by Jo Nesbo
‘Hey!’ I said, pointing. ‘When…?’
‘In San Sebastián,’ was all he said.
‘So this is really serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘But shouldn’t you have a plaster on a fresh –’
‘I didn’t want it to look fresh,’ he said. ‘I asked the tattooist to make it look as though I’d always had it.’
And looking closer I could see he’d done a good job, and that the tattoo did actually look a little faded.
Peter wanted to catch up on a bit of sleep, but I said I was going out for some breakfast and to see if those girls had turned up at the bar. As I squeezed my way through the narrow streets I picked up the news that two people, a man and a woman, had been gored during the bull run and were fighting for their lives in the hospital.
On the way past Jake’s I heard a girl’s voice: ‘Hola, Mister Bull Runner!’
I shaded my eyes. And sure enough – there in the dim interior were the two girls from the barricade. I went in, ordered a baguette and a bottle of water and listened to their eager chattering in a mixture of Spanish and English. They were local, from a country village just outside Pamplona. The one who spoke the best English, a well-built blonde girl with kind, sparkling eyes, was studying in Barcelona. She said she always came back for San Fermín but that a lot of the people in Pamplona – including their parents – were really tired of all the tourists, the drunken parties and general disturbance, and usually left town and stayed away until it was all over.
‘During San Fermín the parties are even wilder in the villages,’ she said. ‘And the drink is much cheaper. Here the price for a beer is crazy when San Fermín. Come with us!’
‘Thank you, I have to be somewhere,’ I said. ‘But maybe tomorrow?’ I got the blonde’s phone number, ate the breakfast baguette and left.
At the railway station I had to wait an hour for my train, and I arrived in San Sebastián in the middle of the siesta, so most of the shops and places to eat were closed. I asked the taxi driver to take me to the police station.
He dropped me off by the river, in front of two modernist – or maybe I should say postmodernist – blocks that looked like slices of cake. Twenty minutes later I was sitting in the office of Imma Aluariz, a plain-clothes detective. She was older than me, in her mid-thirties maybe. Small, a bit stocky and with a severe face, and a pair of brown eyes that, it seemed to me, could turn soft if they saw something they liked. After listening to me for two minutes she called a number and at once a young man entered and explained that he was an interpreter. It took me a little by surprise, since Inspector Aluariz’s English had been good. But as this was a murder case they probably wanted to avoid any possibility of misunderstandings.
I explained that my friend and I had had a rug identical with the one in the newspaper, that it had been tossed into the bin behind the guest house because my friend had been sick on it. The two of them looked at the address of the guest house and said a few words to each other in Basque. Aluariz put her fingertips together and looked at me.
‘Why,’ she said slowly and ponderously, as though to convey that the question demanded an equally slow and well-considered reply, ‘do you come here?’
‘Because,’ I said, automatically echoing her slow rhythm, ‘I thought it might help you in the investigation.’
Aluariz nodded slowly and seriously, and yet it was as though she were supressing a mocking smile. ‘Most people would not come from Pamplona just to tell us they have seen a carpet that is…’ She glanced at the interpreter, who was still standing.
‘Similar,’ he said.
‘Similar to the one in the newspaper.’
I shrugged. ‘I also came in case you found vomit on the carpet. Or bits of skin from my toes, because I walked barefoot on it. So…’ I looked at them. Obviously they understood where I was going with this, but still they declined to conclude the reasoning process for me. ‘DNA could have made us suspects, I suppose.’
‘Have you or your friend had your DNA tested by the police?’
‘No. I mean, I haven’t. I also doubt if my friend have ever been in contact with law enforcement.’ Too late – and to my considerable irritation – I heard that I had said have where I should have said has. On the other hand, I had used law enforcement, which seemed to me a pretty elegant phrase. But why did I think of that now? Why did it matter to me what sort of impression I was making?
‘There was no vómito on the carpet,’ said Aluariz.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well, in that case…’
‘…there’s no case,’ she concluded for me.
What did I feel? Was it a mild sense of disappointment?
Imma Aluariz put her head on one side. ‘But just to rule you out, would you agree to give us your DNA, Mister Daas?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘If you can tell me about the case.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The victim. Is it a woman or a man? Cause of death? Any suspects?’
‘We don’t make deals like that, Mister Daas.’
I felt myself blushing. And maybe she found the blushing a sympathetic trait, because for whatever reason she changed her mind.
‘It’s a man in his mid-twenties. Naked, no marks, no papers, that’s why we can’t identify him. Blunt force to his head. No suspects yet.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Everything I just said was in the news,’ she said.
‘In Basque,’ I said.
For the first time I saw her smile, and I had been right about the eyes.
* * *
—
It was siesta time at the forensic department where I was to give my DNA sample, so I arranged with Aluariz to return later in the afternoon. In the meantime I took a taxi to Hospital Universitario Donostia. It was an enormous place, but the queue at the reception desk was short. It took me some time, however, to persuade the woman behind the desk to help me. I explained that I had saved a certain Miriam from drowning, that she had been brought here, that I had met her directly after she was discharged, that she’d travelled on with her mother, but that she’d left a ring behind and that I needed her full name and hopefully a telephone number. I was able to tell her that Miriam hailed from Kyrgyzstan and give the date and approximate hour of her admission. The receptionist looked sceptical but directed me to the Casualty Department. Once there I had to repeat the lie, but did so with greater conviction this time, now that I’d had a little practice at it. But the young woman in the glassed booth just shook her head.
‘Unless you can show me some proof you’re her next of kin I can’t give you any information about the patient.’
‘But…’
‘If there’s nothing else, we are very busy here.’
She was wearing white trousers and a white shirt, and I could just see her running in front of the bulls. And getting gored. A second woman who had been looking through a drawer in a filing cabinet behind the one in white had obviously overheard us. She came to the desk, leaned over the first woman’s shoulder and tapped on the keyboard. They both looked at the screen, the light from it reflected in the glasses worn by the second woman.
‘It looks as though we did admit a patient from the Zurriola beach at that particular time, yes,’ she said. I saw there was a Dr in front of the name on the ID card pinned to the breast pocket of her white coat. ‘We’re sorry, but our duty of confidentiality is very strict. If you’d like to leave a message and your contact details with us, we will send a message to the patient.’
‘From here I’m heading directly off for a few days walking in Andorra, so I won’t be contactable either by phone or mail,’ I lied. ‘I think among the admission details it might say that a Spanish doctor went with her in the ambulance.’
‘Yes, and I know who he is, but he doesn’t work at this hospital.’
‘But you can give him the patient’s details, and he can decide whether or not to give them to me. You can tell him I was the guy who brought the girl ashore.’
The doctor hesitated, studying me. I had the feeling she knew this wasn’t just about a forgotten ring. Then she pulled out a phone and tapped in a number. A quick conversation in Spanish ensued as she continued to study me, as though describing me to the person on the other end. She hung up, tore a sheet of paper from the block next to the keyboard, looked at the screen, and wrote something down. Handed the sheet of paper to me.
‘Buena suerte,’ she said, and gave me a brief smile.
* * *
—
‘Hello?’
I had never heard the voice before, and yet I knew it was hers.
I stood outside the hospital, a warm wind in my face and the phone pressed to my ear.
‘I’m Martin,’ I said. ‘I’m Peter’s friend.’
‘It’s you,’ was all she said.
‘I’m in San Sebastián and have a couple of hours before I have to be at the police station. Do you fancy a coffee?’
‘Do I fancy?’ she laughed. It was good, spontaneous laughter, the kind you want to hear all the time.
‘Like,’ I said. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘I would both like and fancy a coffee, Martin.’
* * *
—
‘It’s you,’ she said again as half an hour later she stood at my pavement table outside the same bar where I had breakfasted the previous day. The gusting wind made her loose-fitting, hippie frock and raven-black hair sway around her. With one hand she made vain efforts to keep the hair out of her face, where it partially obscured the generous mouth and the dark eyes. I stood up and held out my hand. Her build was slight, but she was taller than I remembered. As I had watched her cross the open cobblestoned square towards the bar her slow, hip-swinging walk made me think that she had perhaps once worked on a catwalk.
‘I’m so glad you were able to come,’ I said.
We sat down. She sighed, smiled and gave me a long look, open and fearless. The skin was dark, lighter where it was slightly pockmarked. Her face wasn’t quite as beautiful as I had recalled from the restaurant, although she had probably been wearing make-up then. But I saw what Peter had seen. The eyes. They shone with such an intense light, giving her a presence that was almost intrusive. And the white teeth, the front two crooked. And of course, the eyebrows. Heavy, with a natural, slanting pattern in them, like the feathers of a bird.
‘We’ve seen each other before,’ she said.
‘So you remember?’ I said, signalling to the waiter.
‘Don’t you?’
I looked at her again. ‘You looked different on the beach. Your eyes were closed.’
‘Not on the beach,’ she said.
‘Si, señor?’
I looked up and ordered two espressos, with a quick glance at Miriam to check the order.
‘Triple,’ she said.
‘Mine too.’
The waiter disappeared.
‘Why this place in particular?’ she said.
‘I ate breakfast here. Peter and I stayed over there.’ I pointed to the guest house on the far side of the square. Saw that the window of our room on the fourth floor was closed.
Miriam turned. ‘Wow, it looks nice. How was the breakfast?’
‘Breakfast?’
‘I love breakfasts. Unfortunately it looks like they’re the same wherever you go in Europe. At least, they are in the towns we’ve visited. Expensive and taste of nothing.’
I nodded. ‘It’s good here. The coffee is too.’
She was still looking over at the guest house, giving me the chance to study her more closely. The neck, the throat. The shoulders, which were bony and reminded me of a skinny cat.
‘Was it expensive to stay there?’ she asked.
‘No, it’s cheap. At least, considering where it is. But the rooms are simple.’
‘Simple is fine.’ She turned to face me again. ‘Mamma and I are looking for somewhere cheaper than where we’re staying now.’
Yes, I thought. Simple is fine.
‘Do you work as a model?’ I asked.
‘Wow,’ she said, and rolled her eyes.
I laughed. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know it’s a corny pickup line. Do you want to know why I ask?’
‘Because I’m skinny?’
‘Because you walk like a model, and that’s not an especially efficient way of moving from point A to point B.’
‘So a bit like my swimming then.’
‘And because models often dress badly. Not badly as in tasteless, but it’s as though they want to show the world that they really don’t care about appearances and all that superficial stuff. And also – of course – that they can make even boring clothes look good.’
‘Are you implying that my dress doesn’t look good?’
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘I think you’re trying a bit too hard to convince me you’re intelligent and interesting.’
‘Apart from the too hard bit, how am I doing?’
The sun had discovered a gap in the clouds and she blinked her eyes shut and conjured up a pair of large sunglasses.
‘As models, when we’re at work we’re forced to wear so many outfits that are uncomfortable to walk in that in our free time we prefer comfort to the wow factor. But of course we’re also hoping the garment we bought at the flea market or took from Grandma’s wardrobe will become the latest fashion after we’ve worn it.’
‘Nice try, but now I know you’re not a model.’
She laughed. ‘I’m not?’
‘You didn’t get out your sunglasses to hide the fact that you were lying, but once you had them on it seemed like a good idea to take the opportunity to do so.’
She placed her elbows on the edge of the small, round and unsteady metal table, supporting her chin in her palms, and smiled at me. ‘Now you seem a bit smart and interesting.’
‘Do you often lie?’
She shrugged. ‘Not often, but it happens. What about you?’
‘Same here.’
‘You lie to friends and girlfriends?’
‘That’s two different questions.’
She laughed. ‘True enough. Friends, then?’
I thought of Peter. About the fact that I had travelled in secret to San Sebastián, contacted Miriam and was now sitting here with her. If I had wanted to meet her, all I had to do was ask him for her number. Not that I would have got it. But he had lied, so why shouldn’t I be allowed to lie a bit too?
‘Always,’ I said.
‘Always?’
‘I’m kidding. It’s one of Socrates’ paradoxes. About the man from Crete who says that Cretans lie all the time. Ergo it can’t be true that all –’
‘It wasn’t Socrates who said that, it was Epimenides.’
‘Oh? Are you calling me a liar?’
She didn’t laugh, just gave a slight groan. And from the way my ears were burning I knew I was blushing.
‘So what are you then?’ I asked.
‘Student.’
‘History? Philosophy?’
‘And English. A bit of everything. And nothing.’
She sighed, pulled out a shawl and tied it round her head the way her mother had worn it, though it looked as though Miriam was doing it to keep her hair under control. ‘And refugee.’
‘What are you fleeing from?’
The sun vanished again, and the next gust of wind was immediately cooler.
‘A man,’ she said.
‘Tell me about it.’
The waiter put our coffee cups down in front of us. She took off her sunglasses and stared down into hers.
* * *
—
Miriam described how she had grown up with her parents in Almaty in Kazakhstan. I could remember my father talking about Almaty – or Alma-Ata as it was called in those days – and world skating records set thanks to the thin air and the special angle at which the wind came down from the mountains that meant you had it at your back all the way round the track. Miriam’s father had been in the oil business, and they had been members of the new financial upper class in that large and sparsely populated land.
‘Corruption and censorship, a dictator who renames the capital city after himself, the biggest country in the world without a coastline. And yet we were happy there. Up until the time my father disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’
‘He’d threatened to blow the whistle on some Americans who got hold of oil rights by bribing government officials. I can remember him saying I should be careful about what I said on the phone. And then one day he didn’t come home from work. We were told nothing, and we never heard from him again. My mother noticed how the privileges we used to enjoy started disappearing one by one, and we had to move from the house because they said it belonged to the oil company. We set off on what I thought was a holiday to Kyrgyzstan, where my mother’s family come from, but we never returned home.’
Miriam described Kyrgyzstan as a more beautiful but poorer version of Kazakhstan. And more open. ‘At least people weren’t afraid to say something bad about the dictator,’ she laughed. But more old-fashioned too, even in the capital, Bishkek. For example, ala kachuu, bride-kidnapping, was practised there. Even though it was officially against the law, people reckoned that a third of all marriages came about because the husband had kidnapped his future wife and he and his family forced her to marry him.
‘Mamma’s family had money. Not a lot, but enough to enable me to study in Moscow. And each time I came back home to Mamma, the life in Kyrgyzstan seemed more and more…far away. It’s so…’ She threw open her hands. Long, slender fingers with bitten nails. ‘You know, a lot of people in Kazakhstan want to get rid of the “stan” ending, because they don’t want to be associated with that type of land. Like these oligarchs who try to disguise their country accents. Well, in Kyrgyzstan they don’t even try, people are just so smug and satisfied with who they are. I’d got used to all the comments from the men in the streets – I ignored them – and I hadn’t even noticed this one little guy who just stood there at the bar staring when me and my cousins had a drink at the hotel bar. Then one evening as we were on our way in as usual two men grabbed me while two others held my cousins back and I was dragged away to a car and driven off.’