Shadow of Fog Island

by Mariette Lindstein

  It didn’t help when the police first traced the camera to Anna-Maria Callini and then returned to say that it must have been a mistake, that someone had likely wanted to frame the lawyer. But when she tried to work through what Oswald might do next, she decided to move. If not for her own sake, then for that of her family and the dog.

  She had called Magnus Strid late that night out of sheer desperation. He’d told her he had recently done a story on San Francisco, and that it was a fantastic city. He said the Bay Area was so large and multi-cultural that she would be able to blend in among the millions who lived there and feel both anonymous and safe.

  That night, she made up with Benjamin. He didn’t want her to go but realized she had to, so they made a promise to each other: no trouble, no slip-ups while she was away.

  She had found a job posting on Craigslist, of all places: Wanted: Library assistant in Palo Alto, it had said. She’d sent an email, along with references from the university library and her résumé, and received a response the next day. A woman named Melissa Arbor had replied to say that the library would be happy to hire someone with as much experience as Sofia had. The email read like it was from a friend, not an employer. Sofia was suspicious, but when she googled the library and its staff, sure enough, Melissa Arbor was the human resources manager. And with this woman’s help, Sofia had both a residence permit and a work permit within a few weeks.

  Once Sofia had made it through customs and passport control and had gathered her luggage, she made her way to arrivals and there she was, Melissa, holding a sign that said Welcome to San Francisco, Sofia Bauman!

  Melissa was African-American, tall and curvy, and had kind eyes. She was wearing black tights and a green skirt, a white blouse, and stiletto boots. She walked up and hugged Sofia as soon as she spotted her.

  ‘You must be hungry and tired,’ Melissa said. ‘We’ll grab a bite to eat on the way, and then I’ll drive you to the apartment.’

  Melissa had helped her find the apartment as well, and Sofia had rented it after seeing only a picture of the living room – she didn’t have much time to look around. The position would begin immediately, and the apartment was within walking distance of the library.

  Sofia explained that she hadn’t had time to get furniture and had been planning to check into a motel for a few days.

  Melissa laughed.

  ‘We took the liberty of getting a bed and a few other things. Nothing expensive, just enough for you to manage for the time being. I’d be happy to take you to IKEA this weekend.’

  As they drove, Melissa talked almost nonstop. Sofia listened, but she kept her eyes on the view passing by outside.

  Her first impressions were that the light was brighter, the sun was warmer, and that she had never seen so many cars. Each time they passed a shopping centre, she noticed signs for the same stores. This happened again and again and made her feel like they were standing still, not getting anywhere on their car ride. But then they took an exit, the green hills returned, and the landscape was open and free.

  They had been driving for half an hour when Melissa stopped at a restaurant that served excellent Japanese food: bowls of rice, pork, and vegetables. They ate outdoors. The sun was setting and the sky turned deep orange and pink. Sofia was still overwhelmed by all the new impressions. She didn’t feel homesick yet, there was still no lump in her throat, because everything was so fresh and exciting.

  They finished their meal and got back in the car, driving over a bridge that crossed some railroad tracks, before they arrived at her new home. The building was four storeys high, with a white façade and a row of long, narrow balconies. Melissa drove down and parked the car in the garage. It was full of an unfamiliar smell: the faint odour of garbage combined with exotic scents, mimosa and eucalyptus. Melissa showed her a pool area with lounge chairs and a sauna.

  ‘The pool is open around the clock,’ she said, ‘and sometimes that’s a blessing, because the apartments aren’t air-conditioned. Yours is on the top floor, and when the sun has been beating down on the roof all day it gets really hot.’

  The elevator up to the apartment was creaky – it reminded her of a freight elevator. The whole area was a little run down, but not in complete decline. At first, when they entered the apartment, Sofia thought they were in the wrong place. Melissa had told her it was a one-bedroom. In Sweden this would have meant one room and nothing more, but here it seemed that you got a living room into the bargain. That explained the scandalous rent, which Sofia had brushed off, figuring that was just the way it was in San Francisco. The empty apartment seemed enormous. Everything had a fresh coat of white paint, and there was beige wall-to-wall carpet. The kitchen, done in brown wood, looked well-used. And she caught a glimpse of a balcony outside the living room.

  Melissa said goodbye but turned around in the doorway.

  ‘Oh, one more thing… well, it’s a little embarrassing, but sometimes there are cockroaches in apartments around here. They don’t bite, but they’re nasty, to say the least. The key is to keep everything clean, because they’re drawn to food, crumbs and so on, and you have to complain to the landlord if any do show up.’

  Cockroaches. Sofia had never seen a cockroach. She wondered what made them so unpleasant. Were they like silverfish, dashing away when you found them in cabinets or drawers? Or would they actually attack you?

  Melissa left an echoing silence when she departed. Sofia began to unpack her suitcases. In some unsettling way, it reminded of her of when she’d arrived as staff to ViaTerra three years ago – the feeling of being alone in a strange world.

  Once everything was in its place, she went out on the balcony. A tree grew just on the other side of the railing. Later she would learn that it was an olive tree, but at the moment its only purpose seemed to be to hide the view of the street below. This was a quiet neighbourhood, despite its proximity to the highway and the railroad tracks. All she could hear was the hum of traffic in the distance, and the eager voices of a couple walking by on the street.

  Only now did she realize how tired she was, as a numbness spread through her mind and kept her from really focusing on the present moment. She thought of everyone back home. Of Benjamin, who had cried when they said goodbye. Of Simon, who was probably awake and poking around in his greenhouses. She thought of Dilbert, wondering how fat he would get in Alma’s care. She imagined them all as tiny dots, hardly visible, almost nine thousand kilometres away.

  Then she thought of Franz Oswald and realized that he too felt distant. She wondered if she was finally rid of the evil eye that had watched over her for so long.

  She had two days off before her new job would start, and she used them to settle into her apartment. On the first day she got internet and a landline with an unlisted number. A man came to install everything in the morning, and afterwards she took a walk to a nearby shopping centre, where she bought a mobile phone that wasn’t linked to her name or new address. She bought a cheap bike, which she locked to a pole in the garage. Then she took a dip in the pool before going back up to her apartment, because the cool morning air had given way to ruthless heat. Up in the apartment, she created two email accounts on her new computer: one from Hushmail, to keep in touch with friends and family in Sweden, and one regular one for new contacts in the US. She used a street sign she’d noticed as the username: woodsideroad99@gmail.com. Impossible to trace.

  She biked around the neighbourhood for a while, looking for something to eat, and found a deli where she could buy a takeout sandwich. She ate it at the counter as she considered the empty apartment. Then she decided to call Melissa and ask if the IKEA offer still stood.

  Melissa showed up almost immediately, wearing denim shorts, flip-flops, and a red tank top, car keys dangling from one hand. On the way to IKEA, Sofia asked if it would be possible to keep her name off the library’s website. When Melissa didn’t say anything for a long time, Sofia realized she would have to tell her about ViaTerra. She poured it all out as they sat wit
h hundreds of other cars in a traffic jam that didn’t seem to bother Melissa in the least. When Sofia had finished the tale, Melissa cocked her head and thought for a while. The sun shone in on her brown hands, which were adorned with a couple of flashy rings. Her mouth was half open.

  ‘That won’t be a problem,’ she said at last. ‘We’ll just call you Sofia Andersson – isn’t that what just about everyone in Sweden is called? And we won’t put up a photo.’

  They found everything she needed at IKEA: a small kitchen table with two stools, a few lamps, a sofa, a bookcase, and kitchen implements. It would all be delivered the next day.

  As they got back in the car, she wondered when payday came in the US, because although she had received a loan from her parents, with no obligation to pay it back anytime soon, she didn’t want to be broke after a few months. Everything seemed at least as expensive here as in Sweden, and her salary would be lower than it had been in Lund.

  ‘There’s a lot you can do to live on the cheap here,’ said Melissa, who appeared to have read Sofia’s mind. ‘There’s a market just past your neighbourhood where they sell cheap fruit and vegetables. I’ll show you another day. And coupons show up in the mail every day.’

  The next day, she took her bike to a grocery store and caught a glimpse of the little market Melissa had mentioned. It looked like a big tent, but people there sold fruits and vegetables in colours and sizes Sofia had never seen. She rode home with two bags hanging from the handlebars. Just as she turned onto her street, the IKEA delivery truck arrived and the driver helped her carry all the furniture up to her apartment.

  It was five o’clock by the time she was finished. She had been so eager to get everything set up that she’d forgotten to eat lunch, and she was dripping with sweat. She went to the balcony to fetch her swimsuit, which was hung to dry outside. Until it got cooler in the apartment, she would hang out in a lounger by the pool.

  The sharp ring of her landline startled her. Only her parents had the number. Some quick math in her head told her it was two in the morning in Sweden, and images of accidents and death flashed through her mind before she could pick up the phone.

  ‘Hi!’ She recognized Wilma’s voice right away. ‘You’re harder to get hold of than some major mafia boss in the underworld. You really went underground. I had to get awfully pushy with your parents before they would give me your number. Hope it’s okay that I have it now?’

  ‘As long as you don’t give it out to anyone. What are you doing up at two in the morning?’

  ‘I’m sitting here gazing at the Stockholm archipelago after a crayfish party that went off the rails when ninety per cent of the partygoers got drunk off their asses. You can guess what happened after that.’

  ‘Damn, Wilma, it’s good to hear your voice. You have no idea – everything is so different and exciting here.’

  She was just about to launch into a description, but Wilma interrupted her.

  ’You can tell me everything later, but there’s something I have to tell you first. It’s kind of unpleasant, the sort of thing you might not want to hear during your first few days over there, but it can’t wait.’

  ‘What, did something happen?’

  ‘Not exactly… or, well, yeah, someone called me today. He said his name was Åke Svensson, and he was one of your old classmates, but I saw through that lie right away. He wanted your contact info.’

  For a brief moment, Sofia found herself deep in her own mind – Wilma’s voice suddenly sounded like a vacuum droning in the background. She was yanked back to reality when Wilma’s cough crackled over the line.

  ‘Shit! What did you say?’

  ‘I told him to get fucked, but in a slightly more polite way, and then he offered me a massive amount of money if I’d give him your number. Ten thousand kronor, to be exact.’

  ‘Christ, that’s nuts!’

  ‘When I told him I didn’t have your number, and would never give it out even if I did, he bumped it up to twenty thousand.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Well, it was kind of weird, because when I told him you’d moved to some secret location outside Sweden it was like he was happy with that. He stopped pressuring me.’

  ‘This is just insane. Why are they so desperate?’

  ‘I’m sure you know better than I do. But hey – tell me about San Francisco.’

  ‘Wilma, I want you to report this to the police. There’s an officer named Andrea Claesson in Lund, she’s a decent person – I’ll give you her number.’

  She heard her own voice thinning out as she spoke and she grew hyperaware of her body: the heat in her cheeks, the annoying fact that she was sweating even as her mouth felt like it was full of cotton. The chills running down her spine felt like ice water as they blended with her sweat. She felt Oswald’s existence thousands of miles away, and was suddenly aware that he had been there all along, like an underground current. A faint buzz in her consciousness that had never faded away completely.

  She forced herself to sound cheerful and told Wilma about her first few days in San Francisco, but in reality, by the time she ended the call and stepped out on the balcony, her mind was somewhere far away. Now she could see all the tiny olives on the tree, and smell the faint, musty scent the blazing sun drew out of the leaves. She stood there for a long time, just thinking, until her thoughts turned to Simon. All at once she knew she had to talk to him.

  28

  Simon had made one of his rare journeys to the mainland that morning, mostly to take care of some work-related shopping. Since the off-season had begun, most of the stores in the village were closed. He spoke with Edwin Björk on the trip over.

  ‘Jeez, I think the visitors to the island must have doubled since you started working at the pension,’ Björk said. ‘They come year-round now. Last winter I had to run an extra ferry over the Christmas holidays. How’s Sofia?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Simon replied. ‘She moved abroad, although she only left a few days ago. Haven’t heard from her yet.’

  ‘So it all got to be too much for her, the pressure from those pigs in the cult?’

  ‘Yes, she’d had enough. It’s so revolting, what they’ve done to her. They put a spy camera in her apartment and cut her dog’s ear off.’

  This made Björk, a dog-owner himself, particularly furious, and he spent the whole trip getting himself worked up and cursing the name of ViaTerra. He threatened awful things, including burning down the manor. Simon placed a hand on his shoulder and remarked that justice would probably be served in the end. In fact, he thought this was a ridiculous thing to say, but it seemed to appease Björk.

  Simon still had an hour before the ferry back by the time he was done with his shopping, so he stopped by a bookstore. Right away he spotted something on the shelf of new books, in the very centre of the store.

  How I Walk the Way of the Earth, by Franz Oswald von Bärensten.

  The image on the cover looked recent. Oswald was wearing a pale grey suit, his hair was down, and that blinding smile was pasted on his face. It must have been taken in prison, since Oswald wasn’t his usual shade of tan. He even looked a bit pasty. Simon was pleased to know that at least Oswald didn’t have access to a tanning booth there. He didn’t want to buy the book – the thought of paying a single krona for it made him feel ill – but he couldn’t stop himself.

  On the ferry back, he avoided Björk and sat on a bench at the stern, reading. A strong breeze had blown up. When they docked on the island, a gust caught the book and it almost slipped from Simon’s grasp.

  He aimed for the pension and walked slowly as he absorbed the fresh air. On his way, he gazed up at the pines on the hills. Wisps of clouds dashed above the treetops as if they were in a hurry to get somewhere. Each time he returned to the island it was like a fissure opened up in his life and he found himself in a strange world – even though he had lived there for four years. He didn’t feel at home until he saw the pointed roofs of the greenhouses against the sky.


  Once home, he sat down in his easy chair to keep reading, stopping only to eat dinner. By nine o’clock he had finished the book. It was an autobiography, but it was also sprinkled with plucky tips for living a better life. The most troublesome parts were the lies – among other things, the book claimed that Elvira had seduced Oswald and lied about her age. And that he lived in a state of constant grief for his family.

  But the very worst part was what he wrote about Sofia. It was only a few lines, but it was enough.

  Sofia Bauman was my secretary for two years. She was efficient, competent, and clear-sighted. Anyhow, Sofia often made sexual advances when we worked together. I never responded to these, for reasons of professional decorum. Perhaps that’s why she turned on me in the end. I have no feelings of ill will towards Sofia, and I’m sure we will see each other again someday, under different, better circumstances.

  Simon’s immediate thought was that, whatever it took, he must make sure Sofia never saw the book. She would hit the roof. Then he thought about the injustice of the whole situation. Oswald, sitting in prison and penning lies. He logged onto his computer and googled the book, which had already been covered by every media outlet imaginable. The promotional material blared phrases like page-turner of the year and explosive glimpses into Franz Oswald’s private life.

  Simon stared at the picture of Oswald, unable to curb his irritation at the way this man sucked people in. Even from his prison cell. He decided to call Magnus Strid. He’d never done so before, but now had an idea.