A Necessary Action

by Per Wahlöö

  Willi Mohr finished his cigarette, then lifted his bundle of brushwood on to his back again and went on down. He kept his eye on the spot where the civil guard should appear, but the man did not show himself. The bicycle was still there, but after a few minutes he had got so far down that the outhouse was hidden by the almond trees and cactus bushes.

  He crossed the crackling field and rounded the house. There was no one in the yard and the bicycle had vanished.

  Willi Mohr shrugged his shoulders and went into the house.

  On the floor inside the doorway lay a letter, apparently pushed in through the cat-hole by the civil guard. There was nothing written on it, only a blurred stamp in the top right-hand corner. Willi Mohr opened the envelope and took out his passport.

  He turned over the pages but there were no new stamps or remarks. Then he shrugged again and put his passport into his back pocket, alongside the notebook.

  3

  It was the first of November. Twenty-four days had gone by since the police interrogation and nothing had happened to Willi Mohr.

  The days had grown shorter, the nights colder, and it had rained twice during the last weeks, but otherwise everything was as before.

  His money had long since come to an end and he had made no effort to acquire any more, although he could well have written to Hugo Spohler, who still owed him quite a sum. The tienda still gave him credit, as did the Café Central. His bills slowly mounted, although he had reduced his purchases to an absolute minimum and lived exclusively on bread, salted sardines and figs. Now and again he bought a box of Ideales, and by smoking very seldom and saving the ends for his pipe, he could make a packet last several days. He regularly increased his bill at the bar in the square by having a small cup of coffee every evening.

  With the exception of the civil guard who had pushed the envelope containing his passport through the cat-hole, no one had come to the house in Barrio Son Jofre. The brown puppy had died three days after he had killed the other two, and he had thrown it on to the rubbish-heap behind the house. The dog came with him on his daily walks through the town again, and although he occasionally got bones and mouldering bits of meat for her at the tienda, she had grown much thinner, as he had himself.

  Only the cat remained unchanged. It saw to its keep itself and came and went with a self-sufficiency which made it appear to be the only legitimate tenant in the house.

  Willi Mohr did not do any painting, and he had also begun to be careless about some things. He was no longer so particular about washing and shaving and he seldom bothered about making his bed properly. And yet he managed to fill his days with trivial matters, fetching water, lighting the fire or collecting fuel. Unconsciously he did everything at a slower tempo than before and he had no definite impression of being unoccupied or having plenty of time.

  He was waiting for Santiago Alemany, but he was not impatient and neither was he feeling nervous about the meeting.

  He was convinced that Santiago would come back some time and he had already decided how he would behave when he did.

  He would shoot him immediately. Then the matter would be over and his part of the problem out of the way.

  He had no further plans for the future and nothing which tied him to this place, so to postpone the execution would simply be pointless.

  On the first of November, Willi Mohr got up at nine o’clock. He lit the fire, boiled some water and drank it with two spoons of sugar and half a roll left over from the previous day. Then he went out and relieved himself behind the camioneta, which was standing in the outhouse, filthy and dusty and unusable.

  The tyres were flat and the engine would not start. When he had come back from his trip in May and driven up from the puerto to the town, he had forgotten to put any water in the radiator. The engine had got overheated without his noticing and the steam had blown the gasket. He had only just managed to get back and since then the truck had stood there, not because he could not afford to repair it, but because he considered he no longer had any need for it. Now the chickens lived in it and both the engine and the seats were white with their droppings.

  Willi Mohr buttoned his fly and went into tackle his day’s work, the cleaning of his pistol, something he had thought about doing for a long time.

  He locked the door and got out the gun from its place under the mattress. There was not much light in the room but what came through the cat-hole and the cracks round the door was quite sufficient.

  He spread a piece of cloth out on the floor, sat down on the bottom stair and appraisingly weighed the pistol in his hand. It felt cold and reassuring.

  First he pressed the restraining catch and took out the magazine. There were seven rounds in it. He ejected the cartridges and put them in a row in front of him. Another cartridge remained in the breech, so he drew back the action and caught it in his hand. He put it down beside the others, poked out the spring from the magazine and tested the tension in it before putting it down. Then he picked up the cartridges one by one and looked them over carefully.

  Willi Mohr had a reserve magazine too. It lay tucked away in the bottom of the rucksack, but as he had no intention of using it, he let it lie there.

  When he had looked at the cases without finding any scratches or other visible defects, he set about the pistol itself. He removed the barrel and held it up to the square of light from the door. The bore was oiled. Then he examined the breech face, tried out the striker against his thumb, pressing the spring together, which was hard and tense, and laid the things down on the cloth, together with the screws and pins and cartridges and the parts of the magazine.

  The cat, which had been lying asleep among the bedclothes, woke when two of the metal parts clinked together. At once it was inquisitive, and after stretching itself a couple of times, it went over to the stairs and sat on a corner of the cloth, its head on one side, eyeing the dismantled weapon. Then it raised its right forepaw, dabbed cautiously at the spring, and then sat still again, staring with interest at the spiral wobbling back and forth. Suddenly the cat whipped out its paw again and hit the spring, which rolled across the floor with a metallic rattle. The cat crouched, took two long leaps, landing on it with its claws distended, stood on its back legs with the spring between its forepaws and then threw it backwards over its head.

  Willi Mohr sat still, his hands hanging between his legs, and watched the animal playing with the spring. Suddenly the cat lost interest, yawned and went back to the mattress. The spring rolled away into a corner of the room and lay still. Willi got up and went and fetched it.

  He got out the oil can and some soft rags from his rucksack and carefully cleaned all the parts before greasing them again. Then he dried the barrel and once again held it up to the light.

  Willi Mohr looked for so long down the bore that all sense of proportion vanished. He saw a cold, polished steel tunnel, a reflecting corridor of terror, endlessly extended by the bore’s twisting spiral.

  When he finally took the barrel away from his eye, he was almost surprised to find it was so short and light and ordinary, an unassuming little object which could be carried in a breast pocket if necessary.

  He put the lid on the oil-can again and began to re-assemble the pistol. Finally he slid the magazine into the butt of the gun, releasing the action to slip the first cartridge into the chamber.

  He got up, put on the safety catch and then put the weapon back under the edge of the mattress, on the right and quite far down.

  The pistol was a nine millimetre 1936 Walther. Willi Mohr had exchanged it for two tins of meat in Flensburg in the summer of 1945 and since then he had succeeded in smuggling it over all borders. He had never fired it, but knew both its construction and how it worked very well.

  4

  On the twenty-sixth of November, fifty days after the police-interrogation, Willi Mohr spent nearly all day lying on the mattress, waiting. He was weak with hunger, but did not want to go to the tienda, as the old woman had begun to look pityingly at
him. When it grew dark, he went to the Café Central where he had pawned his watch. The proprietor was kind and gave him a glass of white wine and two thick slices of bread, soaked in olive oil. He ate them greedily and hurried back to the house in Barrio Son Jofre. He was afraid that Santiago might come while he was out, and dared not be away from home for any length of time.

  5

  During the first few days of December, the weather turned very warm, just as it had at the same time the previous year. The man in the house in Barrio Son Jofre had no calendar and did not know the date, having lost count about a week before and not bothered to ask anyone. It might have been twelve o’clock or half-past twelve, to judge by the sun.

  Willi Mohr was listening to the sound of a motor-engine which had just swung up into the alleyway, and he knew that it was Santiago Alemany coming. He had already taken out his pistol and clicked off the safety catch with his thumb.

  He felt calm and relaxed as he squatted down by the mattress and waited. The gun was aimed at the door and he had his finger on the trigger, but he had lowered the pistol so that the barrel was resting against the mattress. He had also pulled a piece of the blanket over the gun so that it was not visible from outside and would not give his visitor a chance either to flee or throw himself down behind the vehicle.

  He would shoot immediately, but not until he was absolutely certain of hitting.

  The sound rose slowly, for the alleyway was steep and careful driving was necessary round the sharp corners. The cat had already slunk into the room and taken up its listening-post by the door. Willi Mohr could see the tip of its tail slowly thrashing back and forth behind the edge of the door.

  The fish-van drove up into the yard and stopped exactly opposite the open door. Santiago Alemany was sitting in the driver’s seat in blue trousers and a faded striped cotton shirt. When he switched off the engine, it coughed once or twice and he listened thoughtfully to the bubbling sound from the over-heated water in the radiator. The back was loaded with fish-boxes, carefully tied-down. They were quite dry, so Willi Mohr knew that Santiago was driving with an empty load and was on his return journey from the provincial capital to the puerto.

  The dog woke and rushed barking through the room, wagging her tail and running round the van.

  The cat recognized the visitor and relaxed, indolently strolling out into the sun. On the step outside, it suddenly stopped and started biting itself energetically on its right foreleg.

  Santiago threw his half-smoked cigarette away and climbed out of the van.

  He bent down and patted the dog and when she turned over on to her back, he scratched her dutifully on the stomach.

  Then he slowly walked up the two low steps and went into the room.

  He stopped inside by the door and nodded at Willi Mohr. His gaze rested for a moment on the tangle of bedclothes before wandering on round the walls of the large untidy room.

  His gaze rested for a long time on the picture of the house and cactuses, still standing on the easel, quite unchanged since he had last been there. When he walked over to the kitchen door, Willi Mohr saw that he had dried fish-scales on his trousers and on his right hip was a large sheathknife in his belt.

  Santiago Alemany turned round and walked out of the house. He felt the top of the radiator carefully and then held on to it with his left hand while he turned the starting-handle with his right. At the third turn the engine started. He nodded to Willi Mohr, climbed into the van and after fiddling with the pedals, backed out of view. Half-way down the hill, he switched the engine off and let the van free-wheel.

  As he swung into the main road, the brakes squealed and the sound could be heard for a long time in the great empty silence.

  Santiago Alemany had left Barrio Son Jofre.

  Willi Mohr had not moved once the whole time. He was still squatting by the mattress with his right forefinger on the trigger and his hand closed round the butt, a piece of blanket covering the gun. He did not know how long the visit had lasted; whether Santiago had been there half-an-hour or perhaps only two minutes.

  His calves prickled and he could feel the strain on his knees. Small white dots were dancing about in front of his eyes. He dropped the pistol and let it lie on the blanket. The palm of his hand was wet with perspiration and he wiped it on his trouser-leg.

  Willi Mohr rose, stiffly and unsteadily, and went and sat on the doorstep, his elbows on his thighs and his head in his hands.

  In front of the steps was a large dark patch of oil slowly spreading out over the cobblestones.

  He thought: It didn’t come off.

  This was his first conscious reflection since he had heard the fish-van coming up the alley. The intervening time did not exist. And yet he had had all his senses under control and assembled in an orderly way. What he remembered most clearly now was the dog lying on her back on the ground, abandoning herself to the man who was scratching her stomach.

  Willi Mohr picked up the cigarette-end Santiago had thrown down and took his pipe out of his pocket. Then he carefully tore off the cigarette-paper and let the dry tobacco run into the bowl of the pipe. Not a single flake was lost. He struck a waxed-paper match that was so poor that he had to hold it with his nails close to the top. He burnt himself a little and even more so when he pressed down the tobacco with his thumb. When he had smoked it, he knocked his pipe out on the step, rose and went back into the house.

  He fetched the piassava broom from the kitchen and swept the floor. Then he put the safety catch of the gun on, placed the gun on the cane chair, shook his bedclothes out in the yard and made his bed properly. He carried the water-jar to the well by the road and filled it. When he had washed and shaved and changed his shirt, he put the safety catch of the gun off again and placed the weapon under the pillow. He checked whether it were easily accessible, before sitting down on the doorstep again to wait for Santiago Alemany to return.

  The heat was dry and thick and suffocating, but the sun was no longer in the zenith and the shadow of the house fell over the doorstep.

  Willi Mohr sat still and listened as he watched a small green lizard on the outhouse wall. It seemed hardly real in its total immobility. If one did not know its behaviour-patterns one would have thought that the animal was paralysed with terror or simply stuffed. But the lizard was waiting, and its vigilance was exemplary, just as was its action when its victim came within reach.

  Thought Willi Mohr.

  There was nothing at fault with his own vigilance either. Twice motor-cycles came along the road from the puerto and once the mail bus. After three hours, perhaps four, he heard the fish-van. He was quite certain about everything as it approached the cross-roads and long before it swung up into the alley towards Barrio Son Jofre.

  He looked at the lizard and sat still, waiting.

  Santiago Alemany had not changed his clothes or unloaded the empty boxes, but on the floor of the cabin were two large baskets which had not been there last time.

  He switched off the engine and listened to it boiling. Then he got out, repeated the procedure with the dog, and chased away a few small naked children who had come running after the van from the houses down the hill.

  ‘Good-day,’ he said to the man on the steps.

  Willi Mohr nodded.

  Santiago knelt down and looked under the van. The oil from the engine had already made a small patch, a few yards farther on from the first one.

  ‘This van’s finished,’ he said. ‘I can’t use it much longer.’

  Willi Mohr opened his mouth, but said nothing.

  ‘The oil’s running straight through,’ said Santiago.

  ‘Get a new engine,’ said Willi Mohr.

  ‘Not good enough. It’s completely finished. I hardly dare brake any more. Anyhow, you can’t get hold of engines like this that are any use any longer. They’re all just as bad.’

  ‘You can get a re-bore,’ said Willi Mohr.

  He spoke slowly, hunting for the words.

  ‘You’ve
learnt to speak Spanish since last I saw you,’ said Santiago.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Quite a lot, I think.’

  Santiago turned round and took the baskets out of the van.

  ‘Fish,’ he said, ‘Salmonetes and a calamary and a few langostinos. If you’d like them?’

  He sounded slightly uncertain and kept moistening his lips with his tongue.

  Willi Mohr looked indifferently at the fish and thought: He’s waiting for me to say no and then he knows what he’s got to cope with. He doesn’t really want to come here but he must, because he’s got to know. If I say no or just shake my head, then he’ll just put the baskets down on the ground and after a while he’ll drive away and then he’ll know a little more than he knew before. If I don’t kill him first, of course. Now I’ll let him go out into the kitchen and then I’ll fetch the pistol and kill him.

  His thought processes were quite clear.

  ‘Why not?’ said Willi Mohr.

  Santiago picked up the baskets and went into the house.

  Willi Mohr waited a short while before following him in. Santiago was kneeling in front of the fireplace, heaping wood in the ashes on the hearth. He had emptied his baskets and set the contents up in a row on the stone bench. Two loaves, oil, a twist of salt, wine, one bottle of red, one bottle of white. Five packets of Ideales. Matches. Bones for the dog. Paraffin. A large green melon.

  Although Willi Mohr had not eaten anything at all for several days, he did not feel hungry.

  Santiago got up and gave some bones to the dog, and she at once began to chew them. Then he poured water into the large earthenware bowl and sat with it between his legs. He drew out his sheath-knife and began to clean the fish. Bit by bit he put the guts and heads and tails down on to a piece of grey paper beside him. The cat was already there, purring as it ate and twisting its head to one side to enable it to chew with its back teeth.