After the Fire by Henning Mankell
‘We’ll sort out legal representation for you,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately the embassy can’t cover the cost, but we can advance you the money for the time being.’
‘Will it be expensive?’ I asked.
‘Not necessarily.’
‘Then I’ll pay.’
He nodded and took out his phone, but there was no signal deep in the bowels of the building. He exchanged a few words with the officer, who let him out. I heard his footsteps hurrying up the stairs as he sought daylight and a phone signal.
I took my daughter’s hand. I wasn’t used to doing such a thing. For the first time since that day almost ten years ago, when Harriet had told me that the woman standing in the doorway of her caravan in the forests of Hälsingland was my daughter, I actually felt as if she was.
I wished that Harriet was still alive, able to see that at long last Louise and I had found one another.
I asked her how she was feeling. I asked about the baby. She answered quietly that everything was fine. Eventually I couldn’t avoid asking why she hadn’t turned up for lunch that day, why she had simply left a note under my windscreen wiper.
‘I just needed to get away.’
I left it there. Her response made it clear that she didn’t want to tell me why she had suddenly taken off.
We got quite close while Rutgersson was upstairs chasing a phone signal. I felt I understood my daughter better than I had in the past; she was running away, but nothing more.
I had one more question.
‘You called me. Did you call anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘Why me? Of course it was absolutely the right thing to do, but just a few days earlier you’d gone off and left me without a word.’
‘There’s no one else I can ask for help.’
‘You’ve always said you have a lot of friends.’
‘That might not be true.’
‘Why would a person lie about something like that?’
‘I have no idea what other people do, but I don’t always tell the truth. Just like you.’
I could tell from her voice that she didn’t want to continue the conversation. We’d gone this far but no further. She had called me. No one else.
Rutgersson returned; there was something weasel-like about the way he moved. He brandished the phone as if it were a gun. He always seemed to be in a hurry.
‘Madame Riveri will take on your case,’ he said before the police officer had time to close the door behind him. ‘She’s helped us out in the past; on three separate occasions she’s managed to get Swedish citizens out of tricky situations. We can safely leave matters with her.’
He shook hands with Louise and wished her luck.
‘Unfortunately I can’t stay,’ he said. ‘I have a meeting at the embassy. But Madame Riveri will keep me informed.’
He left the room, and I could hear his footsteps dashing up the stairs.
‘He’s been a great help,’ I said.
‘I’m glad he’s not the father of my child,’ was Louise’s response.
I didn’t understand what she meant. Or perhaps I did.
—
Madame Riveri was about fifty years old and elegantly dressed. She moved and talked in a relaxed manner which left no one in any doubt about her opinion of her own ability in legal affairs. With a firm gesture she dismissed the female officer and took a notebook out of her bag. When she realised that Louise’s French wasn’t good enough to sustain a meaningful discussion, she switched to English. I now heard in detail how Louise had travelled around on the Metro looking for a suitable victim. Madame Riveri wanted to know exactly where and when she had boarded the first train, where she had changed and why she had chosen that particular man as her target. The way Louise answered convinced me that she trusted Madame Riveri.
They spoke about the baby, but the identity of the father wasn’t mentioned. Finally Madame Riveri asked if this was the first time Louise had committed a crime. She said it was, but I could see that the other woman didn’t believe her. Louise’s dexterity spoke of a great deal of practice over a long period.
‘What you have just told me is not true, of course. However, it will help our case if you are a first-time offender who just happened to get caught.’
Madame Riveri snapped her leather-bound notebook shut and slipped it into her bag.
‘I would ask you not to speak to anyone unless I am present,’ she said. ‘We’ll have you out of here in a couple of days, three at the most. I doubt if it will be sooner, but it is possible.’
She got to her feet, shook Louise’s hand then nodded to indicate that she wanted me to accompany her. The police officer escorted Louise away and I trotted up the stairs after Madame Riveri; she was moving so fast that I found it difficult to keep up. When we were out on the street and the heavy door had closed behind us, she gave me her card.
‘I’ll pay whatever it costs, of course,’ I said.
She gave me an ironic smile. ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘But we don’t need to discuss that at the moment.’
I wanted to find out what was going to happen next, but she hailed a cab and disappeared without even saying goodbye.
—
I set off for my hotel. There was rain in the air. I stopped on the bridge over the Seine and watched a barge as it passed beneath me. A woman was hanging out washing, and there was a pram anchored to the deck. I jumped when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and looked straight into a dirty, unshaven face. When the man asked me for money, there was no avoiding his bad breath. I gave him a euro and walked away.
I remembered my father confiding his great fear: he was terrified that one day he would be unable to pay his bills and would end up living on the street. I never understood why he told me that. Perhaps he wanted to warn me? But I was careful and always made sure I had money put aside in case of something unexpected.
When I reached the hotel, Monsieur Pierre was back with his warm smile. I went into the bar and had a cup of tea as a change from all that coffee before taking the lift up to my room.
I had just lain down on the bed when my telephone rang. It was Madame Riveri; she had arranged an appointment with the magistrate’s court for the following day to request that Louise be released and deported from France. She wanted to know if I would be able to pay for my daughter’s flight to Sweden; I told her that wasn’t a problem.
I fell asleep, and in my dream my father was running around a deserted pavement cafe. It was very windy, and the napkin over his arm was flapping like a partially torn-off wing. I tried to call out to him, but I couldn’t force a single sound from my throat.
As my father fell over, I woke up with my heart racing. I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to slow my breathing. After a few minutes I checked my pulse: ninety-seven. Much too fast. I lay down again and thought about my heart. Had I lived a life that put me at risk of an unexpected heart attack? I tried to dismiss the idea but without success. I took a tranquilliser from the pack I always carried with me and waited for it to take effect.
My phone rang again; this time it was Lisa Modin.
‘I’m in Paris. Where are you?’
‘At the hotel you booked for me.’
‘Is it OK?’
‘Yes. Where are you?’
‘At the station – Gare du Nord.’
‘Not Gare Montparnasse?’
‘I’m on my way there.’
‘Are you staying in this hotel?’
‘No, but not far away.’
‘I’ll come and meet you. Just tell me where you are in the station, and I’ll come over.’
‘There’s no need. I know where my hotel is.’
‘I’ve always dreamed of meeting a woman arriving in Paris.’
She laughed, briefly and with a hint of embarrassment.
‘I’ve found my daughter,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you more later.’
‘Pick me up in an hour. I’ve only just got here; I need to sit down and get used
I promised to meet her, then I went down to the bar and ordered a mineral water. Monsieur Pierre was just getting ready to hand over to the night porter.
Thirty minutes later Lisa rang to tell me she was in a small cafe next to a big Dubonnet sign.
—
There were still plenty of people in the station, but the rush hour was over. I immediately spotted the Dubonnet sign; Lisa was sitting alone, drinking tea next to the barrier separating the cafe from the waiting room. She was wearing a dark blue coat, and her suitcase was by her feet.
I thought how pretty she was, and that she had come to visit me.
I was just about to go over to her when my phone rang. I thought it might be Louise, so I answered.
Needless to say, it was Jansson.
‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asked. ‘Where are you?’
‘It doesn’t matter where I am. What do you want? If you’ve developed some new imaginary illness, I don’t have time for that right now.’
‘I just wanted to call and tell you there’s a fire.’
At first I didn’t understand what he meant, and then I went cold all over.
‘What’s on fire? My boathouse?’
‘The house on Källö. The widow Westerfeldt’s house.’
‘Has it burned down?’
‘It’s still burning. I just wanted you to know.’
The call ended abruptly; I guessed that Jansson had failed to charge his phone, as usual.
I thought about what he had said; I hoped the widow Westerfeldt had managed to get out. Her house was very similar to mine. It had been built along the same lines by skilled carpenters at the end of the nineteenth century.
I stood there clutching my phone. I was finding it very difficult to process what Jansson had said, but surely it must mean that I couldn’t possibly be a suspect? Unless of course there were natural causes behind this latest blaze.
I couldn’t know, and yet I was sure. There was a pyromaniac or an arsonist loose on our islands.
I slipped my phone into my pocket, and when I looked over at Lisa again she had seen me. She waved hesitantly, as if she really wanted to hide the gesture.
I waved back and went over to her table.
CHAPTER 17
We started off talking like strangers who just happened to be sitting next to one another. I ordered wine from the waitress, and we raised our glasses. I brushed against her hand and said I was pleased to see her. I asked pointless questions about her journey; her responses were equally meaningless.
She suggested we should settle the bill; I wanted to pay, but she refused. When I offered to carry her case, she shook her head.
We went to her hotel together. I still hadn’t said anything about Louise, and she hadn’t asked. I was preoccupied with that horrible phone call from Jansson, and the fact that the widow Westerfeldt’s house was in flames right now.
We walked along in silence. Eventually I said, ‘Paris is always Paris.’
‘Always,’ Lisa replied.
Her hotel, the Mignon, appeared to be more modest than mine. A dark-skinned young man was on duty at the small reception desk; apparently guests were issued with some kind of plastic card instead of a heavy key. I waited while Lisa registered and handed over her credit card.
‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I need to sleep.’
‘312,’ I said. ‘I’m sure that’s a good room. If you’re up on the third floor, you won’t be disturbed by the traffic.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
The bar next to reception was just about to close.
‘Just a few minutes,’ I said. ‘Stay for a drink. I’ve got news.’
She hesitated. ‘I need to wash my hands. I won’t be long.’
I watched her disappear into the lift; a couple speaking Danish rather too loudly collected their key card and I went into the bar. The woman behind the counter didn’t exactly look pleased to see me.
‘I won’t stay long,’ I said apologetically. ‘A glass of red wine, please. A guest who’s staying at the hotel will be down shortly. We won’t stay long.’
She nodded without speaking, poured me a glass of wine then went into the kitchen at the back. I wondered how many bars I had visited in my life. Thought about the endless hours I had spent hunched over wine glasses and coffee cups.
When Lisa came in I could see that she had combed her hair and changed her blouse. The barmaid emerged from the kitchen and asked her what she wanted; Lisa simply pointed to my glass.
‘The bar is closing,’ I said. ‘She seems a bit annoyed with us.’
‘My room is small,’ Lisa said. ‘I was kind of disappointed, but then I noticed how quiet it was. You were right: I couldn’t hear the traffic at all.’
‘I’ve found Louise, and she has a lawyer who’s helping her. We’re hoping she’ll be released either tomorrow or the following day, if the judge is sympathetic.’
‘You must be so pleased. I should have asked about her as soon as we met.’
‘I’m relieved. A man from the Swedish embassy helped me; without him I would never have found her.’
The barmaid brought the bill over, and this time Lisa let me pay. We emptied our glasses and stood up; before we had even got through the door, the lights had been switched off.
‘I’ve got something else to tell you as well,’ I said when we were waiting for the lift. ‘Jansson, the man who brought you to the island, called to tell me that a house on a neighbouring island is on fire. Right now, tonight.’
‘What? And was that deliberate too?’
‘I don’t know, but fires are rare out on the islands. There’s something strange going on. It’s frightening.’
For the first time since she saw me at the railway station, Lisa actually seemed interested in talking to me. I was disappointed; a burning house was clearly more important than the man who wanted nothing more than to get close to her.
‘We can talk about it tomorrow,’ I said, preparing to leave. ‘When shall I call round?’
‘Let me come to your hotel, then I can see what I booked for you.’
We arranged for her to be there at ten. When I got outside I was overcome by the urge to set off into the night, to see where life might take me. Without further thought I went over to a taxi waiting by a lamp post, and asked the driver to take me to the Place Pigalle. He was North African, and he was playing loud music. I asked him to turn it down as we drove off, but he pretended not to hear me.
I had had enough. I yelled at him, told him to pull over. I threw him a handful of euros and got out of the car.
‘Fucking music!’ I shouted at him through the open side window.
He shouted something in response, but I didn’t understand. I had already turned and was walking away. I was afraid he might come after me; if he attacked me, I wouldn’t stand a chance. I heard the car screech past; the driver didn’t even look at me.
I was so scared I was shaking. I knew I ought to go back to my hotel, but instead I got into another taxi. This one was driven by a grey-haired man; I guessed he was part of the distinguished tradition of Russian taxi drivers in Paris. His radio was switched off. The interior of the car smelled of sausages and strong tea. When I asked him to take me to the Place Pigalle, his only response was a brief nod. He dropped me off near the Moulin Rouge, and I went straight to the nearest bistro.
I drank. A lot. Partly due to relief, because I thought Louise would be released within a day or two, and partly because of Jansson’s phone call. I couldn’t believe he would have contacted me if this new fire hadn’t also been started deliberately.
But I drank mainly because I had realised that whatever reasons Lisa Modin might have had for coming to Paris, they were nothing to do with my hopes and dreams. She might be interested in me as a person, but not as a man.
I kept ordering, kept drinking. Eventually I called Jansson. It was a long time before he answered; he sounded out of breath as he shouted in my ear.
‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Where are you?’
‘We’re trying to stop the fire from reaching the barn, but the lovely old house is beyond saving.’
‘Hold the phone away from your ear.’
‘What?’
‘I want to hear the fire.’
He did as I said, and I really thought I could hear the roar of the flames.
‘Did you get the widow out?’ I asked when he came back on the line.
‘They’ve taken her to the Sundells’ place on Ormö so that she doesn’t have to see this.’
‘Take a picture.’
‘A picture?’
Jansson didn’t seem to understand.
‘Have you got a camera phone? Take a picture and send it to me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to see that what you’re saying is true. I want you to send a picture to my phone, here in this bar where I’m drinking myself into a stupor.’
‘Why?’
‘Why am I drinking or why do I want a picture? I’ll tell you when I get home. I’ll say it one more time: I’m in Paris. I’m waiting for that picture.’
Jansson did as I asked. I had another drink, then my phone pinged. I looked at the image; it was terrible. You couldn’t see anything of the house, just a formless glow.
I held the phone up to the barman.
‘My house is burning down,’ I said.
He looked at me but didn’t say anything. I could understand why.
I went out into the night. I had neither the courage nor the desire to speak to the women hanging around on the street, but I suddenly recalled a New Year’s Eve, the year before I met Harriet, when I had a relationship with a girl who worked in an ironmonger’s shop.
At Christmas I realised I didn’t want to carry on seeing her, but I didn’t know how to tell her because she would be devastated. I needed time to think. A few days before New Year’s Eve I was in the apartment where she lived with her parents, who happened to be away. The original plan had been that we would celebrate the New Year quietly together, which was something I wanted to avoid at any price.
I told her I had to go out to buy some new shoes. I had already left a note under her nightdress so that she would find it at bedtime.