Хеннинг Манкелль - The Man Who Smiled

“You’ve spoken to Björk already?” Wallander said, astonished.

“I thought I’d better,” she said.

Wallander looked at the icon. It reminded him of Riga, of Latvia. And most especially of Baiba Liepa.

“It’s not as valuable as you might think,” she said. “But it’s beautiful.”

“Yes. It’s very beautiful. But I don’t deserve it.”

“That’s not the only reason I’m here,” Mrs. Dunér said.

Wallander looked at her, waiting for what was coming next.

“I have a question for you,” she said. “Is there no limit to human wickedness?”

“I’m hardly the right person to answer a question like that,” Wallander said.

“But who can, if the police can’t?”

Wallander carefully laid the icon on his desk.

“I take it you’re wondering how anybody can kill another human being to get a body part to sell for profit,” he said. “I don’t know what to say. It’s as incomprehensible to me as it is to you.”

“What’s the world coming to?” she said. “Alfred Harderberg was a man we could all look up to. How can anybody donate money to charity with one hand and kill people with the other?”

“We just have to fight it as best we can,” Wallander said.

“How can we fight something we can’t understand?”

“I really don’t know,” Wallander said. “But we have to do our best.”

The brief conversation died out. Martinsson’s cheerful laughter echoed down the corridor.

She rose to her feet. “I won’t disturb you any longer,” she said.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you a better answer,” he said, opening the door.

“At least you were honest,” she said.

It occurred to Wallander that he had something to give her. He went to his desk and took the postcard with a picture of a Finnish landscape from one of the drawers.

“I promised to give this back to you,” he said. “We don’t need it any longer.”

“I’d forgotten all about it,” she said, putting it into her handbag.

He escorted her out of the police station.

“May I wish you a merry Christmas,” she said.

“Thank you,” Wallander said. “And the same to you. I’ll take good care of the icon.”

He went back to his office. Her visit had made him uneasy. He had been reminded of the melancholy he had had to live with for so long. But he thrust it to one side, took his jacket, and left the building. He was on vacation. Not just from his job, but from any thought that might depress him.

I may not deserve the icon, he thought, but I do deserve a few days off.

He drove home through the fog and parked.

Then he cleaned his apartment. Before going to bed he improvised something to stand the Christmas tree in and decorated it. He had hung the icon up in his bedroom. He studied it before putting the light out.

He wondered if it would be able to protect him.

The next day was Christmas Eve, the big day in Sweden. It was still foggy and gray outside. But Wallander felt that today he could rise above all the grayness.

He drove to Sturup Airport at 2 p.m., despite the fact that the plane was not due until 3:30. He felt very uncomfortable as he parked his car and approached the yellow airport building. He had the feeling everybody was looking at him.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist walking over to the gates to the right of the terminal.

The Gulfstream was no longer there. There was no sign of it.

It’s all over, he thought. I’m putting an end to it, here and now.

His relief was immediate.

The image of the smiling man faded away.

He went into the departure lounge, then out again, feeling more nervous than he could remember at any time since he was a teenager. He counted the stone tiles in the entrance, rehearsed his inadequate English, and tried in vain to think about anything except for what was about to happen.

When the plane landed he was still standing outside the terminal. Then he hurried inside and positioned himself next to the newspaper stand, waiting.

She was one of the last to emerge.

But there she was. Baiba Liepa.

She was exactly as he remembered her.