“When I told her that we would stay on an extra week, just she and I, to celebrate Christmas in Stockholm, she was at first overjoyed. But then she became jealous and suspicious. Why had I decided on such a thing? Was I going to meet someone? I tell you, she is crazy.”
“Well, not totally off the mark, anyway. And is this where I enter the picture?” Banegas spread his arms.
“Exactly. I explained that it would unfortunately not be possible for me to spend all my time in her company, no matter how happily I would have done so. But that my good friend Adam Dillner laid claim to part of my time for meetings concerning a transaction between the Honduran government and the company represented by him. And that I could hardly refuse, which she also realized. In my country, this would have been entirely normal. Not here, naturally. But she doesn’t know that.”
He was right, of course.
Banegas fished a paper out of his inside pocket and put it on the table. “I took the liberty of writing the schedule you have set me, since I thought it would add a nice touch. I used your company letterhead.”
Where had he gotten hold of that? “If I may say so, this looks like a very busy schedule.”
Banegas solemnly put his right palm over his heart. “My friend, I am in love.” In a more subdued voice, he went on: “I must implore you to stick entirely to our little subterfuge. Explain to your family that you are meeting an important client and, of course, stay away from home during the periods set out in the schedule. As I have told you, my wife is unstable and might very well decide to check on your absences from home. It is a most reasonable precaution.”
Adam looked at the schedule. In fact it was highly unreasonable that he would have to spend such a large part of the days between Christmas and New Year’s shuffling around in the snowstorm to prevent Mrs. Banegas from breaking her unfaithful husband’s alibi. There were more conventional ways of making business contacts with Central American customers that worked perfectly well. Still, right now Banegas’ insane wife happened to be just what Adam needed.
“Grampa, Grampa, Grampa!”
Max and Ada ran a set course around the living room, through the hallway, past the kitchen, and back again. Adam walked up to the kitchen island to pour himself some more wine.
Kattis gave him a glance. “Adam, we’ll have a nice evening tonight.”
His mother-in-law entered the kitchen, an empty wineglass in her hand. She stumbled on the carpet, muttering under her breath, bent to the bag-in-box wine container and wrinkled her nose. “Don’t you have anything Spanish? A Rioja?”
The plane she was on had lifted off from Málaga less than ten hours earlier.
Kattis removed a baking sheet full of gingerbread from the oven. “Adam, would you look?”
But his mother-in-law had already forgotten it all and refilled her glass. “I think I’ll make some toffee tonight, by the way. The poor little ones have hardly had any Christmas candy at all.”
“We’re trying to cut back on sugar.”
“Adam, dear, you really shouldn’t jump on board every new health bandwagon.”
“It’s hardly—”
Kattis let go of her rolling pin. “That’s a great idea, Mother!”
Grandma called out to the living room: “What do you say, kids, do you want some of grandma’s toffee?”
They screamed back. Hopelessly, Adam verified that they were always willing to sell their souls for some melted cane sugar.
“There, you see,” Grandma said, staggering back into the living room.
He turned to Kattis.
“Adam!” she growled.
In the living room, Grampa was in the middle of playing something with Max and Ada while Grandma was leafing through some old Swedish family magazines Kattis had put out for her. When they entered, Grampa poured a whiskey and sat down in the couch, arms spread across its backrest. “Katarina told us about your Mexican, Adam,” he said.
“Honduran.”
His father-in-law waved an impatient hand. “That’s what I said.” He glared at Adam. “What I don’t understand is how anyone, a husband, can abandon his wife almost the whole Christmas holiday just to play tourist guide to some Colombian.”
“Hond—”
“When he has two small children and his wife’s parents have come to visit—”
“Daddy, it’s okay. Adam and I have talked about it. It’s his work.”
“Haven’t we come any further despite all our talk about equality? And Adam, what’s so important about this—Honduran?”
Adam hesitated. “We are trying to get a road project, the new highway from Honduras to Nicaragua. This Banegas fellow—”
His father-in-law slowly shook his head. “Adam, Adam, Adam. That’s so out-of-date. Why don’t you build a railroad instead?”
Grandma put her magazine down and turned to Kattis. “Daddy is the chairman of the Torremolinos Environmental Club. We have become activists.”
“That’s great, Mother!”
Adam half-heartedly began to describe the infrastructure of Honduras, but his father-in-law interrupted him again.
“They don’t need a new road to Nicaragua, Adam. What they need is a road away from climate disaster.”
“God, how well you put that, Göran!” Grandma exclaimed. “Why don’t you write it down, Adam?”
He rose slowly. “I think I’ll lay the table.”
When he stood in the kitchen, he heard his mother-in-law’s voice. “He never listens to a word we say.”
Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, but according to Banegas’ schedule he would still be away for a few hours to explain the traffic solutions used on the Southern Link expressway. He could hardly wait.
Thanks to the Banegas scheme, he could spend several Christmas Eve hours in a coffeehouse on Nybrogatan. He brought a book he had given himself for Christmas, but most of the time he just sipped his coffee and looked at the last-minute shoppers rushing past outside. As for himself, he had no more shopping to do, no other tasks to perform than to serve as an alibi for a horny minister of infrastructure.
On Christmas Day, Banegas hadn’t dared make any entries on his schedule, and Adam spent the entire day with his family and in-laws. It was worse than usual. Kattis’ family had introduced so many traditions that the holidays became rigidly directed performances. Every detail was sacrosanct and their order must not be changed.
Mostly it was all about games. After ten years, Adam was still unable to see any point to them. They played Hide the Pig Santa, the Almond Race, and something which seemed mainly to involve everyone hitting everyone else’s head with tiny sandbags his mother-in-law had dragged along from Spain for the occasion. He wanted to refuse to get involved but knew from experience that everything would just get worse if he didn’t join in. Since he was the only one unaware of the rules he always lost, to his father-in-law’s undisguised delight. Adam sadly observed that as opposed to himself, his children always joined in with great enthusiasm.
The evening ended with a quiz on the lives of members of the clan. Though he always got what the others considered unusually easy questions, he had so far never managed a single correct answer.
“But Adam,” his mother-in-law exclaimed, “you had the same question about Aunt Lotta’s rusty old Audi last year!”
Tomorrow was the day after Christmas. That was when they were supposed to have their traditional waffle breakfast in front of the TV. Followed by a combined outdoors walk and new quiz competition, then a lunch with Kattis’ sister in Australia attending via a computer link, and after that a family game called Where Is the Krokofant, named for a disgustingly sweet candy bar.
Luckily, Banegas had a full schedule.
Adam decided to install himself in the cafeteria of the Museum of the Mediterranean. According to the schedule, he was showing Banegas biogas refueling stations. In the evening they were doing something even more silly; he didn’t remember what. It didn’t matter.
He was deep into his book when
his phone rang. It was Banegas.
“Adam, we have a problem. It is extremely important that we meet at once.”
Every protest and demand for further explanations was met by hissed objections.
“We really must meet, I’m waiting at the Hotel Reisen bar.”
Adam plodded through the snow on the bridge to the Old Town. What had he gotten himself into?
Banegas seemed perfectly calm and sat comfortably with a wine toddy. His whole demeanor suggested that it was far from his first. He went straight to the point.
“We have a problem with tonight’s activity.”
We?
Banegas went on. “I chose the visit to the Hammarby Lake City since my wife refuses to travel by boat. Now it turns out that you can go there by land. Which you failed to tell me.” He glared at Adam. “And of course my wife has found that out and insists on accompanying me.”
Why, oh why had he gone along with Banegas’ plan?
“Adam, it just won’t do. And so at the last moment you have changed our schedule and instead arranged for us to go to the opera.”
“Opera?”
“My wife hates opera. As an extra precaution I have also decided that Señor Harald Thorvaldsson of the Export Council will join us, and that after the performance we will have supper at the Gyldene Freden restaurant to discuss business.” He held up Thorvaldsson’s calling card, as if it were a winning lottery ticket. “That’s when he gives me this, which will further strengthen the credibility of our story.”
It was hard enough to get hold of any of the Export Council functionaries during normal office hours; to convince one of them to spend the day after Christmas at the opera with a Honduran secretary of state would probably be humanly impossible. But, as Banegas would probably have said if Adam had bothered to object, his wife didn’t know that.
Banegas pulled out their schedule. “So I would like to ask you to make the necessary change to our little program.” He gave Adam a pen and added kindly: “You can do it by hand.”
As in a trance, Adam struck out the visit to Hammarby Lake City and wrote in the opera performance according to Banegas’ instructions. “Don’t forget to write that Señor Thorvaldsson will accompany us.”
When that was done, Banegas conjured up a ticket to that night’s performance of Don Giovanni and ceremoniously tore it apart along the perforation. “Here’s your ticket, Adam, I leave nothing to chance.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“I insist.”
Outside, Banegas embraced him. “Adam, how will I ever—” The Honduran was cut short as they both lost their footing. Arms around each other, they bounced down the snow-covered steps to the sidewalk. Adam managed to loosen his grip and keep his balance, but just as he imagined all was well he felt one of his feet crack the ice on a pool of water and his shoe immediately filled.
“God damn it!”
Banegas gave him a reproachful look. “My dear friend, I don’t know what that was all about, but there is no need to worry. Here we both are, and none the worse for wear.” He glanced down at Adam’s feet. “Well, sorry about your shoe. But I assume you must agree that it’s a minor problem.” He checked his watch. “Sorry, I really can’t chat any longer. Remember that according to our schedule we are having supper after the performance. Make sure not to get home earlier than midnight.”
The minister hurried off towards Kungsträdgården park.
Back at his house, the windows glowed in the night. Adam hid behind the snow-laden lilacs. According to the program he shouldn’t be here, but there was no helping it. His foot felt frozen stiff. In the washroom there were rubber boots and a laundry basket with warm socks; the key to the cellar was in the third right-hand flowerpot in the greenhouse. Perfect.
Then he saw it. The door to the cellar was open. The kids must have been playing down there again. How many times had he told them . . . And besides, there had been a lot of burglaries in the area lately. Silently he sneaked across the lawn, cursing under his breath every time the cold water in his shoe splashed his toes.
He walked soundlessly through the cellar and was just about to start digging in the laundry basket when he saw the man. His heart skipped a beat and he had to bite his lip not to scream. Wasn’t that . . . Yes, something metallic gleamed in the thief’s hand! Adam’s eyes flickered wildly around the room and stopped at a board left over from their renovation. Perfect. He grabbed it, slipped forward. His temples throbbed. I’ll fucking show you!
Slap that thing out of his hand with the board. Get the bastard. He lifted his arm, felt his foot slip on the floor. He lost his balance but completed the blow. No, a little too high, straight to the head. And much too hard! A nasty, dull sound and a jolt he could feel all through his arm and body. The man collapsed to the floor and made a rattling sound.
Fuck, how bad had he hit him? He couldn’t . . . A thin, red trickle of blood ran from his ear and joined the blood on his cheek. Adam frantically looked for some sign of life. He couldn’t . . . Warily his shaking hands turned the body. That’s when he recognized the familiar face, burned hazel by endless hours on the golf courses in Torremolinos. An unlit flashlight rolled from a slack hand. He felt his cartoid artery. Nothing. No no no, say it isn’t true! Anything, just not this! Suddenly he heard the rhythmic yells of his children upstairs.
“Where’s the Krokofant? Where’s the Krokofant?”
Get rid of the board, find socks, put on boots. Fuck fuck fuck. He ran across the lawn, through the woods, to another subway station. Just to be safe. Threw his shoes in a building-site container. Then he threw up on the platform. It just couldn’t be true. At the pub in the main railway station he downed a pint of beer and immediately ordered another. At least it made his hands stop shaking. What had he done? But it was an accident! Sure, but still!
While running through the wood he had promised himself at least to consider it. But halfway through his third pint he made up his mind. What good would it do? Confessing wouldn’t bring Göran back to life. But it wasn’t the thought of jail that frightened him, it was the reactions of his children. What would they think of him? He would forever be the man who had killed their adored Grampa. And Kattis? No, no, he would keep silent.
The two police officers waiting in the living room were dressed in civilian clothes and unobtrusive. The body had already been removed, the older one whispered, a kindly man who reminded Adam of his company’s personnel officer. His colleague was a younger woman who wore an inscrutable expression and her hair in a ponytail. She scrutinized Adam from head to feet. Did he have any stains? He had checked so carefully! The personnel officer cop took him aside.
“A horrible thing. I understand you are all in shock.” He went on to explain the circumstances with which Adam was already much too familiar. “We have had reports of a number of burglaries in this area. Your father-in-law must have left the door open and been surprised by them. He was playing some game with the children, aah . . .”
The young police woman checked her notes. “Where’s the Krokofant?”
“Exactly,” the policeman went on. “These international burglar gangs are no Sunday school boys. They used as much violence as necessary to be sure of getting away. Unfortunately they may already be out of the country.”
Adam slowly shook his head, angrily clenching his jaws to hide his relief.
“Of course we hold no preconceptions,” the young woman added. Adam said nothing. He much preferred her older partner.
Adam spent the rest of the evening trying to comfort Kattis. His mother-in-law took care of the children and managed to be both strong and tender despite her own grief. Had he misjudged her all these years? Before the police officers left they had wanted to know where he had spent his evening. Just routine, the man assured him self-consciously. Adam told them about his visit to the opera and showed them the ticket Banegas had given him. The policeman excused the necessity for such formalism. The woman said nothing but carefully noted the sea
t number in her little book. No, Adam didn’t like her at all.
That night he got no sleep at all. Would the police contact Banegas? And what had that policewoman been looking at all the time? He had to get hold of Banegas before the police got to him. At eight in the morning he sneaked out into the garden to call Banegas’ cell. No answer. He called again, several times, until nine-thirty. He didn’t dare phone their room at the hotel, given how suspicious Mrs. Banegas was.
Finally he decided to go to the Grand Hôtel. He waited in the lobby for at least an hour. Suddenly he got a glimpse of Mrs. Banegas, hurrying out alone through the revolving doors. Strange. According to their schedule, there were no imaginary educational field trips until three o’clock. At this hour, Banegas ought to be keeping his wife company. Could he be busy with the police?
Nonchalantly, Adam stepped into an elevator. On the third floor he found room 318.
“Señor Banegas,” he hissed while knocking. “Señor Banegas, it’s me. Adam.”
No reply. Adam tried again. “Héctor! Open, it’s important.”
He waited for another minute and was just about to knock again when he heard someone clear his throat behind him. A tall man in the hotel uniform, buttons gleaming.
“Are you looking for someone?”
Adam made a half-hearted attempt to explain.
“Hotel policy is that all callers must announce themselves at the reception. And your friend doesn’t seem to be in. If you give me your name, I will inform him that you have been here to see him.” He gave Adam a strange look. “Your full name.”
Adam thought for a second and decided on “Jonas Lindgren,” an old classmate who had always gotten into trouble. The uniformed man followed him all the way out to the street.
Kattis had decided to leave for Spain that day, bringing her mother and the children. They had to get away from the house for a while, she said. Adam told her that he understood and promised to take care of all the practical details, whatever they might be. When he had waved them off in the departure lounge at Arlanda airport he felt sweat begin to seep out on his forehead. But not because of what Banegas might say; what filled his mind was the memory of the blood trickling from Göran’s ear. It was an accident, he mumbled, a little too loudly. People around him seemed to look suspiciously at him.
A Darker Shade of Sweden Page 21