The Shadow Girls

by Henning Mankell

  ‘I don’t want you to write a book about us.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I want my private life to remain private.’

  ‘Who said anything about your private life?’

  ‘If this book is about us, it involves my private life.’

  ‘I can call you Anders.’

  ‘What difference would that possibly make?’

  Humlin tried to take the conversation in a different direction.

  ‘I’ve thought about what you said.’

  ‘About being unfaithful?’

  ‘I haven’t been unfaithful. How many times do I have to tell you that?’

  ‘Until I believe you.’

  ‘And when are you going to believe me?’

  ‘Never.’

  Humlin decided to retreat from this topic.

  ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘That you’re right. We should have a child.’

  ‘Are you sick?’ Her voice was sceptical.

  ‘Why would I be sick?’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I’m not sick. I meant it. I’m a very serious person.’

  ‘You’re childish and vain. Are you serious?’

  ‘I’m neither childish nor particularly vain.’

  ‘Are you serious? You don’t think we should wait?’

  ‘I’m at least prepared to take it into serious consideration.’

  ‘Now you sound like a politician.’

  ‘I’m a poet, not a politician.’

  ‘If we’re going to have a baby, we can’t talk about it over the phone. I’m coming over.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do you think? If we’re going to have a baby we have to go to bed first.’

  ‘I can’t. I have a meeting with my publisher.’

  Andrea hung up. Humlin returned to the bathroom and looked at his face, looking past his suntan to the warm long nights on the Solomon Islands and Rarotonga. I don’t want to have any children, he thought. At least not with Andrea.

  He sighed, left the bathroom and poured himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. In his study he leafed through the latest reviews of his book that the PR department had forwarded. Humlin had given them careful instructions as to what kind of reviews he wanted to read. He only wanted to see the good ones and had an old-fashioned ledger where he noted which papers and critics continued to praise his work as ‘the primary representative of mature poetry at the end of the twentieth century’.

  Humlin read the latest reviews, made some notes in his ledger, and noted that the Eskilstuna Courier had once again given his work too little notice. Then he walked over to the window and looked out. Andrea’s latest outburst worried him. There was a chance he would soon face the prospect of either making her pregnant or accepting the fact that she might finally write her book.

  At seven he called a taxi service, giving the receptionist plenty of time to recognise his name. He got in the taxi and gave the driver the address. The driver was African and spoke poor Swedish. Humlin wondered grumpily if he would actually be able to find his way to the little restaurant in the Old Town where he was going. It was not, as he had told Andrea, his publisher he was going to meet. That meeting was tomorrow. But this was something equally important.

  Once a month he met fellow writer Viktor Leander. They had met when they were still young and unpublished and had taken to meeting regularly to compare notes and pick each other’s brains. They had never liked each other very much. They were competing for the same market and were always afraid that the other was going to have a brilliant idea and leave his rival in the dust.

  The driver had no trouble finding his way among the narrow alleys of the Old Town. Humlin took a few deep breaths before getting out. Viktor Leander was waiting for him at their usual table in the corner. He was wearing a new suit and had let his hair grow somewhat longer than normal. Viktor Leander was also tanned. A few years earlier he had managed to purchase his own solarium bed with a couple of well-paid articles about ‘new horizons’ in a magazine for data consultants.

  Humlin sat down.

  ‘Welcome back.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I got your postcard. Nice stamps.’

  ‘It was a good trip.’

  ‘I look forward to hearing about it.’

  He knew the man on the other side of the table had no interest in hearing about either the Solomon Islands or Rarotonga, just as Humlin had no real interest in hearing about Leander’s experiences.

  They ordered their food. Now came the delicate task of interrogating the other.

  ‘I had a whole bunch of debut novels and poetry with me on the trip. That was hardly relaxing.’

  ‘But educational. I know exactly what you mean.’

  It was part of their ritual to speak badly of the latest batch of new writers, especially if any of the debuting authors had been particularly praised.

  Humlin lifted his glass and toasted his colleague.

  ‘What are you working on these days?’

  ‘A crime novel.’

  Humlin almost choked on his wine.

  ‘A crime novel?’

  ‘I want to show up all these upstart bestseller types who can’t write. I’m going to give this genre a literary treatment. I’ve been reading Dostoevsky for inspiration.’

  ‘What is the book about?’

  ‘Oh, I haven’t come that far yet.’

  Humlin sensed a door being shut. Of course Leander knew what he was planning to write. But he didn’t want to give Humlin a chance to steal his ideas.

  ‘Sounds like a great idea.’

  Humlin was irritated. He should have thought of this himself. A crime novel from one of the country’s greatest poetic talents would gain a great deal of attention. It could be a bestseller, as opposed to the small editions of his poetry books. His trip to the South Pacific had been a mistake. If he had stayed here he would no doubt have had the same thoughts as Leander. He hastily tried to find a counter-blow.

  ‘I’ve been thinking of writing for TV myself.’

  Now it was Leander’s turn to choke on his wine. When they last met, a few days before Humlin was leaving on his trip, they had spent most of the dinner talking disdainfully about the quality of programming on TV. Humlin had not had any thoughts then of writing plays or series. When he was younger he had tried, of course. But after two rejections, one from the City Theatre and one from the Royal Dramatic Theatre, he had decided not to keep writing dramas. But television was the only thing he could think of to counter Leander’s idea of a crime novel.

  ‘And what are you writing about?’

  ‘Reality.’

  ‘How interesting. Which reality is this?’

  ‘The unbearable tristesse of everyday life.’

  Humlin sat up. He sensed that Leander had taken a blow.

  ‘There will also be an element of crime.’

  ‘You’re going to write a crime series for television?’

  ‘Not at all. The crime will remain in the background. I think viewers are tired of the conventional police drama. I’m envisioning something completely different.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet. There are various possibilities.’

  Humlin raised his glass. A certain equilibrium had been restored.

  ‘Reality and the tristesse of everyday life, he said. ‘An underexamined subject in our time.’

  ‘What in the world is there to say on the matter except that it is boring?’

  ‘Quite a lot, actually.’

  ‘I can’t wait to hear it.’

  ‘It’s too early for me to tell you any of this in greater detail. If I say too much now I might lose all inspiration.’

  They ordered dessert and dove into a neutral topic as if by silent agreement. Both of them enjoyed this part of the evening – gossip.

  ‘What’s happened since I left?’

  ‘Not muc
h.’

  ‘Something always happens.’

  ‘An editor at one of the major publishing houses hanged himself.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Carlman.’

  Jesper Humlin nodded thoughtfully. Carlman had once almost refused to publish one of his earliest books of poetry.

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘The stock market is wavering.’

  Humlin poured them both more wine.

  ‘I hope you haven’t been silly enough to put any money in the new tech companies.’

  ‘I have always had a soft spot for the two pillars of the Swedish economy: timber and iron. But everything is tumbling.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I switched to bonds some time ago. Boring, but safe.’

  The economic competition between them was also ongoing. Both of them had checked the other’s figures in the public tax records and confirmed that the other was not expecting a significant inheritance.

  *

  After precisely three hours, when all gossip had been divulged and discussed, they split the bill and left the restaurant. They walked as far as the Munkbro bridge.

  ‘Good luck with your thriller.’

  ‘Crime novel, not thriller. It’s not the same thing.’

  Viktor Leander’s voice took on a stern note. Jesper Humlin was left with the feeling that he still had the upper hand.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure, as always. See you next month.’

  ‘Until then.’

  They hailed taxis and left in different directions. Humlin gave the driver an address in Östermalm, the upper-class part of town, then leaned back and closed his eyes. He was happy with the evening since he felt that he had succeeded in giving Leander a real jab. This infused him with energy, despite the task that awaited him.

  Three evenings a week Humlin visited his elderly mother. At eighty-seven, she was still full of vitality but was also stubborn and suspicious. He could never predict what turn their conversations would take, although he always planned out a couple of harmless topics beforehand. Whenever they had an argument he always left hoping she would die soon. But when they occasionally spent a pleasant time together he would get sentimental and wonder if he should write a book of poetry for her.

  It was a quarter to eleven when he rang the doorbell. His mother Märta was a night owl. She rarely got up before noon and didn’t go to bed until dawn. Her best time was right around midnight. While Humlin was waiting for her to open the door he thought about all the evenings he had spent fighting exhaustion while she grew more and more animated.

  When she opened the door it was with the expectant yet suspicious energy that was typical of her. This evening Märta Humlin was wearing a trouser suit that resembled a uniform and which reminded him vaguely of the kind of clothes people wore in films from the thirties.

  ‘I thought you said you were coming at eleven?’

  ‘It is eleven.’

  ‘No, it’s a quarter to eleven.’

  Humlin started to get angry.

  ‘If you like I can wait in the hall.’

  ‘If you don’t keep better track of the time you will never get anywhere in this life.’

  ‘I already have got somewhere. I’m forty-two years old and I’m a successful writer.’

  ‘Your last book of poetry is worse than anything else you’ve written.’

  Humlin decided to leave.

  ‘I’ll come back another time.’

  ‘Why would that make any difference?’

  ‘Do you want me to come in or not?’

  ‘Why would I want us to keep talking out in the hall?’

  He followed her into the apartment and almost tripped on a large cardboard box.

  ‘Watch your step.’

  ‘Why is this box here? Are you moving?’

  ‘Where would I move?’

  ‘What is in this box?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘Does it have to be right here so people trip over it when they come to visit?’

  ‘If you’re going to be like this all evening perhaps it would be better for you to come back another time.’

  Humlin sighed, took off his coat and followed her into the rest of the apartment, which reminded him of an overstocked antique store. Here his mother had squirrelled away everything that she had ever come across. Humlin could still remember fights his parents had had about things Märta had refused to get rid of. His father had been a quiet man, an accountant who had treated his children with a mixture of surprise and general goodwill. For the most part he had been a silent partner to his energetic wife, apart from those times when he found his desk or his side of the bed covered with newspapers that his wife refused to throw away. Then he would have a violent outburst of temper that could last for days. But it always ended the same way, the newspapers or the knick-knacks remained in the apartment and he fled back into silence. In contrast, Humlin could not remember a single occasion when his mother had been silent. She was possessed by a deep-seated need to always make herself heard. If she was in the kitchen she banged her pots, if she was on the balcony cleaning the rugs she beat them so the blows echoed in the courtyard.

  Humlin had often thought that the unwritten book closest to his heart was the one about his parents. His father, Justus Humlin, had devoted his youth to the hammer throw. He had grown up in Blekinge, in a village close to Ronneby. He had trained with his homemade hammer behind the family farmhouse. Once he had thrown it so far that it would have set a Nordic record under controlled circumstances. Unfortunately, he was only accompanied by his two younger sisters. They measured his throw with an old tape measure. The Nordic record at that time was held by Ossian Skiöld and measured 53.77. Justus Humlin measured his throw four times and came up with 56.44, 56.40, 56.42 and 56.41. He beat the Nordic record by over two metres. Later, when he started competing regionally, he never managed to throw the hammer past fifty metres. But he insisted until he died that he had once thrown it further than anyone else in Scandinavia.

  Märta Humlin had never been interested in sport. Her world had been that of culture. She had grown up in Stockholm, the only child of a successful and well-to-do surgeon. Her dream had been to become an artist, but she had not been talented enough. Furious, she had turned to the dramatic arts and started a theatre with the financial help of her father. There she created some scandalous performances which involved her dragging herself across the stage in an almost completely transparent nightdress. Later she had owned a gallery, then she turned to music. Lastly she had been involved in the film business.

  She was seventy and newly widowed when she realised she had never seriously thought of dancing, at which point, with her usual verve, she founded a dance company. There was no dancer younger than sixty-five in her troupe. Märta Humlin had reached for almost everything in life but almost nothing stayed in her restless grip.

  Jesper had been the youngest of four and had seen his siblings leave home as quickly as they had been able. At twenty he informed his mother that his turn had come. When Jesper woke the following morning he couldn’t move. His mother had tied him to the bed. It took him a whole day to talk her into letting him go. First she had forced him to promise to come and see her three times a week for the rest of her life.

  Humlin lifted a box of skating laces from his chair and sat down. Märta Humlin went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  ‘I don’t want any, thanks.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘I’ve already had a bottle this evening.’

  ‘And with whom, might I ask?’

  ‘Viktor Leander.’

  ‘I have no idea who that is.’

  Humlin was shocked. He stared at his mother who was in the process of filling his glass to the brim. He was bound to spill some when he lifted it, which would give her yet another reason to chastise him.

  ‘But you’ve been to a number of his readings.’

  ‘Well, I certainly
don’t remember him. I’m almost ninety years old. My memory is not what it once was.’

  As long as she doesn’t start to cry, Humlin thought. I don’t have it in me to go through her emotional blackmail tonight.

  ‘Why do you pour me wine when I say I don’t want any?’

  ‘Isn’t it good enough for you?’

  ‘It’s not about the wine. What I’m saying is that I’ve already had all the wine I could want tonight.’

  ‘You don’t have to come over and see me if you don’t want to.’

  Here it comes, Humlin thought. I’m used to being alone.

  ‘I’m used to being alone.’

  The satisfaction he had felt at giving Viktor Leander a good jab had already dissipated. His mother already had him pinned him to the ground. He picked up his glass, spilling wine on the tablecloth as he did so. It was going to be a long night.

  3

  WHEN HUMLIN WALKED in through the doors of his publishing company the following day he was very tired. The conversation with his mother had lasted long into the night.

  He knocked on his publisher’s door at a quarter to one. The name on the sign was Olof Lundin. Humlin always entered Lundin’s office with a certain trepidation. Although they had worked together for many years now – and Humlin had never had another publisher – their conversations often led to hopeless circular discussions of what kind of books the market wanted. Lundin was one of the most unclear thinkers Humlin had ever met in the book business. He had often wondered with irritation how such an intellectually confused man as Olof Lundin had actually been able to climb to the heights of the publishing world.