Хеннинг Манкелль - After the Fire

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.

I didn’t go to a shoe shop; I went straight to Arlanda and flew to Paris. In my dishonest message I had written that of course I loved her but that I needed to be alone for a few days. My love was just too overwhelming.

In Paris I found a cheap hotel not far from Clichy, slept until twelve every day and spent my nights in various bars in the Pigalle or Les Halles, which at that time were in the city centre. The whole time I was trying to pluck up the courage to approach a prostitute. The women on the street scared me. I fancied one of the women who hung out in a bar I frequented, but I didn’t have the nerve to speak to her either. Every night I slunk around like a randy tomcat, sticking close to the walls to avoid a stray kick. It wasn’t until New Year’s Eve, the day before I was due to fly home, that I ventured into one of the many bars where I thought I might find prostitutes.

Heavy curtains covered the window, a single lamp burned outside. As I seized the door handle, I had no idea what to expect. Would there be a lot of people, a lot of women? I stepped into the dimly lit room and discovered that it was virtually empty. An elderly man who resembled little more than a shadow was moving around behind the bar, the bottles sparkling in the mirrored wall. He glanced at me, assessing whether I was a punter who should be allowed in or someone who was likely to cause trouble, and gave me a nod. I had a choice: the empty tables and red chairs, or one of the leather-covered stools. The only woman in the place was sitting at the far end of the bar smoking a cigarette. I avoided looking at her, ordered a glass of wine and tried to appear as relaxed as possible. Music poured out of invisible speakers. I ordered another glass of wine, and the bartender wondered if I would like to buy the woman a drink. Naturally I said yes, and he gave her something that might have been a weak Martini. She raised her glass, I did the same. Despite the poor lighting I could see that she was in her thirties. She had brown hair cut in a pageboy bob, she wasn’t heavily made up, and was as far from my idea of a prostitute as it was possible to be. However, I was aroused by the thought that she was for sale. I had three hundred francs in my inside pocket; was that enough? I hadn’t a clue about the price of women in Paris, neither then nor now.

I stayed there until the bells had rung in the New Year on the radio behind the bar. Only one other male customer turned up all evening, and he and the woman knew one another. Perhaps he was her pimp. Just before he left they had a row about her lighter, which she insisted he had taken. It got quite nasty, and I wondered if I ought to leave. But the lighter turned up, everything calmed down, and the man disappeared. When the door closed and the curtain keeping out the cold fell back into place, the woman suddenly moved to the stool next to mine. She told me her name was Anne. I don’t remember what I said, possibly that my name was Erik or Anders. She asked where I came from; I said Denmark. What was I doing in Paris? Taking a break from my post as the manager of a bank in Copenhagen. I removed all traces of who I actually was. As if that made any difference. She asked for another drink; I nodded to the bartender, although I was starting to worry in case the drinks were sold at inflated prices. Surely the business couldn’t be profitable if they only had one customer on New Year’s Eve?

I wondered what my girlfriend in Stockholm was doing. Was she sitting in her parents’ apartment thinking about me? I didn’t know, but I was glad I had flown to Paris. When I got back I must find the courage to tell her that our relationship had no future.

Anne gently nudged me with her leg.

‘You know we can get together in the room at the back,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I know.’

I didn’t say any more; I was grateful that she didn’t push it.

It was half past twelve. From the street came the sound of the odd firework and the shouts of people celebrating. I offered her another drink; I was terrified that she would suggest we withdrew to the other room. The initial temptation was gone; all I wanted now was an escape route. We sat there in silence. Every fifteen minutes, almost as if she were obeying an inaudible signal, she lit a cigarette with her Ronson lighter. As the flame sprang into life, I saw that her nails were bitten to the quick.