Yet another sleepless night filled with terror. She did not have the strength to think. Everything was an infinite, frozen vacuum.
In the morning she heard Warren's lorry approaching the hotel. She went down to reception and paid her bill. When she left the hotel she found Warren waiting outside, smoking. There was no sign of anything at the spot where Lucinda had died. No people, no corpse, nothing. Warren threw away his cigarette when he saw Louise, and frowned at her.
'There was shooting here last night,' he said. 'We Africans have far too many ownerless weapons in our hands. We shoot one another far too often.'
Warren opened the lorry door for her.
'Where do you want to go today? It's a lovely day. I can show you lagoons where the water runs through your hands like pearls. In South Africa I used to dig for treasure in deep mines. Here, diamonds run through my fingers in the form of valuable drops of water.'
'Another time. Not now. I have to return to Maputo.'
'So far?'
'So far! I'll pay you whatever you ask.'
He did not mention a price, merely climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine and engaged first gear. Louise turned round and took one last look at the beach where she had been forced to endure all the terrible happenings, and which she would never see again.
They drove through the morning, creating clouds of red dust. The sun was soon high in the sky, and heat sank down over the countryside.
Louise sat in silence all the long journey to Maputo, and paid without saying a word when they arrived. Warren asked no questions, merely said goodbye. She took a room in a hotel called Terminus, closed the door behind her and found herself diving headlong into an abyss. She spent two days at the hotel, spoke to nobody except the waiters who occasionally brought her meals which she hardly touched. She did not even phone Artur, to ask for help.
On the third day she forced herself to get out of bed and left both the hotel and Mozambique. She came to Madrid via Johannesburg in the afternoon of 23 December. All flights to Barcelona were fully booked by people wanting to celebrate Christmas there. She toyed with the idea of taking a train, but decided to stay when she found a seat on a flight leaving the following morning.
It was raining in Madrid. Glittering Christmas decorations were hanging over the streets and in shop windows, and she glimpsed strange-looking Father Christmases through the window of her taxi. She had booked a room in the most expensive hotel she knew, the Ritz, with its fine old traditions.
She and Aron had passed by there once, on their way to the Prado Museum. She could still remember how they had considered splashing out on a suite for the night. Now her room was being paid for by Aron's money, but he himself had vanished. His absence was causing her constant pain. It was only now she began to realise that when she found him among the red parrots, something of her original love for him had been reawakened.
She visited the museum on the other side of the street. She could still remember the way to the collections of Goya's paintings and etchings.
She and Aron had spent ages gazing at the painting of an old woman, he had taken hold of her hand, and they realised afterwards that they had both been thinking about inevitable old age.
She spent the whole afternoon at the museum, trying to forget for a while everything that had happened.
It was raining the next day when she left for Barcelona. When she disembarked she felt dizzy and had to lean against the wall of the ramp leading into the terminal building. A stewardess asked if she needed help. Louise shook her head, and continued walking. She felt as if she had been travelling constantly since the day she left Argolis and boarded the early Lufthansa flight for Stockholm via Frankfurt. In her mind, mainly to keep the dizzy feeling at bay, she counted up all the departures and arrivals: Athens – Frankfurt – Stockholm – Visby – Stockholm – Östersund – Stockholm – Frankfurt – Singapore – Sydney – Melbourne – Bangkok – Frankfurt – Barcelona – Madrid – Johannesburg – Maputo – Johannesburg – Frankfurt – Athens – Frankfurt – Stockholm – Östersund – Stockholm – Frankfurt – Johannesburg – Maputo – Johannesburg – Madrid – Barcelona.
They had been stations on a nightmarish journey. All around her people had kept disappearing or dying. She would never be able to forget the sight of Umbi and Lucinda, even if the images would perhaps begin to fade and resemble pale old photographs in which eventually it would be impossible to distinguish facial features any more. Christian Holloway would also remain in her memory. A cut-out silhouette of a totally ruthless person who would never submit.
And behind these faces were all the shadows, the faceless ones.
She went to Henrik's flat. Blanca was scrubbing the stairs when she arrived.
They sat for a long time in Blanca's flat, talking. Afterwards, Louise could not remember much of what had been said. But she asked who it was that had visited Henrik's flat, shortly after he had died. Blanca looked uncomprehendingly at her.
'I had the distinct impression that you were not telling the truth, that somebody had been here in fact.'
'Why would I have lied?'
'I don't know. That's why I'm asking.'
'You must have been mistaken. Nobody came here. I held nothing back from you.'
'OK, I got it wrong.'
'Has Aron come back?'
'No.'
'I don't understand it.'
'Perhaps it was all too much for him. People can be fragile. Maybe he simply ran off to Apollo Bay.'
'Haven't you been there to look for him?'
'I mean a different Apollo Bay, one whose location I don't know. The only reason I've come back here is to take one last look at Henrik's flat. I'd like to be alone there.'
She went up to the flat, and it struck her that just now the room she was standing in was at the very centre of her life. It was Christmas Eve, grey, raining, and she still had no idea of what course her life would take in future.
When she left, Blanca came to her with a letter in her hand.
'I forgot to give you this. It arrived a couple of days ago.'
There was no sender's address. The postmark showed that it had been posted in Spain. It was addressed to her at the hotel she had stayed in previously.
'How did you get hold of this?'
'Somebody from the hotel brought it. You must have given them Henrik's address.'
'Perhaps I did. I can't remember.'
Louise put it into her pocket.
'Are you sure there aren't any more letters that you've forgotten about?'
'I haven't got any more, no.'
'No more letters that Henrik asked you to send? In a year's time? Ten years'?'
Blanca understood what Louise meant. She shook her head. There were no more letters like the one she had sent to Nazrin.
It had stopped raining. Louise decided to go for a long walk, tire herself out, and then have dinner at her hotel. Before going to sleep she would phone Artur and wish him a Merry Christmas. Perhaps she would go back home in time for Boxing Day? At the very least she would assure him that she would be home for New Year.
It was late in the evening that she remembered the letter. She read it in her room. With a sense of increasing horror, she realised that nothing was over, the pain that was afflicting her had not yet reached its culmination.
The text was in English. All references to names, countries, towns were crossed out in black Indian ink.
Personal particulars correspond to the data on the identification tag attached to the corpse. The overall skin colour is pale, livor mortis bluish-red on the back of the corpse. Rigor mortis is still present. There are petechiae in the conjunctivae and around the eyes. No foreign bodies are present in the auditory meatus, the nasal cavities, the oral cavity or the rectal orifice. Visible mucous membranes are pale with no sign of haemorrhage. There are no signs of injury on the body, apart from an old scar on the back. The external sexual organs are uninjured and free from extraneous content.
Louise still had
no idea what the letter was about. But she had a vague feeling of anxiety. She read on:
The internal examination shows that the scalp displays no sign of haemorrhage. The skull is uninjured, the cranium pale on the inside. No haemorrhage is visible outside or underneath the hard membrane of the brain. The surface of the brain appears to be normal. The tentorium and occipital cavity have not been exposed to pressure. The medial line has not been distorted. The soft membranes are glossy and smooth. There is no trace of haemorrhage or pathological change between the membranes. The brain cells are normal in size. The border between grey and white fluid is clearly marked. The grey cells are normal in colour. The brain tissue is normal in consistency. There is no trace of deposits in the arteries at the base of the brain.
She continued reading about circulatory organs, breathing organs, digestive organs, urinary organs. The list was long, and concluded with an examination of the skeleton. The conclusions came at the end.
The deceased was found dead lying face down on the tarmac. No specific objects have been found at the site. The occurrence of petechiae indicates that the cause of death was strangulation. The conclusion is that the cause of death was probably intentional action by another party.
What she had in her hand was a forensic report of a post-mortem examination, conducted at an unknown hospital by an unknown pathologist. It was only when she read the details of height and weight that she realised to her horror that the corpse being subjected to the autopsy was that of Aron.
Intentional action by another party. When Aron left the church, somebody had attacked him, strangled him and left him lying in the street. But who had found him? Why had the Spanish police not contacted her? Who were the doctors who had conducted the post-mortem examination?
She felt a desperate need to speak to Artur. She phoned him but made no mention of Lucinda or the postmortem report, merely said that Aron was dead and she was unable to say any more at this moment. He was too sensible to ask any questions. Apart from wondering when she was coming home.
'Soon,' she said.
She emptied the minibar and wondered how she would be able to cope with all the grief she was being forced to bear. She felt that the last of the columns propping up her inner resistance was about to give way. That night in her hotel room in Barcelona, with the post-mortem report lying on the floor beside her bed, she had the feeling that she no longer had the strength to keep going.
The next day she returned to Henrik's flat. While she was trying to make up her mind about what to do with his belongings, it suddenly dawned on her what she had to do in order to continue living.
There was only one way, and it started here, in Henrik's flat. Her mission would be to finish the story he had been unable to tell. She would dig down, and piece together the fragments she found.
What was it that Lucinda had said? It's never good to die before you've finished saying what you have to say. Her own story. And Henrik's. And Aron's.
Three stories that had now combined to form one.
She had to take over, now that nobody else could.
She felt that it was urgent. Time was shrinking wherever she looked. But first of all she would go home, to Artur. They would go together to Henrik's grave, and also light a candle for Aron.
On 27 December Louise left her hotel and took a taxi to the airport. It was foggy. She paid the taxi driver and made her way to the Iberia check-in desk before boarding the flight that would take her to Stockholm.
For the first time for ages she felt strong. Her compass had ceased to spin wildly.
When she had checked in her bag she paused to buy a newspaper before proceeding to the security barrier.
She never noticed the man observing her from a distance.
It was only when she had passed through security that he left the departure lounge and headed for the city.
EPILOGUE
Twenty years ago, close to Zambia's western border with Angola, I watched a young African man die of Aids.
It was the first time I had witnessed such a thing, but not the last.
The memory of that man's face has been in my mind's eye all the time I spent planning and writing this book.
It is a novel, it is fiction. But the borderline between what has really happened and what might well have happened is often almost non-existent. Naturally, I dig down in a different way from a journalist; but we both illuminate the darkest corners of people, society and the world around us. The result is not infrequently identical.
I have taken the liberties that fiction allows me. To give just one example: as far as I am aware, no member of the past or present embassy staff or Sida delegation in Maputo, or anywhere else come to that, is called Lars Håkansson. In the unlikely event of my assumption being wrong, I hereby declare once and for all that he is not the person portrayed in this book!
One seldom comes across the values I have attributed to him. I wish I could write 'never', but alas, I cannot.
I have received help from many people in what can be described as this descent into an abyss. I would like to mention two of them by name. First and foremost Robert Johnsson, in Gothenburg, who dug out everything I asked him for, and in addition added extra spice by way of his own discoveries. Also Dr Anastazia Lazaridou at the Byzantine Museum in Athens, who piloted me through the complicated world of archaeology.
Many thanks to them, and to all the others.
In conclusion, a novel can end on page 185 or page 452, but reality continues apace. What is written in this book is exclusively the result of my own choices and decisions, of course. Just as the anger is also mine, the anger that was my driving force.
Henning Mankell
Fårö, May 2005
Table of Contents
Cover
Table of Contents
About the Author
By the Same Author
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part 1 Christ's Cul-de-sac
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part 2 The Lantern-Bearer
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part 3 The Silhouettist
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Kennedy's Brain Page 39