by Anna Jansson
Jonathan dialed his home number. He let it ring eight times before he called his mother. She promised to find out where Malte was. His mother’s voice sounded so small and anxious that it hurt him.
“It feels terrible to have to ask you for this, Mom, but I can’t think of any other way. I know how Nina behaves toward you. When all this is over I’m going to do something about my life. It can’t go on like this.”
She reassured him by saying that she would do her best.
“I’ll find Malte and bring him home with me. You take care of your work, Jonathan. I’ll take care of this.”
Zebastian’s parents were sitting in the sluice on the other side of the glass wall dressed in protective gear. They were holding hands. Young and helpless. But they had each other, that was clear. He went over to them and explained the situation in the gentlest terms possible.
“Zebastian has to be moved to Linkoping. We’re able to let one of you go along.”
“But he is going to get better?” The woman’s voice was only a whisper from inside the mask but her eyes were all the bigger. When Jonathan did not answer right away she started to cry.
“I hope he’ll get better. We’re doing our very best but his kidneys are working poorly and his heart is failing. He’s pretty swollen; you’re going to see that. Whatever happens in there and however difficult it may feel, you must not take off the protective equipment or lower the mask.”
When Jonathan had their promises they went into the room where two nurses were in the process of getting the boy ready for transport with oxygen tubes, emergency bag and bag valve mask. Zebastian looked at them. Then he shut his eyes again. He did not have the energy to talk with them. His cheeks were red with fever under the breathing mask. Carefully he was moved with the help of a draw-sheet to a wheeled gurney. His parents looked lost and seemed mostly to feel like they were in the way. Jonathan interrupted the preparations to give the father a brief moment to say goodbye. Zebastian’s mother would go along to Linkoping, they had decided.
“Hang in there, kid. I’ll see you when you get back.” Zebastian’s father gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder and Zebastian looked up and nodded. Then the sporty attitude broke down and the father put his head against his son’s stomach and cried. Before anyone could stop him he had removed his mask and pressed his cheek against the boy’s so that Zebastian would really hear. “We love you so much.”
Chapter 21
From the window Maria Wern watched the ambulance disappear between the pines, stirring up a cloud of dust on the winding road from the old Follingbo sanitarium. The heat shimmered through the trees.
“That was Zebastian,” said Emil. “I didn’t get to say goodbye to him. He’s going to another hospital. Is he going to die now? My coach went away in an ambulance and now she’s dead.”
“I don’t know, Emil, we don’t know what will happen. We can only hope that he comes back soon, very soon, and that all of this horrid stuff will be over so you can play soccer again. We have to think it will turn out that way.”
“I don’t want to be here anymore, Mom. It’s boring and everyone is serious and sad or sick. There’s no one to be with. I want to go home! Right now I want to go home. I’m not going to stay here any longer because everyone just dies, and it’s quiet and horrible and at night you hear sounds. There are sounds by the windows and in the walls. Someone’s whispering or creaking or screaming when it’s windy outside, because then they have air in their voices. The ghosts. They’re the ones who died here before. People have died in this room; did you know that? Zebastian said so. He knows because his aunt works at a hospital. Maybe someone had this pillow under their head and then just died and they put a new pillowcase on like nothing happened. They died from TB, back then. There’s a little boy on the other side of the wall who shows up at night. He’s trying to warn me and says I should escape from here. Run away from here as fast as you can! He’s a little smaller than me and has a nightshirt and bare feet.”
“You must have dreamt that, Emil.” Maria adjusted her mask. It felt so silly to talk to each other in protective goggles and masks, especially about such serious matters as death.
“What do you mean? He’s warning me in the dream. It counts as a warning. He told me that his mom and dad and all his brothers and sisters died and he was left alone with his grandmother. Just as alone as I am at night. I used to text Zebastian, but then he didn’t have the energy to answer. I think he’s going to die, Mom. I heard on the radio that half the people who get infected die. Zebastian said that he was really sick and swollen up like a Michelin man. Am I going to swell up too?”
“I don’t think so. I think you’re going to get healthy.”
“But you don’t know that. You can’t know that. No one knows who’s going to die, Dr. Jonathan says. He knows almost everything. But even he doesn’t know who’s going to live and who’s going to die.”
Maria sat down on the other side of the glass wall and picked up the phone to speak with Jonathan Eriksson. An additional safety measure, she assumed. Even if the doctor said that his tests showed he was not carrying the infection at the moment, he was living with the constant risk of being infected at work. That’s why he chose to stay at the sanitarium. He looked really tired and sad, although he made brave attempts to be present. His eyelids lowered slowly while he listened to Maria’s apprehensions and with a jerk he came to and pulled himself together when he was going to respond. This was surely only one of many difficult meetings today.
“I want to know the truth. How bad is it? What do you think about Emil?”
Jonathan wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked at her with a gaze so full of pain and resignation that she was startled.
“There is an approved medication, Tamivir, which may help. But we can’t get hold of it within a reasonable time. Dr. Gahnstrom has been in contact with the manufacturer and tried to reach an agreement, but they say they sold their patent and all of their production and that there isn’t any left in their warehouse. They went bankrupt when there was no outbreak and they had invested everything. Now we’re trying to find out where the medication went.”
“This isn’t true! But Emil—”
“There is no next dose to give him. Nothing that has an effect. That’s how bad it is. He’s still more fortunate than most, it seems like his flu is progressing more calmly. I think Emil’s chances of getting through this are good. But there are others—”
“Forgive me. I can see that you’re completely overworked and I sense how hellish this is for you. Forgive me. Is there anything I can do that would make a difference? Anything at all. It looks like you’re working around the clock. Can I help you with anything?”
He looked searchingly at her. Deliberated with himself.
“You’re a police officer, right?”
“Yes.” Maria did not understand where he was headed.
“I can’t believe I’m asking you this, but I see no other way out.” He hesitated another moment and then gasped audibly for air before he continued. “My wife is an alcoholic. I think this is the first time I’ve used that word about her, but that’s the way it is.” He waited for a reaction from Maria. He had just let out the deepest secret and biggest failure of his life. Why was she just sitting there looking kindly at him, when the earth ought to be shaking?
He continued. “I have a son, his name is Malte; he’s seven. Right now I don’t know where Malte is, because he’s run away from home. My eighty-three-year-old mother is searching for him in town. Nina is probably in bed sleeping off her drunk. Is there anything you can do to find him, discreetly, without shouting it all over Gotland, and then see to it that he stays with my mother, or some other safe person until this is over? Preferably with someone else. Nina can get very nasty when he’s with my mother and she’s old and has a bad heart and doesn’t really have the energy for this. I’m stuck here in Follingbo, as you know, and I could give the people I’m treating more undivided attention if
I didn’t have to think about how Malte is doing. Most of all I would like to forget about all of it and go home and take care of my family, but of course I can’t. Forgive me, I’m behaving in a completely confused and unprofessional way, but your question threw me off balance. Forget what I said, it’s completely absurd. I’ll have to try to resolve this some other way. I have no right to burden you as the relative of one of my patients. Forgive me. I don’t know what got into me.”
“I’ll do my best. You take care of my son and I’ll take care of yours. I’ll inquire with a wise friend of mine at Social Services how to resolve this in the best way. I have a girl who is almost the same age as your son. Malte can stay with me until this is worked out, if he wants to.”
“I have no right to take advantage of you like that. Under normal circumstances I would never, ever, do you understand that?”
“These are not normal circumstances. There’s a curfew. I’ll be in touch as soon as I know anything about Malte. Do you have a photo of him?”
“Yes.” Jonathan took his wallet from his pocket and showed the picture against the glass. “He’s very like your son. I would guess that Emil looked like this when he was a little younger.”
“Yes, yes, actually he did. Although he was a little rounder.” Maria felt the worry swirling in her belly, round and round in an aching circle. With all of her inner strength she controlled her exterior, smiled and studied the picture as if it was a day out of the past, when nothing was really serious or dangerous yet. She would have preferred to scream and cry and be comforted like a child, but that option was not available.
Maria called Hartman and explained the situation when she had come out onto the drive. The heat was almost unbearable on the dry pine-clad hill. She decided to take a taxi into town so as not to obstruct Hartman in his work.
“Take the time you need and come back when you can.” There was a lot of warmth in his voice and Maria would have hugged him in gratitude if he had been nearby.
A sad little boy was sitting on the wall down by St. Hans Cafe with his cap on backwards, throwing rocks at the pigeons. His grandmother said he usually went down there when he had run off and got hungry. There were always nice people who ask a little boy if he wants a roll if he stares at them long enough when they’re having coffee. There he sat with his legs dangling a foot or two above the grass. Maria sat down beside him.
“My name is Maria and I’m a police officer. I just saw your dad. He misses you very much, Malte, and would like to be with you if only he could. But there are other children who are very sick that he is helping get healthy again. When this bird flu is over—”
“That’s not what he’s doing; it’s because he doesn’t care about me and Mom.”
“Does your mom say that?”
“Mom doesn’t say anything, she just sleeps. I tried to wake her, but I couldn’t. She just sleeps and sleeps and sleeps … She fell asleep on the floor in the bathroom and she threw up all over herself. I stepped in it. Yuck! I wanted her to wake up. I shook her head and pinched her on the nose. But she didn’t even open her eyes. Because she’ll sleep and sleep and sleep for a hundred years.”
“If you sit tight here I’ll ask your grandmother to get out of the taxi. I brought her with me. If the two of you stay here a while and have a snack, I’ll come back soon and pick you up. What’s your address, do you know that?”
Maria felt a creeping sense of worry, a thought that turned into images of a dead woman on a bathroom floor. Maybe that’s what happens when you’ve worked in this business a long time, an occupational injury.
“Of course I know. I live on Vikingagatan.”
“Do you have a key?” Slowly the boy emptied his pockets of plastic toys and Playmobil figures and chewing gum and found it. Maria hurried back to the taxi. The meter was running and she was no longer sure she had enough money in her wallet to pay.
The white villa was bedded in greenery. A few children were riding their bicycles on the sidewalk. They had put stiff pieces of paper on the spokes of the wheels to make a whirring sound. The little boy who cycled past had his head turned toward the back wheel and was heading straight for Maria, who took a step to one side at the last moment. A peaceful idyll. Maria paid the taxi and continued into the yard, where the lawn had not been cut for a long time. On the blue-painted garden table were an empty wine bottle and some plastic toy cars. A forgotten child’s jacket was tossed over the wooden bench. The front door was locked. Maria rang the bell, wondering what she would say to Malte’s mother if she answered. She rang again, a little longer this time. No signs of life from inside. Using Malte’s key she went in. A sharp, slightly stuffy odor met her in the large, light hall. She called to Nina. It was completely silent, except for the stubborn buzzing of a fly in the window. Fresh flowers in a vase on the bureau by the mirror. Expensive furniture and irreproachably clean floors. It did not look like they were living in misery. What Malte said of course could be fantasies or something he had seen on TV or dreamt. She hurried on to search for the bathroom. Passed a living room that was covered with bookshelves from floor to ceiling and with a gigantic leather sofa in the middle of the floor, large green plants, and exclusive floor vases. The door to the bathroom was open and there on the dark-blue tile floor was a blonde woman on her back with her legs placed at an unsightly wide angle. Her mouth was wide open. Maria knelt down beside her. Felt a weak pulse. Barely noticeable breathing. The woman was short and slender and she had no difficulty putting her in a three-quarters prone position. As best she could she tried to pick out old food remnants from the woman’s mouth. The T-shirt, which was the only clothing she had on, was brown with vomit. The stench almost made Maria throw up herself. She retched and turned away to take the next breath. Happened to put her hand in something sticky and got up to rinse her fingers. The woman was alive anyway. The thought of what she would have done if there were no respiration or pulse made her retch again. The very thought of making resuscitation attempts, mouth-to-mouth, on someone who had just vomited was nauseating. Maria took out her cell phone and called the emergency number. Busy. Even though she tried again and again.
Could she have dialed the wrong number or were there just that many calls? Maria crouched down again and felt the woman’s pulse. A thin, irregular flutter under the skin. Answer already! Emergency center. She got through and stated her errand. They promised to send an ambulance. But it might be awhile, if the condition was not immediately life-threatening. All ambulances were out at the present time.
“I can’t determine if it’s life-threatening. She’s not breathing very often—” The call was broken off before Maria finished the last sentence. She wet a towel in cold water and bathed Nina’s face to get her to revive. The woman’s skin felt so warm and sweaty. A thought began to take shape. What if this wasn’t intoxication. Perhaps she had a fever and was really sick. Contagious? How could you know whether or not she had the flu?
Chapter 22
The first thing Maria did when she got to the police station, after Nina Eriksson had been taken away in an ambulance, was to take a hot shower and scrub herself red under the stream of water. She gradually raised the water temperature to the limit of being bearable, as if the contagion had settled on her skin and could be washed off. On a rational level she realized that wasn’t the case. But a purification ritual was necessary anyway. There was no evidence that Nina might have been sick with bird flu. That was just an idea, or even more a sense of illness and death and decomposition, that flowed together with the morning’s horrible experience of the woman strangled in her apartment, Sandra Hagg. The pale yellow face of death. The photographs on the bulletin board of the dead man found in Varsande made her flesh crawl. His curly black hair, the scar on his chest and the broad slit on his throat, the open eyes that looked right at her. There was too much sickness and death. A terror that could no longer be controlled with reason. How do you protect yourself? How magical can you be in your strategies for avoiding death and accident
s? Maria resisted an impulse to put herself under the purifying water again, pulled her wet hair into a ponytail, and went to her office.
The reception desk reported that Sandra Hagg’s sister was in the lobby. The patrol officers had informed her of the death earlier that day. Maria met Clary Hagg in the corridor. A slender woman with dark wavy hair in a style that was modern in the eighties. Poodle cut. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, wore no makeup and was not particular about her choice of clothes. Her T-shirt had ketchup stains and the baggy pants were wrinkled at the knees. She looked at Maria with brown eyes, large and shiny, as if she was about to start crying at any moment. She did not blink, simply looked at Maria’s face and waited to be addressed. Maria turned on the tape recorder and asked the standard questions after having said a few introductory words of consolation. It felt shabby and flat. A cup of coffee or an arm around the shoulders usually did more good. But Clary had refused both and sat, reserved and hunched up, in the visitor’s chair. Not everyone appreciates physical contact; for some it is only troublesome and embarrassing if a stranger touches them.
“I haven’t seen Sandra in over six months. Not since Mom’s birthday. We haven’t even talked on the phone since then. We had a falling out; it feels so awful now—with what happened. Well, I’ve tried to maintain contact, but Sandra didn’t want to. Not since I told her she should leave Lennie. That was before Christmas.”
“Was there anything in particular that happened then?”
“No one in our family liked Lennie very much.” Clary was about to say more but hesitated. Maria waited for a continuation but was forced at last to ask the question again. Clary sighed heavily and lowered her eyes toward her hands resting in her lap while she thought about how to put it. “He was so cocky and unpredictable and temperamental. One minute he was charming and the next a real jerk, if you ask me. He would suddenly flare up over nothing. I don’t know how it came up but—well, I think it was Mom who started talking about Sandra’s old boyfriend and how silly it was when they were going to camp on Faro and forgot the tent pegs at home. They only had the tent with them and it started to rain. So they rolled themselves up in the tent and slept under a spruce. We joked about that and about other things. Lennie got really mad and twisted Sandra’s arm so that it cracked when she followed him out onto the balcony. I came out right after that so I saw it and told him to knock it off, and then he pushed me backward. I fell down and sprained two fingers on my left hand trying to stop the fall.” Clary showed her hand, although there was no longer any bruise or swelling to see.