Kennedy's Brain

by Henning Mankell

  She dozed through the rest of the night, hopping around the radio channels, occasionally disturbed by music that seemed unsuitable for the darkness of the night. I'm in a cage, she thought. A cage with thin walls that nevertheless can withstand the intense cold and the high speed. Inside this cage I'm being hurled towards a continent I never imagined I would ever visit. A continent I have never had any desire to go to.

  A couple of hours before landing in Sydney she had the feeling that the decision she had made in Frankfurt was pointless. She would never be able to find Aron. All on her own at the far edge of the world she would merely be overcome by sorrow and increasing desperation.

  But she had no power to turn the cage round and hurl it back at Frankfurt. Soon after breakfast the aircraft touched down in Sydney airport. Half asleep, she reemerged into the world. A friendly customs officer removed an apple from her hand luggage and threw it into a rubbish bin. She found her way to an information desk and reserved a room at the Hilton. She had a nasty shock when she realised how much it would cost, but did not have the strength to cancel it. She changed some money then took a taxi to her hotel. She observed the city in the morning light and thought about the fact that Aron must once have taken the same route, along the same motorways, over the same bridges.

  She had been allocated a room with windows that would not open. If she had not been so tired she would have left the hotel and looked for another one. The room felt suffocating, but she forced herself to take a shower, then crept naked between the sheets. I sleep like Henrik used to do, she thought. I sleep naked. Why was he wearing pyjamas that last night of his life?

  She fell asleep without finding an answer to the question, and woke up at noon. She went out, found her way to the harbour, walked to the Opera House and installed herself in an Italian restaurant for a meal. The air was chilly, but the sunshine was warm. She drank a glass of wine and tried to think about what to do next. Artur had spoken to the embassy. He had also been in contact with members of an association that apparently kept tabs on immigrant Swedes. But Aron is not an immigrant. He would never allow himself be put on a register. He is a man who always has at least two routes in and out of his hiding places.

  She forced herself not to feel too downhearted. It must be possible to find Aron, always assuming he really was in Australia. He was the kind of person who always made an impression on people. They would never forget Aron.

  She was about to leave the restaurant when she heard a man at the next table speaking Swedish on a mobile phone. He was talking to a woman, she could make that out, about a car that needed repairing. He hung up and smiled at her.

  'There's always problems with cars,' he said in English. 'Always.'

  'I speak Swedish. But you're right, cars are nothing but trouble.'

  The man stood up, came over to her table and introduced himself. His name was Oskar Lundin, and his handshake was firm.

  'Louise Cantor. A pretty name. Are you a casual visitor or resident?'

  'A very casual visitor. I haven't even been here for a full day yet.'

  He gestured towards a chair, asking permission to sit down. A waiter moved his coffee to Louise's table.

  'It's a lovely spring day,' he said. 'There's still a bit of a nip in the air, but spring is on the way. I never cease to be surprised by this world, where spring and autumn can be companions even if they are separated by continents and oceans.'

  'Have you lived here long?'

  'I came to Australia in 1949. I was nineteen then. I was convinced that I would be able to whittle gold using my trusty sheath knife. I'd made a mess of my school studies, but I had a bent for gardening, for plants. I knew I would always be able to make a living trimming hedges or pruning fruit trees.'

  'Why did you come here?'

  'I had such lousy parents. Excuse me for saying so, but it's the truth. My father was a vicar and hated everybody who didn't believe in the same God as he did. I didn't believe in anything at all and hence was a heathen: he used to beat me whenever he could until I became old enough to defend myself. Then he stopped speaking to me. My mother always used to mediate. She was a Good Samaritan, but unfortunately she kept a running tally and never did anything to make my life easier without demanding something in return. She forced out all my emotions, my bad conscience, my guilt feeling over all the sacrifices she made, just as you squeeze out a lemon in a fruit press. So I did the only thing open to me. I ran away. That was more than fifty years ago. I never went back. Not even to their funerals. I have a sister over there and talk to her every Christmas. But basically, I'm here. And I became a master gardener. With a firm of my own that doesn't only trim hedges and prune fruit trees, but creates whole gardens for anybody who's prepared to pay.'

  He drank his coffee and adjusted his chair so that his face was in the sun. It seemed to Louise that she had nothing to lose.

  'I'm looking for a man,' she said. 'His name is Aron Cantor. We used to be married. I think he's here in Australia.'

  'You think?'

  'I'm not sure. I've asked the embassy and the friendship society.'

  Lundin pulled a dismissive face.

  'They haven't a clue about the Swedes living in Australia. It'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack. The society has no idea.'

  'What are you suggesting? That people come here in order to hide?'

  'Just as many people from here go to a country like Sweden where they can conceal their sins. I don't think there are all that many Swedish crooks hiding in Australia, but I've no doubt there are a few. Ten years ago there was a man here from Ånge who had committed murder. The Swedish authorities never tracked him down. He's dead now and has his own gravestone in Adelaide. But I take it the man you used to be married to isn't wanted for some crime or other?'

  'No. But I need to find him.'

  'We all do. Need to find the people we are looking for.'

  'What would you do if you were me?'

  Oskar Lundin stirred his half-empty cup of coffee as if deep in thought.

  'I suppose I'd ask me to help you,' he said eventually. 'I've got vast numbers of contacts in this country. Australia is a continent where most things still happen by personal contact. We shout and we whisper to one another, and we generally find out what we want to know. Where can I get in touch with you?'

  'I'm staying at the Hilton. But it's really too expensive for me.'

  'Stay there for two days, if you can afford it. I won't need any longer than that. If your husband's here, I'll find him. If I don't find him, you can look somewhere else. New Zealand is often the next place to go.'

  'I can't believe that I was lucky enough to bump into you. And that you are prepared to help somebody you don't know at all.'

  'Maybe I try to do the good that my father only pretended to do.'

  Lundin waved to the waiter and paid his bill. He raised his hat when he left.

  'I'll be in touch within forty-eight hours. With good news, I hope. But I'm already beginning to worry that I might have promised too much. Sometimes I promise my clients too much fruit on the apple trees I plant for them. I always feel guilty about that afterwards.'

  She watched him walk straight out into the sun and stride along the quay as far as the ferry terminal, which nestled at the foot of a line of skyscrapers. She was often wrong when it came to judging people's character; but she had no doubt at all that Oskar Lundin would try to help her.

  * * *

  Twenty-three hours later the telephone rang in her room. She had just come back from a long walk. She had been trying to think about what she would do if Oskar Lundin was not able to give her any information, or if he had tricked her and would never be heard of again. Earlier she had spoken to her father and also rung Greece to tell them she would be away in mourning for another week, possibly even two. They were as understanding as they had been earlier, but she knew that she would have to put in an appearance at the dig if people were not to start feeling impatient with her before long.

>   Lundin's voice was exactly as she had remembered it: normal Swedish but lacking lots of words that had come into fashion during the long years he had been away. That's how they used to speak Swedish when I was a child, she had thought after their first meeting.

  Lundin did not beat about the bush.

  'I think I've found your missing husband,' he said. 'Unless there are several Swedes in Australia by the name of Aron Cantor.'

  'There can only be one.'

  'Do you have a map of Australia in front of you?'

  Louise had bought one. She spread it out over the bed.

  'Put your finger on Sydney. Then follow the road south to Melbourne. Continue from there along the south coast until you come to a place called Apollo Bay. Have you found it?'

  She could see the name.

  'According to what I've managed to find out, a man called Aron Cantor has been living there for several years. My informant couldn't give an exact address, but he was pretty sure that you'll find the man you're looking for in Apollo Bay.'

  'Who was this informant of yours?'

  'An old trawler captain who grew so fed up with the North Sea that he moved to the other side of the globe. He spends some of his time on the south coast. He's a very nosy person and he never forgets a name. I think you'll find Aron Cantor in Apollo Bay. It's a tiny little place that only livens up in summer. There won't be many people there at this time of year.'

  'I don't know how to thank you.'

  'Why do Swedes spend so much bloody time saying thank you? Why can't somebody be helpful without keeping an invisible cash book? But I'll give you my phone number as I'd like to know if you find him in the end.'

  She noted down Oskar Lundin's number on the map. When he said goodbye and hung up, it was like when he raised his hat. She stood there motionless and could feel her heart pounding heavily.

  Aron was alive. She had not done the wrong thing by interrupting her journey back to Greece. By pure chance she had found herself sitting next to a good fairy in a summer hat at a restaurant table.

  Oskar Lundin could well be my father's brother, she thought. Two elderly men who would never hesitate to help.

  A dam inside her burst, and all the energy that had been harnessed was suddenly released. In no time at all she had rented a car that was delivered to her hotel, and paid her bill. She left Sydney, entered the network of motorways and headed for Melbourne. She was in a hurry now. Aron might be in the place called Apollo Bay, but there was always a risk that he would get it into his head to do a vanishing trick. If he caught the scent of somebody on his trail, he would run away. She planned to stay the night in Melbourne, then follow the coast road to Apollo Bay.

  She found a station playing classical music. It was almost midnight when she found herself in central Melbourne. She had a vague memory of the Olympic Games being held there when she was very small. A name came to mind: a high-jumper called Nilsson that her father had rated. Artur had made a mark on the outside wall of their house the height of the jump that had won him the gold medal. Nilsson – but what was his first name? Rickard, she thought. But she was not sure. Perhaps she was mixing up two different people, or even two different competitions. She would have to ask her father.

  She took a room in a hotel not far from the parliament building – much too expensive again. But she was tired, and lacked the strength to go hunting for a cheaper room. A few blocks away she discovered a miniature Chinatown. The restaurant was half empty and most of the waiters were gaping at a television screen; but she ate bamboo shoots and rice. She drank several glasses of wine and became tipsy. She was thinking about Aron all the time. Would she find him the next day? Or would he have fled?

  She went for a walk after her meal, to clear her head. She found a park with well-lit paths. If she had not drunk a fair amount of wine she might very well have decided to continue her journey now: her bag was still unpacked, and she could have carried it straight down to the car. But she needed some sleep. The wine would help.

  She lay down on top of the bed and wrapped the quilt round her. She slept fitfully, avoiding a mass of faces in her dreams until dawn broke.

  By half past six she had finished her breakfast and left Melbourne. It was raining, and the wind blowing off the sea was squally and cold. She was shivering as she settled down in the car.

  Somewhere out there in the rain was Aron.

  He's not expecting me, nor is he expecting to hear about the tragedy that has befallen him. But soon reality will catch up.

  She arrived at her destination at about eleven. It had rained incessantly all the way. Apollo Bay was a narrow strip of houses along the shore of a bay. There was a pier keeping the waves away from a small armada of fishing boats. She parked next to a café, stayed in the car and gazed out into the rain as the windscreen wipers cleared the screen every few seconds.

  Somewhere out there in the rain is Aron. But where will I find him?

  For a moment she had the feeling that the task she had set herself was beyond her. But she had no intention of giving up, not now when she had travelled to the other side of the globe. She got out of the car and ran across the road to a shop selling sports clothes. She selected a rainproof windcheater and a peaked cap. The shop assistant was a young girl, overweight and pregnant. It seemed to Louise that she had nothing to lose by asking.

  'Do you know Aron Cantor? A man from Sweden. He speaks good English, but with a foreign accent. I've been told he lives here in Apollo Bay. Do you know who I mean? Do you know where he lives? If you don't, could you suggest somebody who might?'

  Louise was not convinced that the girl had made much of an effort when she replied: 'I don't know any Swedes.'

  'Not Aron Cantor? It's an unusual name.'

  The girl handed over Louise's change and shook her head nonchalantly.

  'We see so many people here, coming and going.'

  Louise put on the jacket and left the shop. The rain had eased off. She walked along the road in front of the row of houses, and realised that this was the whole of Apollo Bay. A road following the curve of the bay, a row of houses, nothing else. The sea was grey. She went into a café, ordered a pot of tea and tried to think. Where could Aron be if he really did live here? He liked to go out when it was wet and blustery. He liked fishing.

  The man who had served her was walking around the room, wiping down the tables.

  'Where do people go fishing here in Apollo Bay if they don't have a boat?'

  'They usually stand at the end of the pier. Some people fish in the dock.'

  She asked him if he knew anybody visiting here called Aron Cantor. The man shook his head and carried on wiping the tables.

  'Maybe he's staying at the hotel? That's on the road down to the harbour. You could ask there.'

  Louise knew that Aron would never stand living in a hotel for more than a few days.

  The rain had stopped, the clouds were starting to disperse. She went back to the car and drove to the harbour, not bothering to stop at the hotel, which was called Eagle's Inn.

  She parked at the entrance to the harbour and started walking along the quay. The water was oily and dirty. A barge laden with wet sand was chafing against the old tractor tyres hanging along the quay wall. A fishing boat piled up with lobster pots was called Pietà, and she wondered in passing if the name gave promise of good catches. She walked to the edge of the inner mole. A few boys were busy fishing, concentrating so hard on their floats that they did not even cast a glance at her. She looked at where the outer jetty projected from the inner basin a long way out to sea. Somebody was standing there, fishing, or perhaps there was more than just one person. She retraced her steps then turned onto the outer jetty. The wind was stronger now, and blustery, whistling between the large blocks of stone that formed the outer wall of the jetty. It was so high that she could not see the sea beyond it, only hear it.