Sun and Shadow

by Ake Edwardson

“No tapas?”

  “There hasn’t been any ... time. I stayed at the hospital last night.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Better than being somewhere else. Anyway, make sure you get some salt down you, so that you don’t think so much about ghosts.”

  “Mrs. Malmer?”

  “Police cars.”

  “I’ve bought some cola sweets as well.”

  “Eat them with mashed anchovies and Parmesan cheese.”

  “I’ve made a note of that,” Angela said.

  The car drove around the town center, then returned to Vasaplatsen. The driver was listening to the emergency call-outs. A traffic jam near the Tingstad Tunnel. A mugging in Kortedala. Somebody who ran away from a tram in Majorna without paying.

  He parked at the newspaper stand and bought a paper, any paper. Maybe he’d read it, or just leave it on one of the seats. Maybe he’d just drop it in the trash bin.

  Lights were on in most of the apartments. He knew which block, but not which apartment. It would be easy to check the names on the intercom on the front door, but what would be the point of that? He asked himself that question as he got back into the car and fastened his seat belt. What-would-be-the-point-of-that? He had a question but no answer. When he knew why he was going to go up to that door and check the address and the floor, he would also know the answer to several other questions. Things that had happened. That were going to happen. Going-to-happen.

  Had he flashed his lights? If he had, there would have been a point. It would have been a start. He looked down at the newspaper on his knee. He didn’t know which one it was: Göteborgs Tidningen or Ex pressen or Aftonbladet, only that there would be things in it, and in the others, that he could have told them about himself, but they hadn’t asked and it was the same as it always was because nobody ever asked him anything, anything with a POINT to it, but that was all over now, ALL OVER NOW He squeezed his hand around the newspaper and tugged at it, and afterward, after a minute, or a year, while he was still sitting in front of the newspaper stand, he looked down again and saw that he had torn the paper in two.

  11

  Winter was up before eight. The strip of sky he could see through the bathroom window at La Luna was blue today. There was a smell of sun outside already, tinged with the soft soap that Salvador, the landlord, had been using to scrub the patio. Winter could hear blows from a hammer, and a woman’s voice.

  He could feel the heat seeping into his room through the wrought-iron grille in the window. This could become the hottest day since he’d arrived. Salvador pointed up at the sky and rolled his eyes as Winter walked past. Summer was hanging on.

  He had coffee at Gaspar’s café and smoked a Corps. He was already a familiar face to the staff and to the lung patient, who was at his usual table coughing his way through the morning at Plaza Puente de Málaga, and calmed down briefly when the waiter brought him his glass of gin. The man nodded politely at Winter as he raised his glass.

  Winter felt stiff. He would soon be driving out to the hospital again, but decided on a brisk walk first, to stretch his legs. He drained his coffee, stubbed out his cigarillo, and paid his bill. Before leaving he made a quick call to his mother, who was sitting by his father’s bed in the recovery room. No change.

  He consulted his tourist map of town. He could walk up the hill to the bus station and back. About an hour, he thought. The exercise would do him good.

  Calle de las Peñuelas ran north from the plaza, and he followed it for a few hundred yards before turning left at Calle San Antonio, which the map suggested would wind its way gently up the hillside toward the mountains.

  After only a block or so he found himself in a very different Marbella, not at all like the residential area in which he was staying. Here were bars and shops for the locals; women lined up outside their front doors, men in cafés, children on the way to and from school. Heladeia, panaderías, carnecerías. The smell of fresh meat outside butchers’ shops. A young girl with a loaf under her arm. Sun and shadow already playing games despite the early hour. He passed by the enormous Caja Ahorros Ronda, Bar Pepe Duna, Colegio Público Garcia Lorca over the road, voices from schoolchildren at playtime. A newsstand at the crossroads with a large sign advertising Sur, the local newspaper.

  He continued northward and came to the main road, Avenida Arias de Velasco, glanced at his map and turned left.

  He soon passed the police station on his left, Comisaria de Policia Nacional. It was small, built of gray marble, with some of the walls made entirely of glass; there were wide steps leading up to the entrance, where two notices indicated: OFICINA DE DENUNCIAS and PAS-APORTES EXTRANJEROS. He felt sorry for his colleagues. There must be a lot to do in Marbella, especially during the holiday season. Pickpockets. Lost passports. More pickpockets. Winter had no time for pickpockets, almost as little as he had for the poor devils who couldn’t manage to protect themselves from them.

  The Mafia. Rumor had it that Marbella had become a favorite center for organized crime. He recalled reading something to that effect in some report or other. Tax exiles and the Mafia. Villas in the mountains. Tapas at Paseo Maritimo in the evenings, where deals were done.

  Two colleagues in uniform came down the steps from the police station and Winter automatically nodded to them as they passed him, crossed the street and went into the Bar del Enfrente on the other side. A late-morning glass of gin to bolster their strength. Winter felt thirsty and wanted a beer, but continued up the steps. One of the police officers left the bar and went into a motorcycle showroom.

  Winter had reached the plateau by now. He took the footbridge over the highway and turned left toward the bus station. He turned around to gaze down at the town below, with the sea and the horizon in the distance. No sign of any clouds. It had been worth the walk. He could see for miles, as far as Nueva Andalucia, and to the east, in the far distance, was the outline of what might well be the Hospital Costa del Sol.

  He was closer to the mountains. He could see them through the glass doors of the bus station, and went inside. A crowd of people came surging out, forcing their way past him and down the steps. He could smell sweat and sun lotion, an elbow poked into his ribs and he tried to dodge out of the way.

  Half a minute later all was calm again, and Winter was inside the building. He got his bearings and went in to a large cafeteria where he ordered a coffee and a small bottle of mineral water. He put his hand into the inside pocket of his linen jacket and ... and ... what the he—. He tried his other inside pocket: also empty. His hand slid straight through, meeting no resistance. What the HELL? The man behind the counter was waiting to be paid, and seemed to see the panic in Winter’s eyes. He pointed at Winter, at his jacket. Winter raised his left arm and examined the side of the jacket. A neat cut had been made through all the layers of cloth and through to his inside pocket where his wallet had been. HIS WALLET. What had been in it? Ten thousand pesetas, perhaps. Addresses. Driver’s license. Credit card—oh, shit! His credit cards, Visa, MasterCard. He took out his mobile phone, dialed, and waited impatiently for an answer.

  “Angela here.”

  “It’s Erik. I hoped you wouldn’t have left already. I’ve just been robbed and I don’t have the number I need to block my credit cards. First Card, or Nordbanken, and the Savings Bank.”

  “Were you mugged? Are you hurt?”

  “No, no. It was a pickpocket. But I can tell you the details later. Can you ring them? I think the phone numbers are on the bulletin board in the hall. Over the bureau, yes, I’m sure. Two cards. No, just phone them. They have all the details. What? It was just now, less than five minutes ago. Seven o‘clock, maybe. I’m on a hillside some way above Marbella and the bastard will have to make his way down to an ATM in town. If we can stop them now he won’t have time.”

  “I’ll fix it.”

  “Phone me back when you’ve done it.”

  He switched off and turned to the man behind the counter, who had been following the conv
ersation. Winter still hadn’t touched his coffee, or the water.

  “Un ladrón, eh?”

  Winter didn’t understand what he meant, but made a gesture in response.

  “Ha robado la cartera, eh?” He pointed at Winter’s sleeve. “La cartera. Hijo de puta. ” He shook his head, as if regretting the existence of all the world’s riffraff. “Hijo de puta.”

  “Yes,” Winter said. “The sonofabitch stole my wallet.” He looked at the cup of coffee. Steam was still rising from it. He’d have loved to take a sip, but he couldn’t pay for it.

  “Sírvase,” said the man, gesturing sympathetically toward the cup. “Please. It’s on the house.”

  She laughed at him. It was like the first time ... when it had all started. She, the other one, and he ... they’d both laughed.

  She’d accused him of not being a real man. Just look at yourself, she’d said.

  Now he did exactly what he wanted to do in this room, which had turned completely white in his eyes. He hardly noticed them as he walked over to the stereo and switched on the cassette that the other one had switched off with a curse only seconds after he’d started it.

  “Do-not-switch-off-that-music,” he said.

  “You’re out of your fucking mind.”

  “Do-not-switch-it-off.”

  “We want you to get out.”

  ‘Just fuck off,“ she said. ”We don’t want you here.“

  “I-am-staying-here,” he said, turning the sound up and starting to react to the bass, to the guitars. The room was white. He closed his eyes tightly. He had stopped seeing. There was no darkness. He felt something hit his stomach, like a punch, or a kick, but he didn’t open his eyes. The white was still out there. He didn’t want to see it. The music was everywhere, WOAHWAOHWHAAWHOAWHAAWHO, he felt another blow and somebody was pulling his hair and he opened his eyes. The other guy hit him again, knocking him to the floor. This cretin was trying to get to the music, but he was in charge now. He was in charge. If he lay still and allowed him to turn off the music it would all be over, but that was impossible. He was in charge now. The real man. He stood up, opened his eyes and peered at them through the whiteness, and he no longer knew if it was quiet. He heard nothing as he grabbed hold of her, felt nothing, nothing as he groped after him as well, after his body. The white glow was still there, but at a distance now, as if waiting. He grabbed at her again, at him again.

  A long time.

  He was shaking like a dog. The music was still on when it was over. He’d done everything and toward the end he’d had all the help—the courage—he’d lacked earlier. He was still there in the white glow. He could hear the words, one after another, nobody else could make out any words in the blare of the music, the-blood-is-sacrificed-in-my-face.

  Angela rang after five minutes.

  “All done.”

  “Good.”

  “So, what now?”

  “I’ll borrow money from Mom today. But you could phone the bank and ask them to send me some money to arrive tomorrow.”

  “Where to?”

  “To one of the banks in town. I’ll call in at the first one I come to and ask if they can receive transfers. Actually, I can phone my bank myself if you can give me the number now.”

  “Okay. That was ... pretty bad luck.”

  “It was badly handled by me. That shouldn’t happen.”

  “Every cloud has a silver lining. You’ll learn to have a bit of sympathy with the victims from now on.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You’ll have to report this to the police.”

  “Oh, please.”

  “Of course you must, Erik. You can’t come back home and contact your insurers and all that without having reported the incident to the police on the spot. Do I have to spell that out for you, of all people?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe the thief will pocket the credit cards and send all the rest to the police.”

  “Maybe Santa lives at the North Pole.”

  “I’m serious, Erik.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll report it to the police. At least I know where the police station is.”

  “Good. Worse things have happened, Erik.”

  “I know, Angela. I know.”

  He walked around the bus station, investigating the waste bins and the dusty bushes, but the thief hadn’t thrown away the wallet.

  Winter was still feeling furious, but Angela was right. There were people worse off than he was.

  The gray marble walls of the police station had turned white when the sun started shining on them. He went up the steps and turned left to the Oficina de Denuncias, and tried to explain his problem to a uniformed officer at a desk. The man held up a hand, and used his other to point to a door. It was closed, but the sign, white on blue, said: INTERPRETER’ S OFFICE.

  Winter sat down. After a few minutes the door opened and a couple who could well have been Swedes came out. The police officer beckoned to Winter.

  Inside was a woman at a desk. She was busy filling in a form, looked up and indicated to Winter that he should take a seat on the chair in front of her desk. She looked twenty-five, possibly thirty, years of age. Dark, close-cropped hair; but when she looked at him he noticed that her eyes were blue. She didn’t seem to be wearing any makeup. An attractive woman. Wearing a loose-fitting dress, and her skin tone was unusually light for a Spaniard.

  He told her briefly what had happened. She listened with interest, which surprised him.

  “Please fill in this form. I’ll be back in just a moment,” she said.

  She handed him a form headed “Diligencia,” and he started filling in personal data and a summary of what had happened. He hesitated at the word “Profesió,” but decided to tell the truth.

  She came back and read quickly through the document.

  “Do you still have your passport?”

  “It looks like it. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been able to fill in the passport number, would I?” He’d sounded aggressive. He regretted his words. But she didn’t react at all.

  “So, you are a chief inspector?” He thought he could detect a trace of a smile, but couldn’t be certain.

  “Detective chief inspector,” he said.

  ‘Aren’t you a bit on the young side for that?“

  “You think so? I’m in my fifties.”

  “In that case you have lied about your age on this form.”

  “I was only joking.” Winter could feel something inside his head, a sudden weak rush of blood. She looked at him again. “You also seem to be on the young side for an ... interpreter,” he said. Oh, come on! I hope I’m not sitting here flirting.

  She smiled and stood up. She was tall, taller than he had expected.

  “I apologize for all the criminals we have here on the south coast.” She pointed at the door. “If you’d like to wait outside I’ll pass on this form to a police officer who’ll enter the information into the computer. You’ll be called in to him shortly.”

  “Is that everything?” Winter said.

  “I can’t think of anything else.”

  He stood up. There was a sign by the door with three names under a heading that presumably meant “Police Interpreters.” Two men’s names and a woman’s: Alicia. She noticed that he was scrutinizing the sign.

  “Yes, my name’s Alicia.”

  “Erik.”

  “I know,” she said with a smile, indicating the form she had in her hand.

  He waited outside. A constable emerged and ushered him into a room looking out over the main road. It was the man Winter had seen earlier that morning going into the bar, and later into the motorcycle showroom.

  “I apologize for the problems, Chief Inspector.”

  “It was my own fault.”

  The man said nothing. Perhaps he wondered how on earth I could have been such an idiot, something I was asking myself as well.

  “They are getting more and more bold.”

  “That’s the way it is.”


  “But we mustn’t give up, must we?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Where would the world be if the police were to give up?” wondered the officer, but Winter decided not to enter into that philosophical debate just now. The officer spoke excellent English. Their discussion could have been very involved. “When the police give up, the world is doomed.”

  “Do you need any more information?”

  “I beg your pardon? Er, no. I’ll just finish filling this in.”

  The man wrote in silence, much more slowly than he had spoken. He needed to concentrate hard. Winter had no intention of disturbing him. He might take it amiss.

  “There. It’s done. Could you sign here, please? Both copies.”

  Winter duly signed and got to his feet, one of the copies safely in his pocket.

  “Be careful out there, Chief Inspector,” said the police officer, and Winter searched for a trace of irony; but the man’s face was a complete blank. “It’s a jungle.”

  As he passed by the front desk, Alicia emerged from her office carrying more forms: Winter could see another tourist in the chair in front of her desk.

  “Good-bye, Inspector Erik,” she said, giving him a winning smile.

  He thought briefly about her as he walked down the hill. He was behind the wheel of his car and ready to drive to the hospital before he remembered that he needed to stop in at the bank.

  12

  Maria and Patrik were wandering around the center of town. It was chillier now. A northerly wind. Maria plunged her hands into her pockets.

  “Didn’t you bring any gloves?”

  “I thought I had put them in my pocket.”

  “It’s cold.”

  “That’s better than rain, though.”

  “Have you got any cigarettes?” she asked, stopping outside McDon ald’s. The big stores in the Nordstan shopping center were closed, but the doors into the warmth were still open.

  “I’m trying to stop.”

  “Stop? You’ve only just started.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  “Who does?” she said, going into the shopping center. They walked under a blast of warm air. A group of adults followed them in. They all seemed to be laughing. Maria could smell booze and perfume and aftershave. The group stopped outside King Creole, then went in just as Maria and Patrik were passing.