Åke Edwardson - Sail of Stone

Lindsten suddenly picked up the conversation from before. “Huge fucking monsters like this didn’t exist then. They were built later, when they thought that they could shove half a million slaves into a ghetto.” He looked up, as though he were trying to see the roof of the building. “First they built those piles of shit, and now they’re tearing them down. Ha!”

She stopped in front of the door. A marked car was parked there. A colleague stepped out; one remained inside.

“Cleaned out,” said the woman who had gotten out. Aneta didn’t recognize her.

“Cleaned out as in cleaned out ?” said Aneta.

“Sure is.”

Aneta and Lindsten went up in the elevator, which seemed newer than the rest of the building.

“I have to ask you one more thing,” she said. “Has Anette been back here since she decided to move?”

“Now I don’t understand.”

“When she moved back home with you, did she come here any time after that? To get anything or something like that? To check on the apartment?”

“No.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Damn it, of course I’m sure. She didn’t dare to come back here, for Christ’s sake!”

“No one was going to take over the lease?”

“No.”

“A relative or something?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“She didn’t own it, for Christ’s sake. And these days it’s even harder to work things like that out than it was before.”

During their trip to the apartment she had tried to describe the two men to Lindsten. It hadn’t been of any help to her, or him. Could be any old bastard at all, any scoundrel at all. He had made a gesture in the air, as though he were sketching a face.

They stepped out of the elevator and went to the apartment door. Aneta opened it with keys she’d gotten from her colleague. There were two locks.

The apartment was cleaned out.

“Well,” said Lindsten.

“Why didn’t you move all her things when Anette moved?” she asked.

“We were going to do it next week,” said Lindsten. He took a few steps into the hall. “Now that’s not necessary.”

Detective Lars Bergenhem chased burglars, or the shadows of them. A wave of burglaries was washing over Gothenburg. That’s how the chief inspector at CID command had put it: a wave of burglaries.

Homes were emptied, cleared out. Where did all their things go? There must have been space somewhere in the city for everything that was stolen. Not everything could join the camel caravan to the Continent.

It was a search, as though in circles.

Bergenhem was used to driving in circles; that’s what he did with the portion of his free time that felt more forced, like a compulsion, than it did free. He drove back and forth.

What’s going on? he had thought more than once. What’s going on with me? What’s going on with my life?

I should be happy, what they call happy, or secure, what they call secure.

He worked overtime. He didn’t need to, but he might as well have: He drove around town on the thoroughfares and he was paid for it when he was on duty.

Am I someone else? he sometimes thought. Am I on my way to becoming someone else?

Martina’s face had become darker and darker. Concerned, maybe.

Ada’s face was still bright; she didn’t understand, didn’t understand yet. That was possibly the worst part: How could he sit here, out on the streets, when his little daughter was there at home?

They hadn’t spoken, he and Martina. She had tried; he had not tried.

He continued to chase burglars. He drove to the sea; they weren’t there. He could drive down to Hjuvik and just stand there. It wasn’t far from home, but it still seemed like the other side of the water.

He could get out of the car and go down to the beach and try to see his reflection in the water if it was calm.

Who am I?

What is it all about?

Who are you ?

He saw his face from a strange angle. Maybe it was more real.

In the car on the way home, he tried to think back. He had always carried a restlessness within him, as far back as he could remember. But this was more than restlessness, worse than regular restlessness.

Or maybe it’s just that I can’t live with anyone.

But it’s not just that.

Do I need drugs? If I need drugs like that I have to talk to a brain doctor first.

Do I need something else?

When he parked in the carport, he didn’t know if he wanted to get out of the car or stay in it.

Is this what they call being burned out? he thought.

He heard sounds against the window. He saw small fingers. He saw Ada.

In the morning, Winter called Johanna Osvald’s number, but she didn’t answer; no one answered. There was no answering machine.

It was Saturday. He had the day off. There had been a suspected case of manslaughter or possibly homicide on Tuesday night, but it wasn’t a case for him and hardly for any other detective either. The deceased and the perpetrator had both been identified and linked to each other both figuratively and literally, by matrimony among other things. Till death do us part. Some people certainly take that seriously, a detective had said this past week, and then wanted to bite off his tongue when he saw that Halders was sitting there with the remains of his personal grief. But Halders had just said, It doesn’t matter, Birkman, I have been like that myself.

Till death do us part.

It was more than just words.

Winter had proposed to Angela and she had said yes: Are you finally going to make an honest woman out of me?

That had been some time ago. She hadn’t said anything more, and neither had he.

Now you have to take responsibility, Winter. You can’t just talk about things like that. It’s a big responsibility, and you have to take it.

He drove south. The sun was on its way up. It was still early morning, and a transparent haze was in the air.

Go ahead, Angela had said. If it will really help. I really hope it helps.

On Monday they had to settle the deal. Okay. He would settle it, clinch it, get the ball rolling. It was just a piece of land. They wouldn’t move there right away. He had promised, or whatever it was called… offered his decision, a future, yes indeed, the everlasting future up until. Until.

Decisions like this were heavy as stones. You couldn’t release them just any way, at any time.

The sun began to hit just right between the roofs of the houses on the field outside of Askim. He pushed in the CD. It was Angela’s disc and it was Bruce Springsteen. He had given the guy a few chances and he was worth it. Springsteen was not John Coltrane, and he didn’t pretend to be, either. But Springsteen’s melodies were filled with pain and a melancholy light that Winter appreciated. There was almost always death there, just like in his life. Springsteen sang nakedly:

Well now, everything dies, baby, that’s a fact.

Fact. Dead. That is my job. Sometimes in that order, most often the opposite.

But maybe everything that dies someday comes back.

Not always as you’d like. But death comes back in a new cloak. But is it life, then?

Everything floated up, returned in a new guise. Nothing could be hidden.

Sooner or later.

Even secrets that lie on the bottom of the sea don’t stay. He drove past the swimming beach. All the parking lots were empty and there were no bikes. He caught a glimpse of the sea, but it was empty too, rolling in toward the end of the season. Not even on the bottom of the sea. He dialed Johanna Osvald’s number again. No answer. That didn’t ease his worry, not enough to forget it. He felt that he had betrayed something or someone when he hadn’t answered, hadn’t answered the first time. At first it had felt good, but now it didn’t feel good. What had he betrayed? His duty? Himself?