“As a pianist at a bar in Djibouti, I met one sort of person, and as a piano teacher for children here, I meet quite another.”
“You mean, the fathers have an excuse to come over?”
“Something like that.”
“Is that painting an original Repin?”
“Given the person I am renting from, certainly. There is a Maksimov hanging over there. But it is not only Russians who come here. For piano lessons, I mean.”
“And in the long run, then?”
“Meeting someone who is divorced, or ready to divorce.”
“Financial types?”
“Those are the only ones who can afford my lessons for their daughters.”
“And now you get to play Gershwin, and even entire pieces by Chopin again?”
“Mostly, I listen to badly played Bach and Prokofiev, to be honest, but this is far better than the bars.” She came close and gently put her hands on his chest.
“What are you wearing under there?”
“A protective vest. I have a one-hour break.”
“We could have had lunch.”
“We could have.”
She lowered her hands.
“I know,” she said in a low voice, “you came for something practical. Not for this.”
He swallowed, and she looked away for a moment. “Something that barely existed cannot be lost, and I am not talking about money. But,” she said then, clearing her throat, “let’s get down to business . . . Timur did everything he promised, and then took his third. There are instructions on how to obtain the rest of your money, in the envelope there.”
“And the other thing I asked you to do?”
“I did as you said, put in the bids, it was not difficult. And they delivered it here.”
“How is it packaged?”
“It was framed. I have not seen it. It is still wrapped up.” Grip looked around. “Not in here,” she continued, “you will get it when you go.” There was silence; something had been left hanging.
“Do not be disappointed,” she said. He looked bewildered. “Disappointed in me,” she tried to explain, putting her hands on his shoulders so that she could actually feel him.
“I need this, want this,” she said. “I want to have you again. You are in London sometimes?”
“It happens.”
“Come here then. You want it too. It is just that I also need to think a little further ahead, while you want to burn and disappear. Come whenever you are running away from something else. But when I finally find my husband here in the banking district, then I will no longer answer your calls.”
“Do you want children?”
“Exactly the kind of life you do not have in you. And I do want that, a home and a family. But you, who knows what you really need.” She paused a moment and then smiled. “I will miss your shoulders. The kind of banker that I will end up with will not have those.”
“I’ll probably be back in town in a month or so.”
“Well then.”
She disappeared but came right back. There was the rustle of wrapping paper, when Grip put the package under his arm.
“What will you say to your colleagues when you show up with a package?”
“That I bought a framed poster at lunch.”
“And what will you do with the rest?”
“You mean with the money?”
“Naturally, I am talking about the money.”
“Next time I’ll invite you to dinner.”
“It should cover much more than that.”
“Maybe I’ll tell you then.”
“I don’t need an excuse to see you.”
“No, but maybe I need one.”
He leaned forward. She smiled but guarded herself against what would have been a kiss on the cheek.
“You do not need to play polite. I just want to know if we will meet again.”
“About that, I’m all but certain.”
60
The rule of thirds had worked: Ayanna and the Russian at the casino had received their shares, and Grip himself would get the balance. They probably felt they’d earned their third, unlike him. Still, he’d allowed himself to buy that drawing. What remained was a staggering sum that weighed heavily on him.
In the Stockholm offices of Scandinavian Capital, by Stureplan Square, the lights had been dimmed for the night. Yet a silver mist seemed to hang in the air, from the bright white Christmas lights that had been lit a few days before, in the streets outside. It was so late that even the most ambitious new hires had left their desks and headed home.
A lone cleaning woman pulled her cart across the dark wood floor. Once again, the rule of thirds came into play. For two-thirds of the day, the office was used for managing investments, and for the last third, someone earned only enough for bare essentials. It was called the evening shift; at best she finished at three o’clock in the morning. The desks and chairs had all been dusted, and the toilets cleaned, so only the vacuuming and mopping remained. She knew the rounds; it was simply routine. Five nights a week, and on Sundays she cleaned it all in broad daylight. If she was lucky, for that shift she’d have a coworker keeping her company.
She heard steps behind her.
“Sorry,” she said, turning around. At work, all her sentences began that way. It happened now and again that someone would appear to deal with an emergency in the middle of the night. Swiftclean’s white logo shone on her shirt in the silver mist, and she smiled at the man, the way you do when sharing a night shift. She stood up for a moment, to see which part of the office he belonged to.
“No, I don’t work here,” he said.
“You have gotten lost,” she said, with her accent. “I can show you the way out.”
“In a moment. I wanted to see this office and exchange a few words with you.”
She looked at him cautiously but wasn’t afraid. They stood next to a coffee machine. Beside it was a bowl of fruit and a countertop fridge with glass doors, filled with perfectly straight rows of expensive water, beer, wine, and, at the bottom, even a few bottles of champagne.
“Ideally, I’d like to make you a cup,” he said, “but the coffee isn’t mine, and I get the idea that you’d feel uncomfortable touching any of this.” She said nothing. “And you might be uncomfortable enough, as it is.”
“Who are you?”
“I’ll let that go unsaid, but you work for your brother who owns this cleaning company, and your husband is Cismaan Delmar.”
“He is not my husband anymore. We are divorced now.”
“So, night work gives you a little more to live on?”
She shrugged and said irritably, “If this is about Cismaan’s debts, take that to him. I live my own life now, and he lives his.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t care about anyone’s debts. I’m here for an entirely different reason. Until recently, you were regularly receiving envelopes containing money.”
“They were from my son.”
“Exactly.”
“He just wants to help out with the rent and other things.”
“You have deserved that money in every way. Could you please sit down for a minute?”
Her eyes darkened as she reluctantly shifted from cleaning lady to mother. “Are you from the police? Has something happened to him?”
“Here you are.” He rolled over a desk chair for her and sat down on an identical one.
“Tell me now!” A wounded demand, laid bare before a complete stranger.
He opened his hand and showed her the bracelet with its wooden beads.
She trembled as her fear turned to certainty and grief, wrapped up in the same emotion.
“I didn’t know him, but this belonged to him.”
She had already taken the bracelet and was rolling the balls in the palm of her hand.
“Where?”
“Not far from Barawe,” he replied. “I don’t know the name of the place, but he has a grave.”
“Who did it?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do not believe you.”
Grip looked down at the floor and said instead, “The money you’ve been getting, he left that behind.”
“His brother died trying to flee,” she replied. “And now, I come here at night, while both of my children lie in graves down there. Why, can you tell me? What does God mean by this?”
He sat quietly, making a feeble gesture of apology.
Tears rose up, but he couldn’t hear that in her voice. Then: “Do you understand what it feels like when nothing has meaning? Nothing.”
“Maybe not.” He stood up. “This may not mean very much . . . but here is the key to a storage locker downtown. It has all you will ever need.”
“Do you want me to be grateful?”
“That is the last thing I want, but I want you to know where the money comes from.”
“I have no idea what to use that money for.”
“You can stop working the night shift.”
“I could stop working altogether, but what would I do? Hands must have something to do.” And only then did her voice break, and she turned away with her hand over her eyes.
Grip looked at his watch. “In a quarter hour, a taxi will be waiting outside. Just go home, or to your brother’s. Your car is already paid for. In any case, Scandinavian Capital can start one day without a shiny floor.”
He started walking.
On his way out, he stopped next to a magazine rack, where someone had left a copy of Yachting World on the table. It had a huge white sailboat on the cover, surrounded by unnaturally turquoise water. The image must have been taken from a helicopter flying over, photographing it bow to stern. At the helm was a woman standing alone, her feet wide apart and in full control, her white clothes matching the sail. And in front of her, with her back to the camera and the wind in her hair, also dressed in white, sat a confident-looking girl on the deck.
He stopped for a moment to look at the cover, then stuffed his hands in his pockets and kept walking.
About the Author
ROBERT KARJEL was a lieutenant colonel in the Swedish Air Force for twenty-five years. His job as a helicopter pilot took him all over the world, from peacekeeping missions in Afghanistan to pirate hunting in Somalia, and he is the only Swedish pilot who has trained with the US Marine Corps and flown its attack helicopters. He is the author of The Swede, his first novel to be published in English, and is one of the most sought-after motivational speakers in Sweden. He lives with his family outside of Stockholm.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Also by Robert Karjel
The Swede
Copyright
AFTER THE MONSOON. Copyright © 2018 by Robert Karjel. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Cover design by James Iacobelli
Cover photographs © Chris Clor/Getty Images (waves); © jantima14/Shutterstock (texture)
Originally published as Efter monsunen in Sweden in 2016 by Partners in Stories.
FIRST EDITION
Digital Edition JULY 2018 ISBN: 978-0-06-233972-0
Version 05192018
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-233970-6
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