He got up and went to the kitchen. The streetlight hanging over the street swayed forlornly in the wind. He checked the thermometer and saw that the temperature had dropped. It was 7 °C. He smiled at the thought that tomorrow night he would be in Rome where it was still warm. He sat at the kitchen table and had some coffee, going over the preparations for the trip in his mind. A few days earlier he had finally fixed his father’s studio door. He had also taken a look at his father’s new passport. He had exchanged some money for Italian lire at the bank and had bought traveller’s cheques. He was going to leave work early to pick up the tickets.
Now he had to go to work for one last day before his holiday. He left the flat and went down to his car. He zipped up his jacket and shivered when he got into the driver’s seat. On the way to the station he thought about this morning’s meeting.
It was exactly 8 a.m. when he knocked on the door of Lisa Holgersson’s office and opened the door. She nodded and asked him to have a seat. She had been serving as their new chief for only three weeks, but Wallander thought she had already set her stamp on the atmosphere of the department.
Many had been sceptical about a woman who came from a police district in Smaland. And Wallander was surrounded by colleagues who still believed that women weren’t even suited to be police officers. How could one be their chief? But Lisa Holgersson had soon demonstrated how capable she was. Wallander was impressed by her integrity, her fearlessness and the clear presentations she gave, no matter what the topic.
The day before she had arranged a meeting. Now Wallander sat in her visitor’s chair wondering what she wanted.
“You’re going on holiday,” she said. “I heard you were going to Italy with your father.”
“It’s his dream,” Wallander said. “It may be the last chance we get. He’s 80.”
“My father is 85,” she said. “Sometimes his mind is crystal clear. Sometimes he doesn’t recognise me. But I’ve come to terms with the fact that you never escape your parents. The roles are simply reversed. You become your parents’ parent.”
“Exactly,” Wallander replied.
She moved some papers on her desk.
“I don’t have a specific agenda for this meeting,” she said. “But I realised that I’ve never had a proper chance to thank you for your work this summer. It was model detective work.”
Wallander gave her a surprised look. Was she serious?
“That’s putting it a little strongly,” he said. “I made a lot of mistakes. I let the whole investigation be sidetracked. It could have failed miserably.”
“The ability to lead an investigation often means knowing when to shift tactics,” she said. “To look in a direction you may have just ruled out. The investigation was a model in many ways, especially because of your tenacity and your willingness to think along unconventional lines. I want you to know this. I’ve heard it said that the national police chief has expressed his satisfaction. I think you’ll be receiving an invitation to hold seminars about the investigation at the police academy.”
“I can’t do that,” he said. “Ask someone else. I can’t speak to people I don’t know.”
“We’ll take this up again after you get back,” she said, smiling. “Right now the most important thing is that I had a chance to tell you what I thought.”
She stood to indicate that the meeting was over.
Wallander walked down the hall thinking that she’d meant what she said. He tried to dismiss it, but the appreciation made him feel good. It would be easy to work with her in the future.
He got some coffee from the canteen and exchanged a few words with Martinsson about one of his daughters who had tonsillitis. When he got to his office he made an appointment for a haircut. He had made a list the day before, which was on his desk. He’d planned to leave the station as early as midday so that he could deal with all his errands. But it was 4.15 p.m. by the time he left to go to the travel agency. He also stopped at the state off licence and bought a bottle of whisky. When he got home he called Linda. He promised to send her a postcard from Rome. She was in a hurry, and he didn’t ask why. The conversation was over much sooner than he would have liked.
At 6 p.m. he called Loderup and asked Gertrud if everything was in order. She told him that his father had such travel fever that he could hardly sit still. Wallander walked into the centre of town and ate dinner at one of the pizzerias. When he got back to Mariagatan he poured himself a glass of whisky and spread out a map of Rome. He had never been there and didn’t know a word of Italian. But there are two of us, he thought. My father has never been there either, except in his dreams. And he doesn’t speak Italian either. We’re heading into this dream together and will have to guide each other.
On impulse he called the tower at Sturup and asked one of the air traffic controllers, who he knew from an old case, what the weather was like in Rome.
“It’s warm. Right now it’s 21 °C, even though it’s evening. Light winds from the southeast. Light fog too. The forecast for the next 24 hours is for more of the same.”
Wallander thanked him.
“Are you going away?”
“I’m going on holiday with my father.”
“That sounds like a good idea. Are you flying Alitalia?”
“Yes, the 10.45.”
“I’ll be thinking of you. Have a nice trip.”
Wallander went over his packing one more time, checking his money and travel documents. He tried to call Baiba, then remembered that she was visiting relatives.
He sat down with a glass of whisky and listened to La Traviata. He thought about the trip he had taken with Baiba in the summer. Tired and dishevelled, he had waited for her in Copenhagen. He stood there at Kastrup Airport like an unshaven ghost. He knew she was disappointed, though she said nothing. Not until they had reached Skagen and he had caught up on his sleep did he tell her everything that had happened. After that their holiday had started in earnest.
On one of the last days he asked her if she would marry him. She had said no. Not yet, at any rate, not now. The past was still too close. Her husband, police captain Karlis, whom Wallander had worked with, was still alive in her memory. His violent death followed her like a shadow. Above all she doubted she could ever consider marrying another policeman. He understood. But he wanted some kind of assurance. How long would she need to think about it? She was fond of him, he knew. But was that enough? What about him? Did he really want to live with someone else? Through Baiba he had escaped the loneliness that haunted him after his divorce from Mona. It was a big step, a great relief. Maybe he should settle for that. At least for the time being.
It was late when he went to sleep, questions swirling in his head. Gertrud picked him up the next morning. It was still raining. His father was in the front, dressed in his best suit. Gertrud had given him a haircut.
“We’re off to Rome,” his father said happily. “To think we’re actually going.”
Gertrud dropped them in Malmo at the terminal. On the ferry his father insisted on tottering around the rainswept deck. He pointed to the Swedish mainland, to a spot south of Malmo.
“That’s where you grew up. Do you remember?”
“How could I forget?”
“You had a very happy childhood.”
“I know.”
“You had everything.”
“Everything.”
Wallander thought about Stefan Fredman. About Louise. About the brother who had tried to put out his own eyes. About all they lacked or had been deprived of. But he pushed the thoughts away. They would still be there, lurking in the back of his mind; they would return. For now, he was on holiday with his father. That was the most important thing. Everything else would have to wait.
The plane took off as scheduled. His father had a window seat, and Wallander sat on the aisle. It was the first time his father had been in a plane. Wallander watched him press his face to the window as the plane gathered speed and slowly lifted off. Wallander co
uld see him smiling, the smile of an old man, who had been granted, one last time in his life, the chance to feel the joy of a child.
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