Kennedy's Brain

by Henning Mankell

  She went into the bedroom and looked at the bed. Perhaps Göran Wrath and the pathologist had been right after all. Henrik had taken his own life. He had been unable to reconcile himself to the idea of his illness; perhaps also the realisation of how ruthless and deeply unjust the world was had become too great a burden for him to bear. Aron had disappeared because he was what he had always been, a man incapable of accepting responsibility for anything. The murder of Umbi was inexplicable, but need not have anything to do with either Henrik or Aron.

  I've been hiding myself away in a nightmare, she thought. Instead of accepting the facts of what happened.

  But she did not succeed in convincing herself. There was too much pointing in the opposite direction. She did not even know what had happened to the sheets on Henrik's bed. Perhaps they had simply been taken away when Henrik's body was removed? There were always irregular imperfections in the vases she pieced together from fragments dug out of the Greek soil. Reality never released all its secrets. When she left the flat she was still full of doubts.

  She walked as far as Slussen and hailed a taxi that took her to Arlanda airport. The countryside was grey and misty. It was late autumn, soon winter. She bought a ticket for the 16.10 flight to Östersund. Artur was in the forest when he answered her call and assured her that he would be there to meet her.

  She had three hours to fill before the flight left. She found a café table with a view of incoming aircraft taxiing to the terminal building, and phoned Nazrin. No answer. Louise left a message on the answering machine, and asked Nazrin to call her in Härjedalen.

  That was her greatest worry at the moment. She needed to talk to Nazrin about Henrik's illness. Had he infected her? Nazrin, who had been his sister, Felicia.

  Louise contemplated the forest beyond the airport. How would Nazrin cope if it turned out to be true?

  In that case, Henrik would have passed the illness on to the sister who did not exist.

  While she waited she pondered on what the future held for her.

  I'm still only fifty-four. Will I be keen and enthusiastic about all the things lying hidden in the ground, waiting for my attention? Or is that all in the past? Do I have any future at all?

  She still had a long way to go before she came to terms with Henrik's death.

  What's killing me off is not knowing. I must force the fragments to fall into place and tell me their story. Perhaps the only archaeological investigation I have left to solve is the one inside me.

  She dialled Aron's number. Unavailable.

  Aircraft took off and headed into the grey sky or appeared like glittering birds from out of the clouds. She made her way to left luggage, collected her bags, checked in and sat down on a blue sofa to await her flight. The plane was only half full, and took off on time.

  It was dark, calm and snowing lightly as she walked towards the terminal building in Östersund.

  Artur was waiting for her by the luggage carousel. He had shaved and put on his best suit to celebrate her arrival.

  As they sat down in the car she burst into tears. He patted her on the cheek, then headed for the bridge over Storsjön and the road leading south towards Sveg. As they approached Svenstavik she started telling him about her visit to Africa.

  'I'm feeling my way,' she said. 'I think I need to do that in order to find out what happened. I have to grope my way forward in order to find the right words to tell the real story.'

  'Take as long as you need.'

  'I have the feeling it's urgent.'

  'You've always lived your life in a hurry. I've never understood why. Nobody ever manages to do more than a tiny proportion of what they'd like to achieve. Long lives are also short lives. People aged ninety can have dreams just as impatient as those of a teenager.'

  'I still know nothing about Aron. I don't even know if he's alive.'

  'You have to look for him. I didn't want to do anything until I'd talked to you about it, but I did look into whether or not he'd returned to Apollo Bay. He hasn't.'

  They drove through the darkness. The headlights illuminated the dense forest on both sides of the road. It was still snowing gently. Somewhere between Ytterdal and Sveg she fell asleep, her head resting on the only shoulder she had left to lean on.

  The next day she went to the police station in the civic centre and reported Aron missing. The officer who dealt with her submission was somebody she had known since she was a little girl. He had been a few classes ahead of her at school. He'd had a moped, and she had been head over heels in love with him – or perhaps with the moped. He expressed his condolences without asking questions.

  Then she went to the cemetery. There was a thin layer of snow over the grave. Still no headstone. But Artur had told her that it had been ordered from a stonemason in Östersund.

  As she approached the cemetery, she was afraid that she might not be able to cope with what was in store. But when she stood by the grave she was composed, almost cold.

  This is not where Henrik is. He is inside me, not down there under the ground, covered by a thin layer of snow. He had made a long journey, despite being so young when he died. We are both alike in that respect. We both take life extremely seriously.

  A woman walked past on one of the paths among the graves. She greeted Louise, but did not stop. Louise had the impression that she knew the woman, but could not remember her name.

  It started snowing. Louise was about to leave the cemetery when her mobile rang in her pocket. It was Nazrin. At first interference made it difficult to understand what she was saying.

  'Can you hear me?' Nazrin was shouting.

  'Hardly. Where are you?'

  'How times change! In the old days the first question was always "How are you?" Nowadays, the first thing you do is fix a geographical location – "Where are you?" – before you ask about a person's health.'

  'I can hardly hear what you're saying.'

  'I'm at Central Station. Trains are coming and going. People are dashing back and forth.'

  'Are you going away?'

  'I've just come back, from Katrineholm of all places. Where are you?'

  'I'm standing beside Henrik's grave.'

  Nazrin's voice faded away, but returned almost immediately.

  'Are you up north?'

  'I'm standing by his grave. It's snowing. It's white everywhere.'

  'I wish I was there with you. I'll go to the ticket office. It's quieter in there.'

  Louise heard the background noise fade away, to be replaced by individual voices that boomed forth and then fell silent.

  'Can you hear me better now?'

  Nazrin's voice seemed very close. Louise could almost hear her breathing.

  'I can hear you loud and clear.'

  'You just vanished. I wondered what was going on.'

  'I've been on a long journey. It's been shattering, frightening. I need to see you. Can you come here?'

  'Can't we meet halfway? I've got my brother's car on loan while he's abroad. I like driving.'

  Louise remembered that she and Artur had once taken a break in Järvsö on a journey to Stockholm. Maybe that was about halfway? She suggested that they should meet there.

  'I've no idea where Järvsö is. But I'll find it. I can be there tomorrow. How about meeting at the church? Two o'clock?'

  'Why at the church?'

  'Surely there must be a church in Järvsö? Can you think of a better place? You can always find a church.'

  When they'd finished talking Louise went to the church in Sveg. She remembered having been there as a child, all by herself, to look at the big altarpiece and imagine the Roman soldiers striding out of the picture and capturing her. She'd called it the terror game. She'd toyed with her own fear in that church.

  Louise left early the next morning. It had stopped snowing, but the road could well be icy. She wanted to have plenty of time. Artur stood outside the door, naked from the waist up despite the temperatures below freezing, to wave goodbye.

 
They met at the church, which was on an island in the middle of the River Ljusnan, at the agreed time. Nazrin arrived in an expensive Mercedes. The clouds had receded, the sun had broken through, early winter had taken a step backwards and it was autumn once more.

  Louise asked if Nazrin was in a hurry to go back home.

  'I can stay until tomorrow.'

  'There's a fine traditional hotel here called Järvsöbaden. I don't think it's exactly high season now.'

  They were allocated two rooms in one of the wings. Louise asked Nazrin if she'd like to go for a walk, but she shook her head. Not yet. What she wanted to do now was talk.

  They sat in one of the drawing rooms. An old grandfather clock was ticking away in a corner. Nazrin was absent-mindedly fingering some spots on her cheek. Louise decided to take the bull by the horns.

  'It's not easy for me to say this. But I have to do it. Henrik was HIV-positive. Ever since I discovered that I've gone through agonies, thinking about you.'

  Louise had been worrying about how Nazrin would react to the news. What would she have felt in Nazrin's place? But she had not expected what actually happened.

  'I know.'

  'Did he tell you?'

  'He said nothing about it. Not until after he was dead.'

  Nazrin opened her handbag and took out a letter.

  'Read this.'

  'What is it?'

  'Read it!'

  The letter was from Henrik. It was short. He explained how he had discovered that he was HIV-positive, but he hoped that he had been sufficiently careful to ensure that he had not passed the infection on to her.

  'I received this a few weeks ago. It came from Barcelona. Somebody must have posted it after they'd heard that he was dead. I'm sure that's how he'd arranged it. He was always going on about what to do if something happened. I always used to think he was going over the top. I know different now, of course, when it's too late.'

  Blanca must have had that letter hidden away somewhere when Louise and Aron visited her. He must have given her strict instructions: Only send this if and when I die.

  'I was never worried. We always took precautions. I went for tests, of course. No problem.'

  'Can you imagine how much I was dreading this conversation?'

  'Perhaps. But Henrik would never have exposed me to danger.'

  'But if he didn't know he was infected?'

  'He knew.'

  'But even so, he said nothing to you.'

  'Perhaps he was afraid that I might have left him. Maybe I would. I don't know.'

  A woman came in and asked if they were intending to have dinner in the hotel. They said they would. Nazrin wanted to go out now. They went for a walk beside the river. Louise told Nazrin about her long trip to Africa and all that had happened. Nazrin did not ask many questions. They clambered up a hill and enjoyed the view.

  'I still can't believe it,' Nazrin said. 'That Henrik could have been killed because of what he knew. And that your husband disappeared for the same reason.'

  'I don't ask you to believe me. I just wonder if the thought brings any memories to life. Something Henrik said or did. Maybe a name you thought you'd heard before?'

  'No, nothing.'

  They continued talking until late. When Louise left the next morning, Nazrin was still in bed. Louise left a message, paid the bill for both of them, and drove back northwards through the forest.

  During the weeks that followed Louise immersed herself into the stillness and expectations of early winter. She slept late most mornings, and finished her report for the university on the year's excavations. She spoke to her friends and colleagues, all of whom expressed their condolences and looked forward to welcoming her back to the fold once her grief had subsided. But Louise knew that it would not go away: her grief would persist and grow worse.

  She occasionally went to see the solitary policeman in his little office. But he had no news for her. There was no sign of Aron, despite the fact that he was now being looked for all over the world. He had vanished, as so often before, and left not a trace behind.

  During this time Louise did not contemplate her future. It did not exist as yet. She was still managing to stand upright, but often felt as if she might collapse at any moment. The future was blank, an empty space. She took long walks, over the old railway bridge and then back over the new one. She sometimes got up early in the morning, borrowed one of Artur's old rucksacks and wandered off into the forest, returning only when it started to get dark.

  Louise tried to reconcile herself to the fact that she might never understand what had caused Henrik's death. She was still trying to juggle with the pieces and search for a connection, but her hopes of success were diminishing as time went by. All the time Artur was there, ready to listen, ready to help her.

  They would occasionally have long talks in the evenings. They were mostly about everyday events, about the weather, or memories from her childhood. Now and then she would try out various hypotheses on him. Is this what might have happened? He listened, but she knew even as she spoke that once again she had entered into a cul-de-sac.

  * * *

  One afternoon at the beginning of December, the telephone rang. The man wanting to speak to her was called Jan Lagergren. She had not heard his voice for many years. They had been students together in Uppsala, but their career paths lay in different directions. At one time there had been a mutual attraction between them, but it never led to anything. All she knew about him was that his ambition was to find a job in the civil service which would take him abroad.

  Despite all the years that had passed, his voice had hardly changed.

  'Something unexpected has happened. I had a letter from one of my numerous aunts who happens to live in Härjedalen. She claimed that she had seen you in the cemetery in Sveg one day. God only knows how she knew that we were acquainted. She told me that your son had died recently. I just wanted to ring and pass on my sincere condolences.'

  'How nice to hear your voice again. You sound just the same as you always did.'

  'But everything has changed even so. I still have my voice, and a few tufts of hair; but everything else has changed.'

  'Thank you for ringing. Henrik was my only child.'

  'Was it an accident?'

  'The doctors say it was suicide. I refuse to believe that, but perhaps I'm deceiving myself.'

  'What can I say?'

  'You've already done everything you can do, you phoned me. Don't go yet. We haven't spoken to each other for twenty-five years. What happened to you? Did you join the foreign service?'

  'Very nearly. I have occasionally been issued with a diplomatic passport. I've been posted abroad, but not with the Foreign Office. I worked for the aid organisation Sida.'

  'I've just come back from Africa. Mozambique.'

  'I've never set foot there. I did one tour of Addis Ababa and another in Nairobi. That first time I was in charge of agricultural aid, the second time I was in charge of all Swedish aid going to Kenya. At the moment I'm head of department at our office in Sveavägen here in Stockholm. And you became an archaeologist?'