He was lost, he knew that now. The shortcut he had taken had led him astray, and now he was lost. She would never forgive him. She might understand, if he really tried to explain, but how could he explain when he didn’t really understand it himself?
‘What have you done, Dad?’ she asked suddenly.
He looked down at his hands. Even they looked old, veined and wrinkled, worn. She might never want to hold them again.
The guard closed the door and came over to the table. ‘You’ve got ten minutes,’ he said officiously. ‘I have to stay.’
Vanja nodded and he went and sat on a stool in the corner. He leaned against the wall and tried to look as uninterested as possible.
Valdemar looked at his daughter, who was still standing in front of him. She must have been in this room many times, but never like this.
‘What have you done?’ she repeated.
Valdemar felt compelled to tell her the truth.
‘Something stupid, I’m afraid.’
Vanja pulled out the chair and sat down heavily. Looked at him. He seemed to have aged several years in just a few days. There was so much she wanted to say, so many questions she wanted to ask. So much she needed to know, but with the guard in the room he wouldn’t be able to tell her everything. Which was perhaps just as well. Seeing him had shaken her far more than she had expected. She needed to ask a few anodyne questions so that she could pull herself together.
‘Have you got a solicitor?’
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The office wanted to send someone, but I refused.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. I thought you might find out if I had a solicitor, and I didn’t want that.’
He still couldn’t look her in the eye.
‘I found out anyway. Did you really think you could keep this a secret? I’m a police officer!’
Valdemar shook his head again. It was possible to keep secrets. Bury them and hope for the best. It had worked before.
‘They questioned me a few years ago, but the preliminary investigation was shelved. I was hoping that’s what would happen this time too,’ he said, looking up at her. ‘Then you’d never have to know.’
Vanja went pale. He realised that wasn’t what she wanted to hear. She wanted everything to go back to normal, just as he did. She wanted this ridiculous situation to be a parenthesis in their lives, a mistake that could be explained away, that would vanish as quickly as it had appeared. Knowing that there had been a previous investigation didn’t do much to preserve that illusion.
‘What was the previous investigation about?’ she asked, sounding unexpectedly composed.
He knew her. Whatever feelings she had had when she walked into the room, they had been pushed aside. Now she was angry.
‘Same thing. Embezzlement, fraud, tax evasion, breach of trust . . .’
‘But they didn’t pursue it?’
‘No, but now they’re saying they’ve found new evidence.’
Valdemar stopped himself, he didn’t want to say any more, but there was no escape; Vanja was bound to ask about this new evidence. She would find out anyway, sooner or later; it was probably best if she heard it from him.
‘About Daktea,’ he said quietly.
She leaned forward, staring at him as if he were a stranger, someone she didn’t even know. She had never looked at him that way before, with such coldness.
‘Were you involved in Daktea?’
‘I certainly didn’t know everything,’ he said, shaking his head as if even he still couldn’t understand what had actually happened. ‘How big it was. I trusted the wrong people.’
He reached for her hand, but she didn’t respond. If his hands had aged, hers had completely lost interest. He glanced at the guard, who was now looking at them with curiosity. She deserved an explanation, but he had to choose his words carefully.
‘I just wanted us to have a good life, sweetheart.’
He could hear how hollow the excuse sounded.
So could she, apparently.
‘We’ve always had a good life,’ she snapped.
She was right as usual. They might have lacked material things. Stuff. Nothing that really meant anything. Nothing that could replace what he was losing now, but he had so wanted to be the daddy who never saw anything as a problem, the daddy who could give his family the life everyone else seemed to have. Someone they could be proud of.
‘Yes, but your mother really wanted a summer cottage, you needed an apartment . . .’
She went up like a rocket.
‘An apartment! Are you trying to drag me into all this? Are you trying to tell me you’re sitting here because of me?’
‘Please, Vanja, no, that’s not what I meant.’
‘So what did you mean?’
He shrivelled before her eyes. Collapsed. He was worthless. He was a liar, a cheat. He must make her understand how simple it had been, how tempting. Intoxicating. How he had been carried along, until in the end he didn’t even consider the fact that it was illegal. He needed to explain it to her, but he couldn’t find the words.
‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t know, Vanja.’
The whole thing was such a mess. The only words left were banalities.
‘I love you. I love you so much and I wanted . . .’ He stopped and wiped away a tear. ‘I wanted to give you everything.’
‘I never asked you for everything.’
The chill in her voice was dreadful. It twisted and turned in his breast like an ice-cold worm; he could hardly breathe. She didn’t care about his love. How could that be? It used to mean the world to her, he knew that. But he had let her down, in the worst way imaginable. He had gone behind her back, turned out to be a different person from the man she thought she had known all these years, lied to her. You couldn’t do that to Vanja. She was totally honest, and she demanded honesty in return. It was perfectly simple. Valdemar knew that, knew what he needed to do to win her back, but instead of telling the truth, he lied again.
‘I haven’t done anything illegal.’
‘So what have you done?’
He knew she could see through him. He was wide open, but still he was trying to wriggle away. He couldn’t do anything else.
‘I might have pushed the boundaries a bit. Helped people I shouldn’t have helped.’
‘You did it,’ she stated flatly, all emotion gone from her voice. She might just as well have been commenting on the weather. Valdemar didn’t speak; he gazed at her pleadingly as she calmly pushed back her chair and got to her feet.
‘Whatever they’re accusing you of, you did it.’
She turned and headed for the door.
‘Please, Vanja. Wait,’ he begged.
The guard looked at the clock. ‘You’ve got three minutes left.’
She turned and Valdemar hoped he would get those minutes.
One hundred and eighty seconds.
You could achieve a lot in 180 seconds.
‘Thank you, but I’m done here.’
With those words she was gone. Valdemar buried his face in his hands, hoping he would never have to see reality again. The reality where his daughter was gone.
Mehran’s heart was pounding with rage, and he felt hot and sweaty. He had told his mother exactly what he thought. He had slammed the door of his room so hard that one of the family photographs in the hallway had fallen down. Now he was lying on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. They had never argued like this before, not even when she had caught him smoking with Levan. But this was different. In every way. His mother had gone behind his back. Deceived both him and Eyer. She said it was for their sake, that she wanted to protect them, but he knew that wasn’t true.
It was just as Memel had said.
Shibeka is confused. Hamid was her backbone. Without a backbone, we wobble and fall. You have to help her, you understand?
He had always defended his mother to the stubborn old man who thought she didn’t know he
r place. Mehran had told Memel how hard she fought for them, how she always did everything for them. She was the best mother a son could have. She worked and studied so that they would have a better life. She had learned Swedish for their sake. But now he realised that Memel was probably right.
His mother was confused.
There was no other explanation. She had gone much too far. He hadn’t said anything when she sent letter after letter to everyone from social services to the police to the press. He had stood silently by her side and allowed her to go on and on about Hamid to the police, even though he knew they didn’t care. To them she was just some immigrant complaining. But he had said nothing. He had always stood by her side.
And this was how she thanked him.
By going behind his back.
Mehran turned over and picked up the mp3 player he had been given for his birthday. He liked house music, particularly Avicii. He scrolled down to ‘Levels’ and turned up the volume. There was something about music that made things clearer; it was as if what had happened became simpler, purer, which in turn made his anger more manageable. Through the music he saw life as an image, and it didn’t hurt so much. It wasn’t easy for his mother, he knew that. She did her best.
But she was confused.
That was obvious from this latest whim of hers.
It was good that she had learned Swedish; she could help him and Eyer and their friends. But there was also something bad about it; Memel was right. Because it wasn’t only the language, she had acquired additional knowledge, learned things that Memel and the other men didn’t approve of.
They were worried.
About their own wives.
What if they became confused too?
Mehran liked Memel. It was Memel who would put his arm around him and tell him about the old country and about Hamid. He took Mehran to the mosque and showed him how to wash, how to get ready for prayers.
Mehran had always stuck up for his mother, but now she had met up with someone from the TV. Alone. A Swedish man. After all he had done for her.
The anger was back, and not even Avicii could calm him this time. A Swedish man! The Swedes had done nothing for them until now. On the contrary, the Swedes were to blame. His father had disappeared here, in safe, secure Sweden, not in dangerous Afghanistan. Not on the way here. But in Sweden, where he and his family were supposed to feel grateful all the time. The whole thing was a lie. Sweden wasn’t safe, not for most of the people he knew. They lived in a constant state of insecurity. Would they be allowed to stay or not? Would they be deported one day? Or even worse, would they simply disappear like his father? He remembered the official at the Immigration Board who had wanted to throw them out, even though Hamid had gone missing. Shibeka had been terrified that someone would come for them one day, drive them to the airport and send them away.
It was all a lie. He hated lies.
And now his mother had lied too.
Mehran took a deep breath and put ‘Levels’ on again. He hoped he would calm down if he left it on repeat. He hadn’t even got close when there she was, standing in the doorway. She looked at him with her brown eyes, red-rimmed from crying.
‘Forgive me, Mehran,’ she said softly. ‘May I come in?’
Mehran didn’t answer. He simply looked at her as the music filled his head. She sat down beside him on the bed. He didn’t stop her. He felt her warm hand on his stomach, which calmed him more than the music.
‘Can’t you take off your headphones?’ she asked.
She was speaking Pashto. He used to love it when she did that. In their everyday lives she always insisted that they spoke Swedish, to help them get on. But today she was speaking Pashto. He knew why. She did it when it was important that they understood everything she said. Her voice sounded more familiar in Pashto. More real. More like his mother. He reluctantly removed his headphones, but the anger was still there.
‘I know you’re angry,’ she went on. ‘But I never wanted to hurt you. I just didn’t know how to tell you.’
He looked at her, letting his anger show in his tone.
‘Why can’t we always speak Pashto?’
She looked surprised; she hadn’t been expecting that question.
‘I think it’s good to speak Swedish. We live in Sweden.’
‘But we’re not Swedes, even if you seem to think we are.’
Shibeka took his hand.
‘Don’t be cross, Mehran. I thought he could help us.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know, but I have to find out what happened. We have to find out.’
‘He’s gone, Mum. Gone. Don’t you get it?’ he yelled.
Shibeka squeezed his hand. He kept on shouting, in spite of the pressure of her soft fingers.
‘The fact that you won’t accept it doesn’t make things any better. You’re confused! I’m confused!’
‘But I can’t just give up, because I knew your father so well. I see him in you; every day I am reminded of him. Don’t you see? It’s impossible. It’s like asking me to stop breathing. Or to stop loving.’
Suddenly she began to weep. Mehran hadn’t seen her cry for a long time. In the beginning, when Hamid went missing, she had cried all the time, but then one day she had stopped. It was as if she had run out of tears. He tried to console her; he sat up and looked into her eyes. He loved her so much, but she had to understand that she couldn’t carry on like this.
‘I miss him too, Mum. But everyone says you have to stop now. I’ve always told them you’re fine, that you won’t do anything stupid. Then you go and meet this man without telling me?’
‘I think he can help us.’
‘Stop it, Mum. No one here has helped us with anything. Why should he be different? You’re making us all look like idiots.’
He paused and looked at her. ‘You’re not an idiot, Mum. I know that.’
Shibeka nodded and took her hand away.
‘You’re right, Mehran. I will listen to you from now on. You will make the decisions. I promise to listen to you, just as I would listen to your father. But you have to meet him. The man from the TV. Then you can decide.’
She was speaking to him in a completely different way: as an equal. He knew he had to respond on the same terms. His voice was gentle now.
‘Tell him to come here tomorrow.’
‘Shall we tell Eyer?’
Mehran shook his head. ‘No. He’s too young.’
‘But you’re not. Not any more.’
‘No, Mum. No I’m not.’
Shibeka ventured a smile before she left the room. Mehran remained sitting on his bed. He didn’t need the music now. He had grown up today, and he didn’t need music to help him understand that. It was an amazing feeling. Was he really ready to take on the responsibility he had been given? He wanted nothing more, but there was also something frightening in the realisation that he could no longer hide behind his age, that he was no longer a child.
He went into the hallway; his mother was in the kitchen. When Eyer got home there would be a hot meal as always. Everything would be just the way it always was, but everything had changed.
She probably thought they were different, that he wanted to forget. But that wasn’t true. It was just that they had different ways of dealing with their loss. She made phone calls, wrote letters, went on and on. Mehran kept quiet. She showed her pain, he carried it deep inside. That was what a man did. Pain that was locked inside made a man strong.
Women wept. Men did not.
Shibeka turned and smiled at him, and this time he smiled back.
She had secrets. So did he, but his were buried deep down in his childhood. Was he going to have to bring them out, or could he let them rest? He didn’t know.
But he would never forget the man with the rasping voice. The man his father had warned him about.
Joseph.
Vanja had thrown up at Kronoberg, with no warning whatsoever. She had gone into the staff toilet and sat down, not becau
se she wanted to use it, but just to be alone for a few moments. Suddenly her stomach turned inside out, and the contents landed on the floor between her feet. She stared at the yellow mess. There was a sour taste in her mouth, and she automatically leaned forward in case there was more to come. She couldn’t leave the custody suite until the guard came to let her out, and he had had to take Valdemar back to his cell first. It would take a while, but she was in no hurry, and right now she didn’t care if she threw up all over the floor.
Nothing mattered any more.
The memory of her meeting with Valdemar was at the forefront of her mind, and behind it there was nothing. There was only him, in a room where she could never have imagined seeing him. It was an impossibility, and yet it had just happened. Valdemar was not innocent. If she had had her doubts before, she was certain now. He had skirted around the truth, a tactic she knew so well. Vanja had seen it so often in her job.
He might have pushed the boundaries, he said. Valdemar, who never pushed the boundaries.
The sour taste in her mouth felt appropriate; it was the taste of a terrible day. She would have liked to empty her stomach completely, get it all up, get it all out.
But there was nothing more, however much she retched. So she stuck two fingers down her throat, over and over again until she felt totally empty. Her shoes and the lower part of her trouser legs were spattered with vomit, but she didn’t care; she felt liberated, as if she had regained control of her body. Got rid of the crap she had ingested. It was a wonderful feeling. She wanted to stuff her face, consume as much as possible just to bring it back up.
It was a long time since Vanja had felt like that. An eternity. But she understood what she had liked about it back then.
Losing and regaining control.
The simultaneous experience of pleasure and shame.
She leaned forward and stared at the contents of her stomach on the floor.
She had been seventeen when she started; she was a student at high school in Östermalm. She was clever and quick; she loved reading, so the academic side was no problem. It was the rest of it. The social side.
Everyone else at the school seemed to be rich, beautiful and perfect. There were so many unwritten rules, codes that she knew nothing about. She wanted friends. She wanted a boyfriend. She wanted to be part of the gang. But she wasn’t. Whatever she did, it was wrong. However hard she tried, she remained one of those who didn’t fit in. So she started buying treats on the way home to cheer herself up: sweets, biscuits, crisps. More and more. Salt, sugar and fat became her friends, and she chose them with increasing frequency.
The Man Who Wasn't There Page 20