After the Fire

by Henning Mankell

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How can you keep tabs on yourself when other people are pushing and shoving and bumping into you all the time?’

  I was struck by the thought that Jansson might not even have a brother. Could that be as much of a lie as everything else? The man sitting there on the bench had set fire to my house, then invited me to stay with him when my house no longer existed. He had even brought a wellington boot to replace the one I had lost in the fire. He had celebrated New Year’s Eve with me; he had said he was going home to bed, but instead he had set fire to another house. And in between these two incidents he had also burned down the widow Westerfeldt’s home.

  I couldn’t put it off any longer. I had to face up to him.

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  Jansson looked at me.

  ‘Sorry, did you say something to me?’

  ‘There’s no one else here.’

  ‘I didn’t quite hear what you said.’

  ‘Yes, you did.’

  Jansson didn’t seem to have any idea that I knew. How could he be so sure that no one had found any evidence? Wasn’t he even on his guard?

  ‘Coffee would be nice,’ he said abruptly.

  During all the years he had been coming to the island, he had never asked for coffee. I wondered if it meant anything. Should I be afraid? If he could burn down a house in which someone lay sleeping, he could whip out a hammer and smash my skull.

  We went up to the caravan side by side, Jansson with his usual slightly rolling gait. He sat on the bed while I made coffee. He asked after Louise and Agnes, he talked about Lisa Modin, but when he started enquiring about the plans for the new house, I felt like throwing the boiling water over his face and hands.

  I didn’t do it, but I did stop making the coffee.

  ‘I want you to leave,’ I said. ‘I want you to leave and never show your face here again.’

  Jansson looked startled.

  ‘What do you mean? I don’t understand what you mean.’

  I had opened the door, but he was still sitting on the bed as if he really didn’t understand.

  Of course he did. He might not have noticed that I had been in his house while he was away visiting someone who might possibly be his brother, but he certainly realised that I knew he was responsible for the arson attacks.

  ‘You’ve opened the door,’ he said. ‘But I still don’t understand what you want. Are you throwing me out?’

  I closed the door. Now I wanted to prevent him from leaving.

  Why had he burned down my house when I was lying there fast asleep? Was it me or the house he wanted to destroy? Or was it something else?

  ‘I know it was you,’ I said. ‘I know, and I can give the police enough information to warrant an investigation, which will see you charged and convicted. I have proof – clothes in your laundry basket, stinking of petrol.

  ‘I wonder if, deep down, you wanted me to find out the truth. Wasn’t that why you came here to tell me you were going to visit your brother? Who may or may not exist. You hoped I would go over to your island. If you’d really wanted to hide the evidence, you would have washed everything to do with the fires. You’re like one of those criminals who writes letters to the police to give them clues. But who are you?

  ‘Have you always been waiting for the moment when you can start setting fire to houses, and perhaps killing people at the same time? Has it always been your dream? Is that what you thought about as you travelled around with your letters and magazines and pension payment slips? Did you think that one day you would turn into a completely different person – the good, kind postman who becomes evil?’

  Jansson didn’t say a word.

  ‘That shirt in your laundry basket might not be enough to convict you,’ I went on. ‘But I’m sure the police will find further proof. Unless of course you decide to confess. They’ll lock you up for years. Given your age, you’ll probably die in prison. Or maybe they’ll decide you’re insane, in which case they’ll put you away indefinitely in a mental institution, along with other crazy people. Mind you, going to prison isn’t the worst thing; you could probably cope with that. But can you live with the fact that people out here in the archipelago will hate you? That the only memory you will leave behind is the image of a wicked man who stopped delivering the post and started burning down the beautiful houses on these islands?’

  Jansson was no longer pretending that he didn’t understand. He was slumped on the bed, his hands resting heavily on his knees, his head drooping. ‘Why?’ I yelled. ‘Why did you call me with a handkerchief over your mouth and warn me about the police?’

  He didn’t respond. He was motionless, as if he had turned to stone, fixed in a denial that couldn’t be smashed to pieces with a hammer.

  I stood by the door feeling every bit as helpless as I presumed Jansson himself was feeling.

  ‘Why?’ I said again. ‘Why did you want to kill me?’

  He straightened up and looked at me with nothing but surprise.

  ‘I didn’t want to kill you. Why would you say such a thing?’

  ‘I was asleep. I could have burned to death.’

  ‘I would have helped you out. If you hadn’t woken up.’

  ‘So you stood there watching the fire take hold?’

  ‘I was waiting for you to wake up.’

  I tried to imagine the scene: I had come rushing out of the raging inferno wearing mismatched wellington boots, and Jansson had been standing there in the shadows. Only then did he leave, returning before long to help put out the fire.

  He was still looking at me, but he was gazing beyond me, far into the distance, at horizons known only to him. I would never find out why he had done what he had done. There were no answers, least of all in his own head. A light had gone out within him; a darkness had come creeping in, a darkness that he wanted to illuminate from the outside, with torches in the form of burning houses.

  Jansson got to his feet; I stepped aside. I watched him walk slowly down to the jetty. For the first time ever I saw him move without purpose.

  The boat reversed away from the jetty. I went up to my grandfather’s bench. It was too cold to sit down; I simply stood there looking out to sea as the ice floes drifted by. Nothing was in a hurry any more.

  I wondered what to do. I ought to call Alexandersson and inform the coastguard, of course, but I couldn’t do it. I had to understand this myself before I could expect anyone else to do so. I couldn’t just ring up and announce that Jansson was the guilty party; no one would believe me.

  I imagined myself sitting in the caravan with Alexandersson, telling my story. He would simply stare at me, then he would ask if I could really prove what I was alleging. A shirt that smelled of petrol was not enough.

  The story in my head just wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. The fact that to me it all seemed to fit together wouldn’t help at all.

  I knew that Alexandersson would ask why Jansson had set fire to our homes.

  Why?

  My response had to be that I didn’t know. Only Jansson himself could answer that question.

  What would happen if he was arrested? There would be an initial sense of relief throughout the community, but this would soon be followed by a feeling of angst because one of the archipelago’s most trusted inhabitants had turned out to be the perpetrator.

  If Jansson was the arsonist, who could we trust in future? Something would come to an end out here on the islands, perhaps the last thing that was holding us together. Trust, a willingness to provide support for anyone who needed it – and not just by carrying each other’s coffins when the time came.

  In my mind I could see everyone huddled together on their jetties or in the harbour. Our impotent attempts to understand. No doubt more than one person would angrily say that we should go and burn down Jansson’s house on Stångskär, but of course no one would be prepared to do it.

  I thought about Jansson with a mixture of rage and astonishment. His loneliness had
been so much greater than mine after all.

  —

  Time passed. I still didn’t say anything. No one seemed to suspect Jansson. According to what I heard, the police had no leads; the investigation into the arson attacks was going nowhere.

  I considered sending an anonymous letter to the police, accusing Jansson. I didn’t do it, though; I didn’t quite trust my own judgement, mainly because deep down I still couldn’t believe that Jansson was a completely different person from the man we had all thought he was.

  I wondered if he was ill. Could he have developed a tumour that had damaged part of his brain and distorted his thought processes? I dreamed more than once that he had set fire to the caravan, and that I ran screaming out into the night.

  On 30 April, Walpurgis Night, Kolbjörn arrived on his cattle ferry with his son Anton and one of Anton’s friends. Together we managed to get the caravan on board. Kolbjörn had brought along an electric cable, which he ran from the island to the skerry. He chuckled at the thought that this was completely illegal but assured me there was no risk of dangerous short circuits.

  We towed the ferry across with my launch; Kolbjörn took several photographs on his phone.

  ‘It’s forty-five years since we last transported cows on this ferry,’ he said. ‘But my father always insisted we should keep it; you never know when it might come in useful. And here we are, using it to move a caravan.’

  He stood in silence for a moment, contemplating his ferry.

  ‘It’s weird,’ he said. ‘The police haven’t got a single lead or a single suspect for the arson attacks.’

  ‘I suppose it’s not that easy,’ I replied. ‘No one seems to have gained anything from the fires.’

  Kolbjörn pulled a face and shook his head.

  ‘I’m trying to understand, but it’s impossible. I’m sure they’re doing their best. Maybe we should all take a practical approach, like Jansson.’

  I gave a start when he mentioned Jansson’s name, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Why, what has Jansson said?’

  ‘He’s written a letter to the council, suggesting that they provide everyone who lives out here during the autumn and winter with a fire extinguisher, free of charge.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I think it’s a very sensible idea.’

  It crossed my mind that I was going crazy. Where was Jansson heading with this? Why was he mocking the residents of the archipelago?

  ‘I think the council will give us our fire extinguishers,’ Kolbjörn went on. ‘But I don’t suppose Jansson will get any thanks for it.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t suppose he will.’

  My voice was unsteady. Kolbjörn glanced at me. I smiled. The smile said: I’m absolutely fine.

  Kolbjörn had carefully prepared the ground on the skerry. He had laid out a track made of thick planks of wood and had set up a complex block and tackle system. Everything worked perfectly, and the caravan was soon settled in its new home. Kolbjörn connected the electricity while I opened a bottle of champagne. We drank a toast as if it had been schnapps.

  That night I slept on the skerry for the first time without needing to use my tent. I dreamed that I was on board a boat; the skerry had broken away from the bedrock and was carrying me to the distant Öresund Sound.

  I woke up early the next morning. It was the first of May, and the air was warm. I had told Kolbjörn and Anton to wait until after the holiday before they made a start on the house, but Kolbjörn had said there was no point in hanging around.

  After breakfast I went over to the island. They arrived at nine, the ferry laden with a small digger, a shed and an unconscionable number of tools. I sat on the bench by the boathouse and watched as things got under way. Anton was a real grafter. I could see that he took the same intense pleasure in his work as his father. It wouldn’t take long before his digger had cleared the ruins and made room for my new house.

  They packed up for the day at about six. A blackbird landed on the roof of their shed, the first one I had heard this year.

  I walked down to the jetty with them.

  ‘I want to bury a token, a memorial under the new house,’ I said to Kolbjörn as Anton started up the engine.

  ‘How big is it?’

  ‘It’s just a small tin containing a shoe buckle.’

  He looked intrigued.

  ‘It’s a very fine buckle,’ I went on. ‘It holds a special meaning for me.’

  ‘I’ll ask Anton to dig a hole right in the middle of the foundations. If there’s a rock in the way we can take it out with a non-explosive demolition agent.’

  I waved to them as they left; I wondered what on earth a non-explosive demolition agent might be.

  The ferry had only just vanished around the headland when the prow of another vessel appeared; it was a fast aluminium boat that I didn’t recognise at first. However, as it drew nearer I could see the advert for the cafe adorning the port side and realised it was Veronika’s boat.

  She had never visited me on the island, apart from when we were making preparations for my party. I was worried; something must have happened.

  She climbed onto the jetty with the mooring rope in her hand. I could tell from her expression that my premonition was well founded.

  ‘Has the coastguard been in touch?’ she asked.

  ‘No?’

  ‘So you don’t know anything?’

  I sat down on the bench; I didn’t want to collapse if she told me something terrible. She was still holding onto the boat like a dog on a leash.

  ‘Jansson has gone. He headed straight out to sea in his boat. The coastguard was on the way in from Landsort and saw him far beyond the archipelago. They went over to check if everything was all right; Jansson seemed perfectly normal. He told them he was going to turn back very soon. Alexandersson decided to let him be; after all, Jansson is Jansson. When he got back to the office, there was a message on the answering machine: Jansson yelling that he didn’t want anyone to come looking for him, and no one would find him anyway. The coastguard went straight back out and they’re going to carry on searching until dark. Of course everyone is wondering if Jansson has gone mad.’

  I listened to Veronika with no sense of surprise whatsoever.

  Jansson was leaving us. He would fill his body with sleeping tablets, weigh himself down with a grappling iron, chains and the anchor, and make a small hole in the boat so that it would sink slowly. No one would ever be sure what had happened. No one would find him.

  ‘He’s always been a little strange,’ I said tentatively.

  ‘I often think he’s one of the most normal people out here on the islands. What do you mean, strange?’

  ‘Perhaps I mean he’s…very individual. He’s not married, he doesn’t have any children.’

  ‘I’m not married. I don’t have any children.’

  ‘You’re not seventy years old.’

  ‘Jansson is shy, but there’s nothing else wrong with him. What if he’s planning on killing himself? Something must have happened.’

  It was as if Veronika had given me the solution. We were sitting on the bench where I had examined Jansson so many times without being able to find anything wrong with him. Perhaps I had found something at last.

  ‘As a doctor I have a duty of confidentiality to my patients,’ I said. ‘I haven’t told anyone else what I’m about to tell you. If it gets out, I’ll know that you have betrayed my confidence.’

  ‘I would never do such a thing!’

  I knew she wouldn’t say a word.

  I quickly ran through possible diagnoses where there was only one conclusion unless a miracle occurred.

  ‘Jansson has cancer,’ I said. ‘An aggressive, incurable cancer. It started in the pancreas and has spread to the liver. He’s unlikely to last until the summer.’

  Veronika understood. A doctor always tells the truth. Perhaps she had chosen to come and talk to me because she suspected that Jansson was ill? There
could be no other explanation for his departure.

  ‘Is he in pain?’

  ‘It’s been possible to alleviate it so far, but I don’t know about the future.’

  ‘Is there nothing that can be done?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  There wasn’t much more to say. Veronika was still clutching the mooring rope.

  ‘I can’t do this any more,’ she said after a while. ‘I’m going to sell the cafe, do some travelling.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘Not straight out to sea, at any rate.’

  She got to her feet.

  ‘I wanted you to know,’ she said. ‘And now I know.’

  Her boat zoomed away from the jetty.

  No one would ever find Jansson. If he had decided to take the truth about the house fires with him to the grave, then that’s what he would do. The last letter would never reach its destination.

  Nor would he set off and fall over the edge of the horizon. If I knew Jansson as well as I thought I did in this respect, he had fooled Alexandersson. When he was alone he would change course and return to the inner archipelago. There were many areas with a depth of almost a hundred metres where he could scuttle his boat. No one would find him because everyone would believe he had disappeared far out at sea.

  I got up from the bench. It was a simple, crystal-clear moment in my life. My clinic on the jetty was closed and would never reopen.

  —

  Kolbjörn and Anton started building my house. I helped out as a labourer, although I was probably more of a hindrance than a help. However, I could provide information when there was any uncertainty about what a particular detail might have looked like; the house in my memory had never burned down.

  By the end of June Kolbjörn said I would be able to move in during August.

  Veronika had sold the cafe to an Iranian couple; I decided to arrange my own house-warming party.

  Lisa Modin often came to visit, watching as the new house emerged. I still longed for the love she couldn’t give me, but I became increasingly grateful for her companionship. I was an old man who had gained a female friend. I could bear to contemplate my face in the mirror. I shaved meticulously, I didn’t neglect myself. Thanks to Lisa, I had something to look forward to. She helped me resist my tendency to depression.