Хеннинг Манкелль - After the Fire

‘What’s the diagnosis?’

‘He has many problems. Apart from the deafness, his brain isn’t fully developed. He can’t talk, and he’ll go blind within the next few years.’

We went back to the kitchen.

‘Leave the bottle,’ she said. ‘I’ll wrap it up safely, make sure it doesn’t break.’

‘I realise you won’t be coming back to Sweden with me.’

‘Not right now. Not before the child is born. After that we might move to Sweden — out to the island, once the house has been rebuilt.’

I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to put my arms around her, hug her as tightly as I could. Another part simply wanted to run away from the whole thing, go back to the caravan.

She asked how long I was thinking of staying.

‘I’m leaving tomorrow,’ I said. ‘You’re out of prison; you haven’t been deported. I know what your life is like. There’s nothing to keep me here, and staying in a hotel is expensive.’

‘You could stay here.’

‘Cities don’t suit me any more. I need to go home. I’m longing to get back to my island and my burned-down house.’

Louise thought for a moment, then said, ‘I’ll come to your hotel this evening. I’ll bring the bottle with me.’

We said our quiet goodbyes in the dark hallway. I felt unsure of myself, like a young child. I don’t like it when I can’t understand things.

Out on the street I paused for a moment. It would be many hours before we saw one another. Without really making a conscious decision I headed for the Metro and travelled south. I changed trains and eventually got off at the Bastille. Slowly I walked towards the Hôtel de Ville. I ought to book my ticket home. Something was irrevocably over. Meeting Louise’s family had made it clear to me that we lived in different worlds, yet I still hoped it would be possible to change things, that our worlds could come together in the future.

Once again I started to observe the people passing by on the street. When I occasionally saw an older person, it served merely as a confirmation that we were the exceptions.

I made a phone call; after a long wait I was eventually able to book a seat on a flight leaving at 11.30 the following day.

I continued my long walk to Montparnasse. A female busker made me stop. She was singing old jazz songs in a powerful vibrato. The hat in front of her was well filled; I added a euro, and she smiled her thanks. Many of her teeth were missing.

My legs were aching by the time I arrived at the hotel. Monsieur Pierre was on reception, counting the contents of a cash box.

‘I’m going home tomorrow,’ I said.

‘Monsieur has finished with Paris for now?’

‘Possibly for ever. You can never tell, at my age.’

‘Quite right. Growing older is like walking on thinner and thinner ice.’

The bar was open but empty. I ordered coffee.

As I was passing reception on the way up to my room, I heard Monsieur Pierre in an inner room, which was hidden by a dark red curtain. He was humming along to some music I recognised. I listened for a moment and realised it was Offenbach.

There was a message on my bed to say that Rachel had been my cleaner today. I lay down and dozed off immediately. When I woke up after what I thought had been a long sleep, I saw that only twenty minutes had passed. I tucked the duvet around my legs and leaned back against the bedhead. In my mind I returned to the apartment and the moment when Ahmed had suddenly appeared in the kitchen. I saw his disabled brother; I thought about the gentle way Louise had stroked Ahmed’s head, her tenderness towards his brother. She had allowed me access to her life, but to me it had felt like walking into a room where nothing was familiar.

It seemed to me that I had a daughter who had great empathy for others; sharing responsibility for such a severely disabled child was impressive. How she could combine activities such as helping terminally ill patients to see Rembrandt’s paintings one last time with her ‘work’ as a pickpocket was beyond me. But I was a part of her and she was a part of me. This was a story that had only just begun. I wondered whether Louise understood me better than I understood her.

This is how far I have come. From a waiter’s house in Stockholm to a hotel room in Paris. Once I was a successful surgeon who made a mistake. Now I’m an old man whose house has burned down. Not much more than that.

I do not fear death. Death must be freedom from fear. The ultimate freedom.

I got out of bed, fetched some sheets of paper from the brown folder on the desk and tried to formulate my thoughts. But no words came, no sentences. Only childish maps of imaginary archipelagos, with narrow sounds, hidden inlets and strange, bottomless depths filled both sides of the paper. It was the only map of my life I was capable of creating.

I thought about Ahmed and the remarkable Bedouin in the bottle he had given me. Perhaps I ought to give him one of my imaginary archipelagos, from a part of the world that was completely unknown to him?

I went out and wandered around Montparnasse for a while before heading for the Metro station exit where I assumed Louise would eventually arrive. It was cold and dark, and the people hurrying up and down the stairs were all absorbed in their own lives.

No one saw me, no one was missing me.

Louise turned up just before seven. She was carrying the bottle, wrapped in newspaper and brown paper. She was surprised to see me waiting and asked if something had happened. I had the feeling that she was worried about me.

‘I’m going home tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I don’t like dramatic farewells. Neither do you.’

She laughed. Just like Harriet, I thought in surprise. I’d never noticed that before.

‘Well, at least we’re alike in one way,’ she said. ‘Dramatic meetings or goodbyes can often be unpleasant.’

She handed over the package and told me to be careful, particularly when I put it in the overhead locker on the plane.

‘32B,’ I said. ‘I’ll be squashed between two other people.’

Then there was no more to say.

‘I’ll come,’ she said. ‘We’ll come. But you need to go home and build a new house. You can’t die until you’ve done that.’

‘I have no intention of dying,’ I said. ‘And of course I’ll make sure the house is built. I’m not going to leave you a ruin.’

We hugged, then she turned and went back down the stairs. I watched until she disappeared. Perhaps I was hoping that she would turn around, change her mind?

I went to a nearby bistro and drew my old house on the white tablecloth. From memory, in full detail. I couldn’t imagine building anything different.

It was nine thirty by the time I went back to the hotel. A light drizzle was falling on Montparnasse. I hoped all the walking I had done during the course of the day would help me sleep.

Monsieur Pierre had gone home; I had never seen the night porter before. He was very young and had a ponytail and an earring. I wondered briefly what Monsieur Pierre thought about sharing a workspace with him.

Then I noticed Lisa Modin sitting in one of the armchairs in reception. She stood up and asked if she was disturbing me.

‘Not at all. I’ve just said goodbye to my daughter. She’s been released from prison, but she’s staying in Paris.’

I didn’t mention Ahmed or his brother.

‘I’ve been given a bottle with a Bedouin encampment inside it,’ I continued. ‘One day I hope I’ll be living in a house with a shelf I can put it on.’

Lisa didn’t say anything, she just carried on looking at me.

We went up in the lift. I placed the brown package on the desk in my room, then I sat down on the bed. Lisa sat down beside me. Neither of us said anything. When the silence had gone on for too long, I told her I was going home the next day.