The Truth Behind the Lie

by Sara Lövestam

  Another theory deals with Pernilla herself. But it’s a terrible one.

  She calls just as he starts thinking this theory through, as if she can read his mind and wants to stop him.

  “I couldn’t sleep last night,” she says.

  “Why not?” Kouplan asks.

  He realizes his question should rather consider whether anyone who lost a child could ever sleep again.

  “I don’t know if I’m paranoid, or … You know, everything is gone. I can show you the box where I had her lock of hair. Somebody’s been in here and I’m lying awake afraid he’ll come back.”

  “So are you afraid?”

  “No, I hope he comes. I’ll take him on. I lie awake and I’m ready for him.”

  Kouplan thinks about his horrible theory. Its drawback is if Pernilla herself were behind Julia’s disappearance, why would she hire a detective to look for her? On the other hand, it would make sense if she got rid of all the evidence that Julia had actually existed.

  “I can take a look at the box,” he says. “Look for fingerprints.”

  Pernilla thinks it’s a good idea. This speaks against his horrible theory, but he decides not to drop it. His brother often said: Don’t let go of your worst misgiving until you have it all in black and white and with a key to Paradise.

  “That guy,” Kouplan says. “The one you see when you’re out with your dog.”

  “Yes?” Pernilla asks as Kouplan tries to think how to frame his question.

  “What kind of a guy is he?”

  “It’s not him,” Pernilla says immediately. “He would never do anything like that.”

  “No, but what kind of a guy is he?”

  “He’s nice. Funny. We share a sense of humor. It really can’t be him. Once, it was raining and he held his umbrella over me even though he got drenched himself.”

  “And he’s never met Julia?”

  “Not that they’ve ever talked to each other.”

  So, Kouplan thinks as he adds these bits of information, Pernilla has met this man with his mutt many times.

  “So Julia was often home alone,” he states.

  “Just for short times,” Pernilla says. “Twenty minutes or so, when I walked the dog in the evening. Sometimes she was already asleep.”

  He hears her bad conscience. Twenty minutes out of twenty-four hours, when a single mom leaves her sleeping child alone. Her secret child, who was never allowed to talk to anyone. What do children do when they are not allowed to do anything? He gets an idea and also gives up one that said that Pernilla did not love her child.

  “Was Julia able to read and write?”

  He could have bitten his own tongue, but Pernilla doesn’t notice he’s using the past tense.

  “Yes, fairly well. She can read some books all by herself. Why?”

  “Does she know how to use your computer?”

  “Not really. Well, she’s watched me while I work. I do telephone support, but I use email, too.”

  “Could someone call you in the evenings?”

  “In theory. But it’s support for businesses. They call during the day.”

  “But let’s say someone calls in the evening.”

  “Julia knows not to answer the phone.”

  Pernilla says this quickly, almost before Kouplan finishes his question.

  Julia would never answer the phone, Kouplan thinks. Just like Liam would never go into a tenant’s room when he was sleeping. They’re six-year-olds.

  “I can’t stay at home,” Pernilla says. “What can I do? Put me to work somewhere and tell me what to do.”

  * * *

  Kouplan sends Pernilla back to Hökarängen. Chavez has never gone there while Kouplan has been shadowing him, and there’s even the possibility that Chavez is the wrong man. There’s the possibility that the person who took Julia goes on his merry way and an observant eye can find her.

  “Stay near the subway or the grocery store,” he says. “I can meet you there in a little while.”

  “I’m supposed to just sit around?”

  Kouplan thinks about her memory.

  “Keep on writing down more things you can remember.”

  “I’ve written a lot, almost five pages. I just don’t know what I am supposed to remember.”

  Then there’s silence on her end. It’s quiet for so long that Kouplan checks his phone to make sure it’s still on. Finally Pernilla says okay.

  * * *

  As soon as they’ve hung up, Kouplan remembers two more things and calls back.

  “Can you check your phone for incoming calls during the past month?”

  “Sure, I’ll do it before I leave.”

  “And one more thing. When’s Julia’s birthday?”

  “Her birthday?”

  “Yes, what day was she born?”

  “The … the third of August.”

  A reply that sounds more like a suggestion. So he asks again.

  “August third, you said? August third, exactly?”

  “Yes…”

  Kouplan keeps silent. Sometimes she keeps on talking if he gives her time.

  “Well, it was around the third of August,” she says after a long pause. “Things were so chaotic back then. But we celebrated her birthday on August third.”

  * * *

  Kouplan counts forty weeks back from August third six years ago. He thinks he should have asked if she could remember who called her then. He should have asked for access to her e-mail. What she can’t remember might be digitally recorded there. He puts on the jacket that an angel had once sold him for just fifty crowns and glances out the window to check before he goes outside. He thinks about his classmate who had the same name as the family he is about to visit. Thinks about when he’d once been a completely different person.

  CHAPTER 27

  “That’s what’s hardest to remember.” Pernilla gets caught on these words. They echo in her mind and scramble everything she’s supposed to remember. She’s written eight and a half pages of moments she’s experienced, yet none of them can help Kouplan because he wants ones she can’t remember. It’s like searching for the back side of the universe.

  He’s asked her to think back to the time before Julia arrived and she understands that he really wants to know who she was sleeping with. But the only one was Patrick; she’s absolutely sure of it. She digs deeper into her mind for anyone else, but if so, perhaps there were good reasons to forget. If anything else slips through, it’s from an even earlier time. No, nobody else could have been Julia’s father, even if there are months she cannot remember. Kouplan’s like an employer who wants to know why there’s a gap in her CV.

  Hökarängen’s subway station is practically empty. While she waits for travelers to see if there’s anyone she recognizes, she keeps writing. Every few minutes, she has a glimpse of a blond girl from the corner of her eye, but each time it’s just a reflection from one of the windows.

  I remember the arguments anyway. A child in the womb should not have to listen to arguments. It should only hear the shush of the body and Mozart. Patrick was furious over my choice to not let Social Services assume authority over Julia. According to him, I should be admitted to a psychiatric ward and Julia should be adopted or whatever. Since he was the father, you’d think he’d take over responsibility instead, if I were so mentally unstable. It takes two to create a child. The more I think back, the more I remember the arguments, the tone of his voice—even reaching falsetto—while everything I said just went past him. And there was so much crying. A child in the womb should not have to hear its mother cry. A mother is its entire world and if she’s crying, it can’t be good. I kept thinking about this, so I tried to be happy. Finally, I told Patrick to leave when I realized he was behind all the arguments.

  Three people had come and now shared the bench with her. None of them are heading to the platform. She rereads her last paragraph; yes, she really was the one who’d told Patrick to get lost. It still doesn’t excuse what he’s
done. He could have fought for them. A man in a black leather jacket is coming up the stairs. He’s a big man and looks a little sullen. She keeps an eye on him through his reflection in the window. She’s searching for a secret sign that he’s the one who’s kidnapped her daughter. She tries to feel that connection mothers have when their children are close by. But she’s almost positive: Julia is not in Hökarängen.

  * * *

  Pelle Chavez is feeling irritated. It makes him do another round of bench pressing. He groans after this exertion and gets up from the bench. If they suspect him of anything, they should just ask. He’s as pure as the driven snow. But a kid has followed him twice. He’s just about 80 percent sure it was the same one both times. He knows the boss checks people out and he takes it as an insult.

  The boy looks like the skinniest kid in the world. Probably not more than sixteen and looks like a stick figure. As he thinks about M.B.’s business, he imagines the kid is a direct import—an apprentice M.B. can break in or get rid of—who has no choice but to be loyal. If Pelle flicked him with his finger, the kid would fall down dead.

  Questioning the boss would not be a good move, he thinks, as he lies back down for another set. On the other hand, he’d get points if he points the kid out to M.B. A sign that Pelle Chavez keeps his eyes open. Either that, or maybe he’ll just beat the kid up the next time he sees him. He’s bench-pressing two hundred and fifty pounds and concentrates on the bar, tensing his back, stomach, and chest. He decides to wait and see.

  * * *

  Kouplan smells a familiar aroma just inside the security door. He has to remind himself that the family with the Persian name could be kidnappers or criminals. They could be the people Chavez was visiting. He has to be careful. He takes a few deep breaths before he rings the doorbell. The door is unlocked and a wave of aroma hits him. No, you can’t be a criminal if you can make such good fesenjan. A pair of questioning eyes looks at him. The eyes have the same color as his own.

  “Ba drood,” he says.

  It’s an educated guess. These names are totally Persian—otherwise he’d greet them with the Arabic salaam. The mouth under these eyes smiles and the scent of the chicken dish carries Kouplan away to other places.

  “I’m looking for Nima,” he says.

  It’s not really a lie. It’s also the first time he’s said his brother’s name aloud in many years. The name echoes in his heart and he has to say what’s on his mind at that moment:

  “That smells absolutely wonderful.”

  * * *

  The Sohrabi family consists of a mother, a father, and two daughters. The parents speak Persian with one another, but Swedish to the children, who’d probably been born here. The elder daughter is about fourteen, and the looks she’s giving him make him uneasy. The chicken tastes like a bite of heaven.

  “Nima,” the mother says, looking at the father. “Do you know any Nima?”

  Kouplan hurries to explain. “I just took a chance. I was searching on the web for people whose names he mentioned and you were one of them.”

  The Sohrabi family wants to know everything. When did Nima disappear? Were the police called in? Kouplan is lying about everything, and maybe they’ve even figured out he’s lying, but they still ask him to write down Nima’s name on a sheet of paper and they tell him they’ll get in touch if they hear anything about him.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I took you for someone else.”

  He waits for a pause in the conversation that would allow him to change the subject. Finally, he says: “You have a nice place here. I’ve always dreamed of living at Maria Square.”

  His true dream is to be able to live here without being scared to death. But the lies flow naturally, and why not be the guy he says that he is? He’s already not the person he now is.

  “Yes, we were looking between Maria Square and Medborgarplatsen,” the father is saying. “Shaghayegh works here in Södermalm and I work in the city center.”

  Kouplan says that Maria Square was preferable, when you consider the location and the view. The elder daughter is pouting slightly and sticking out her chest in a way that makes Kouplan feel embarrassed.

  “How are the neighbors?” asks Kouplan. He looks expectantly at the other members of the family.

  The neighbors are polite and reserved and somewhat impersonal for the most part, the parents both agree, but the daughter does not.

  “Except for the ones upstairs!”

  Shaghayegh’s expression is difficult to interpret.

  “Yes, one of the neighbors is a bit noisy.”

  “You could say that again,” the daughter says. “Lots of people go in and out, too.”

  “Well, well,” the father says with an intonation that the daughter ignores.

  “You’re the one always complaining!” the daughter exclaims. She’s pleased by the attention. “It’s hard to tell who’s really living there!”

  “So what name’s on the door?” Kouplan asks, as if he didn’t really care.

  “We’re allowed to talk to all the neighbors except them,” the younger daughter explains. “Because they are bad people.”

  The mother and father look at each other. The father shrugs.

  “Let’s just say we’d never invite them in for fesenjan,” he says. “But as for everyone else, it’s not bad here.”

  “Well, they’re the ones losing out,” Kouplan says. “Because this is the best fesenjan I’ve ever had.”

  “Please have some more!”

  “What’s your name?” asks the younger daughter.

  There’s a moment of silence when everyone is thinking what to say without making anyone embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry, I forgot to introduce myself,” he says. “I’m Mehdi. So happy to meet all of you.”

  He feels like he’s sitting with his own family. Almost. His own mother is perhaps not as good at making fesenjan, and nobody is discussing politics, but all in all it’s almost like being in a time capsule of the world he’s left behind. So it’s not unreasonable that he’s chosen to call himself Mehdi. That’s his father’s name.

  * * *

  He walks to the staircase, but pauses for a moment. Should he take a look at the apartment above? Or should he act like a normal person? Is the elder daughter of the Sohrabi family looking out the peephole at him? Probably. Does he really want to go upstairs and confront someone who is certainly a bad person, perhaps even a kidnapper? Probably not, but detectives can’t always choose. Suddenly, the door to the apartment above slams shut and he shoots down the staircase and is out on the street before he can even complete the thought. He crosses the street as if he’s in a hurry to get to the apothecary. He shuts the door behind him, surrounded by toothpaste and advertisements for medication. It’s hard to see anything through the window, which is fogged up and mostly covered by advertisements, so he opens the door again slightly. On the other side of the street, a man is walking quickly away. Kouplan can only see him from the back, and the size of his nose is unclear. As the man turns the corner, he adjusts his pants.

  CHAPTER 28

  She doesn’t dare say yuck.

  You’re not supposed to say yuck about food, no matter what, but not saying yuck is supposed to be a nice thing to do, not something you’re terrified about. She eats her thousandth millionth cheeseburger. The first one had tasted good, but now cheeseburgers taste like disgusting men and being kept prisoner. When she looks through the window, it no longer even seems to lead to the air outside.

  “Eat up, now,” says the man who is not her father.

  If he had been her father, she would say yuck. But this man is nothing more than one who steals children. He says that he’s leaving for a week and she has to be a good girl.

  “Tomorrow you will have a visitor,” he says. “You’re a big girl, now, you see.”

  She shakes her head. She knows she’s not really a big girl. If he were her real father, he would say she’s still a child. She can’t imagine wha
t will happen tomorrow, but she can tell by his voice that it’s going to be hard.

  “And then you have to do exactly what he tells you,” the man says. “Otherwise, he will get angry. Did you see what Iwona looked like after a man got angry?”

  She understands what he’s telling her even if he’s not spelling it out.

  “It’s important that you keep silent and do exactly what he wants,” the man repeats. “I hope you understand me.”

  Then he goes out and locks the door behind him.

  Then twenty-one red cars drive past on the street below. Other cars, too, but she only counts the red ones. Then it gets darker and it’s harder to tell what colors the cars are.

  Then it’s night.

  She still has the taste of cheeseburger in her mouth. She can’t get rid of it.

  * * *

  Iwona is one of the grown-ups. One day her face was covered in blood and her cheek was deep purple. She didn’t say a word about it. Now it’s grayer. And a little green and a little blue. When Iwona saw she was staring at her cheek, her face twitched and then she tried to smile, but she couldn’t.

  She likes Iwona, even though she’s only seen her three times. Of all the people in the apartment, Iwona is the only one she likes. She’s now lying on the bed and counting all the people she hates on her fingers. The guy with the potato nose. The man with the accent. The man who says he’s her father. And all the men who go into Iwona’s room and make those sounds. They fill up all the fingers on her other hand and they are still there. Even though it’s night. They’re groaning and banging and they’re throwing around Iwona’s furniture.

  * * *

  She can’t understand why she’d just followed him like that.