Хеннинг Манкелль - After the Fire

That was the word he used — malevolent. It didn’t sound quite right on Jansson’s lips. If he had sung it in his fine tenor voice, it might have sounded more convincing, like something in an opera. I asked whether the police had found any similarities with the fire that had destroyed my house, but Jansson had no answers for me. He kept going back to the fear of something yet to happen.

I went into a newsagent’s and bought an English medical journal, which I slipped into my bag.

Half an hour before the departure time I made my way to the right platform. I stood next to one of the iron pillars supporting the roof; I wanted to see Lisa before she saw me.

She arrived fifteen minutes later; the train had just pulled in. I followed her at a distance, like a scruffy private eye. As she climbed aboard I saw that I was right: second class.

Just as the conductor was about to close the doors, I followed her on board. I stayed by the toilet until the train set off. After all these years my final journey home had begun.

I could see Lisa in the sparsely occupied carriage. Her eyes were closed, her head resting on the wall by the window. Fortunately she had chosen a spot with an empty seat opposite. I sat down as quietly as I could. After a minute or so she opened her eyes and smiled.

‘I ought to be surprised,’ she said. ‘But somehow I’m not.’

‘The first time I came to Paris I travelled by train,’ I said. ‘As I told you last night. But I’ve never left Paris on a train. I’ve stood by the roadside with my rucksack many times, hoping for a lift, but now I have the opportunity to make that missing journey home by rail.’

‘It’s good to see you,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been looking forward to this trip, but now maybe it will be different.’

‘Why did you come? I can’t make this long trek without knowing the answer.’

Before she had time to respond, the brakes squealed, triggering a memory of the very first time I arrived in the city. The same squealing brakes, people losing their balance, someone swearing. It was as if I had cracked through a shell and stuck my head out into a world that no longer existed.

We travelled through the suburbs, the train picking up speed. There was no one else in this part of the carriage. Lisa had her back to the engine; I asked if she wanted to swap places.

‘Those who were going to be executed were always transported facing away from the direction in which they were going,’ I explained. ‘It was so that they wouldn’t see the gallows or the executioner’s block as they approached.’

‘I’m fine here, thank you.’

Once again an incident from my youth came into my mind. I was standing out in the winter cold with a frightened girl; I think her name was Ada, and she had a great big Farah Diba hairstyle. I was drunk on arrak, somehow obtained from Hasse the baker’s son, the boy everyone wanted to be friends with. Before Ada had time to take evasive action I threw up all over her white shoes. The occasion was a school dance; I had been evicted because of my intoxicated state. Ada regarded herself as my girlfriend and had therefore felt obliged to share my humiliation. But now she ran straight back into the warmth, where well-behaved couples were dancing together to a jazz band with a blind double-bass player.

What was I thinking now, as we sped through the outskirts of Paris and a little man dragged a big heavy suitcase along the aisle of our carriage? Was I hoping not to be abandoned, as I had been all those years ago?

I rested my head against the wall and folded my arms.

We crossed the Belgian border. Our tickets were on the table in front of us; I pretended to be asleep when the conductor came along to check them.

Lisa stood up.

‘I’m hungry. I’m going to the restaurant car.’

I went with her. A man sitting across the aisle was watching a film on his tablet; I asked him to keep an eye on our bags, and he nodded. Lisa led the way; the restaurant car was packed, and we had to wait for a table. The waiter spoke French with an Eastern European accent. Outside the window darkness had fallen. We both ordered chicken; we ate, we drank.

‘You were crying in your sleep,’ Lisa suddenly said.

‘Was I?’

‘People rarely cry for no reason.’

‘I have no recollection of that at all. Nor of any dreams.’

The waiter topped up our glasses. He had developed the skill of pouring drinks on a moving train without spilling a drop, even when the carriage jolted and lurched.

‘I once took the overnight train through Switzerland,’ I said. ‘I was on my way to Italy. In the restaurant car I was seated at a table with a woman of about my age who was on her own. I was very young at the time. For some unknown reason we were drinking some kind of sugary punch. I was knocking back three glasses to her one. I had the crazy idea that I might be able to tempt her to my sleeping compartment; I had booked first class in an excess of arrogance and because I had plenty of money. I don’t know why I was so well off; I had just started training to be a doctor. If I remember rightly, it was the Easter holidays, and I had decided to go to Rome on a whim. Nothing happened, of course. When the restaurant car closed, she thanked me and disappeared. I staggered back to my compartment, opened the window and passed out, drunk. When I woke up in the morning, the bed was covered in snow. The inside of my mouth felt as if it were coated in a layer of syrup that had set. I have never had such a terrible hangover, neither before nor since. I was ill for days. My only memory of Rome is the suffocating traffic; I was furious because I had wasted my money on such a dreadful trip. I had thrown away a wonderful experience for God knows how many glasses of punch.’

‘I also have a memory of Rome,’ Lisa said, ‘although my trip was a bit more successful. I went there with two friends, one whom was about to start working there as an au pair for a Swedish diplomat. We went along to provide moral support during her first week. One day I went for a walk on my own; the other two had caught a cold and stayed in bed. I met a man called Marius, and a few evenings later I lost my virginity behind a tree in the gardens of the Villa Borghese. The whole thing consisted of inept fumbling on both sides. We were supposed to meet the following day, but I didn’t turn up. I still wonder what became of him; I wonder if he ever thinks of me.’

The restaurant car was beginning to empty. We were drinking coffee; Lisa had ordered a pudding, but it was far too sweet, and she hardly touched it.

She suddenly asked why I had turned up at her apartment that evening.

‘You already know the answer.’

‘I know nothing. But I have a suspicion.’

‘Which is?’

‘That you were hoping I would let you into my bed. How could you think such a thing?’

‘I didn’t think anything. I hoped.’

‘You snooped among my papers. You found a secret in my wardrobe.’

She angrily tossed aside her napkin, then she waved to the waiter, who appeared to be half-asleep on a stool by the kitchen door. He immediately brought over the bill, which he had already prepared. I wanted to pay, but Lisa took it. She said I had already spent more than enough. She gave the waiter a ridiculously large tip, and he beamed at her. It was the first time we had seen him smile all evening.

We went back to our carriage; this time I led the way, opening the stiff doors as we moved through the train.

The man who was supposed to be keeping an eye on our luggage was fast asleep, with the film still playing on his tablet. The bags were still there.

‘Where are we?’ Lisa asked when we had settled down. She had snuggled up under her coat, legs tucked up on the seat.