After the Fire

by Henning Mankell

  I studied the menu, trying to get used to the noise echoing around the room. I had sat here alone or in company each time I visited Paris – sometimes very late at night, occasionally during the peaceful hours of the afternoon. I had once initiated a conversation with an American lady on the next table; it transpired that she was a doctor at a hospital in Tulsa. For some reason which I still don’t understand, I didn’t tell her that I was a doctor; instead I turned myself into an architect with a small practice in a town in Denmark. I must have been very drunk, I think, and amused by the idea of putting on a mask and pretending to be someone else. I vaguely remembered the meaningless and totally fictitious descriptions of a manor house I was busy designing.

  —

  I dismissed my memories of the American lady. After some indecision I plumped for a pasta dish and a beer. The waiter had beads of sweat on his forehead. Even before he had finished taking my order, he was on his way to another table.

  My sense of being the oldest person was reinforced when I glanced around the restaurant. The waiters were young, and most of the diners were nowhere near my age. There was the odd middle-aged man or woman, but they were few and far between.

  I ate my meal and ordered a Calvados with my coffee afterwards. By the time I emerged my head was a little woolly. I decided to walk all the way to the Swedish embassy on Rue Barbet-de-Jouy, near Varenne. I didn’t need a map to find my way from Montparnasse. All thoughts of my age had vanished; I was enjoying being out and about on the streets of Paris.

  I went wrong more than once, and it took me a long time to reach the embassy. The gold-coloured sign below the Swedish state insignia informed me that the consular section was open. I went to a nearby cafe and had an espresso while I thought through the events that had been set in motion by Louise’s desperate phone call. I needed the embassy’s help to track her down and possibly to obtain legal representation and support.

  I crossed the street and went inside. The woman on reception spoke Swedish with a French accent. I explained why I was there.

  ‘How old is your daughter?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s forty. She’s also expecting her first child.’

  ‘And you’re sure she’s been arrested?’

  ‘She wouldn’t lie about something like that.’

  ‘But she didn’t tell you where she was?’

  ‘She didn’t have time. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘And she’s accused of being a pickpocket?’

  ‘I’m afraid that might be how she makes her living, but I’m not sure.’

  She looked a little dubious. I nodded, hoping to make her understand that I wasn’t exaggerating. She picked up the phone and spoke to someone on the other end.

  ‘If you wait over there by the newspapers, Petra will come down and you can explain your business to her.’

  ‘My daughter is not “business”. She’s a person.’

  I sat down by the newspapers and contemplated a portrait of the king and queen. It was crooked. I got up and gave it a push so that it was even more askew.

  Petra couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old and looked like an overgrown child in her jeans and a thin top straining over a generous bust. She was frowning as she held out her hand.

  She sat down and asked, ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Not here. This isn’t something to be discussed in a corner where people come to read the newspapers. I’m assuming you have an office?’

  She looked at me with something I interpreted as distaste. I realised we wouldn’t be going anywhere.

  I told her what had happened, giving dates and times, from Louise’s initial phone call to my arrival in Paris, and the fact that I hadn’t managed to contact her. I also explained that we hadn’t known about one another until Louise was an adult, and that I had only recently realised that she probably made her living as a pickpocket. At least sometimes. Hopefully not all the time.

  I could see from Petra’s name badge that her surname was Munter, but it didn’t give a title. She took notes while I was talking, occasionally raising her hand to stop me until she had caught up.

  ‘This can’t be the first time a parent has turned up at the embassy, worried because their child has disappeared or ended up in prison,’ I said. ‘You must know what I ought to do.’

  ‘First of all we need to find out where she is. We have official channels.’

  ‘So you’re responsible for what the receptionist referred to as my “business”?’

  ‘I’m a trainee,’ Petra said. ‘I’m at the bottom of the heap. But I’m the one who kicks this upstairs or makes the decision not to pursue the matter.’

  ‘And you’re going to kick it upstairs?’

  ‘I think what you’ve told me is perfectly true.’

  ‘I’m worried about my daughter.’

  She made a note of my mobile number and the name of my hotel.

  ‘We should know more tomorrow,’ she said, rising to her feet to indicate that the meeting was over.

  ‘My daughter is pregnant,’ I said again. ‘She was scared when she called me.’

  Petra Munter gazed at me for a long time. She suddenly seemed to have grown up, no longer the teenager I had seen when she walked into reception.

  ‘I’ll make sure something is done, but the French don’t like foreign thieves operating here. They don’t exactly get a slapped wrist.’

  ‘So what do they get?’

  She pulled a face but didn’t answer. I pictured Louise sitting in the same cellar where I had once spent the night.

  Petra walked me to the door and I shook her hand.

  ‘Someone will contact you tomorrow,’ she said. ‘You have my word.’

  As she walked away, I remembered something else.

  ‘I need a passport,’ I said. ‘A few weeks ago my house burned down. Everything was destroyed. I travelled here on a provisional passport, but I’d feel better if I had a proper one.’

  ‘We have an excellent machine here,’ she said. ‘It produces a Swedish passport within a very short time. But you could just as easily wait until you get back home.’

  I left the embassy, making a mental note of the opening hours, and set off back to Montparnasse.

  My mobile rang. There was a lot of traffic, so I hurried into a side street before I answered. It was a Swedish number that I didn’t immediately recognise.

  It was Jansson.

  ‘I noticed you weren’t at home,’ he yelled.

  Jansson always yells down the phone. He has never been able to accept that distance is irrelevant when he makes a call or when someone calls him. I remembered old fru Hultin, who lived on Vesselskär for a long time after she was widowed. I used to help her out with her bad feet now and again.

  ‘Jansson screams like a jay,’ she would say whenever he came up in the conversation. She herself spoke so quietly on the phone that it was hard to make out what she was saying. She probably thought that everyone in the archipelago was sitting by their phone, listening to the latest gossip about her corns.

  ‘How do you know I’m not at home?’

  ‘I happened to be passing. The police have been looking for you.’

  ‘They haven’t phoned me.’

  ‘They came by boat. Something to do with the fire.’

  ‘Have I been charged?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘So what did they say?’

  ‘They just asked if I knew where you were.’

  ‘But you didn’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I left a note for Alexandersson before I left. He knows I’m away.’

  ‘So I don’t need to worry?’

  ‘Why would you worry? Was it you who set fire to my house?’

  ‘Why would you say such a thing?’

  ‘I’m in Paris.’

  ‘What the hell are you doing there?’

  Jansson rarely swears. Just as he rarely uses his beautiful singing voice.

 
‘I’m the one who’s looking for the police, rather than the other way round.’

  ‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

  ‘It seems as if Louise has got into some difficulties, but I’d rather you didn’t spread that throughout the archipelago.’

  ‘I would never do such a thing.’

  ‘Both you and I know that you would. During all those years when you were a postman you spread just as many rumours as letters.’ Jansson said nothing, but I knew he was offended. ‘The police must have said something else,’ I went on.

  ‘They asked me to let them know when you came back.’

  ‘And of course you said you would?’

  ‘What else was I supposed to say?’

  ‘Has there been anything in the newspaper?’

  ‘No.’

  I wondered what I should ask Jansson to do; I didn’t want anyone thinking I had fled from my homeland.

  ‘So you’re really in Paris?’

  ‘My battery’s running out; you’re breaking up.’

  It wasn’t true, but Jansson would carry on trying to draw the story out of me unless I ended the call right now.

  ‘Talk to you later,’ I said and hung up.

  I was sweating. The fact that the police were looking for me could only mean they were convinced I was guilty. I hated sympathy, particularly when it was offered by people as stupid as Jansson. Only I have the right to feel sorry for myself.

  I strolled along Boul’Mich and stopped at the bistro where Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir used to spend their days. There were lots of people inside, so I sat down at one of the pavement tables. I had a coffee and two glasses of Calvados. My trip to Paris was beginning to resemble an alcohol-sodden escape from my isolated island, where the ruins of my burned-out house lay waiting for the winter snow.

  I tried to think through what would happen when I found Louise. I didn’t even know what she was accused of.

  I couldn’t focus. I headed back to the hotel, my pace getting slower and slower. When I glanced at the shop windows, I saw an old man’s face looking back at me. A lady by the name of Madame Rosini was on duty instead of Monsieur Pierre, and gave me my key. They were very much alike, somehow: the same faint smile, the same warmth. There was no sign of Rachel.

  I lay down on the bed and fell asleep. In my dream the house was burning down once more. I ran outside to escape the blinding light, only to be transported straight back to my bed. Over and over again the darkness metamorphosed into dazzling searchlights, searing my eyeballs. My dog, who died several years ago, came back to life. I also thought I saw my last cat, running away with her fur on fire.

  It was dark when I woke up. I got undressed and had a shower. The water was just as cold as the sea; I couldn’t work out how to adjust the taps.

  I had just wound the biggest towel around my waist when my phone rang – a Swedish number again. I hesitated; should I answer? Was it Jansson or someone from the police?

  It was Lisa Modin.

  ‘What’s the hotel like?’ she asked.

  ‘Is that why you’re calling?’

  ‘I’m going to come over.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Tomorrow. Don’t ask me why.’

  ‘I’m really pleased.’

  ‘Don’t expect anything.’

  ‘Why do you always say that?’

  ‘I just want to make sure you’re not expecting anything.’

  ‘When are you arriving?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll come and meet you.’

  ‘I don’t want you to do that. Have you found your daughter?’

  ‘I’ve been to the embassy; they’re hoping to be able to help me tomorrow.’

  The connection was broken; perhaps Lisa had ended the call. I tried her number but couldn’t get through. However, she was coming to Paris, and she knew which hotel I was staying in. That must mean she wanted to see me. Everything was changing. I got dressed and went down to reception. Monsieur Pierre was back, looking less than clean-shaven.

  I asked whether a Madame Modin from Sweden had booked a room for the following day. He studied his computer screen, then shook his head.

  ‘No Madame from Sweden, I’m afraid. Just a Canadian lady, Madame Andrews, who comes to stay with us once a year, in the autumn.’

  I went out into the mild November evening. I ambled down to Gare Montparnasse, bought a Swedish newspaper, then went into a little restaurant that seemed to serve only French customers. I couldn’t see any tourists. I ordered sweetbreads; they weren’t very nice, but I was hungry. I drank wine and thought about my daughter, Lisa Modin and bloody Jansson – I would never be able to work him out.

  When I had finished eating I drank a cup of coffee while I flicked through the newspaper. I realised I had already read it while I was waiting at the airport.

  I left the restaurant feeling unexpectedly cheerful. I set off towards the Latin Quarter, even though my legs were aching from all the walking I had done during the day.

  On the way I was once again overwhelmed by the feeling that I was older than everyone else.

  I thought about Louise. Had someone at the embassy managed to track her down in the labyrinth of Paris police stations?

  It occurred to me with something that might have been sorrow that I had never allowed myself to be Louise’s father. When she suddenly came into my life, I regarded her as more of a nuisance than a joy for a long time. Needless to say I had never admitted this to her. Nor had I confronted Harriet with my feelings, although I did blame her. She had robbed me of my daughter. Even though Louise was now part of my world, I would always be incapable of loving her the way I imagined one would love a child.

  But perhaps that love would blossom when I met the child she was carrying? Or was that already a lost cause?

  I wandered the streets, unable to reach any kind of clarity. Eventually I decided that the birth of a child meant the beginning of a new story in the great chronicle of mankind.

  I had reached the lower part of the Jardin du Luxembourg when I remembered a jazz club I used to frequent whenever I came to Paris: Caveau de la Huchette. I knew exactly where it was. Perhaps it was still a jazz club? I needed a goal for my evening stroll.

  I went into a bistro for a coffee. I noticed that a black woman who was sitting at a table with a man of about the same age kept glancing over at me. I looked around to see if she might be trying to attract the attention of someone else, but there was no one there – just the window panes glimmering in the light of the street lamps. She was perhaps ten years younger than me. I didn’t recognise her. I concentrated on my coffee, but every time I raised my eyes she was staring at me.

  She must recognise me. Or possibly she thought she knew who I was, which seemed more likely.

  She stood up abruptly and came towards me, pushing her way between the tables. Her husband, or whoever her companion was, seemed totally uninterested.

  She spoke to me in English; I naturally assumed she had mistaken me for someone else.

  ‘I’m sure I recognise you,’ she said. I gestured to the chair opposite, and she sat down. ‘I remember your face,’ she went on. ‘From a long time ago. My mother was the same; she could recognise a person she had met only once, thirty or forty years earlier.’

  ‘And you can do that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But I have no idea who you are. Your face doesn’t ring any bells, your voice hasn’t triggered anything in my memory.’

  She looked at me searchingly.

  ‘Now I’m certain,’ she said. ‘When we were both young you came to the customs office here in Paris to pick up a typewriter someone had sent you – I don’t remember which country it was from. You had to pay import duty because it was new, but you didn’t have any money. In the end I let you take it without paying anything. You were almost in tears.’

  Now I remembered not just her but the whole situation. I had gone to Paris with a burning ambition
to become a writer. I had sent a letter to my father, asking him to buy a typewriter and send it to me. I promised I would earn enough money through my writing to be able to pay him back. I didn’t think for a moment that he would actually do it, but one day I was summoned to the French customs office. And it was indeed the woman sitting opposite me who had allowed me to take away the pale blue typewriter in its black case without paying the import duty.

  ‘How can you possibly remember that?’ I asked her.

  ‘I don’t know. I just saw you and I knew exactly who you were. You pleaded with me; you were young and poor. Was it Ireland you came from?’

  ‘Sweden.’

  ‘How did things turn out for you? Did you become a writer?’

  ‘I became a doctor.’

  ‘And what happened to the typewriter?’

  ‘I sold it a few years later when I ran out of money.’

  She nodded and got to her feet.

  ‘Sometimes people do meet again,’ she said. ‘I’m glad I inherited my mother’s ability to recognise faces.’

  She smiled and went back to her table. I was astounded. She didn’t seem to be telling her husband what had transpired.

  I left the bistro; my legs were no longer aching, my footsteps felt light. For a while I was an old man allowing myself to forget about my burned-out house.

  The club was exactly where I thought it was. I paid and went in. It was still early. My memories from all those years ago involved going down the stairs to a cellar bar late at night; now it was only eleven o’clock. The staircase and the cellar bar were the same, but when I reached the bottom step I realised I should have taken a closer look at the poster outside to see what kind of music was on tonight. The instruments and amplifiers arranged on the stage in the far corner told me it wasn’t going to be either modern or trad jazz. When I glanced around in the semi-darkness I could see that a reggae band was taking a break; there were dreadlocks and brightly coloured Rasta hats everywhere. However, there were plenty of older men and women with greying dreads sitting at the tables; I wasn’t the only person of my age.

  I went to the bar and ordered a glass of Calvados. When the music burst into life behind me, I felt a wave of warmth flood my body.

  I stayed by the bar and carried on drinking. The compact dance floor was soon packed; everyone seemed to be dancing with everyone else. Small, almost imperceptible movements of the legs and hips. The gentle sway made me think of the smooth swell of the sea.