He walked away.
Two hundred crowns. That was an impossible amount of money. Even if they sold their reindeer, they wouldn’t raise that amount. Not that the others would ever agree to it.
He was too young. Taneli felt this in every fiber of his body. He was a child. He didn’t know how to handle this.
His cousin Olet had once said, “Only ever follow people you trust into the forest.” And this Áslat could not be trusted. There was a reason for his willingness to help Taneli: a reason, and a price to pay. There was also the matter of how Raija had obeyed him. When Taneli gave her commands, the dog’s eyes were happy, her whole body ready to spring into action. When Áslat spoke to her, she lay down as if she’d given up. As if she were dead.
But he had to find a way!
The knowledge tore at him. Here was a man who actually knew something. Javanna was alive! The man had said someone was holding her.
As Taneli walked home, he took the long way, circling the town. He was in no rush to get back. He didn’t walk along the streets, but behind them, on the forest tracks. He passed the workers’ houses, the school the Sami were not to attend, the parks. He came to the mining director’s villa, large and proud. This house had no role in the world but to be pretty. And large. Its small, decorative windows sparkled in the sun. Taneli didn’t have any money. But the man who managed the mine did.
TANELI WAITED OUTSIDE the director’s villa all day, peering through the windows. When Sandler came home, his horse lathered with sweat after their ride, the stable hand took the animal away. The housekeeper walked through the rooms, sweeping things with what looked like bird feathers, wiping surfaces with a cloth. She served him dinner and then she left. The house grew quiet. Sandler didn’t seem to have a family. Taneli sat beneath a window, one facing the back. It must be hot inside, for a window had been left open. The director had a dog. Taneli had already fed him dried meat and now they were friends. It was a fierce dog but a very hungry one.
He thought of Raija, left tied up in the forest. He’d had to bind her; otherwise she would have come after him. She cried when he left. He worried in case someone found her and untied her and she came running to find him. He didn’t think his new canine friend would appreciate this.
There was a smell of smoke. Taneli half rose. The muscles in his thighs quivered. The director was smoking a pipe, sitting in an armchair by his bookshelf, an open book in his lap. Where would a man like this keep his money? Hopefully not on him. When he fell asleep, Taneli would enter the house and look. But the man didn’t seem to have any intention of going to bed. Taneli understood him. After the dark winter, once spring came, you wanted to enjoy every minute of light. It was evening now. The sky had taken on a gloomier tone. The birds were singing, but their tweeting was more mellow. If you weren’t born here, you’d probably never notice the difference.
Sandler yawned and covered his mouth with one hand. Finally, Taneli thought.
Then there was a knock and the front door opened. Taneli sat down, but then he couldn’t hear. He waited one beat and rose again. It was a man, the one who had come to measure their skulls. Not the one who had done the measuring, but the other one, the one taking notes. The one with the empty eyes. The one who had kicked his dog.
“Rent again?” the director said. He didn’t sound pleased. Taneli saw that he was a head taller than his guest.
“Yes,” the man said, admonishingly. “Rent.”
“The problem is, I don’t know what the rent is for,” Sandler said.
“Best keep it that way,” the man snarled. He handed him a package.
What was it?
The director turned it around in his hand and flipped through it with a thumb. The paper wad was dirt colored with printing on it. Money!
“Don’t underestimate me,” Sandler said. “I warn you. Don’t think we’re done.”
The man laughed. “Like all of us, you just do as you’re told.”
The man bowed, but it wasn’t an honest gesture. More mocking than sincere. He walked out and closed the door behind him. Taneli was astounded. How dare that man talk to the mining director like that? He was the most important person here! What nerve!
Sandler stood for a while without moving, then he walked to the chest in the far corner of the room. He touched its side, and there was a small click. A tray popped out and he threw the wad in there and closed it. He turned off the lamp by his chair and walked out. He didn’t bother to close the window, or he’d just forgotten about it. The stairway creaked and soon another window opened above Taneli.
Taneli waited. He waited some more. Not taking any chances, he gave his new dog friend some extra dried meat to occupy him and then he entered the house. It was easy. He just lifted himself up on his hands, put a foot on the windowsill and jumped down inside. He stood and listened, but the house was quiet. Taneli was light, but the wooden planks squeaked as he walked, as wood did, but hopefully the director was fast asleep by now. He couldn’t imagine the punishment if he was caught: beaten, jail. Worse. The rejection of his people.
By the chest, he paused. He begged forgiveness of the tall man who slept on the floor above, perhaps the spirits, too, and his tribe. I am no thief, he thought. It is for something good, he added, even though at this point he was uncertain. Then he ran his hand over the piece of furniture. He found a dimple in the wood and pressed it. There it was, the click. He put his hand in the tray and took out the money. There was a lot. All the bills bore the number 100. He wouldn’t take more than he needed. Just two bills. He put the rest back and closed the tray.
Then he turned and he was there: the director. Taneli hadn’t heard him coming. He gasped. Sandler was watching him, blue eyes steady above the beard. Run, Taneli! a voice screamed inside him. Leave the money and run! But he couldn’t move. He had become stone. The director was still watching him. For the briefest of moments, Taneli saw himself through the man’s eyes: a small boy, short, slight, with weak shoulders, and large, scared eyes, unmistakably Sami with the blue kolt and the hat, and the black hair. A Sami boy whose skull shape was more Swedish than Sami, money clutched in his hand.
“I came to shut the window. Because of the bugs,” the director said slowly, as if it were he who must explain himself, and then he turned and left . . . left Taneli there, in his house, stolen money and all. The stairs squeaked again as the director went back upstairs.
22.
Laura
When Jens Regnell left, Laura had to sit down. Britta had sent her thesis to him. Why? After a speech at a nachspiel?
She remembered the first time she had seen Jens at a dinner she’d attended with her father. It wasn’t long ago. Christian Günther had given a speech, which was followed by a question and answer session. Journalists had been invited. At the end, one of the journalists had asked the foreign affairs minister if they might hear a few words from his new secretary. Günther had left the podium—reluctantly? And then this young man had stood up. A boyish smile, an earnest face, relaxed and unfazed. He’d introduced himself and said what an honor it was to work for the minister. A reporter had asked him what he wanted to accomplish, and he had responded that his job was to ensure the foreign affairs policy was executed successfully. But what about him, personally? Then he’d said what an exciting period it was to be in politics—foreign affairs or not: “Perhaps for the first time, we have a real chance to ensure that each Swede has the right to good housing, good healthcare, a good education and—in our old age—safety and comfort. I am delighted to be able to be a part of this. To wage a war for these rights, which, to me, seems the only good reason for waging a war.”
As he continued talking about the vision he had for Sweden, she remembered the room growing still. They were witnessing something extraordinary. He’s the next one, she’d thought. Social Democrat, obviously. She’d vote for him regardless. She gauged her father’s reaction, as always, and, sitting beside her, his face reflected the same feelings she was experiencing hers
elf. Jens Regnell was special.
She’d met Jens in person a couple of months later, with Wallenberg. Then, he had already seemed weighed down with the burdens of ministerial office. He’d been stressed, focused. There had been none of the passion she’d seen at the podium. She’d left feeling disappointed. But how many men managed to keep their visions alive as reality hit them?
Britta had sent her thesis to him. Even though she didn’t know him, she had thought he might pursue it.
Britta hadn’t sent it to Laura. Britta had not trusted her enough. Just like the coffee conversation at the NK. Britta had chosen not to confide in her.
Who was it in your life that didn’t commit, Laura? Professor Lindahl’s voice in her head. Her heart thudded hard.
She had to admit to a feeling of relief when she heard the topic of Britta’s thesis: Nordic Relations Through the Ages—Denmark, Norway and Sweden on a New Path. When Jens first told her about the thesis, she’d felt a rush of fear, thinking that perhaps Britta had continued the project they had been working on during their university years—the one that ultimately drove them apart—and that her murder did have something to do with the five of them, after all. But Britta’s thesis contained nothing about Asatru, the Norse faith.
PROFESSOR LINDAHL HAD invited the archbishop to one of the nachspiele. He’d been talking about church and state, their links and the role of the church in the new Sweden.
“Incredible,” Erik had stated, once the archbishop had left.
“What?” Karl-Henrik had asked.
“The man—the archbishop, I mean—seems lucid. A rather intelligent man. Educated. And then there is this mystic belief in this all-seeing, all-knowing chap above, steering things according to his liking. Praying to someone you cannot see; believing in something you cannot possibly know.”
“Millions of people all over the world believe in similar things,” Karl-Henrik said.
“But most of them are not educated,” Erik argued.
Was that true? Most people were not schooled; that was correct. But whether most religious people were or not, she didn’t know. Wasn’t religion, in some ways, for the educated ones only?
“A wonderful way of keeping people subdued, in line.”
The professor leaned forward to tap his cigarette in the ashtray. He seemed to be smiling to himself.
“What about Asatru—the Norse faith—that you bore us with all the time?” Matti asked.
“But that’s just sagas, legends. It’s our heritage. Not something to believe in.”
“What did I miss?” Britta came back from the washroom.
“Erik is thinking about becoming religious,” Laura said.
Erik grunted. “Very funny. I was just saying that it’s totally implausible for an intelligent man to believe in . . .”
“Well, this class is all about expanding our boundaries and dealing with the implausible,” Professor Lindahl said. “And so I, in my role as your guide, see it as my duty to promptly challenge you, Mr. Anker, to find yourself a faith.”
Britta burst out laughing.
Erik turned to her, glowering.
“I’m just trying to imagine it!” She wiped her eyes.
“I’m an atheist!”
The professor rose. “Not anymore, you’re not, Mr. Anker. Find yourself something to believe in. In fact,” he paused, “I extend the challenge to all of you. What would it take for you to become passionate speakers for a faith, like the archbishop? What thing would sway you?
“Now it’s time for me to go home, my dears. You may, of course, stay as long as you want.”
And with that he walked out.
They waited until the big wooden door at the front slammed shut.
“Jesus bloody Christ!” Erik swore.
“Walked right into that one,” Laura said. “And took us right with you.”
Erik swore again: a long tirade.
“Actually, it’s a really interesting question,” Karl-Henrik said. “What would it take?”
“I already believe in God,” Matti said. His eyes were glowing. Teasing, Laura thought.
“No, you fucking don’t,” Erik said.
Matti laughed out loud.
“The whole thing is ridiculous,” Erik muttered.
“We see it all the time,” Karl-Henrik said, “perfectly rational people with a faith. What convinces them?”
“Perhaps he didn’t mean it?” Erik said, hopefully. “Perhaps it wasn’t a proper assignment?”
“Oh no, I think it was,” Britta said.
THAT NIGHT, MATTI had stayed as he sometimes did, and they found themselves making love. Laura was surprised at herself but thought she knew the reason why; it wasn’t serious between them and had no chance of becoming so.
After, Matti kissed her shoulder. “What are you thinking about?”
“Erik,” she said.
He poked a finger in her side, hard. “I’ve just made love to you and you’re thinking about Erik.”
She laughed. “Actually, I was thinking about the professor’s question to Erik and all of us,” she clarified.
“It’s not exactly history . . .”
“But there is a lesson there. Otherwise, the professor would never have asked. What subject does he prod you about?”
Matti turned to grab his cigarettes. “I’m not telling,” he said. “You?”
“Not telling.”
No, some things were better kept to yourself.
Matti lit a cigarette, pulled on it and then handed it to her.
“But he got it wrong with me,” Matti said. “The thing he prods me on.”
“Really?”
Matti shook his head, serious now. “He’s not always right, you know.”
Yes, the professor was human too, she thought, but didn’t feel it.
She was woken by the sound of the front door opening. Karl-Henrik, she thought. There were soft footsteps, past her bedroom door and into the reading room. The library door shut quietly with a click. She glanced at Matti—didn’t want him to wake up and wonder. Nor did she want Karl-Henrik to know Matti slept over.
But Matti was breathing soundlessly and Laura could feel herself twitch. He looked peaceful, like a child. It made her smile. She crept closer to him, put her head just beside his, began breathing at the same pace. When she next woke up, Karl-Henrik was long gone and Matti was getting dressed.
IN HER ENTIRE life, Laura had not committed to anything. Not really. She had never put herself at risk. But her thoughts of Britta would not leave her alone until she found out what had happened.
Enough! This was not who she was going to be.
She rose.
WALLENBERG MADE HER wait. He had never, ever made her wait before. Her father could have given her what she was about to ask Wallenberg, but she didn’t think he would have complied. He was too worried about her. You’re home now—his voice echoed in her ears. She stood in the hallway at work and her former colleagues avoided meeting her gaze—as if she had done something wrong! What excuse had Wallenberg given for her absence? Her cheeks burned. She refused to look at her desk in case another person was already sitting there. She held her head high and looked out of one of the windows. The sky outside was a high blue. And the rejection didn’t break her. On the contrary, she let it fuel her, make her stronger.
“I thought I’d made myself clear,” Wallenberg said, when he finally received her.
The face that normally softened when he spoke with her was bland. Cold, even.
They’d worked together for three years and he had dropped her like a stone.
“You did,” she agreed and forced herself to smile. She put her hands on his desk and leaned closer to him, standing her ground. “For three years, I worked for you. I gave you everything I had. Now, I think you owe me,” she said. “And this is what I want . . .”
23.
Jens
Hi.”
Kristina came out into the hallway to greet him. She smiled, wrap
ped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the mouth. She was in a marine-blue dress, her hair in a high ponytail. She wasn’t wearing much makeup. She’d adopted the girl-next-door-look, he thought, and promptly felt ashamed of himself.
“I’ve missed you,” she said.
“I’ve missed you, too.” He had.
“I’ve made dinner. I thought it might be nice if we ate in tonight.”
“That sounds great.”
Jens threw his briefcase on the chair by the door and hung up his suit jacket. His stomach gave a twinge at the aroma of food cooking. As he walked into the kitchen, he loosened his tie and folded up his shirtsleeves. He went to the window and lifted the blackout curtain to look into the small, dark street below. Not a dock on the water, but his home, nevertheless.
“How was work?” Kristina asked.
Jens thought of his hasty meeting with Sven outside. “Good,” he said. “Actually, very good. Some things have been on my mind, but they all reached closure today.”
Yes, his fears had been in vain. Only now did he realize how worried he had been. He’d thought the worst—an intrigue involving the foreign minister and the ministry—only to—thank goodness—be proved wrong. He’d have to go to see Laura again. Make sure she knew. Though the police would most likely tell her themselves, when they’d arrested the perpetrator.
“Drink?” Kristina asked.
“Yes, please.” He sat down at the table and she poured him a glass of red wine. He took a sip, felt his mouth grow warm. He stretched out his legs and leaned back in the chair. “How was your day?” he asked.
“Good.” She placed a casserole on the table. “I carried out some business for my father: made phone calls, wrote letters . . .” She pulled off her oven mitts, then untied her apron, took it off and hung it over the back of her chair before sitting down facing him. “Nothing important,” she said as she served him stew. “Not like you.”
“Everyone’s day is important.”
He took a bite of the food. Chicken, creamy and mild. “This is good, Kristina,” he said.
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