The Man From Beijing

by Henning Mankell

  She went to the bathroom. Her toiletries bag was exactly where she had left it that morning. None of the contents were missing.

  She went back into the room and sat on a chair by the window. Her suitcase was lying with the lid open. She went to examine the contents, lifting out each item of clothing, one by one. If somebody had searched through it, they had done it carefully to avoid detection.

  It was only when she came to the bottom of the case that she stopped dead. There ought to be a torch and a box of matches there. She always took them with her on her travels, ever since the year before she married Staffan when she had visited Madeira and there had been a power cut that lasted for more than a day. She had been out for an evening walk by the steep cliffs on the outskirts of Funchal when everything went black. It had taken her hours to grope her way back to the hotel. After that she always carried a torch and a box of matches in her suitcase. The torch was there, but no sign of the matches. The matchbox had a green label and came from a restaurant in Helsingborg.

  She went through the clothes once more without finding the box. Had she put it in her bag? She did sometimes do that, but she had no memory of moving it from her suitcase. But who would take a box of matches from a room being searched surreptitiously?

  She sat down on the chair by the window again. That last hour in the hospital, she thought. Even at the time I had the feeling that I was being kept there unnecessarily. What were the test results they were waiting for? Was the real reason that they wanted me out of the way while the police searched my hotel room? But why? After all, I was the one who had been mugged.

  There was a knock on the door. Birgitta gave a start. She could see through the peephole that there were police officers in the corridor. She opened the door anxiously. These were new officers, not the ones she had seen at the hospital. One was a woman, short, about the same age as Birgitta. She was the one who did the talking.

  ‘We just want to make sure that everything is all right.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The policewoman indicated that she wanted to enter the room. Birgitta stepped to one side. One policeman stood outside the door, another one inside. The woman led the way to the chairs by the window and placed a briefcase on the table. Something about her behaviour surprised Birgitta Roslin, without her being able to put her finger on what it was.

  ‘I’d like you to study some pictures. We have information from some witnesses and think we might know who carried out the attack.’

  ‘But I didn’t see anything. An arm, perhaps? How can I identify an arm?’

  The police officer wasn’t listening. She produced some photographs and placed them on the table in front of Birgitta Roslin. All of them were of young men.

  ‘Perhaps you saw something without having registered it.’

  There was obviously no point in protesting. Birgitta leafed through the pictures, and it occurred to her that these were young men who might eventually commit a crime that would result in their being executed. Naturally, she didn’t recognise any of them. She shook her head.

  ‘I’ve never seen any of them before.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Certain.’

  ‘None of them?’

  ‘None.’

  The policewoman replaced the photographs in the briefcase. Birgitta noticed that her fingernails were badly bitten.

  ‘We shall catch the people responsible for the attack,’ said the woman. ‘How much longer will you be staying in Beijing?’

  ‘Three days.’

  The officer nodded, bowed and left the room.

  You knew that, Birgitta thought as she fastened the safety chain. That I would be staying for three more days. Why ask me something you knew already? You can’t fool me as easily as that.

  She closed her eyes and thought that she should call home.

  When she woke up it was dark outside. The pain in her neck was beginning to subside. But the attack seemed even more menacing now. She had a strange feeling that the worst hadn’t actually happened yet. She took out her mobile phone and called Helsingborg. Staffan wasn’t at home, nor did he answer his mobile phone. She left a message, considered calling her children, but decided not to.

  She went through the contents of her bag in her head one more time. She had lost sixty dollars. But most of her cash was locked up in the little safe in the wardrobe. She stood up and went to check the safe. It was still locked. She keyed in the code and went through the contents. Nothing was missing. She closed the door and relocked it. She was still trying to work out what had struck her as odd about the policewoman’s behaviour. She stood by the door and tried to call up the scene in her mind’s eye. But in vain. She lay down on the bed again. Thought again about the photographs the policewoman had taken out of her briefcase.

  She suddenly sat up. She had opened the door. The policewoman had indicated that she wanted to come in and Birgitta had moved to one side. Then the woman had walked straight over to the chairs by the window. She hadn’t even cast a glance at the open bathroom door, or the part of the room with the large double bed.

  Birgitta Roslin could think of only one explanation. The policewoman had been in the room before. She didn’t need to look around. She already knew where everything was.

  Birgitta stared at the table where the briefcase and the photographs had been lying. She hadn’t recognised any of the faces she had been asked to study. But was that perhaps really what the police wanted to check? That she couldn’t identify anybody in the pictures? It was not a question of her possibly being able to recognise one of her attackers. On the contrary. The police wanted to make sure that she really hadn’t seen anything.

  But why? She stood by the window. A thought she had entertained while still in Hudiksvall came back into her mind.

  What has happened is big, too big for me alone.

  Fear flooded her before she had time to prepare herself. It was more than an hour before she could pluck up the courage to take the lift to the dining room.

  Before she went in through the glass doors, she looked around. But there was nobody there.

  24

  Birgitta Roslin had been crying in her sleep. Karin Wiman sat up in bed and gently touched her shoulder in order to wake her up.

  Karin had come back very late that evening. To make sure that she didn’t lie awake for hours, Birgitta had taken one of the sleeping pills she so seldom used but always had with her.

  ‘You must have been dreaming,’ said Karin. ‘Something sad that made you cry.’

  Birgitta couldn’t remember any dreams. The inner landscape she had just left was completely empty.

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly five. I’m tired, I need to sleep a bit longer. Why were you crying?’

  ‘I don’t know. I must have been dreaming, even if I don’t remember what.’

  Karin lay down again. She soon fell back to sleep. Birgitta got up and opened a little gap in the curtains. The early-morning traffic was already under way. A few flags straining at their moorings told her that it was going to be another windy day in Beijing.

  The fear she had felt after being mugged returned. But she resolved to fight against it, just as she had when she had received numerous threats as a judge. She ran through in her mind once again what had happened, this time being as critical as she possibly could. In the end she was left with the almost embarrassing feeling that her imagination had got the better of her. She suspected conspiracy at every turn, a chain of events that she made up, whereas in reality they were unconnected. She had been mugged; her bag had been snatched. Why the police should be involved in the attack now seemed beyond her comprehension – no doubt they were doing all they could to help. Perhaps she had been crying about herself and her fantasies?

  She switched on the lamp and tilted it backwards so that the light didn’t fall on Karin’s side of the bed. Then she started to leaf through the Beijing guidebook she had brought with her. She ticked off in the margin things she wa
nted to see during the days she had left. First of all she wanted to visit the Forbidden City that she had read so much about and been entranced by ever since she first became interested in China. Another day she wanted to visit one of the Buddhist temples in the city. She and Staffan had often agreed that if by any chance they felt the need to become more closely acquainted with the spiritual world, only Buddhism would fit the bill. Staffan had pointed out that it was the one religion that had never gone to war nor resorted to violence in order to spread its message. It was important for Birgitta that Buddhism recognised only the god that everybody had latent inside his or her self. Understanding its creed meant slowly waking up that inner god.

  She went back to bed and slept for a few more hours, then woke up to see Karin naked, stretching and yawning in the middle of the room. An old Rebel with a body that was still quite well preserved, she thought.

  ‘Now there’s a pretty sight,’ she said.

  Karin gave a start, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.

  ‘I thought you were asleep.’

  ‘I was until a minute ago. This time I woke up without crying.’

  ‘Did you dream?’

  ‘I expect so. But I don’t remember anything. The dreams slipped away and hid. No doubt I was a teenager and unlucky in love.’

  ‘I never dream about my youth. But I do sometimes imagine myself very old.’

  ‘We’re not far from that state.’

  ‘Not yet. I’m concentrating on lectures that I hope are going to be interesting.’

  She went into the bathroom, and when she emerged she was fully dressed.

  Birgitta still hadn’t mentioned the mugging. She wondered if she should keep it to herself. Among all the emotions surrounding the event was a feeling of embarrassment, as if she should have been able to avoid what had happened. She was normally very alert.

  ‘I’m going to be just as late this evening again,’ said Karin. ‘But it will be all over by tomorrow. Then it’ll be our turn.’

  ‘I have long lists,’ said Birgitta. ‘Today it’s going to be the Forbidden City.’

  ‘Mao used to live there,’ said Karin. ‘Some people maintain that he consciously tried to imitate one of the old emperors. Most likely Qin, who we talk about day after day. But I think that’s malicious slander. Political slander.’

  ‘His spirit no doubt hovers over the whole conference,’ said Birgitta. ‘Off you go now; work hard and think clever thoughts.’

  Karin left, full of energy. Instead of giving in to envy, Birgitta leaped out of bed, did a few half-hearted press-ups, and prepared to spend a day in Beijing without any conspiracies or worried glances over her shoulder. She devoted the morning to exploring the mysterious labyrinth that made up the Forbidden City. Over the middle gate in the vividly pink-coloured wall, once used exclusively by emperors, hung a large portrait of Mao. Birgitta noticed that all the Chinese who passed through the red gates touched their gold mountings. She assumed it was some kind of superstition. Perhaps Karin could explain it.

  She walked over the worn stones that paved the inner courtyard of the palace and recalled that when she had been a Red Rebel, she had read that the Forbidden City comprised 9,999 and a half rooms. As the Divine God had ten thousand rooms, naturally, the Divine Son could not have more. She doubted if that were true.

  There were lots of visitors despite the cold wind. Most were Chinese, moving with reverence through the rooms to which their ancestors had been denied entrance for generations. What a gigantic revolution this was, Birgitta Roslin thought. When a people liberates itself, every individual acquires the right to dream his own dreams and has access to the forbidden rooms where oppression was created.

  Every fifth person in the world is Chinese. When my family is gathered together, if we were the world, one of us would be Chinese. So we were right after all when we were young. Our Red revolutionary prophets, not least Moses, who was the most educated theoretically, reminded us over and over again that it was impossible to discuss the future without taking China into account.

  Just as she was about to leave the Forbidden City, she discovered to her surprise a cafe from an American chain. The sign screeched at her from a red-brick wall. She watched to see how passing Chinese reacted. Some stopped and pointed, others even went inside, while most didn’t seem to take any notice of what Birgitta considered to be a disgraceful sacrilege. China had become a different kind of mystery since the first time she had tried to understand the Middle Kingdom. But that’s not right, she told herself. It must be possible to understand how there can be an American cafe in the Forbidden City given how the world moves on.

  She had lunch at a little restaurant and was again surprised to see how expensive the bill was. Then she decided to try to find an English newspaper at the hotel and drink a cup of coffee in the bar in the huge reception area. She found a copy of the Guardian at the newspaper kiosk and sat down in a corner where an open fire was burning merrily. Some American tourists stood up and announced in very loud voices that they were now going to climb the Great Wall of China. She took an instant dislike to them.

  When would she go to see the Wall? Perhaps Karin would have time on the last day before they had to fly home? How could one possibly visit China and not see the Wall that, according to modern legend, was one of the few human constructions that could be seen from space?

  The Wall really is something I have to see, she thought. No doubt Karin has been there before. But she’ll have to do it for my sake.

  A woman suddenly appeared in front of her table. She was about the same age as Birgitta, with sleeked-back hair. She smiled and gave the impression of great dignity. She addressed Birgitta Roslin in immaculate English.

  ‘Mrs Roslin?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Do you mind if I sit down and join you? I have an important errand.’

  ‘Please do.’

  The woman was wearing a dark blue suit that must have been very expensive.

  She sat down.

  ‘My name is Hong Qiu,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t dream of disturbing you if I didn’t have something very important to talk to you about.’

  She gestured discreetly to a man hovering in the background. He came up to their table and placed upon it Birgitta’s bag, as if it were an exceedingly valuable gift, before bowing and withdrawing.

  Birgitta looked at Hong Qiu in surprise.

  ‘The police found your bag,’ said Hong Qiu. ‘It is humiliating for us to accept that one of our guests has been exposed to an unfortunate incident, and so I was asked to return it to you.’

  ‘Are you a police officer?’

  Hong Qiu continued to smile.

  ‘Certainly not. But I’m sometimes asked to perform certain services for our authorities. Is there anything missing?’

  Birgitta opened her bag. Everything was still there apart from the money. To her surprise she also discovered that the box of matches she’d been unable to find was actually there in her bag.

  ‘The money is missing.’

  ‘We are confident of catching the criminals. They will be severely punished.’

  ‘But they won’t be condemned to death, I hope?’

  There was an almost indiscernible reaction in Hong Qiu’s face, but Birgitta noticed it.

  ‘Our laws are strict. If they have committed serious crimes before, it’s possible that they might receive the death sentence. But if they show signs of having reformed, they may get away with prison.’

  ‘But what happens if they don’t express any regret?’

  The response was evasive. ‘Our laws are clear and unambiguous. But nothing is certain. We make judgements according to the particulars of a case. Punishment doled out in accordance with routines can never be justified.’

  ‘I work in the law – I’m a judge. Only an extremely primitive legal system can ever resort to capital punishment, which seldom if ever has a pre-ventative effect.’

  Birgitta Roslin regretted the
meddlesome tone of her comments. Hong Qiu listened attentively, but her smile had disappeared. A waitress approached them, but Hong Qiu dismissed her with a shake of the head. Birgitta Roslin had the distinct impression that a pattern was being repeated. Hong Qiu didn’t react to the news that Birgitta was a judge – she knew that already.

  In this country they know all there is to know about me, she thought. Or am I imagining it?

  ‘Naturally I’m pleased to have my bag back. But you must realise that I’m surprised by the way this has happened. You bring it to me, but you are not a police officer – I don’t know what or who you are. Have the people who stole my bag been arrested, or did I misunderstand what you said? Did somebody find it after the muggers had thrown it away?’

  ‘Nobody has been arrested, but the police have their suspicions. The bag was found not far from where it was stolen.’

  Hong Qiu started to stand up. Birgitta Roslin stopped her.

  ‘Tell me who you are. An unknown woman suddenly appears from nowhere and returns my bag.’

  ‘I work on security matters. As I speak both English and French, I am sometimes asked to perform certain tasks.’

  ‘Security? So you are in fact a police officer. Despite what you said.’

  Hong Qiu shook her head.

  ‘Security goes beyond police responsibility. It goes deeper, down to the very roots of society. I’m sure that’s true in your country as well.’

  ‘Who asked you to look me up and return my bag?’

  ‘A duty officer at Beijing’s central lost property office.’

  ‘Lost property? Who had handed in my bag?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘How could he know the bag belonged to me? It doesn’t contain any identity card or anything with my name.’

  ‘I assume he was informed by the relevant police authorities investigating the case.’

  ‘Are you saying there is more than one department dealing with muggings?’