Хеннинг Манкелль - After the Fire

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 to the idea.’

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.

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.