Kennedy's Brain

by Henning Mankell

  Lorry drivers were half asleep over their coffee cups. She had a salad, water and a cup of coffee. All the scents and tastes told her that she was back in Greece now. Nothing seemed foreign, as had been the case in Africa.

  It was about eleven when she arrived in Argolis. She turned off towards the house she rented, but changed her mind and headed for the excavation site. She assumed that most of her colleagues would have left for home but that a few would still be there, putting the finishing touches to the necessary precautions as winter approached. But there was nobody there at all. The place was deserted. Everything that could be closed down was closed. Not even the security guards were there any more.

  It was one of the loneliest moments in her life. Nothing could compare with the shock of finding Henrik dead in his bed, of course. This was a different kind of loneliness, like finding oneself abandoned in a landscape that went on for ever.

  She recalled the game that she and Aron sometimes played. What would you do if you were the last person alive on earth? Or the first? But she could not remember any of the suggestions and answers they had given each other. Now it was not a game any more.

  An old man was approaching, walking his dog. He had been a regular visitor to the dig. She had forgotten his name, but remembered that the dog was called Alice. Politely, he took off his cap and shook hands. He spoke rather complicated and slow English and was only too pleased to have an opportunity to practise it.

  'I thought everyone had returned to their homes?'

  'I'm just paying a fleeting visit. Nothing will happen here until next spring.'

  'The last ones departed a week ago. But you were not here then, Mrs Cantor.'

  'I've been in Africa.'

  'So far away. Is it not frightening?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'All that . . . wildness. What is it called? The wilderness?'

  'It's not so different from here. We forget too easily that people all belong to the same family. And that every landscape has something that reminds you of other landscapes. If it's true that we all came originally from Africa, that must mean that we all had a black mother long, long ago.'

  'That can be true.'

  He gave his dog a worried look. It was lying down with its head resting on its paws.

  'She will probably not live beyond the winter.'

  'Is she ill?'

  'She is very old. At least a thousand years, I would think. A classic dog, a remnant from antiquity. Every morning I see with what difficulty she stands up. It is I who take her for walks now, not vice versa as it was before.'

  'I hope she survives.'

  'We shall meet again in the spring.'

  He raised his cap again and continued his walk. The dog followed him, stiff-legged. She decided to visit Vassilis in his office. It was time now to draw a line under everything. It was clear to her that she would never come back here. Somebody else would have to take over as director of the excavations.

  Her life had turned off in a different direction, but she had no idea which.

  She stopped outside his office in the town centre. She could see Vassilis through the window. He was on the telephone, making notes, laughing.

  He has forgotten me. I've gone as far as he's concerned. I was no more than a casual acquaintance to sleep with and share his pain. Just like he was for me.

  She drove off before he noticed her.

  When she came to her house, it took her some considerable time to find the keys. She could see that Mitsos had been in. No taps were dripping, no light was switched on unnecessarily. There were several letters on the kitchen table, two from the Swedish Institute in Athens, one from the Friends of Kavalla House. She left them unopened.

  There was a bottle of wine on the bench next to the little refrigerator. She opened it and poured herself a glass. She had never drunk as much as she had been doing these last few weeks.

  There was no rest for her. She was in a state of constant inner turmoil which was not always in step with the hustle and bustle around her.

  She drank her wine and sat down in Leandros's creaking rocking chair. She gazed and gazed at her CD player without being able to make up her mind what she wanted to listen to.

  When the bottle was half empty she moved to the desk, took out some writing paper and a fountain pen and started to write a letter to Uppsala University. She explained her situation and asked for a year's unpaid leave.

  My pain and confusion are such that it would be presumptuous of me to believe that I could carry out responsibly the tasks the director of the excavations would need to undertake. Right now I am using up all my resources – if I have any left? – in an attempt to look after myself.

  The letter turned out to be longer than she had intended. A request for leave ought to be brief. What she had written was a prayer, or perhaps a confused confession.

  She wanted them to know what it felt like to lose your only child.

  She found an envelope in a box, inserted the letter and sealed it. Mitsos's dog was barking. She took the car and drove to a nearby taverna where she often used to eat. The owner was blind. He sat motionless on a chair, as if he were slowly turning into a statue. His daughterin- law did the cooking and his wife acted as waitress. None of them understood English, but Louise used to go into the cramped, steam-filled kitchen and point out what she wanted.

  She had stuffed cabbage rolls and salad, a glass of wine and a cup of coffee. There were not many other diners. She recognised nearly all of them.

  When she returned to her house, Mitsos suddenly loomed up in the darkness. She gave a start.

  'Did I scare you?'

  'I didn't know who it was.'

  'Who could it have been, apart from me? Panayiotis perhaps. But he's gone to a football match, Panathinaikos are playing tonight.'

  'Will they win?'

  'They're bound to. Panayiotis reckons it will be three – one. He's usually right.'

  She opened the door and let him in.

  'I've been away longer than I thought.'

  * * *

  Mitsos had sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. He eyed her seriously.

  'I've heard what has happened. I'm very sorry to hear about the boy's death. All of us are. Panayiotis has cried. The dogs have kept quiet for once.'

  'It was so unexpected.'

  'Nobody expects a young man to die. Except in wartime.'

  'I've come to pack my things and pay you the rest of the rent.'

  Mitsos flung his arms out wide.

  'You don't owe me anything.'

  He said it so forcefully that she did not insist. Mitsos was obviously embarrassed and was searching for something to talk about. She reminded herself that she used to think he was like Artur. There was something about their inability to handle emotions that touched her.

  'Leandros is ill. The old security guard. What is it you call him? He was your phylakes anghelos.'

  'Our guardian angel. What's the matter with him?'

  'He started stumbling when he walked. Then he kept falling over. At first they thought it was his blood pressure. Last week they found a big ongos in his head. I think it's called a "tumour".'

  'Is he in hospital?'

  'He refuses to go. He won't allow them to open up his skull. He'd prefer to die.'

  'Poor Leandros.'

  'He's had a long life. He thinks that it's time for him to die. Oti prepi na teleiossi, tha teleiossi, as we say. "What has to come to an end will end".'

  Mitsos stood up to go.

  'I intend leaving tomorrow. I'll be flying to Sweden.'

  'Will you be coming back next year?'

  'I'll be back.'

  She could not stop herself. The bird flew away without her managing to catch hold of its wing.

  Mitsos was on his way out when he paused and turned round.

  'There was somebody here looking for you.'

  She was on her guard immediately. Mitsos had touched the tripwire that surrounded her.

&nb
sp; 'Who was it?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Was he a Greek?'

  'No. He spoke English. He was tall, with thin hair, slim. He had a high-pitched voice. He asked after you. Then he paid a visit to your excavation. He seemed to know what had happened.

  Louise was horrified to think that it could be Aron that Mitsos was describing.

  'Did he say what his name was?'

  'Murray. I don't know if that is a first name or a surname.'

  'Could be either. Tell me exactly what happened. When did he come? What did he want? How did he come? by car? on foot? Had he parked his car so that it couldn't be seen from here?'

  'Why on earth should he want to do that?'

  Louise felt she no longer had the strength to beat about the bush.

  'Because he might have been dangerous. Because he might have been the person who killed Henrik, and maybe also my husband. Because he might have wanted to kill me.'

  Mitsos stared at her in astonishment, and looked as if he was going to protest. She raised her hand to prevent him speaking.

  'I want you to believe me. That's all. When did he come?'

  'Last week. On Thursday. In the evening. He knocked on the door. I hadn't heard a car. The dogs hadn't started to bark. He asked about you.'

  'Do you remember what his exact words were?'

  'He asked if I knew whether Mrs Cantor was at home.'

  'He didn't say Louise?'

  'No. Mrs Cantor.'

  'Had you ever seen him before?'

  'No.'

  'Did you have the feeling that he knew me?'

  Mitsos hesitated before replying.

  'No, I don't think he knew you.'

  'What did you tell him?'

  'That you'd gone to Sweden, and I didn't know when you'd be back.'

  'You said he'd paid a visit to the dig?'

  'That was the following day.'

  'What happened next?'

  'He asked if I was sure I didn't know when you were coming back. I felt he was asking too many questions. I told him I had nothing else to say and that I was in the middle of dinner.'

  'How did he react to that?'

  'He apologised for disturbing me. But he didn't mean it.'

  'What makes you think that?'

  'You notice that sort of thing. He was friendly, but I didn't like him.'

  'Then what happened?'

  'He went off into the darkness. I shut the door.'

  'Did you hear a car starting?'

  'Not as far as I can remember. And the dogs still didn't bark.'

  'And he never came back?'

  'I haven't seen him again.'

  'And nobody else has been asking for me?'

  'No, nobody.'

  Louise could see that she was not going to get any further. She thanked Mitsos, who left. As soon as she heard his front door close, she locked up and drove away. There was a hotel on the way to Athens, Nemea, where she had stayed when she'd had a burst pipe. She was almost the only guest at the hotel and was given a double room overlooking extensive olive groves. She sat on the balcony, felt the cool autumn breeze and went to fetch a blanket. She could hear music in the distance, and people laughing.

  She thought about what Mitsos had said. She had no idea about the identity of the man who had been looking for her, but whoever it was was close by. She had not succeeded in throwing them off.

  They think that I know something, or won't give up until I have found what I'm looking for. The only way I can shake them off is by ceasing to search. I thought I had got rid of them when I left Africa, but I was wrong.

  She made up her mind in the darkness on the balcony. She would not remain in Greece. She could choose between returning to Barcelona, or going back to Sweden. That was not a difficult choice to make. She needed Artur now.

  The following day she packed up her belongings and moved out of the house. She left the keys in Mitsos's letter box and hoped that one of these days she would be able to come and collect the rocking chair that had been given to her by Leandros. She left an envelope addressed to Mitsos, containing money and asking him to buy flowers or cigarettes for Leandros, and wishing him all the best.

  She drove back to Athens. It was foggy, the traffic was dense and impatient. She drove far too quickly, despite the fact that that she was not really in a hurry. Time was an alien concept, something beyond her control. In the chaos in which she found herself, timelessness ruled.

  That evening she took an SAS flight to Copenhagen with a connection to Stockholm. She arrived around midnight and booked herself into the airport hotel. She still had enough of Aron's money to cover her flights and hotel bills. After studying the next day's departures she phoned Artur from her room and asked him to pick her up at Östersund airport. She would be arriving in the evening as she first wanted to go to Henrik's flat again. She could tell that Artur was relieved she was back in Sweden.

  'How are you?'

  'I'm too tired to talk about that just now.'

  'It's snowing here,' he said. 'A light, gentle snowfall. It's four degrees below zero, and you haven't even asked me how the elk hunt went.'

  'I'm sorry. How did the elk hunt go?'

  'It went well. But it didn't last long enough.'

  'Did you shoot one yourself?'

  'No elks appeared in my patch. But it only took us two days to shoot our quota. Let me know your arrival time and I'll collect you from the airport.'

  That night, for the first time in ages, she slept without being dragged up into consciousness by dreams at frequent intervals. She left her bags at the left-luggage office and took the train into Stockholm. It was cold and raining, with squally winds blowing in from the Baltic. She ducked into the wind as she started walking towards Slussen, but it was too cold. She changed her mind and flagged down a taxi. As she sat down on the back seat, she suddenly saw Umbi's face again in her mind's eye.

  Nothing is finished. Louise Cantor is still surrounded by shadows.

  She paused in the street to gather strength before entering the building in Tavasgatan and unlocking the door to Henrik's flat.

  There was some junk mail and local news-sheets on the floor behind the door. She took them into the kitchen with her. She sat down at the table and listened. She could hear music coming from somewhere or other. She had a vague memory of having heard the same music previously when she had been in Henrik's flat.

  Her mind wandered back to the moment when she had found Henrik lying dead.

  He always slept naked. But now he was wearing pyjamas.

  She suddenly realised that there was an explanation for the pyjamas that had never occurred to her before, because she had refused to believe that he had taken his own life. But what if he had done so, in fact? He knew that he would be dead when somebody found him. He did not want to be naked in those circumstances, and hence had put on his neatly pressed pyjamas.