After the Fire

by Henning Mankell

  ‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘Two who are unfortunately no longer with us, one still alive.’

  I thought that Ahmed was surrounded by many dead people. I tried to change the subject and asked about his job.

  ‘I look after stores where I could never afford to shop. Every night I enter a world which is otherwise closed to me.’

  He looked at Louise.

  ‘To us,’ he corrected himself. ‘And to our child.’

  ‘Congratulations, by the way,’ I said. ‘I know these days people often find out in advance whether it’s a boy or a girl?’

  Ahmed frowned. ‘We would never do that.’

  ‘We’re just having the scans to make sure everything is OK, given my age,’ Louise said.

  I was finding the situation difficult to deal with. I suspected that Ahmed regarded me with a kind of controlled contempt. The fact that Louise was so besotted with him also bothered me. There was something submissive about the way she looked at him, the way she caressed his head. This was a Louise I had never seen before.

  I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I almost felt insulted. Louise’s life choices were beyond my comprehension. She was a pregnant pickpocket living with an Algerian immigrant who had a hopeless job working nights as a security guard.

  Ahmed got to his feet and left the kitchen; I wondered if he had read my mind.

  ‘He seems very nice,’ I said to Louise.

  ‘Do you really think I would have chosen to have a child with a man who wasn’t nice?’

  Before I had time to answer, Ahmed was back. He had put on a pale blue shirt and a pair of shorts with Arabic lettering down the sides. He was carrying a glass bottle on a wooden stand, like a classic ship in a bottle.

  ‘A present for you,’ he said. ‘I might have to earn my living as a security guard at the moment, but this is the kind of thing I really want to do.’

  He carefully put down the bottle and adjusted the table lamp so that I could see the contents.

  This wasn’t a sailing ship that had been pushed through the narrow neck of a bottle to rest on stiff blue waves and then erected with the particular magic that characterises that patient art. This bottle contained a desert, its dunes billowing very differently from the waves formed by the sea. There was an ornate Bedouin tent, the opening allowing a glimpse of the interior, where men in white sat on soft cushions and veiled women served coffee or brought hookahs. Outside the tent a Bedouin dressed all in black was sitting on a horse, handing the reins to a servant. His turban was skilfully wound around his head.

  I had some knowledge of the art of creating ships in bottles. My great-grandfather, who had worked on cargo ships on the North Sea before returning home to become a fisherman, had made a model of the Daphne; she went down off the treacherous Skagen reefs one Christmas Day in the 1870s. A Danish fishing boat went out into the storm and managed to save the crew, but eight of the rescuers died. When I was a child my grandfather explained that the ship, with its tall masts and its tattered sails, had been pushed through the neck of the bottle while lying flat. Using a clever system of the finest threads, it was then possible to raise the masts and fix the sails, and to secure the ship on the waves, which were made of coloured modelling clay.

  However, the Bedouin camp Ahmed had created was far more impressive than any ship in a bottle that I had ever seen. His technique and skill were outstanding. I realised that with those fingers he would probably be an excellent teacher for anyone who wanted to become a pickpocket.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I said. ‘Is this setting, with the tent and the man on the horse, something you’ve experienced yourself?’

  ‘I grew up in the kasbah in Algiers. The desert was far away, outside the city, but I saw pictures and films. And my father was a Bedouin; he spent his entire childhood as a nomad, with tents erected in a different place each evening.’

  ‘I should have brought you something,’ I said. ‘But I didn’t have much warning about this trip.’

  ‘I’m grateful that you helped Louise get out of prison.’

  ‘Thieving in Paris isn’t a very good idea,’ I said, immediately regretting my choice of words.

  ‘It’s over now,’ Louise said crossly. ‘Going on about it is no help at all.’

  Ahmed reached out and placed his hand on her arm.

  ‘Your father is right. I don’t think Fredrik will mention it unnecessarily.’

  He pronounced my name with a French accent, presumably to be polite. I was sorry about my earlier suspicions.

  He stood up.

  ‘I think I need to sleep for a couple of hours more,’ he said.

  He gave a slight bow and left the kitchen. Louise went with him, and I got ready to leave. After a few seconds she came back; I was standing there with the Bedouin bottle in my hand.

  ‘There’s something else you need to know,’ she said. ‘Put down the bottle.’

  I did as she said and followed her into the room beyond the kitchen.

  ‘This is also my life,’ she said as she opened the door.

  The room was small, painted white, simply furnished. A bed, a fitted carpet, a ceiling light. And a wheelchair. The chair was facing the window; I could just see hair and the back of someone’s neck.

  ‘This is Muhammed. We don’t need to whisper; he’s deaf.’

  Louise went over to the wheelchair, and the person sitting there immediately produced a stream of incomprehensible noises. Louise turned the chair around. Muhammed was a seven- or eight-year-old boy. His face was distorted by a grimace that seemed to have stiffened into a rigid scar. He stared up at me. I had the feeling that the twisted mouth could let out a scream of angst at any moment.

  ‘This is my father Fredrik,’ Louise said in French, while simultaneously writing something on a screen linked to a computer attached to the chair.

  She jerked her head to indicate that I should come closer.

  ‘He can’t move his hands, but you can say hello by touching his cheek.’

  I did as she said, almost recoiling when I felt the boy’s skin. It was ice cold.

  I knew there were a number of chronic illnesses where people are completely lacking in subcutaneous fat. They are very cold and can often suffer from a range of different mental or physical problems. Perhaps he had hydrocephalus, or water on the brain as it is sometimes called. However, his head didn’t seem unnaturally swollen, so I had doubts about my diagnosis.

  ‘Who’s his mother?’ I asked.

  ‘Muhammed is Ahmed’s brother,’ Louise explained. ‘Their mother had a breakdown when he was born and it became clear that he would never live a normal life. She sought refuge in mental illness, but Ahmed was determined to take care of him. That’s why he moved to France. For the first few years he looked after Muhammed alone, then I turned up. He will be like a brother to the child I’m expecting.’

  ‘What’s the diagnosis?’

  ‘He has many problems. Apart from the deafness, his brain isn’t fully developed. He can’t talk, and he’ll go blind within the next few years.’

  We went back to the kitchen.

  ‘Leave the bottle,’ she said. ‘I’ll wrap it up safely, make sure it doesn’t break.’

  ‘I realise you won’t be coming back to Sweden with me.’

  ‘Not right now. Not before the child is born. After that we might move to Sweden – out to the island, once the house has been rebuilt.’

  I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to put my arms around her, hug her as tightly as I could. Another part simply wanted to run away from the whole thing, go back to the caravan.

  She asked how long I was thinking of staying.

  ‘I’m leaving tomorrow,’ I said. ‘You’re out of prison; you haven’t been deported. I know what your life is like. There’s nothing to keep me here, and staying in a hotel is expensive.’

  ‘You could stay here.’

  ‘Cities don’t suit me any more. I need to go home.
I’m longing to get back to my island and my burned-down house.’

  Louise thought for a moment, then said, ‘I’ll come to your hotel this evening. I’ll bring the bottle with me.’

  We said our quiet goodbyes in the dark hallway. I felt unsure of myself, like a young child. I don’t like it when I can’t understand things.

  Out on the street I paused for a moment. It would be many hours before we saw one another. Without really making a conscious decision I headed for the Metro and travelled south. I changed trains and eventually got off at the Bastille. Slowly I walked towards the Hôtel de Ville. I ought to book my ticket home. Something was irrevocably over. Meeting Louise’s family had made it clear to me that we lived in different worlds, yet I still hoped it would be possible to change things, that our worlds could come together in the future.

  Once again I started to observe the people passing by on the street. When I occasionally saw an older person, it served merely as a confirmation that we were the exceptions.

  I made a phone call; after a long wait I was eventually able to book a seat on a flight leaving at 11.30 the following day.

  I continued my long walk to Montparnasse. A female busker made me stop. She was singing old jazz songs in a powerful vibrato. The hat in front of her was well filled; I added a euro, and she smiled her thanks. Many of her teeth were missing.

  My legs were aching by the time I arrived at the hotel. Monsieur Pierre was on reception, counting the contents of a cash box.

  ‘I’m going home tomorrow,’ I said.

  ‘Monsieur has finished with Paris for now?’

  ‘Possibly for ever. You can never tell, at my age.’

  ‘Quite right. Growing older is like walking on thinner and thinner ice.’

  The bar was open but empty. I ordered coffee.

  As I was passing reception on the way up to my room, I heard Monsieur Pierre in an inner room, which was hidden by a dark red curtain. He was humming along to some music I recognised. I listened for a moment and realised it was Offenbach.

  There was a message on my bed to say that Rachel had been my cleaner today. I lay down and dozed off immediately. When I woke up after what I thought had been a long sleep, I saw that only twenty minutes had passed. I tucked the duvet around my legs and leaned back against the bedhead. In my mind I returned to the apartment and the moment when Ahmed had suddenly appeared in the kitchen. I saw his disabled brother; I thought about the gentle way Louise had stroked Ahmed’s head, her tenderness towards his brother. She had allowed me access to her life, but to me it had felt like walking into a room where nothing was familiar.

  It seemed to me that I had a daughter who had great empathy for others; sharing responsibility for such a severely disabled child was impressive. How she could combine activities such as helping terminally ill patients to see Rembrandt’s paintings one last time with her ‘work’ as a pickpocket was beyond me. But I was a part of her and she was a part of me. This was a story that had only just begun. I wondered whether Louise understood me better than I understood her.

  This is how far I have come. From a waiter’s house in Stockholm to a hotel room in Paris. Once I was a successful surgeon who made a mistake. Now I’m an old man whose house has burned down. Not much more than that.

  I do not fear death. Death must be freedom from fear. The ultimate freedom.

  I got out of bed, fetched some sheets of paper from the brown folder on the desk and tried to formulate my thoughts. But no words came, no sentences. Only childish maps of imaginary archipelagos, with narrow sounds, hidden inlets and strange, bottomless depths filled both sides of the paper. It was the only map of my life I was capable of creating.

  I thought about Ahmed and the remarkable Bedouin in the bottle he had given me. Perhaps I ought to give him one of my imaginary archipelagos, from a part of the world that was completely unknown to him?

  I went out and wandered around Montparnasse for a while before heading for the Metro station exit where I assumed Louise would eventually arrive. It was cold and dark, and the people hurrying up and down the stairs were all absorbed in their own lives.

  No one saw me, no one was missing me.

  Louise turned up just before seven. She was carrying the bottle, wrapped in newspaper and brown paper. She was surprised to see me waiting and asked if something had happened. I had the feeling that she was worried about me.

  ‘I’m going home tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I don’t like dramatic farewells. Neither do you.’

  She laughed. Just like Harriet, I thought in surprise. I’d never noticed that before.

  ‘Well, at least we’re alike in one way,’ she said. ‘Dramatic meetings or goodbyes can often be unpleasant.’

  She handed over the package and told me to be careful, particularly when I put it in the overhead locker on the plane.

  ‘32B,’ I said. ‘I’ll be squashed between two other people.’

  Then there was no more to say.

  ‘I’ll come,’ she said. ‘We’ll come. But you need to go home and build a new house. You can’t die until you’ve done that.’

  ‘I have no intention of dying,’ I said. ‘And of course I’ll make sure the house is built. I’m not going to leave you a ruin.’

  We hugged, then she turned and went back down the stairs. I watched until she disappeared. Perhaps I was hoping that she would turn around, change her mind?

  I went to a nearby bistro and drew my old house on the white tablecloth. From memory, in full detail. I couldn’t imagine building anything different.

  It was nine thirty by the time I went back to the hotel. A light drizzle was falling on Montparnasse. I hoped all the walking I had done during the course of the day would help me sleep.

  Monsieur Pierre had gone home; I had never seen the night porter before. He was very young and had a ponytail and an earring. I wondered briefly what Monsieur Pierre thought about sharing a workspace with him.

  Then I noticed Lisa Modin sitting in one of the armchairs in reception. She stood up and asked if she was disturbing me.

  ‘Not at all. I’ve just said goodbye to my daughter. She’s been released from prison, but she’s staying in Paris.’

  I didn’t mention Ahmed or his brother.

  ‘I’ve been given a bottle with a Bedouin encampment inside it,’ I continued. ‘One day I hope I’ll be living in a house with a shelf I can put it on.’

  Lisa didn’t say anything, she just carried on looking at me.

  We went up in the lift. I placed the brown package on the desk in my room, then I sat down on the bed. Lisa sat down beside me. Neither of us said anything. When the silence had gone on for too long, I told her I was going home the next day.

  ‘Me too,’ she said.

  ‘Maybe we’re on the same flight?’

  ‘I’m going by train. Didn’t I tell you? I’m scared of flying. My train leaves at 16.20.’

  ‘Hamburg, Copenhagen, Stockholm?’

  ‘That’s right. I came here because I wanted to see you; I don’t know why. I’m not sorry I yelled at you; what happened, happened. But I don’t want my trip to have been completely pointless.’

  ‘Perhaps we share a feeling of loneliness,’ I said.

  ‘Sentimentality doesn’t suit you. Our expectations are different. I have none, but that’s not the case with you. Expecting nothing is an expectation in itself.’

  ‘We could lie down on the bed,’ I suggested. ‘Nothing more.’

  She took off her jacket and her shoes. They were red and had higher heels than any of the shoes I had seen her wearing before. I took off my jumper.

  Lisa was the second woman with whom I had shared a bed during my stay in Paris. Last night Louise had lain here, her breathing deep and steady. Now I had Lisa Modin by my side.

  I thought about the desert and the Bedouin tent and the horse.

  It was a moment of great calm, the beginning of freedom. Suddenly the fire and my flight from the blinding light were far, far away.

&
nbsp; CHAPTER 19

  We didn’t touch each other that night.

  We talked for a long time about the city in which we found ourselves.

  Lisa started to tell me about herself. The whole of her childhood had been almost unbelievably harmonious. She could remember moments when she had been so bored that she had wondered if life really was an endless, tedious road. She also talked about her fear of flying, which she had never managed to conquer. It had started on a long-haul flight home from Sri Lanka. At some point during the night, as she curled up in her seat on the darkened plane, she had suddenly understood that she was ten kilometres up in the air.

  ‘I was being carried on the shoulders of emptiness,’ she said. ‘Sooner or later the weight would become too great. I’ve never set foot on a plane since.’

  Our nocturnal conversation came and went in waves. She told me she had spoken to the priest on the phone.

  ‘I asked him about the bear’s tooth that was supposed to have been found on Vrångskär, but he didn’t know what I was talking about. There was no bear’s tooth in his house, in the church or in the parish hall.’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ I replied. ‘I told you it was just something I’d heard. Even a non-existent bear’s tooth can become a legend.’

  We talked about all the poor people we had seen on the streets of Paris.

  ‘Poverty is getting closer and closer to us,’ she said. ‘No one can escape.’

  ‘Sometimes I think that the period and the country in which I have lived is a great big, wonderful anomaly,’ I said. ‘I have never been without money, unless I have deliberately made that choice. We know very little about the world our children will inherit.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why I’ve never wanted children,’ Lisa said. ‘Because I could never guarantee that they would have a good life.’

  ‘You can’t think that way. In the biological world children are the sole purpose. Nothing else matters.’

  It was after three when we fell asleep. First Lisa. Her breathing was rapid, then slow, rapid again, silent, then it settled into a gentle snore. She slept as if she was awake. Cautiously I rested my head on her shoulder; she didn’t stir.