Italian Shoes

by Henning Mankell

  It was as if Harriet had read my thoughts. She suddenly asked me what I was thinking about.

  ‘About Rome,’ I said evasively. I don’t know why. I once attended a conference for surgeons in Rome that had been exhausting and badly organised. I skipped the last two days and instead explored the Villa Borghese. I moved out of the big five-star hotel where the conference delegates were staying, and moved to Dinesens’ Guest House where Karen Blixen once used to be a regular guest. I flew from Rome convinced that I would never return.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That’s all. I wasn’t thinking about anything else.’

  But that wasn’t true. I had in fact returned to Rome two years later. The major catastrophe had taken place, and I rushed away from Stockholm in a frenzy in order to find peace and quiet. I remember dashing to Arlanda airport without a ticket. The next flights to southern Europe were to Madrid and Rome. I chose Rome because the travelling time was shorter.

  I spent a week wandering round the streets, my mind full of the great injustice that had stricken me. I drank far too much, occasionally got into bad company, and was mugged on my last evening. I returned to Sweden severely beaten up, with my nose looking like a blood-soaked dumpling. A doctor at the Southern Hospital straightened it out and gave me some painkillers. After that, Rome was the last place on earth I ever wanted to visit again.

  ‘I’ve been to Rome,’ said Harriet. ‘My whole life has revolved around shoes. What I thought was just a coincidence when I was young, working in a shoe shop because my father had once worked as a foreman at Oscaria in Örebro, turned out to be something that would affect the whole of my life. All I’ve ever done, really, is wake up morning after morning and think about shoes. I once went to Rome and stayed there for a month as an apprentice to an old master craftsman who made shoes for the richest feet in the world. He devoted as much care to each pair as Stradivari did to his violins. He used to believe feet had personalities of their own. An opera singer – I can no longer remember her name – had spiteful feet that never took their shoes seriously or showed them any respect. On the other hand, a Hungarian businessman had feet that displayed tenderness towards their shoes. I learned something from that old man about both shoes and art. Selling shoes was never the same again after that.’

  We set off again.

  I had started to think about where we should spend the night. It wasn’t dark yet, but I preferred not to drive in bad light. My sight had deteriorated in recent years.

  The winter landscape’s uniformity gave it a special kind of beauty. We were travelling through country where practically nothing happened. Though now as we passed over the brow of a hill we both noticed a dog sitting by the side of the road. I braked in case it suddenly darted out in front of the car. When we’d passed it, Harriet remarked that it had a collar. I could see in the rear-view mirror that it had started following the car. When I slowed again, it caught up with us.

  ‘It’s following us,’ I said.

  ‘I think it’s been abandoned.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘Dogs that run after cars usually bark. But this one isn’t barking.’

  She was right. I pulled up on the hard shoulder. The dog sat down, its tongue hanging out of its mouth. When I reached out, it didn’t move. I took hold of its collar, and saw that it had a disc with a telephone number. Harriet took out her mobile phone and dialled the number. She handed the phone to me. Nobody answered.

  ‘There’s nobody there.’

  ‘If we drive off, the dog may run after us until it drops dead.’

  Harriet took the phone and called directory enquiries.

  ‘The owner is Sara Larsson, who lives at Högtunet Farm in Rödjebyn. Do we have a map?’

  ‘Not a sufficiently large-scale one.’

  ‘We can’t just leave the dog on the road.’

  I got out and opened the back door. The dog immediately jumped in and curled up. A lonely dog, I thought. No different from a lonely person.

  After five or six miles we came to a little village with a general store. I went in and asked about Högtunet Farm. The shop assistant was young and wearing a baseball cap back to front. He drew a map for me.

  ‘We’ve found a dog,’ I said.

  ‘Sara Larsson has a spaniel,’ said the shop assistant. ‘Perhaps it’s run away?’

  I returned to the car, gave Harriet the hand-drawn map and drove back the way we’d come. All the time the dog lay curled up on the back seat. But I could see that it was alert. Harriet guided me into a side road hidden between banks of snow carved by the snowplough. It was disorientating entering this white corridor, all sense of direction lost. The road meandered along between fir trees heavily laden with snow. Though the road had been ploughed nothing had been through since last snowfall.

  ‘Look – animal tracks in the snow,’ said Harriet. ‘They’re leading back towards the main road.’

  The dog had sat up on the back seat, its ears cocked, staring out through the windscreen. It kept shuddering, perhaps feeling cold. We drove over an old stone bridge. Ramshackle wooden fencing was just visible by the side of the road. The forest opened up. On a hillock ahead of us was a house that hadn’t seen a coat of paint for many years. There was also an outhouse and a partially collapsed barn. I stopped and let the dog out. It ran to the front door, scratched at it, then sat down to wait. I noticed that no smoke was coming from the chimney and the outside light over the front door was not on. I didn’t like what I saw.

  ‘Just like a painting,’ said Harriet, ‘left behind by the artist on nature’s easel.’

  I got out of the car and lifted out the walker. Harriet shook her head, and stayed in the car. I stood in front of the house, listening. The dog was still sitting there motionless, staring at the door. A rusty old plough stuck out of the snow like the remains of a shipwreck. Everything seemed to be abandoned. I could see no tracks in the snow apart from those made by the dog. I was feeling more and more uneasy. I walked up to the house and knocked on the door. The dog stood up.

  ‘Who’s going to open it?’ I whispered. ‘Who are you waiting for? Why were you sitting out there on the main road?’

  I knocked again, then tried the handle. The door wasn’t locked. The dog ran in between my legs. It smelled stuffy inside the house – not unaired, but as if time had stood still and begun emitting a scent of doom. The dog had run into what I assumed was the kitchen, and not returned. I shouted, but there was no answer. On the left was a room with old-fashioned furniture and a clock with a pendulum swinging silently behind the glass. On the right was a staircase leading to the upper floor. I went to where the dog had gone and stopped abruptly in the doorway.

  An old woman was lying prone on the floor of grey linoleum. It was obvious that she was dead. Nevertheless, I did what one ought to do in the circumstance: knelt down and felt for a pulse in her neck, her wrist and in one temple. It wasn’t really necessary as the body was cold and rigor mortis had already set in. I assumed it was Sara Larsson lying there. It was cold in the kitchen as one of the windows was half open. That was no doubt the way the dog had taken in order to get out and try to fetch help. I stood up and looked around. Everything was neat and tidy in the kitchen. In all probability, Sara Larsson had died of natural causes. Her heart had stopped beating; perhaps a blood vessel had burst in her brain. I estimated her age at somewhere between eighty and ninety. She had thick white hair tied in a knot at the back of her head. I carefully turned the body over. The dog was watching everything I did with great interest. When the body was lying on its back, the dog sniffed at her face. I seemed to be looking at a painting different from the one Harriet had seen. I was looking at a depiction of loneliness beyond description. The dead woman had a beautiful face. There is a special kind of beauty that manifests itself only in the faces of really old women. Their furrowed skin contains all the marks and memories imprinted by a life lived. Old women whose bodies the earth is crying out to embrace.

/>   I thought about my old father, shortly before he died. He had cancer that had spread all over his body. By the side of his deathbed was a pair of immaculately polished shoes. But he said nothing. He was so afraid of death that he had been struck dumb. And wasted away to such an extent that he was unrecognisable. The earth was crying out to embrace him as well.

  I went out to Harriet, who had got out of the car and was leaning on her walker. She accompanied me back to the house, and held tightly on to my arm as she walked up the steps. The dog was still sitting in the kitchen.

  ‘She’s lying on the floor,’ I said. ‘She’s dead and stiff and her face has turned yellow. You don’t need to see her.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of death. What I think is horrific is the fact that I shall have to be dead for so long.’

  Have to be dead for so long.

  Later, I would remember those words spoken by Harriet as we stood in the dark hallway just before entering the kitchen where the old woman was lying on the floor.

  We stood in silence. Then I scanned the house, looking for evidence of a relative I could contact. There had once been a man in the house, that much was obvious from the photographs hanging on the walls. But now she was alone with her dog. When I came downstairs again, Harriet had placed a handkerchief over Sara Larsson’s face. She’d had great difficulty in bending down. The dog was lying in its basket, watching us attentively.

  I telephoned the police. It took me some time to explain exactly where I was.

  We went out on to the porch to wait, both subdued. We said nothing, but I noticed that we were trying to stand as close together as possible. Then we saw headlights slicing through the forest, and a police car drew up outside. The officers who got out of it were very young. One of them, a woman with long fair hair tied in a ponytail behind her cap, seemed to be no more than twenty or twenty-one at most. Their names were Anna and Evert. They went into the kitchen. Harriet remained on the porch, but I followed them.

  ‘What will happen to the dog?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ll take it with us.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘I suppose it will have to sleep in the cells with the drunks until we can establish if there is some relative or other who can take care of it. Otherwise it will have to go to a dogs’ home. If the worst comes to the worst, it will be put down.’

  There was a constant scraping sound coming from the radio receivers attached to their belts. The young woman made a note of my name and telephone number.

  She said there was no need for us to stay there any longer. I squatted down in front of the basket and stroked the spaniel’s head. Did she have a name? What would happen to her now?

  We drove through the gathering dusk. The headlights illuminated signs with unfamiliar names.

  Everything is silent travelling in a car through a winter landscape. Summer or spring are never silent. But winter is mute.

  We came to a crossroads. I stopped. We needed somewhere to stay; a sign indicated the Foxholes Inn five miles off.

  The inn turned out to be a mansion-like building with two wings, situated in extensive grounds. A lot of cars were parked outside the main building.

  I left Harriet in the car and entered the brightly lit lobby, where an elderly man, who gave the impression of being in another world, sat playing an old piano. He came down to earth when he heard me come in, and stood up. I asked if he had any rooms for the night.

  ‘We’re full,’ he said. ‘We have a large party celebrating the return of a relative from America.’

  ‘Have you any rooms at all?’

  He studied a ledger.

  ‘We have one.’

  ‘I need two.’

  ‘We have one large, double room with a view of the lake. On the first floor, very quiet. It was booked, but somebody in the big party fell ill. It’s the only room we have available.’

  ‘Is it a double bed, or a twin?’

  ‘It’s a very comfortable double bed. Nobody has ever complained about it being difficult to get to sleep there. One of Sweden’s elderly princes, now dead, slept in that bed many times without trouble. Although I’m a monarchist, I have to admit that royal guests can sometimes be demanding.’

  ‘Can you divide the bed?’

  ‘Only by sawing it in half.’

  I went out to Harriet and explained the situation. One room, a double bed. If she preferred, we could drive on and try to find somewhere else.

  ‘Do they serve food?’ Harriet asked. ‘I can sleep anywhere.’

  I went back in. I recognised the tune the man at the piano was churning out, something that had been popular when I was a young man. Harriet would certainly be able to name it.

  I asked if they served an evening meal.

  ‘We have a wine-tasting dinner that I can thoroughly recommend.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Isn’t that good enough?’

  His response sounded very disapproving.

  ‘We’ll take the room,’ I said. ‘We’ll take the room, and look forward to the wine-tasting dinner.’

  I went out again and helped Harriet out of her seat. I could see that she was still in pain. We walked slowly through the snow, up the ramp for wheelchairs, and entered the warmth. The man was back at the piano.

  ‘“Non ho l’età”,’ said Harriet. ‘We used to dance to that. Do you remember who sang it? Gigliola Cinquetti. She won the Eurovision Song Contest in 1963 or 1964.’

  I remembered. Or at least I thought I did. After all those solitary years on my grandparents’ island, I no longer relied on my memory.

  ‘I’ll sign us in later,’ I said. ‘Let’s take a look at our room first.’

  The man collected a key and escorted us down a long corridor that led to a single door with a number inlaid in the dark wood. We were to occupy room number 3. He unlocked the door and switched on the light. It was a large room, very attractive. But the double bed was smaller than I’d expected.

  ‘The dining room closes in an hour.’

  He left us alone. Harriet flopped down on to the bed. The whole situation suddenly seemed to me totally unreal. What had I got myself into? Was I going to share a bed with Harriet after all these years? Why had she agreed to go along with it?

  ‘I can find a sofa to sleep on,’ I said.

  ‘It makes no difference to me,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve never been afraid of you. Have you been afraid of me? Scared that I’d stick an axe into your skull while you were asleep? I need to be left alone for a while. I’d like to eat in half an hour. And you don’t need to worry – I can pay for myself.’

  I went out to the piano player and signed the register. From the part of the dining room sealed off by a sliding door came the buzz of conversation of the party welcoming their relative home from America. I went into one of the lounges and sat down to wait. It had been a long day. I was restless. Days on the island always passed by slowly. Now I had the feeling I was under attack and felt defenceless.

  Through the open door I saw Harriet emerging from the corridor with her walker. It looked as if she was standing at the wheel of some strange vessel. She was moving unsteadily. Had she been drinking again? We went into the dining room. Most of the tables were vacant. A friendly waitress with a swollen and bandaged leg gave us a corner table. Just as my father had taught me to do, I checked to see if the waitress was wearing decent shoes. She was, although they could have done with polishing. Unlike earlier in the day, Harriet was hungry. I wasn’t. But I made up for that by drinking greedily the wine served by a thin youth with a freckled face. Harriet asked questions about the wine, but I said nothing, merely drank up whatever was put before me. They were mainly Australian wines, with some from South Africa. But so what? All I wanted just now was to get tipsy.

  We toasted each other, and I noticed that Harriet became quite drunk almost immediately. I wasn’t the only one drinking too much. When was the last time I’d been so drunk that I had difficulty in controlling my movements? Very occa
sionally, when depression got the better of me, I would sit at the kitchen table and drink myself silly, then kick the cat and dog out, and crash out fully clothed on top of the bed. It hardly ever happened during the winter. Perhaps on a light spring evening or early in the autumn I would have an attack of angst, and would bring out the bottles.

  The dining room closed. We were the last diners. We had eaten and drunk, and as if by tacit agreement had mentioned nothing about our lives, nor where we were heading. Even Sara Larsson and her dog were not discussed. I charged the meal to our room despite Harriet’s protests. Then we stumbled off. Somehow or other Harriet seemed to manage with her walker in a controlled manner, I had no idea how she managed it. I unlocked the door of our room, and said I would go for an evening walk before going to bed. It wasn’t true, of course. But I didn’t want to embarrass Harriet by being present when she went to bed. I suppose I was just as keen not to embarrass myself.

  I sat down in a reading room. It was lined with shelves of old books and magazines. The man at the piano had disappeared, and the large party had dispersed. Sleep came without warning, as if it had ambushed me. When I woke up, I didn’t know where I was. I could see from the clock that I’d been asleep for nearly an hour. I stood up, staggered slightly as a result of all the wine I’d drunk, and went back to our room. Harriet was asleep. She had left the light on at my side of the bed. I undressed quietly, had a wash in the bathroom and crept down into bed. I tried to hear if she really was asleep, or just pretending. She was lying on her side. I felt tempted to stroke her back. She was wearing a light blue nightdress. I switched off the light and listened to her breathing in the darkness. I felt very uneasy inside. And there was something else that I had been missing for a very long time. A feeling of not being alone. As simple as that. Loneliness had been banished, just for a moment.

  I must have fallen asleep. I was woken up by Harriet screaming. Half asleep, I managed to switch on the bedside light. She was sitting upright in bed, screaming from deep despair and pain. When I tried to touch her shoulder, she hit me – hard, and in the face.