Black Lies, Red Blood

by Kjell Eriksson

  He stood there quite openly, without moving. Sometimes he changed position, resting first on one foot, then on the other. Henrietta noticed that he was whistling. He seemed relaxed and carefree. The few cars that passed he noted with an indifferent expression. When Birgitta Lindén, who lived at the far end of the cul-de-sac, walked by with her collie, he leaned over and petted the dog, exchanged a few words with its owner, and then resumed his position.

  It was quite clear that he was watching their house, and the most unpleasant thing was that he was doing it so openly. Henrietta thought her husband’s comments that the stranger was waiting for someone were completely sick. She came to the conclusion that Jeremias was afraid; there was no other reasonable explanation for his passive attitude.

  At first she tried to get him to go out and ask what this was all about. She did not want to expose herself to the risk of being attacked, well aware of what an unbalanced alcoholic was capable of.

  When he refused, she wanted to call the police, but he was against that too.

  “There will be so much talk, questioning, and shit. And you know I have to leave early tomorrow morning.”

  “What does that have to do with it?”

  “You never know,” said Jeremias, and Henrietta was too upset to comment on his cryptic remark.

  “And then maybe he’ll want to take revenge,” he resumed.

  “What do you mean, revenge?”

  “Well, if the police arrest him, maybe he’ll get beat up in jail, then he’ll have a grudge against us.”

  She stared at him.

  “Beat up in jail?” she said with a skeptical expression. “This isn’t Russia.”

  Jeremias shrugged. Henrietta saw that he was trying to look indifferent, but she knew her husband well enough that she could see that the stranger’s appearance made him worried.

  “Do you know him?”

  Jeremias glanced out at the street and shook his head.

  “No, but those types are everywhere, people who wander around. You know how it is in Moscow. And remember when we were in California, on the beach in Santa Monica? There was a bum every five meters. He must be sick in some way.”

  “If he’s sick then shouldn’t he have medical care? I feel sorry for him.”

  Henrietta was playing her naive card. That was when Jeremias usually talked about how things “really” fit together, implying that she did not understand a thing. In his blathering he might unconsciously let information slip out that he never would have if she tried to discuss things normally.

  But this time it didn’t succeed. Jeremias simply let out a deep sigh.

  “I’m going to take a peek at the news, maybe there’ll be something about the pipeline,” he said, leaving the kitchen.

  She stared after her husband as he disappeared up the stairs, heard him turn on the TV and tumble down in his creaky armchair.

  That damn pipeline, she thought indignantly. Since it became known that the Russians were planning a gas pipeline through the Baltic, an installation that would cut past the coast of Sweden and Bornholm, he had not been himself. He followed the debate with feverish interest, spent hours on the phone, wrote e-mails, and let it be known that Swedish and Danish fishermen were the biggest reactionaries there were.

  “Europe has to live, develop, get its energy,” he asserted with emphasis.

  Henrietta understood that one or more of his companies was involved, but not how and to what extent; she didn’t want to know either. He thought it was unnecessary, almost offensive, that “amateurs” got involved. And he no doubt counted her as one.

  She had never followed his business dealings too carefully, even though she knew that their affluence, well, their entire existence, was based on Russian contacts and business deals. A few times she had accompanied him on trips but got tired of it. It was too gray, too much alcohol, and above all deadly dull, especially Oleg with his mannerisms, his bragging, and his extravagant dacha.

  He tried to get her to shop, but she quickly discovered that Moscow was many times more expensive than either Paris or New York, and a gloomy city besides, with indifferent sales clerks who had developed a rare capacity to look bored.

  Jeremias did not like seeing the poverty either. It was enough to turn off the stylish avenue and walk one or two blocks on a side street to discover the enormous difference between the nouveau riche and the poor. She especially recalled an old Russian woman who tried to foist a china set on her, perhaps inherited, beautiful but not complete and with several of the pieces chipped. The old woman, wrapped in an endless number of shawls, held out several cups, pointed down at her feet where the rest of the set was. Her eyes were running, and her hands, partly hidden by cut-off gloves, were chapped. The price was ridiculously low. She repeated it mechanically several times.

  Henrietta got the impulse to give her the desired amount and let the babushka keep her porcelain, but could not bring herself to practice charity. She had the idea that begging and street selling should not be encouraged.

  A few blocks farther away she changed her mind and returned, but in the archway where the old woman had been standing there was now only a man urinating against the wall. He grinned at her, said something, and turned his body so she could study him more closely. It splashed around her legs.

  “If it’s like that in central Moscow, what’s it like in the outer areas?” she asked the same evening.

  They were having dinner at a Swedish-owned restaurant, a few blocks from the hotel. Jeremias was a regular there and was received with almost exaggerated friendliness in the lobby. Already in the bar, where they had a few drinks before dinner, he was tipsy and had that somewhat bloated appearance. It was as if his cheek muscles did not work properly. Henrietta suspected with good reason that he and Oleg had a head start already that afternoon.

  “No reasonable people come here,” Jeremias had answered. “What do you think, Oleg? You know what it’s like. Tell us a little something from the slums, you know!”

  He thumped his Russian partner on the shoulder. He pretended not to notice, but Henrietta could see that Oleg did not like either the exhortation or the thumping.

  During dinner they talked widely and broadly about business in the chambre separée where they were sitting. Henrietta got the impression that her husband wanted to show off, and that made her depressed. She closed herself off and tried to focus on the food.

  The only benefit she had from the dinner was when the Swedish executive chef came out in the dining room, made the rounds, and also slipped into their own little section.

  “Here’s the chef!” Jeremias shouted. “He’s the one who prepares all this good food. A damn good guy! He’s Swedish! From Uppsala, besides.”

  He pulled on the chef’s sleeve but then completely lost interest.

  “That was really good,” said Henrietta.

  The tall chef had to lean over to hear what she said. He had a nice smile and winked meaningfully at the loud company. Several of the guests had no more than poked at the food, a few had put out their cigarettes on the small plates of mashed potatoes, others had only eaten the meat and pushed the trimmings to the side. The tablecloth was covered with roasted vegetables and turnips. In the middle of the table were two bottles of vodka.

  “Ungrateful,” said Henrietta, and got a vague movement of his head in reply.

  She understood that he could not comment on his guests.

  “But you liked the food?”

  “Very much,” she said, and got another, slightly shy smile. “You shouldn’t have to cook for these types,” she said.

  “I made it for you,” said the chef, “and that’s more than enough.”

  “Are you from Uppsala?”

  He nodded, smiled again, this time a little broader, placed his hand on her shoulders and squeezed lightly, an unprofessional gesture to be sure, but for her the smile and momentary touch were what she would recall. Everything else about that evening she preferred to forget. Above all the retre
at to the hotel, which among other things involved stops at a couple of nightclubs, and then Jeremias’s impotent attempt to take her from behind while she removed her makeup. She didn’t have the energy to care, she knew he wasn’t capable, and just pushed him so that he fell backward and remained sitting on the bathroom floor, stupidly drooling and limply waving one arm.

  That was the last time she went along to Moscow. Nowadays she didn’t want to hear a word about Oleg, oil, gas, or Russia.

  And she did not want to be taken from behind. Or from in front either, for that matter.

  * * *

  She put the last dishes in the dishwasher and started the cycle, then glanced out at the street again. The man had moved a few meters, but still stood just as passively as before.

  He was starting to really get on her nerves and it struck her that perhaps that was the point. He was a hired provocation, she realized, his appearance was not such that on his own he would come up with the idea of standing outside a house, just glaring.

  His mission was not to injure, no; it was the look of the man, his stubborn staring, that was the message, she suddenly understood.

  But why? There could only be one reason. Russia. Business deals. She could think of no other reason. They had no score to settle with anyone, the street where they lived was normally very quiet, nothing unforeseen ever happened, no break-ins and no damage during all the years they had lived there. Everyone knew everyone in the area.

  But this man was unknown, an intruder, with intentions that were not good.

  She knew, or sensed rather, that Jeremias was moving in a gray area. Probably all Westerners did who were successful in the former Eastern bloc countries. Obviously more or less, but Henrietta had an idea that in Jeremias’s case the past few years it had slipped over to more.

  Was this one of Oleg’s men? He looked like a Russian, dressed in simple, cheap clothing. Oleg was a bandit, she realized that early on. A cruel man, she had seen that in his facial features and eyes. Whenever he smiled it was with calculation or scorn.

  She took out a pen and the pad she usually wrote shopping lists on, sat down at the kitchen table and wrote down a thorough description of the man: blue-white gym shoes, stained brown pants, a green summer jacket with breast pockets, under that a dark shirt, maybe blue or green. His hair color was light. The bushy sideburns and beard stubble that was certainly several days old underscored the slightly dismal, worn-out impression. He looked tired and occasionally yawned, as if he was bored, tired of standing there and hanging out, but forced to. Hired in other words.

  He had a brown shoulder-strap bag. It did not appear to contain much of anything and did not seem to bother him. She picked a marker on the neighbor’s fence, a dark knothole, to use to calculate his height.

  When she finished taking notes, she smiled to herself. This felt good. Now she had a description, whatever significance that might have. But she had done something, not just nervously checking every minute or two whether he was still standing there.

  If she had not grown up with an alcoholic father, who when he was drunk hit both her and her mother, she might have gone out and asked what his business was, who his employer was.

  The news report was over. The remote control rattled against the table and the TV fell silent. It was deathly quiet in the house. After a few moments, which felt like centuries, she heard the rattle of glasses. She knew he was pouring a whiskey.

  “Coward,” she mumbled furiously, mostly due to the fact that the cowardice applied just as much to her.

  The next morning he would travel to Moscow and be gone for three days. That was a relief. Then the idea was that they would sail for a week in the archipelago, for the first time without Malin and Hampus. That was not something she was looking forward to.

  Henrietta had to wait another hour before Malin came home. Jessica’s dad was driving and let Malin off right outside the gate.

  The man by the fence did not move a muscle. It almost seemed to Henrietta that he had fallen asleep standing up.

  Her daughter was dragging a bag. Henrietta waved through the bay window and got a tired smile in response.

  “How was it?”

  Malin immediately took out a glass, filled it with water and a little ice, before she answered.

  “The first two days went okay, but then it got too hot.”

  She drank greedily and filled the glass again.

  “Who’s the strange guy?”

  “I don’t know,” said Henrietta. “He’s been standing there for three hours at least.”

  “Sick,” said Malin, filling the glass again. “Maybe it’s the murderer.”

  “What murderer?”

  “The one who killed that homeless guy last week.”

  Henrietta shut her eyes. The past week the news had been dominated by the homeless murder and the discovery of the young girl in the forest.

  “Now I’m calling the police,” she said, getting up.

  “What do you mean, just because a guy is standing outside? That seems silly. Maybe he’s waiting for someone.”

  “For several hours?”

  Malin shrugged.

  “Isn’t Dad home?”

  “He probably fell asleep in his chair.”

  “Home, sweet home,” said Malin, dragging the trunk into the laundry room, which was adjacent to the kitchen.

  Henrietta sank down on the chair again, calmed by her daughter’s talk. She heard her daughter unpacking her bag and could even make out the odor of her sweaty gym clothes. She smiled quietly to herself. Malin was good, she took care of her own dirty clothes.

  “I have to buy a new bikini!” Malin shouted.

  “Do it in Bulgaria, it’s probably cheaper.”

  “No way,” said Malin, but did not explain why that was so inconceivable. “I’m going into town tomorrow.”

  “Well, maybe that’s better,” said Henrietta, because it struck her that perhaps Bulgaria was like Moscow.

  She took a look out the window.

  “Now he’s gone!”

  “Who? Dad?”

  “No, the guy outside, of course.”

  “Well, there you go,” said Malin, sticking her head out of the laundry room, “you’re just a worrywart.”

  “Malin, sit down a moment.”

  Her daughter observed her for a fraction of a second, hesitated, then pulled out a chair and sat down across from Henrietta.

  How should I talk about it, she thought, smiling at Malin, but noticed her watchfulness and worry, and changed her mind. Soon Malin would be going on her first vacation without her parents, so why tell her now, and add to the tension she probably was feeling prior to the trip?

  “You’ll be careful, won’t you,” she said. “I mean, you are four girls.”

  “We’ve talked about that,” Malin interrupted.

  “We have,” Henrietta noted, taking her daughter’s hand. “I trust you, you know that, it’s just that I—”

  “… am a worrywart,” Malin filled in with a grin.

  Twenty-nine

  He recognized him right away. They faced each other silently, for an eternity it seemed to Anders Brant. How did the man get in? The gate by the street and the downstairs door were both locked. Now he was standing, evidently perplexed, outside the door to Brant’s apartment.

  Brant noticed that he had prepared for the visit carefully, there was an odor of cheap soap and he had put on the best set of clothes he could get hold of, perhaps even borrowed the dazzlingly white shirt and blue shorts. He had flip-flops on.

  “Good afternoon,” said the man.

  “Good afternoon. Can I help you?”

  The man nodded. Brant hesitated whether he should invite him in. The landlady was in Ribeiro visiting her sister and would probably not be home before evening. The Dutchman who rented the minimal studio that shared a wall with Brant had been gone for several days, probably on a visit to the woman he spent time with.

  If he let him in, what might happen? It
was the man’s obvious efforts to look proper that decided it.

  “Come in,” said Brant, stepping to one side.

  He went toward the kitchen. Sitting in the combination living room-bedroom felt wrong, too private, and besides the windows faced out toward the alley.

  They sat down at the table. The man took a quick look around the kitchen. His eyes settled for a moment on the camera and the little tape recorder on the table, before he cleared his throat.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Brant suddenly felt thirsty, perhaps it was the man’s throat clearing that triggered it, but he refrained from taking a beer out of the refrigerator. He did not want the man to be the least bit affected.

  “I know you saw what happened,” said the man.

  Brant said nothing, but instead waited for what would follow with an expressionless face. This was a technique he used in interviews. Saying too much yourself, filling in, making comments, explaining, giving background and intentions, that could lead astray. The interlocutor, or interview victim, adapted so easily, made a parallel course to try to please or get off easily.

  From the inner courtyard was heard the stubborn sound of the bird calling its incessant nitschevo-nitschevo, the Russian word for “nothing.”

  The man sighed, looked down at the table, certainly bothered by his errand, but probably also by the unfamiliar environment, apparently indecisive about how to present his case.

  At last Brant felt obliged to break the silence. The bird’s stubbornness and the man’s timidity were making him nervous.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Ivaldo Assis,” he said, extending his hand.

  Brant introduced himself and took the man’s hand across the table.

  “I know that you saw,” Ivaldo repeated.

  Brant nodded, and that was what was needed for Ivaldo to continue.

  “What you see is one thing, but what really happens is another. My son died. I am grieving my son, not the man who died before your eyes. That wasn’t my Arlindo. He died a long time ago. Do you understand?”