Kennedy's Brain

by Henning Mankell

  Blanca looked at her watch. Her impatience seemed to be genuine. Louise decided to raise the stakes and risk shutting Blanca up completely.

  'Henrik wrote about you in several of his letters.'

  Once again a sudden reaction, this time in Blanca's body language. Barely discernible, but Louise noticed it.

  'He referred to you as his landlady,' she said. 'I thought you were the owner of the house. He never mentioned a retired colonel.'

  'I hope he didn't say bad things about me.'

  'Not at all. On the contrary.'

  'What do you mean by that?'

  She had committed herself now. There could be no going back.

  'I think he was fond of you. In secret. I think he was in love.'

  Blanca looked away. Louise was just about to continue when Blanca held up her hand.

  'I had a mother who blackmailed me. She played havoc with my emotions ever since I was twelve years old and fell in love for the first time. As far as she was concerned, any love I felt for a man was nothing more than a betrayal of her love for me. If I loved a man, I hated her. If I wanted to be with a man, I was abandoning her. She was horrible. She's still alive, but she no longer remembers who I am. I think it's wonderful visiting her now, when she doesn't recognise me. I know that sounds brutal, and perhaps it is. But I'm telling you the truth. I can stroke her cheek and tell her that I've always hated her, and she has no idea what I'm talking about. But she did teach me one thing: never beat about the bush, never go round and round in circles unnecessarily. Never do what you are doing now. If you have questions, ask them.'

  'I think he was in love with you, but I don't know.'

  'He was in love with me. When he was here, we made love almost every day. Never during the night, he wanted to be alone then.'

  Louise could feel an ache growing inside her. Had Henrik infected Blanca? Was she carrying the deadly virus in her bloodstream without knowing it?

  'Did you love him?'

  'He's not dead for me. I desired him, but I don't think I loved him.'

  'Then you must know a lot more about him than you have told me?'

  'What do you want me to tell you? How he made love, what positions he preferred, if he wanted to do things people don't talk about?'

  Louise felt offended.

  'I don't want to know anything about that sort of thing.'

  'And I'm not going to tell you. But nobody was here visiting him.'

  'Something in your voice prevents me from believing you.'

  'You can please yourself what you believe or don't believe. Why should I lie about that?'

  'That's exactly what I'm wondering. Why?'

  'When you asked if he'd had visitors, I thought you were referring to me. An odd way of asking about something you wanted to know but didn't dare ask about.'

  'I wasn't thinking about you. Henrik never wrote about you. That was just a guess.'

  'Let's conclude this conversation by telling the truth. Have you any more questions?'

  'Did Henrik ever have any visitors?'

  What happened next astonished Louise, and changed completely the way she searched for the answer to what had caused Henrik's death. Blanca suddenly stood up, opened a drawer in a little desk and took out an envelope.

  'Henrik gave me this the last time he came here. He said he wanted me to look after it for him. I don't know why.'

  'What's inside the envelope?'

  'It's sealed. I haven't opened it.'

  'Why have you waited until now before showing me it?'

  'Because it was for me. He never mentioned you or your husband when he gave it to me.'

  Louise turned the envelope over. Had Blanca in fact opened it? Or was she telling the truth? Was it of any significance? She opened the envelope. It contained a letter and a photograph. Blanca leaned forward over the table in order to see. Her curiosity was genuine.

  The photograph was black and white, square, an enlargement of what could have been a passport photo. The picture was grainy, the face looking straight at Louise was slightly blurred. A black face, a pretty young woman, smiling. Her white teeth gleamed between her lips, her hair was plaited ingeniously, tight against her head.

  Louise turned the picture over. Henrik had written a name and a date. Lucinda, 12 April 2003.

  Blanca looked at Louise.

  'I recognise her. She's been here.'

  'When?'

  Blanca thought for a moment.

  'After a rainstorm.'

  'What do you mean by that?'

  'A cloudburst that soaked the whole of the city centre. Water came flooding in over the threshold. She came the next day. Henrik must have collected her from the airport. In June 2003, the beginning of June. She stayed for two weeks.'

  'Where did she come from?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Who was she?'

  Blanca looked at Louise with a strange expression on her face.

  'I think Henrik was very much in love with her. He was always very reserved when I met the two of them together.'

  'Did Henrik say anything about her after she'd left?'

  'Never.'

  'What effect did it have on your relationship?'

  'One day he came down and invited me for dinner. I accepted. The food was not good, but I stayed the night with him. It was as if he'd decided that everything should go back to what it had been before the girl's visit.'

  Louise picked up the letter and started to read it. Henrik's handwriting when he was in a hurry, lots of wild flourishes, occasional sentences in barely legible English. No mention of Blanca, no introductory greeting, the letter started immediately, as if it had been taken out of an unknown context.

  Through Lucinda I'm starting to see more and more clearly what it is I'm trying to understand. She tells me of a shameless suffering I didn't think was possible. All in the name of greed. Though I still have difficulty imagining a world worse than I imagine it to be in my darkest moments. Lucinda can tell me about a different kind of darkness, a darkness that is as hard and impenetrable as iron. In it lurk the reptiles who have pawned their hearts, who dance on the graves of all those who have died unnecessarily. Lucinda will be my guide: if I'm away for a long time, I shall be with her. She lives in a hovel made of concrete and corrugated-iron sheets behind the ruined houses in the Avenida Samora Machel number 10, Maputo. If she's not at home, she can be found in the bar Malocura in Feira Popular in the centre of town. She works as a barmaid from 11 p.m. onwards.

  Louise handed the letter to Blanca who read it slowly, forming each word with her lips. Then she folded the letter and put it on the table.

  'What does he mean when he says that she will be his guide?' Louise asked.

  Blanca shook her head.

  'I don't know. But she must have been important to him.'

  Blanca put the letter and the photograph back in the envelope, and gave it to Louise.

  'It's yours. Take it.'

  Louise put the envelope in her handbag.

  'How did Henrik pay his rent?'

  'He gave the money to me. Three times a year. There's no rent due until the new year.'

  Blanca accompanied her out. Louise looked down the street. There was a stone bench on the pavement opposite, where a man sat reading a book. Only when he slowly turned a page did she take her eyes off him.

  'What happens now?' asked Blanca.

  'I don't know. But I'll be in touch.'

  Blanca gently stroked Louise's cheek and said: 'People always run away when things get too much to bear. Aron will come back, I'm sure.'

  Louise turned away quickly and set off walking, so as not to burst into tears.

  When she got back to the hotel she found the two police officers waiting for her. They all sat down in a corner of the big lobby.

  It was the younger of the two officers who did the talking. He read from his notes, and his English was sometimes difficult to understand.

  'Unfortunately we have been unable to find your
husband, Mr Aron Cantor. He is not in any of the local hospitals or mortuaries. Nor is he in any of our police cells. His details are now on the police computer. All we can do is wait.'

  She found it difficult to breathe, she lacked the strength now.

  'Thank you for your help. You have my telephone number, and there's a Swedish Embassy in Madrid.'

  The police officers saluted and left. She sank back into the soft armchair, and it struck her that she had lost everything. She had nothing left any more.

  Exhaustion hit her like an attack of cramp. I must get some sleep, she thought. Nothing else. Now I can see nothing clearly. I'll leave here tomorrow.

  She stood up and walked towards the lifts. She took another good look round the lobby, but there was nobody there.

  CHAPTER 12

  When the aircraft took off from Madrid airport late in the evening, Louise felt as if the thrust generated from the four engines was emanating from herself. She had a window seat, 27A, and sat with her cheek pressed against the pane, forcing the aeroplane to rise. She was rather drunk. On the flight from Barcelona to Madrid she had already downed several glasses of vodka and red wine on an empty stomach. She had carried on drinking while waiting for her connection in Madrid. Only when she began to feel sick was she able to force down an omelette. The rest of the time she had spent wandering impatiently around the airport. She thought she might find a face she recognised. She was uneasy and becoming increasingly convinced that she was being kept under constant observation.

  She rang both Nazrin and her father from Madrid airport. Nazrin was in a street somewhere in Stockholm, the line was bad, and Louise was not at all sure that Nazrin had grasped what she told her about Henrik's flat in Barcelona. The call was cut off, as if somebody had sliced through the signal. Louise tried again four more times, but all she heard was a voice telling her to try again later.

  Artur was in the kitchen when she rang. He's speaking in his coffee voice, she thought. I remember playing that game when I had moved to Östersund and phoned home. I used to guess if he was drinking coffee, or if he was sitting reading, or even preparing a meal. He kept a record of the scores. Once a year he used to give me the result for the previous twelve months. I always scored most points for guessing right when he was drinking coffee.

  She tried to pull herself together and speak slowly, but he saw through her immediately.

  'What time is it in Madrid?'

  'The same as in Sweden. Possibly an hour ahead or behind. Why do you ask?'

  'So it's not evening?'

  'It's afternoon. It's raining.'

  'Why are you drunk in the middle of the day?'

  'I'm not drunk.'

  Silence. Artur had backed off immediately. Lies always affected him like a punch in the solar plexus. She felt ashamed.

  'I've had a drop of wine. Is there anything wrong with that? I'm afraid of flying.'

  'You never have been in the past.'

  'I'm not afraid of flying. I've lost my son, my only child. And now Aron has vanished.'

  'You'll never survive this business if you can't keep sober.'

  'Go to hell!'

  'Go to hell yourself!'

  'Aron has vanished.'

  'He's done a runner before. He always runs off with his tail between his legs when it suits him or when the pressure becomes too great. He disappears through one of his escape routes.'

  'It's not a question of tails or escape routes this time.'

  She told him what had happened. He asked no questions. The only thing she could hear in the receiver was his breathing. The greatest feeling of security I felt as a child was seeing and hearing him breathe. When she had finished, the silence wandered back and forth between them, from Härjedalen to Madrid and back.

  'I'm going to follow Henrik's trail. The letter and the photograph of the girl called Lucinda.'

  'What do you know about Africa? You can't go there on your own.'

  'Who would come with me? You?'

  'I don't want you to go there.'

  'You taught me how to look after myself. My fear will guarantee that I don't do anything silly.'

  'You're drunk.'

  'It'll pass.'

  'Have you any money?'

  'I have Aron's money.'

  'Are you sure you know what you're doing?'

  'No. But I have to go.'

  Artur said nothing for a long time.

  'It's raining here,' he said in the end. 'But soon it'll be snowing. You can see it over the mountains, the clouds are getting heavier. It will be snowing before long.'

  'I have to do what I'm doing. I have to know what happened,' she said.

  When the call ended she stood under some stairs, hiding among a collection of abandoned luggage trolleys. It was as if somebody had taken a hammer and smashed the pile of fragments she had so carefully gathered together. Now they were smaller than ever, even harder to match with one another.

  I'm the pattern, she thought. Just now the pieces are combining to form my face. Nothing else.

  As she was about to board the flight for Johannesburg shortly before eleven, she hesitated. What I'm doing is madness. I'm travelling into the fog instead of out of it.

  She continued drinking during the night. Sitting next to her was a black woman who appeared to be afflicted with stomach pains. They did not speak to each other, merely exchanged looks.

  Even as she had been waiting to board the flight in Madrid, it had struck Louise that there was nothing to indicate that they were about to travel to an African country. There were few black or coloured passengers, most of them were Europeans.

  What did she know about the Dark Continent? Where was Africa in her consciousness? While she was a student in Uppsala, the struggle against apartheid had been an important part of the so-called solidarity movement. She had taken part in various demonstrations, without really having put her heart into it. As far as she was concerned Nelson Mandela was an enigmatic person who possessed almost superhuman abilities, like the Greek philosophers she read about in her course books. Africa did not really exist. It was a continent made up of blurred images, many of them unbearable. Flies swarming over the eyes of starving children, apathetic mothers with pendulous dugs. She recalled photographs of Idi Amin and his son, dressed up like tin soldiers in their grotesque uniforms. She had always thought that she could detect hatred in the eyes of Africans, but was that in fact her own fear reflected in dark mirrors?

  During the night they flew over the Sahara. She was travelling to a continent that was for her as blank and unexplored as it had been for the Europeans who ventured there hundreds of years previously. It suddenly struck her that she had forgotten all about the possible need of injections. Would the authorities allow her into the country? Would she fall ill? Should she not have taken tablets against malaria? She had no idea.