After the Fire

by Henning Mankell

  It was Veronika.

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I wanted to let you know that Axel died.’

  At first I didn’t understand who she meant. Axel? I didn’t know anyone called Axel. Then I realised that was Nordin’s name. Axel Nordin.

  ‘Are you still there?’ she asked.

  I could tell from her voice that she was upset. Or maybe she was afraid? Young people often react to sudden death with fear.

  ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘He passed away just after four o’clock this morning. Margareta called me; she was devastated.’

  I knew that Nordin’s wife was called Margareta. I also knew that they didn’t have any children, which was a great source of sorrow to them. The whole thing felt very strange and unpleasant, bearing in mind that I was sitting here talking to my daughter about the fact that she was expecting a baby and that her dreadful behaviour might have contributed to Nordin’s death.

  I stood up and walked out onto the rocks.

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to open the cafe today,’ Veronika said.

  ‘I understand. I assume the shop will be closed too,’ I said. ‘Who will take over?’

  ‘It’s owned by the fishermen’s association. You’d have to ask them.’

  ‘I’ve ordered some wellington boots,’ I said. ‘I hope I’ll be able to get hold of them.’

  Veronika wasn’t impressed, and to be fair I wished I hadn’t mentioned my wellingtons.

  ‘Who cares about something like that right now?’ she said.

  I didn’t respond to her question; I simply said I would get in touch with Margareta, and we ended the call.

  When I went back to the fire, Louise was inside the tent. Her expression was grim when she eventually emerged.

  ‘Nordin is dead,’ I informed her. ‘He had a brain haemorrhage and passed away in the early hours of this morning.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The man in the shop where the keys to the shower block are kept.’

  I thought I saw a fleeting look of worry pass across her face, but it was gone in a second.

  ‘It can’t have anything to do with me,’ she said. ‘I didn’t give him that much of a hard time.’

  ‘Nobody is suggesting it’s anything to do with you. All I know is that he’s dead.’

  Louise got to her feet.

  ‘Let’s go. It’s cold.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Around the island.’

  ‘This isn’t an island. It’s a skerry.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘The size, maybe.’

  We clambered over the rocks, slithering and sliding across the stones at the water’s edge. Louise moved with confidence, while I was always afraid of losing my balance. At one stage she was ahead of me, up on a high rock from which she could look down on me. She stopped and turned. She didn’t say a word, she just gazed at me. Then she carried on, still without a word.

  I felt a surge of rage that immediately ebbed away. I’m afraid I am hopelessly, furiously envious of all those who will continue to live when I am dead. I am equally embarrassed and terrified by the thought. I try to deny it, but it recurs with increasing frequency the older I get.

  I wonder if other people feel the same way? I don’t know, and I am never going to ask, but this envy is my deepest darkness.

  Can I really be alone in feeling like this?

  We returned to the fire, which had almost gone out.

  ‘You must realise…’ I began.

  ‘Realise what?’

  ‘That I often wonder what you live on. You never ask me for money. I have no idea what you do.’

  She smiled at me, then she quickly headed for a clump of alders, bumping into me as she pushed past.

  ‘I need a pee.’

  ‘Watch out for the ticks.’

  After a moment she came back and sat down.

  ‘Go home,’ she said. ‘Take the motorboat. I’ll be over in a few hours, but right now I want to be left in peace.’

  ‘We still have a lot to talk about. Not least what we’re going to do about the house – particularly now there’s a new generation on the way.’

  ‘I know. We’ve got all the time in the world to talk to one another, haven’t we? About houses and children.’

  I pushed the boat out, flipped down the engine and started her up. I decided to take a little trip before returning to the island. Much to my surprise, beyond the outer skerries, the nameless hogsbacks that barely broke the surface, where great shoals of herring used to gather, I spotted a lone sailboat heading into the wind, out towards the open sea. It was strange to see pleasure sailors so late in the year. I followed the boat with my gaze and could see only one person on board, but I couldn’t make out if it was a man or a woman at the helm. Then I turned and went home. I moored the boat and sat down on the bench. I tried to come to terms emotionally with what Louise had said: she was pregnant. I couldn’t feel the unreserved joy I should be experiencing, which worried me. Why did I carry my emotions as if they were a burden?

  At least we had started a conversation; I hoped it wasn’t already over.

  I went up to the caravan, glancing at my watch on the way.

  It wasn’t there. I checked my pockets, then went back to see if it was in the boat. Nothing.

  I tried to come up with an explanation; the bracelet was made of steel and was hardly likely to have broken.

  My mobile rang, interrupting my thoughts. It was Jansson.

  ‘Nordin is dead,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m going to be one of the bearers at his funeral. Are you?’

  ‘Surely he must have closer relatives than me?’

  ‘It’s terrible, the number of people dying these days.’

  ‘That’s what people usually do,’ I replied.

  Then I said he was breaking up and I pretended I couldn’t hear what he was saying. I ended the call.

  Jansson could wait. I might be in a hurry, but right now everything would have to wait.

  I had to think of Louise’s child as the best thing that could happen to me.

  CHAPTER 10

  I went up the hill and looked over at the skerry. When I saw Louise climb into the skiff, I went down to the boathouse and waited for her. The boat wobbled as she stepped onto the jetty; I thought she was going to fall, but she managed to grab hold of one of the bollards.

  ‘That was a close thing,’ I said.

  ‘No, it wasn’t. There’s nothing wrong with my balance. Besides, you probably don’t know that I used to practise walking on a tightrope when I was a child.’

  I wondered if she was making it up; Harriet had never said that our daughter had tried the art of funambulism.

  ‘Can you tell me what time it is?’ I asked. ‘I’ve lost my watch.’

  ‘Quarter past twelve.’

  ‘I don’t know where my watch is.’

  ‘You just said that.’

  ‘It’s strange that it’s disappeared; I was wearing it when I rowed across to the skerry.’

  ‘I haven’t seen it.’

  ‘I mean, a watch can’t just disappear, can it?’

  ‘It’s probably still over there.’

  I was surprised that she sounded so indifferent, but I didn’t pursue the matter. I would find it if I carried out a proper search. I dismissed the idea that I could have dropped it in the water.

  Louise headed for the caravan; my telephone rang as she slammed the door, the whole structure shuddering. I didn’t recognise the number, so I didn’t answer. When it stopped ringing I put it back in my pocket.

  It immediately rang again; this time I did answer, but hesitantly, afraid of being surprised by someone delivering bad news.

  It was Lisa Modin.

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘Not at all. Was it you who just rang me?’

  ‘Yes. Are you on your island?’

>   ‘Where else would I be?’

  She laughed.

  ‘I’m calling as a journalist,’ she said.

  I was immediately on my guard. It was as if her voice suddenly changed. She wasn’t ringing to talk to me, but on behalf of the newspaper.

  I said nothing.

  ‘I believe the prosecutor is preparing to charge you because there are reasonable grounds to suspect you of arson.’

  From nowhere a knot formed in my stomach. I almost groaned in pain.

  ‘Are you still there?’ Lisa said.

  ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘Is it true, what I just said about the prosecutor?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘I haven’t heard anything since I left the police station. No one has called; I haven’t had a letter. Perhaps you could explain how you know something that no one has told me?’

  ‘It’s my job as a journalist to find out what’s going on.’

  ‘But nothing’s going on, is it?’

  ‘So you haven’t been charged?’

  ‘No.’

  The conversation broke up. Her voice came and went, but neither of us could hear what the other was saying. I waited for her to call me back. I tried to call her but without success. The phone masts don’t always cover the archipelago. Nordin once asked me to sign a petition protesting about the poor service; I signed, but of course it led nowhere.

  I went over to the caravan. The temperature was dropping; I wouldn’t be able to sleep in the tent for much longer.

  I was just about to knock on the door when I changed my mind. I wasn’t ready to talk to my daughter yet. Instead I sat down among the old fishing nets in the boathouse. I tried to gather my thoughts, to go back to the night when that bright light suddenly woke me. I had a great deal to process, otherwise I would end up in the midst of insoluble chaos.

  But I couldn’t gather my thoughts. All I could hear was Lisa Modin’s voice in my head, asking if I’d been charged. How could she possibly know? Was it a rumour, or was it true?

  As I sat there in the darkness, I began to feel afraid. I began to doubt my recollections of that night. Could I have set fire to the house after all, without realising it? Could I really be charged without any solid evidence?

  The fear turned to nausea. I put my head between my knees, as I had been taught when I was studying to be a doctor.

  How long I sat like that I don’t know. The nausea had metamorphosed into a headache when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I heard myself cry out as I straightened up with a jolt.

  ‘What’s the matter with you? Why are you sitting here?’

  I hadn’t heard Louise come into the boathouse.

  ‘I don’t have many other places to sit.’

  ‘It’s cold here. I thought we were going to talk. I’ve been waiting for you.’

  We went up to the caravan. I followed a few steps behind her, feeling like a stray dog that nobody really wants to take care of.

  She made some coffee.

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You mean, no, thank you.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘You have to eat.’

  I didn’t protest when she made me a couple of sandwiches. I really was very hungry. She looked at me searchingly, as if she expected me to start the conversation, but I had nothing to say. The truncated phone call from Lisa Modin had chased away all rational thought.

  It was Louise who first heard the boat approaching. She raised her head and then I heard it too. I opened the door. I had no doubt that it was Jansson’s boat.

  ‘It’s the postman,’ I said. ‘Go down to the jetty and tell him I’m not here.’

  ‘But the boats are both there – he’ll be able to see them!’

  ‘Well, tell him I’ve drowned!’

  ‘I have no intention of lying. If you don’t want to see him, you can sort it out yourself.’

  I realised she wasn’t going to change her mind. Jansson was my problem. I pulled on my jacket and went down to the jetty. When Jansson rounded the headland, I could see that he wasn’t alone. Lisa Modin was sitting in the prow, her face turned to avoid the icy wind.

  It made no sense. Only a little while ago she had been on the other end of the phone, and now she was here.

  Jansson hove to, and Lisa jumped ashore. Jansson stayed in the boat and gave me a sloppy salute, raising a hand to his black woolly hat.

  Lisa was wearing a raincoat and carrying a sou’wester.

  ‘I expect this is a bit of a surprise,’ she said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was standing on the quayside when I called you.’

  ‘With Jansson?’

  ‘That was pure coincidence – he just happened to be there.’

  I looked at Jansson; he had heard what Lisa said, and he nodded.

  ‘I won’t stay long,’ Lisa assured me, ‘but our phone call was cut off.’

  Jansson picked up the local paper Lisa Modin wrote for, and began to read. We walked up to the caravan. The door was closed, and I couldn’t see any sign of Louise through the window. I could, however, hear the radio.

  ‘My daughter is here.’

  ‘That’s good – it means you don’t have to be alone.’

  We went up to the ruins; the smell of the fire still lingered, although it wasn’t quite as strong now.

  I felt an overwhelming urge to put my arms around her, to let my frozen hands find their way inside her clothes. But of course I did no such thing.

  We stood looking at the ruins.

  ‘What are you thinking now?’ she asked. ‘Now a little time has passed?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I still don’t understand what’s happened.’

  ‘I have to be honest,’ she said. ‘Apparently the prosecutor’s office has decided to embark on a preliminary investigation which will probably lead to charges against you. As the house was fully insured, the assumption is that the motive was insurance fraud. But you still claim you know nothing?’

  ‘About the fire or the charges?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Absolutely. If I hadn’t woken up, I would have burned to death. In which case it would have been a successful suicide attempt, not insurance fraud.’

  She pushed the sou’wester into her raincoat pocket. I noticed that her hair was even shorter now.

  ‘I have to write about this,’ she said. ‘But I’m only allowed a short piece, not a more detailed report.’

  ‘It would be better if you wrote that I didn’t set fire to my house and that all those who are spreading rumours should be chased down into hell.’

  ‘That’s not where prosecutors and police officers usually end up.’

  I went up the hill; Lisa followed at a distance. Why was she here? Did she think I was going to confess to starting the fire?

  I sat down on the bench while she stood a little way off, gazing out to sea. Suddenly she pointed.

  ‘Look!’

  I followed her finger but couldn’t see anything. However, when I got to my feet I understood. Beyond the skerry where I had pitched my tent, the wind was stronger; a windsurfer dressed all in black was heading straight out to sea at high speed. They were often around in the summer, but never this late in the autumn. In contrast to normal practice, the little sail and the board were also black. From this distance it looked as if the man or woman was skimming across the surface of the water on bare feet.

  ‘He must be freezing cold,’ Lisa said. ‘What if he loses his grip?’

  We watched the windsurfer until he disappeared behind Låga Höholmen. After a while he popped up on the other side, still heading straight out to sea. Something about the sight of him, the black sail, the speed, made me feel ill at ease. What kind of person does that on a bitter October day?

  I seized Lisa’s hand. It was cold. She let me hold it for a little while before she gently withdrew it.

  A dry twig
snapped behind us. I turned to see Louise on her way up the hill. Lisa saw her at the same time. Louise’s hair was all over the place, and she seemed upset. Her expression was hostile to say the least.

  ‘This is Lisa Modin,’ I said. ‘She’s a friend.’

  Lisa held out her hand, but Louise didn’t take it.

  ‘Louise is my daughter.’

  Lisa had immediately picked up on Louise’s animosity. They stood there staring at one another.

  Louise turned to me. ‘Why haven’t you told me about her?’

  ‘We haven’t known each other very long.’

  ‘Are you sleeping together?’

  Lisa Modin gasped. Then she started to laugh.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No, we’re not.’

  Louise was about to speak, but Lisa got there first.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re being so unpleasant. Just to clarify things: I wanted to ask your father some questions. I’m a journalist. I’ve got my answers, and now I’m going to leave.’

  ‘What was it you wanted to know?’

  Lisa glanced at me, but I had nothing to say. This was about me, but I wasn’t a part of what was going on.

  ‘The police believe the fire was the result of arson. That means your father is a suspect.’

  Both Lisa and I were completely taken aback when Louise stepped forward and yelled, ‘Get the fuck out of here! It’s hard enough without journalists running around all over the place!’

  Lisa was dumbstruck. I could see the anger in her eyes, but she walked away, down the hill. She got into Jansson’s waiting boat, and Louise and I stood watching as he started the engine and disappeared around the headland.

  The wind was even stronger now. My daughter had robbed me of one of the few hopes I had for the future: that Lisa Modin might become more than a passing acquaintance, more than someone I showed around the archipelago from time to time.

  ‘I want you to leave,’ I said. ‘If you’re going to chase away the few people I like, I don’t want you here.’

  ‘Do you really think she’s interested in you? She’s at least thirty years younger than you!’

  ‘She hasn’t let me down so far. Even if we’re not sleeping together.’

  We didn’t say anything else. By the time we got down to the caravan, the wind speed had increased further. I looked at the dark clouds piling up in the west; if it had been a little later in the year, I would have expected snow overnight.