After the Fire by Henning Mankell

I screwed up the note and shoved it in my pocket. She threw her rucksack on the back seat and got behind the wheel.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in touch very soon.’

  I gave her my number and she put it in her phone. She was smiling as she closed the door and turned the key. She shot up the hill at high speed. The fact that she was in such a hurry made me jealous; who was waiting for her?

  I went over to the litter bin outside the chandlery and threw away the message. When I turned to go back to my boat, I saw another person in the otherwise deserted harbour. It was Oslovski. She was hobbling along as if she had injured her foot or leg. I really, really hoped she wasn’t going to ask me to check her blood pressure. Right now all I wanted to do was go home and get warm in my caravan.

  Oslovski was very pale and looked tired.

  We stopped and shook hands; I noticed that her hand was sweaty, which was unusual. I had a strong feeling that she had changed in some way, although I couldn’t put my finger on how. There was something about her usually clear gaze that I didn’t recognise.

  We exchanged the standard pleasantries about the weather and our health. I asked if she had been away, but she merely smiled and didn’t answer.

  At that moment I realised she was afraid. I didn’t know why, but I was immediately convinced that I was right. She was standing there in front of me, but at the same time she was moving away. Something in the background was frightening her.

  ‘I’m on my way home,’ I said. ‘But if you want me to check your blood pressure, we can go up to the car.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’m fine. No aches and pains, and my blood pressure is either too high or too low.’

  She wanted to go, but I couldn’t help trying to keep her there. As long as I was talking to her, she would have to stay.

  ‘This harbour was built for herring fishing,’ I said. ‘There isn’t a single professional fisherman left today. The trawlers have rotted away or been sold to Africa.’

  ‘To the Baltic states,’ Oslovski replied, unusually forcefully.

  I saw no reason to contradict her.

  ‘Anyway, they’re all gone,’ I said. ‘The trawlermen and the owners. All dead and gone.’

  ‘Old age and death,’ Oslovski said. ‘I once read a quotation hanging on the wall of a carpenter’s workshop. It said that we shouldn’t take life seriously because we’re not going to survive it in any case.’

  She abruptly turned and glanced at the hill up which Lisa Modin had recently disappeared, and at the little side road leading to her house and my car. She was afraid of something. It could only be people, surely?

  I went down to the boat. During my many years as a doctor I often encountered those who were afraid – every single day, in fact. I spent several weeks one summer working on a temporary basis in the oncology department of one of the largest hospitals in the country. There was a spate of illness among the other doctors in the department, which meant that for ten days I was the one who had to deliver the gravest news to a series of patients. I remember one young man particularly clearly; he had woken up one morning with a stiff neck. He was examined by an orthopaedic specialist who suspected it could be something more serious, and a scan had led to the correct diagnosis.

  There I sat, with the results in front of me. The stiff neck was a serious, probably incurable cancer. The primary tumours were in his left lung, and the pain in his neck was a metastasis lurking in one of the vertebrae at the top of his spine. And now I had to deliver the news. The notes informed me that Sven Roland Hansson was born in 1951, which meant he was nineteen years old. In 1970 the chances of curing cancer were still extremely limited. Today six out of ten cancer patients survive. In 1970 the figure was probably only three or four.

  As I called him in from the waiting room, I knew that I would probably be giving him a death sentence. In such situations it was normal practice to have an experienced nurse present; I had asked a sister who had worked in the department for many years to sit in with me.

  Sven Roland Hansson was what we might have called a bit of a misfit back then. He was wearing a green jacket and scruffy jeans. He regarded me and the nurse with distaste, making it clear that he was in a hurry and really didn’t want to sit down when I offered him a chair.

  I had asked the nurse how I should approach the diagnosis, and she had told me to get straight to the point. If something was serious, there was no ‘kind’ way of saying it. The important thing was for the patient himself to understand that the doctor sitting opposite him was treating his fate with the gravitas it deserved.

  There would be a whole programme of further investigations before the medical team decided on the best course of treatment. That wasn’t really anything to do with me because I didn’t have the specialist knowledge; I was only here because of a desperate shortage of doctors.

  Eventually Sven Roland sat down. I could see that he was starting to feel afraid. It was obvious that he had only just realised the significance of the fact that he was in the oncology department.

  Slowly and carefully I explained the seriousness of his illness. The colour drained from his face. He understood.

  Suddenly he began to scream. It was as if someone had burned him, or stabbed him. I have never heard anyone scream like that, neither before nor since. That is why I will never forget it. I had seen those who were suffering greatly die in a silence suffused with fear; I had heard people groan with pain, but I had never seen a metamorphosis like this one. He was yelling so violently that his chewing gum flew out of his mouth and landed on my white coat. I didn’t know what to do, but fortunately the nurse stepped in. She took his hand, but he pulled away and carried on screaming. Then she took a firm grip of his shoulders as if he were a small child and shouted to me, telling me to give him a sedative.

  A year later I happened to notice his name in a newspaper. In those days it was uncommon for anything other than a black cross to appear in a death notice, but Sven Roland Hansson’s little box was adorned with a guitar.

  I had a friend who specialised in treating drug addicts. He played the guitar, and he informed me that the picture showed a Telecaster, one of the most important electric guitars ever made.

  I thought I had seen something of Sven Roland Hansson’s fear in Oslovski’s face. Those frightened eyes told the same story.

  I started the engine and slowly made my way out of the harbour. Oslovski was standing up on the road trying to hide behind a tree as she watched me leave. I pretended I couldn’t see her and increased my speed as I passed the outer pier. When I glanced back over my shoulder, she had disappeared.

  Perhaps it was the cold, perhaps it was Oslovski’s fear, but I shivered. I tucked my chin inside my jacket and set a course for my island.

  As I rounded the headland I saw someone standing on the jetty with his arms wrapped around his chest to keep warm. At first I thought it was Alexandersson and his colleague, but where was their boat?

  Then I realised it wasn’t a man waiting for me; it was my daughter Louise. In the midst of my astonishment I understood that it was she who must have been on board Jansson’s boat when I was on my way back to the mainland with Lisa Modin.

  I don’t like being surprised by unexpected news or visits. Harriet had completely floored me one day by informing me that Louise was my daughter. I never doubted that it was true, nor did Louise even though we bore no resemblance to one another. I could see Harriet in her face and perhaps something of my father’s features.

  She did not have my build, nor Harriet’s. She was strong and sturdy. If we got into a physical fight, I was pretty sure Louise would win. At the same time she was a very attractive woman. When we were in town or at a cafe, I had noticed that men turned to look at her when she walked by.

  I didn’t really understand what made her tick. She was a closed book, so much so that I was always ready for her to do something unforeseen. I had tried to get used to the situation, but without success.

  Her sudde
n departures also irritated me, as did the fact that she never told me when she was planning to return. All she had said on the phone when I told her about the fire was that she would come. Not a word about where she would be coming from or when she thought she might appear.

  I chugged into the boathouse. Before I had time to fasten the mooring ropes she flung open the door. The sunlight dazzled me, and I saw her only as a black shadow framed in the doorway.

  She came towards me and we embraced. Her face was wet against my cheek. She was crying, or she had been.

  We went outside. I had a lump in my throat and was afraid I might break down. That was one thing we had in common at least: we were both mourning the old house.

  As usual Louise had very little luggage with her, just a small brown case. She always had more baggage when she left than when she came back.

  We put the case in the caravan, then continued up to the site of the fire. Catching sight of Louise from behind, I had the feeling that it was Harriet walking in front of me.

  That surprised me because Louise and Harriet were so fundamentally different. Was it an illusion? I stopped to look at her. Louise immediately turned around, and I caught up with her. The apple tree resembled a stage prop made of black crêpe paper.

  ‘When you weren’t here I thought you’d got in your boat and simply headed out to sea, but Nilsson said he’d seen you sailing towards the mainland as we were on our way over.’

  ‘Jansson. Not Nilsson.’

  ‘Jansson. Did I say Nilsson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He was the one who sang so beautifully on Mum’s last birthday.’

  ‘How did you get hold of him?’

  ‘I got off the bus down by the harbour and asked the driver. He’s the one who was called Nilsson. He called Jansson, who promised to pick me up right away. There was something odd about the bus, incidentally.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I was the only passenger.’

  ‘That’s not unusual at this time of year.’

  ‘I’ve never been the only passenger on a bus before. Never. Not anywhere. I have, however, been the only passenger on a huge airliner – in Mali. There were two pilots, two air hostesses, and me.’

  ‘What were you doing in Mali?’

  ‘A sandstorm had prevented me from landing in Dakar. Do you know where that is?’

  ‘In Senegal. So you can speak French?’

  ‘I can get by.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’

  ‘I was visiting an area from which slaves used to be shipped overseas. I went to see a remarkable door opening.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  She carried on up to the ruins of the house, which were still covered by a layer of malodorous soot. Several small birds searching for food among the mess flew away as we approached.

  ‘My room was just here. If I’d climbed on your shoulders I could have reached my window.’

  She came and stood directly in front of me. I could see that not only had she been crying, she was also extremely tired. Usually when she returned from her frequent travels to mysterious destinations, she had a healthy tan. But not this time.

  There was always so much I wanted to ask her. And she so rarely gave away anything about her life.

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘I fell asleep around ten thirty. Two hours later I was woken by a searing light that found its way into my brain. It was very hot, unpleasantly so. The house was ablaze; I rushed outside. Thinking back, I remember the roar of the fire. It was as if some kind of monster was breathing oxygen onto the flames.’

  ‘But how did it start?’

  ‘No one knows – not the police, not the fire investigation officer, not me.’

  ‘Are there many options?’

  ‘There’s a rumour that I set fire to my own house.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘Perhaps because I’ve lost my mind?’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Don’t answer a question with another question!’

  ‘I’m not crazy. I’m no arsonist. When I woke up, the whole house was on fire. Whatever the cause might have been, it wasn’t me playing with matches.’

  ‘A house doesn’t just burst into flames. Could mice have chewed through the wiring?’

  ‘Only if there was a gang of four mice working together who also had access to petrol.’

  I told her what Hämäläinen had said. She listened but didn’t ask any questions. Instead she walked slowly around the house, pausing at each corner. I wondered if she would be the one to discover the cause of the fire. She took her time, and eventually she stood staring at the charred objects on the plastic sheet. I went over and picked up the buckle from Giaconelli’s shoes. She recognised it at once when I handed it to her.

  ‘You didn’t even manage to save the shoes.’

  ‘I didn’t manage to save anything except myself.’

  She crouched down and replaced the buckle. I had a feeling that she was preparing for some kind of funeral. I crouched down beside her, even though my knees protested.

  ‘Giaconelli’s death…’ I said. ‘All I know is that he went back to Italy and died in a boarding house.’

  ‘His kidneys were failing. He didn’t want to become reliant on dialysis, so he decided to make sure his life had a decent end. He left everything in Hälsingland and went home to the village north of Milan where he grew up. In two weeks he was dead. His friends let me know.’

  ‘What’s happened to the workshop where he made his shoes?’

  ‘His neighbours are keeping it as a museum, but because they’re all quite old, no one knows how long they will be able to honour his memory.’

  Louise straightened up. I tried to do the same and almost toppled over. I grabbed her leg and she helped me up.

  We went down to the caravan. She sat on the bed; I sat at the table. I poured us both a cup of coffee from my Thermos.

  ‘There’s not enough room in here for both of us,’ she said.

  ‘I’ve already made preparations. You know the skerry to the east of the island, the one with no name? I’ve put up my old tent over there.’

  ‘Isn’t it cold?’

  ‘My old sleeping bag is nice and warm.’

  ‘Surely it must be rotten by now? I remember seeing it when I was here before, when Mum died. I couldn’t understand why you hadn’t thrown it away.’

  ‘It smells a bit musty, but things soon get aired out here, because it’s always windy.’

  She lay down.

  ‘I’ve had a long journey. I’m tired.’

  ‘Where have you come from?’

  She didn’t reply, she merely shook her head. That annoyed me.

  ‘Why can’t you answer? I’m not asking what you’ve been doing, I’m just wondering where you’ve come from.’

  She opened her eyes and gave me the same challenging look that I had sometimes seen in Harriet’s eyes. However, she still didn’t answer. Instead she turned her back on me and drew up her knees, making it perfectly clear that she intended to get some sleep.

  All I could do was to make some sandwiches quietly and get out a tin of soup that I could warm on the camping stove I had moved from the boathouse to the skerry. The caravan belonged to my daughter.

  She had arrived too soon and too precipitately. I hadn’t had time to get used to the idea that my house had burned down, let alone the realisation that Louise had come home.

  I walked around the island, following the shoreline heading south as I recalled virtually every rock from my childhood. I had spent so much time down there with my fishing rod, stopping at certain selected spots to try my luck.

  I no longer had a fishing rod. And there were no fish left in the sea.

  Louise was fast asleep when I got back. I gently placed a blanket over her legs. She didn’t move.

  Dusk was falling as I walke
d down to the boathouse, and there was a bank of cloud over the sea. It had come creeping in without my noticing. The temperature was dropping.

  I thought I should take my new A4 pad over to the tent with me so that I could write down everything that had happened, but I decided to leave it. I didn’t want to risk waking Louise by going back into the caravan.

  I pushed the boat out of the boathouse, and instead of starting the engine I rowed across to the skerry. It didn’t take long, because of the following wind.

  The hollow was sheltered. I lit the camping stove and warmed my soup. I had pulled the sleeping bag up over my legs so that I wouldn’t get cold. It was as if I was sitting there surrounded by myself, by the child I had been in all its manifestations.

  I thought about Lisa Modin, about my daughter, about Harriet, who had died a few years ago.

  After my meal I sat there in total darkness. I was very tired.

  I was just about to go inside the tent when I saw a light. It was coming from the island, but I couldn’t work out what it was.

  I screwed up my eyes; eventually I realised that it must be Louise, standing on the jetty and flashing the torch I had left on the table in the caravan.

  I shouted to her, but the wind was too strong and carried my words away. The flashes were irregular, but I knew she wouldn’t do such a thing unless it was important.

  It occurred to me that she didn’t have my phone number. I went down to the boat and rowed into the darkness, the same darkness in which I had been lying when the fire began to burn behind my eyes. Could it be happening again? Could the sea catch fire and force me to row in a certain direction in order to save myself?

  I rested my oars and turned around.

  The torch on the jetty had gone out.

  CHAPTER 7

  I moored the boat by the jetty; Louise wasn’t there. Nor had she switched on the light on the wall of the boathouse. If she had really wanted to make sure I saw her signal, she would have used the powerful exterior light rather than the feeble torch.

  I was just about to call out to her when I saw a glow in the caravan window. I stopped dead. She obviously hadn’t noticed the light being switched on outside.