hugo burst out. “You look like someone on TV.”
When Helen looked in she ended up standing in the doorway.
“Well, I do declare, you’re certainly primped. Now all you need are the bunny ears.”
Not a word about it looking nice, just small snorts and the toss of her head.
That evening Eva stood in front of the mirror for a long time and tried to get used to her reflection. She wasn’t sure what to think, but in the end she decided to like her new appearance. Helen’s attitude had made her unsure of herself. As Eva stood in front of the mirror, she decided that in future she was going to limit her interaction with Helen. Bunny ears, indeed!
Eva had been allowed to go home at eight-thirty, when the worst of the rush was over. Hugo was home, sitting in front of the TV. She sat down for a while and rested her legs, stroking her son’s head and telling him what she had done during the day, but the knowledge that she should do a couple of loads of laundry made her restless.
“Where is Patrik?” she asked and stood up.
“He was going to see Zero and then down to the old Post Office.”
The latter was an old post office that had been converted into a community cafe for young people. It was the local parish that ran it. It offered snacks and pool tables, from time to time a lecture on some topic. After a slow start it had become a popular hangout for teenagers in Bergsbrunna and Sävja.
Eva thought it was good that something was being done for the young people in the area, but she did not approve of Patrik hanging out with Zero. Zero, whose family came from the Kurdish part of Turkey, was famous in the area for his hot temper. He often became involved in disputes and sometimes fights. The police had caught him a couple of times but it had never gone any further.
Zero’s father was disappeared. He had returned to Turkey for his mother’s funeral but was immediately arrested. That was six months ago. A cousin had called and told them that they believed the father had been brought to a military prison, but no one knew anything for sure.
To all intents and purposes, Zero had stopped attending school. Admittedly he did turn up from time to time, but that was mostly to have a bite in the cafeteria and to provoke conflict. Eva thought that deep down the teachers were probably happy not to have to deal with the unpredictable boy. She had heard the teacher everyone called “Gecko” complain that no one could control Zero and get close to him.
“It’s not that he’s stupid,” the teacher said, “but he’s so completely asocial that he’s hard to take.”
That Patrik had started hanging out with Zero was a bad sign. What was there about that boy that Patrik found tempting? It could not be anything other than the lure of excitement, perhaps music or computer games.
Eva returned to the living room and stared at the television screen.
“What is this?”
“A series,” Hugo said.
“But what is it about?”
“It’s a gang that’s going to revenge themselves on the other gang, with traps and stuff. Outsmart the others. Then they get points.”
“Oh, that sounds exciting.”
“It’s really bad,” Hugo answered.
“What are Zero and Patrik up to?”
“How should I know?”
“What interests does he have, that Zero?”
Hugo looked up in surprise.
“Are you joking? Zero has no interests. He doesn’t know what the word means.”
“Well, music then.”
Hugo sighed.
“Since his dad disappeared he only listens to Arab pop.”
“I thought he was from Turkey.”
“It’s the same thing,” Hugo said.
“You should turn off the TV if it’s bad,” Eva said. “Don’t you have any homework?”
“The math teacher is sick. It’s great.”
“Don’t you have a sub?”
Hugo shook his head.
Eva returned to the bathroom and put in a load of wool delicates. With regard to her neighbors it was actually too late, but a wool cycle did not take long. She would have to do the rest the next day.
She wondered if she should call Patrik, but decided to wait until ten o’clock.
By a quarter to eleven. Patrik had still not come home. His cell phone went to voice mail and Eva recorded a message. At eleven she called again but the result was the same, just voice mail.
Hugo had reluctantly gone to bed.
Eva sat in the kitchen and checked the time on the wall clock at regular intervals. He usually called when he was going to be late. She stood up and walked to the window. In the building across the courtyard most of the windows were dark. In Helen’s place, on the first floor of building seven, the light was on. She was probably sitting up knitting. Perhaps she was waiting for her husband. Sometimes he worked nights, or at least claimed to.
She leaned her forehead against the windowpane. If only he would come home soon, she thought, and glanced at the clock again.
She did not know exactly where Zero lived and she did not have his telephone number. She had seen Zero’s mother at a meeting at the school, but from what Eva could tell she did not speak Swedish.
It struck her that maybe Hugo had Zero’s cell phone number and she gently tiptoed up to the door of his room.
“What is it?” Hugo called out immediately.
“I thought maybe you had Zero’s cell phone number,” Eva said and tried to sound as normal as possible.
“I’ve already called,” Hugo mumbled. “There’s no answer.”
The first thing Eva saw was the blood. As if the rest of Patrik did not exist. It was when he closed the door behind him that all of him appeared.
“What have you done?”
The question that all parents in all times and cultures ask thei
r children. Thrown out with an anger that conceals the first gnawing anxiety and even finally the fears of the worst.
“I fell,” Patrik said.
“Fell?! Your whole head is bleeding.”
She saw that he had made an attempt to wipe away the worst of it, but even so his forehead and one cheek were covered. At the hairline he had lumps of clotted blood and his lower lip was swollen.
For a moment they stared at each other. Patrik had that expression in his eyes from a long time ago, before he imperceptibly and then all the more clearly changed into someone else. Eva assumed it was the teenager’s way of developing, distancing himself in order to find himself, but she still missed the old connection and closeness.
Now it was there again for a few seconds and Eva realized she had to tread carefully.
“I’ll put on some tea,” she said.
Patrik took off his jacket, which was covered in blood, and held it indecisively in his hand.
“I’ll take care of it later,” Eva said. “Drop it on the floor.”
A jacket, she thought, bought for a couple hundred kronor—what does it matter? Her whole body trembled at the sight of him. At that moment the door to Hugo’s room opened.
“What is it?”
Eva knew he must not have slept a wink.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Go back to bed.”
Hugo looked bewildered and a little frightened at his brother.
“No, I take that back, you can have tea with us.”
While the water was heating up, Eva wiped Patrik’s face clean. The wounds were not so large: one three-centimeter cut at the hairline, a scratch across his right eye, and a swollen lip.
The Demon of Dakar Page 8
