Sun and Shadow

by Ake Edwardson

  “I don’t know.”

  “Serves him right. There are too many of ‘em down here nowadays. They ought to have something better to do.” He looked up at Winter. “Look what happens. One minute you’re out on the golf course and the next you’re lying here.”

  “Yes, it’s not good.”

  “It’s an extremely dangerous sport.”

  “You’ll soon be back.”

  “On the golf course?”

  “Yes. And ... everywhere else too.”

  “I wouldn’t put a hell of a lot of money on that. This feels like the big one.”

  “Hmm.”

  “It feels like ...” Winter couldn’t hear what came next. His father’s speech became slurred. Winter waited, but no more words came. His father’s eyelids drooped, shot up again, drooped once more. Winter realized that he was still holding his father’s hand when it lost strength and sank down.

  “He needs to rest again,” his mother said, who had stood up and come to the bed. “He was so pleased that you’d come.” She gave Winter a hug. “He was quite excited when he heard you were here.”

  “Hmm.”

  “He woke up about a quarter of an hour before you came back.”

  “He seems to be pretty ... strong, despite everything,” Winter said, looking down at his unconscious father. Could he hear what they were saying? Did it matter? “Everything will turn out all right.”

  “That was a lovely conversation you had,” his mother said.

  It was a careful conversation, Winter thought. No risks taken. It went in big circles around a big fucking hole.

  He could hear the hum from the air-conditioning. It was the first time he’d noticed it. Maybe his nervousness was fading. Next time he would ask a few questions, and maybe get a few answers.

  They’d gone into the living room. She had turned on the video and bodies were writhing.... The only light in the room was the blue glow from the television screen, the shadows flitting around the walls like living beings.

  The sound was rising and falling. He couldn’t stand it. He wanted to march up to the television set and switch it off, but he couldn’t interrupt her ritual. He was sure she was the one who’d decided what was going to happen.

  “Why are you standing there? Come and sit down here. With us.”

  She beckoned from the sofa in front of the television where they were both sitting. The other man had his hand inside her blouse. On the table in front of them were glasses and bottles. He hadn’t touched a drop, but the pair on the sofa were well oiled.

  He closed his eyes and it was like another time, when he’d come home and caught her on a sofa just like this one. He shouldn’t have been there. They had been surprised. He’d turned on his heel and left.

  It wasn’t the first time this sort of thing had happened.

  It was something to do with him. He’d thought it was to do with them, but he was beginning to realize that it was something inside himself.

  He was trying to crack it. He was there now.

  “Don’t laugh,” he said. “Please don’t laugh.”

  They both looked at him. Their faces were patchy in the blue light. They looked as if their foreheads were tattooed.

  “We haven’t laughed,” she said. “Nobody laughs here.”

  “Please don’t laugh at me.”

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” said the other man, half-rising from the sofa.

  “Nothing.”

  “I think you’ve come to the wrong place.”

  The other man stood up and started toward him. She stayed where she was, glass in hand, her body following the movements of those on the television screen.

  “I’ve brought some music with me.”

  “Eh?”

  “I’ve brought some music we could play.”

  “Music?” The other man was still standing by the sofa, and pointed to the television screen. “We already have something going on here. Or didn’t you notice?”

  “Have you got a cassette player? This is something else.” He’d already seen the stereo system over to the right, various pieces of equipment stacked on top of each other in a tall, black shelving unit. He walked over to it, taking the cassette out of his breast pocket. For a fleeting moment he saw another face in his mind’s eye, like a hovering head. He recognized it. He knew that it meant something. Now the head was gone. It hadn’t had a body. The song was already echoing in his brain, he didn’t know if it was coming from his throat, if the others could hear it as well. His own head was spinning, floating toward theirs, everything was merging. He saw the face once again. Then the real music started.

  Dusk would soon be falling, but it was still hot. Winter drove into Marbella. A flamenco singer gave vent to her pain over the car radio. Winter turned up the sound and rolled the window down. There was a smell of gasoline and sea. When he parked on a side street off the promenade, there was a smell of grilled octopus and eggs fried in oil. His back felt sweaty as he got out of the car and locked the doors.

  The hotel was in the Avenida Duque de Ahumeda, near the beach. Winter had to wait a quarter of an hour in the foyer, then took the elevator up to the twelfth floor with his bag. He wanted to see the room before checking in. That was his usual routine.

  The door lock was hanging loose. The suite comprised two rooms and a kitchen. The window facing the balcony was ajar, and the wind was making the awning flap. It was ragged, faded by the sun and the salt air. A loose strip of the awning was slapping against the window. Winter investigated further and saw that the balcony faced east with a view of another hotel. He looked around the large living room. The furniture in imitation leather had once been white.

  He went to the bathroom. There was a trail of rust underneath the bath taps. There were bits of soap in the washbasin. He examined himself in the mirror. He had lost weight in the last five hours, turned paler.

  He shared the elevator down with a couple in their forties who tried to avoid eye contact with the man of their own age. They had a five-day tan and were dressed for dinner.

  “I don’t like that room,” Winter said to the man at the desk, handing back the key. Why do I always end up in situations like this? he wondered.

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “I don’t want the room. Do you have anything else? Lower down?”

  “But what’s wrong with it?”

  “I DON’T WANT THAT FUCKING ROOM,” Winter said. “It’s out of order.”

  “What isn’t working?” the man asked, his eyes darkening.

  “Nothing’s working. Things are broken. The bathroom’s dirty. Do you have another room?”

  “No. We’re fully booked.”

  “For how long?”

  “For another month.”

  “Can you recommend another hotel near here?”

  Winter had seen the hotel next door, but hadn’t been tempted. He was tired and hot and sweaty and miserable. He wanted a nice room and a shower and a glass of whisky and a little time to think things over.

  “No,” the man said.

  “A smaller hotel, perhaps. A more modest establishment.”

  “No idea,” the man said, turning away. He has every right, Winter thought, It’s not his fault. I could have been more polite.

  “Do you have a town guide that lists the hotels here?”

  “What am I going to do with that room?” the man said, avoiding the question. He eyed Winter up and down like a hostile barrister. “I’m stuck now with an empty room.”

  “Board it up,” Winter said, and marched out, trailing his case behind him.

  He was lucky. When he’d driven into town earlier that day, he’d noticed a sign attached to a wall. It couldn’t be more than a hundred yards away.

  He drove back a short stretch of the Avenida de Severo Ochoa and found the sign on the corner of a little side street that was for pedestrians only. He parked and walked down the Calle Luna, which was filled with afternoon shadow. About a half block along,
on the right, was the Hostal La Luna, behind a glass door at the back of its own patio. Winter could see that each room had a little balcony.

  There had been a last-minute cancellation, and he took a look at the room, which was very Spanish and quiet and clean, with a refrigerator and a bathroom.

  He had a shower, then drank his whisky naked in the semidarkness. The elderly couple who ran the establishment were chatting quietly down on the walled patio. Marble floor and whitewashed walls.

  They couldn’t speak English, not a single word, but the man had assessed Winter’s state and served him a chilled San Miguel on the table in the shade of a parasol, even before Winter had checked in for an indefinite stay.

  The whisky circled around his mouth and slid into his brain. His head cleared somewhat. The room had an unfamiliar smell to it, as if it had been scrubbed with sea salt and southern spices. The twin beds were of timeless Latin design, medieval in style. Between them was an image of the Madonna, praying for him and his father. That was what occurred to him when he first saw the picture in his simple room. It was the only item of decoration.

  This is the way to live.

  He reached for his mobile. It was nearly seven and the sun was much weaker now. The door to the patio was ajar, and the wooden venetian blinds were half up in the glassless window opening, protected by a black wrought-iron grille.

  “Angela here.”

  “It’s Erik.”

  “Hi! Where are you?”

  “In my room. But not the hotel whose number you have.”

  “So you moved,” and he knew she was smiling.

  “Of course.”

  “How’s your father?”

  “They’ve moved him out of intensive care. Is that a good sign?”

  “I suppose it must be.”

  “Suppose? You’re the doctor.” He hoped he didn’t sound as if he were complaining.

  “I don’t have access to his chart, Erik.” She paused. “Did you speak to him?”

  “Yes.”

  ‘And?“

  “He seems pretty ... well, strong.”

  “That sounds encouraging.”

  “Yes.”

  “What was it like, seeing him again?”

  “As if we’d been chatting only last week.”

  “Sure?”

  “Depends what you mean. We spoke about safe subjects.”

  “Everything takes time. He has to get better first.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Are you tired?”

  “Not so tired that I can’t indulge in a glass of duty-free whisky. What about you?”

  “We’re fine.”

  He took her “we” as a greeting from the new family: Angela and her ever-enlarging stomach.

  “Take it easy at work.”

  “I always do. The mergers have resulted in much better working conditions, as you know.”

  “I know.”

  “You are a genius.”

  “Stop it, Angela. Give your stomach a hug from me instead.”

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  “I’ll find somewhere for a bite to eat, then drive back to the hospital.”

  “With whisky in your blood?”

  “It stays in my brain. And, anyway, this is a different country.”

  7

  He could see the lights of ships plying the jet-black sea. The heat wafted into the car as he drove to the hospital. The eastern suburbs of Marbella were quieter now, with fewer cars in the streets. The streetlights, too far apart, helped to soften the darkness.

  Winter had eaten a seafood meal in a modest bar near Hostal La Luna. Five men almost hidden by a cloud of smoke in front of a television set in the corner had been shouting and making obscene gestures at the footballers. Football spectators were the same the whole world over.

  His father was awake again. His mother was on the chair, which she had moved closer to the bed.

  “I’m going down to the cafeteria for a coffee,” she said when Winter arrived. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Nothing for me, thank you.”

  “You can bring me a Tanqueray and tonic,” his father said.

  His mother smiled, and left. Winter sat down on the chair.

  “I can hear that you’re fighting fit,” he said.

  “It’s T and T time now,” his father said, who was lying with his head turned toward the window. ‘A little something cold and uplifting before dinner.“

  “Isn’t it a bit late?” Winter said, pointing at his watch, which said nine o‘clock.

  His father started coughing, and Winter waited. There was a clanking noise as a trolley passed by in the corridor. A woman’s voice asking something in Spanish, and a reply from a man. A snatch of guitar music. His father coughed again.

  “We’ve adapted to Spanish customs.” He cleared his throat tentatively, as if to ease the pain of talking. “Do you see the outline of that mountaintop over there?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s the Sierra Blanca. The White Mountain. A lovely name, don’t you think? I can see the same peak from our house. Funny, eh?”

  “I don’t know about that. The mountain dominates the whole area, you could say.”

  His father seemed to be pondering what he’d just said. He looked at his son. “I could have landed in a different room. Facing the other way. There’s a meaning behind this.”

  “What, exactly?”

  “That I’m here, in this room. That I can see the mountain peak. The same damn peak. It’s as if I were meant to see it from here too. This is my new home. I’ve moved into here now, and I’m never going to move out.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “Alive, Erik. I mean move out alive.”

  “You seem better already. Keep going on as you are now.”

  “I’m serious, Erik.”

  “What does the doctor say?”

  “Alcorta? He makes typical Spanish gestures that could mean anything at all.”

  “Isn’t that what all doctors do?”

  “Not like they do in Spain. Does Angela do it? How is she, by the way?”

  “She’s fine.”

  “And you’re going to be a father, Erik. Good Lord! I hope he gives me the strength to hang on long enough to see the miracle.”

  “You’ll soon be back at home. Then you can study the mountain peak from the other side again.”

  Morelius spent the first two hours or so of his evening shift working at the front desk. An officer who used to work on the beat would soon take over, hold the fort.

  He was one of the worn-out, older officers who had been given desk jobs as a result of the latest reorganization. They’d done their duty and now just concentrated on keeping their noses clean. Lots of officers here had lost their drive like that. But this old officer was a very bitter man. Some people were born to take a top job, but those who reached retirement age and still hadn’t got one became bitter.

  Time to go out on patrol now. Bartram strapped on his holster. He hadn’t lost his drive. He might seem worn out at times, or angry—but there were other reasons for that.

  The control room had saved some interesting assignments they didn’t want to give to the day-shift patrols that were just about to go off duty. Many were break-ins that were more than met the eye. Like this one. A caretaker had noticed that somebody had broken into the basement of an apartment building in Rickertsgatan, over at Johanneberg. They set off in a patrol car, three of them: Morelius and Bartram plus Bo Vejehag, who really had lost his drive and couldn’t wait for his retirement day after thirty years of hard work on behalf of the general public.

  The apartment buildings around Viktor Rydbergsgatan were often targeted for burglaries. Large, substantial buildings, wealthy inhabitants away in their holiday homes.

  They pulled up outside the one that had just been broken into, and were met by the caretaker, who was evidently working overtime, or had stayed behind because he was fed up with all the burglaries, one after anothe
r, in his basements.

  “Fuck this shitty weather,” Vejehag said, getting out of the car and turning up his jacket collar in an attempt to seal out the wind and the rain.

  “There were some young thugs running up and down the stairs and then they went down into the basement,” the caretaker said.

  “Did you see them?” Vejehag asked.

  “No. But one of the tenants did.”

  “When was that?”

  “Just now.”

  “Just now? We received the message hours ago.”

  “That was then. Now they’ve come back again. I’ve only just called, and you’ve turned up here like greased lightning.”

  “The message has just come over the radio,” shouted Bartram from the car, and responded to control: “We’re there already.”

  “Has anything been stolen?” Vejehag asked.

  “A few small items earlier this afternoon from one of the cellars. I don’t know about this time.”

  “Which basement was it?”

  “Do you mean now? Or this afternoon?”

  “I mean now.”

  “Down there,” said the caretaker, pointing to the nearest flight of stairs. The property was in need of a coat of paint. A gang of kids were standing fifty yards away, watching the police officers.

  “We’d better go and take a look,” said Vejehag. Morelius got out of the car and followed him into the building.

  Bartram stayed in the car, waiting for messages. He looked up at the sky: it was a dirty, grayish blue, streetlights mixed with dusk.

  Winter looked at the sky over the mountains. It was lit up from the left by the city lights, but had turned darker, made a deeper color by what might have been rain clouds. The wind was getting up, rustling through the palms on the other side of the graveled courtyard.

  “How’s work going?” His father’s voice sounded distant. “I’ve read about some of your cases in the Gothenburg papers we have sent out.”

  “I try to do my best.”

  “That seems to be more than good enough, as far as I can make out.”

  “Hmm. I don’t know about that.”

  “I could never work out what happened to that young woman who was murdered last year. The one you found in the lake at Delsjön.”