Henning Mankell - The Troubled Man

The letter had been mailed in Norrköping:

There is a man in Berlin by the name of George Talboth. He’s an American, and used to work at their embassy in Stockholm. He speaks fluent Swedish and is regarded as an expert on the relationship between Scandinavia and the Soviet Union and, nowadays, Russia. I got to know him as early as the end of the 1960s when he first came to Stockholm and on several occasions accompanied the then military attaché at various receptions and on various visits, including one to Berga. George and I got along well — both he and his wife played bridge — and we started meeting socially. I eventually realized that he was attached to the CIA, but he never tried to elicit secret information from me that I wasn’t authorized to pass on. In about 1974, a year or two later, his wife, Marilyn, was diagnosed with cancer, and died shortly afterward. That was a catastrophe for George. He and his wife had enjoyed an even closer relationship than Louise and I, if that was possible. He started visiting us more frequently, nearly every Sunday, and often during the week as well. In 1979 he was transferred to the legation in Bonn, and he stayed in Germany after he retired, although he moved to Berlin. It’s possible of course that in his “spare time” he still serves his country, as you might say. But I know nothing about that .

I spoke to him on the phone as recently as last December. Although he is now seventy-two, he is still lively intellectually. I’m sure he thinks the Cold War is very much alive. When the Russian empire collapsed, a revolution took place that was every bit as shattering as the events of 1917. But according to George it was only a temporary setback. He thinks the current situation confirms that view: Russia is growing stronger and stronger and making ever greater demands on the world around it. I have taken the liberty of writing to him and asking him to contact you. If there is anybody who might be able to help you in your efforts to find out what happened to Louise, he’s your man. I hope you are not put out by my attempts to make a positive contribution to what I’m sure are your honest efforts to solve this riddle .

With respectful greetings ,

Wallander put the letter down on the kitchen table. It was good, of course, that von Enke had put Wallander in touch with a potentially useful contact. But even so, he didn’t like the letter. Once again he had the impression that there was something going on he hadn’t detected. He read the letter one more time, slowly, as if he were picking his way gingerly through a minefield. Letters need to be deciphered , Rydberg once said. You have to know what you’re doing, especially if the letter might be of significance for a crime investigation. But what was there to decipher? The contents were plain enough.

He measured his blood sugar and this time was less pleased with the result: 184. That was too high. He had forgotten to take his Metformin pills and his insulin. He checked in the refrigerator and saw that within the next few days he would need to replenish his insulin.

Every day he took no fewer than seven different pills, for his diabetes, his blood pressure, and his cholesterol. He didn’t like doing so; it felt like a sort of defeat. Many of his colleagues didn’t take a single pill — or at least, they said they didn’t. In the old days, Rydberg had been scornful of all chemical preparations. He didn’t even take anything for the headaches that plagued him. Every day my body is filled with goodness knows how many chemicals that I don’t really know anything about, Wallander thought. I trust my doctors and the pharmaceutical companies, without questioning the things they prescribe.

He hadn’t even told Linda about all the pills. Nor did she know that he was now injecting himself with insulin. To be on the safe side, he had hidden it behind some jars of mango chutney that he knew she wouldn’t touch.

He read the letter a few more times without discovering anything between the lines. Håkan von Enke was not sending him any hidden messages. He was looking in vain for something that wasn’t there.

That night he dreamed about his father.

He had just woken up, shortly after seven, when the phone rang. He assumed it was Linda at this hour, especially since she knew he was on vacation. He picked up the receiver.

“Is that Knut Wallander?”

It was a man’s voice. His Swedish was perfect, although Wallander could hear a slight foreign accent.

“I take it I’m talking to Mr. Talboth,” he said. “I’ve been expecting to hear from you.”

“Call me George. I’ll call you Knut.”

“Not Knut. Kurt.”

“Kurt. Kurt Wallander. I’m always getting names wrong. When are you coming to visit?”

Wallander was surprised by the question. What had Håkan von Enke written to Talboth?

“I wasn’t planning on going to Berlin. I didn’t even know you existed until I received a letter yesterday.”

“Håkan wrote in a letter to me that you would definitely want to come here and talk to me.”

“Why can’t you come to Skåne?”

“I don’t have a driver’s license. And I hate traveling by train or flying.”

An American without a driver’s license, Wallander thought. He must be an extremely unusual person.

“Maybe I can help you,” Talboth said. “I used to know Louise. Just as well as I knew Håkan. And she was a good friend of my wife, Marilyn. They often used to go out together for tea. Afterward, Marilyn would tell me what they had been talking about.”

“And what was that?”

“Louise nearly always talked politics. Marilyn wasn’t as interested, but she listened politely.”

Wallander frowned. Wasn’t that the opposite of what Hans had said? That his mother never talked about politics, apart from a few brief comments in conversations with her husband?

He was suddenly attracted by the thought of visiting George Talboth in Berlin. He hadn’t been there since the collapse of East Germany. He had been to East Berlin twice in the mid-1980s with Linda, when she had been obsessed by the theater and had insisted on seeing performances by the Berliner Ensemble. He could still recall his annoyance when the East German border police burst into their sleeping car in the middle of the night and demanded to see his passport. On both occasions they had stayed in a hotel at Alexanderplatz. Wallander had felt uneasy the whole time.

“I might be able to come see you,” he said. “I could take my car.”

“You can stay at my place,” said Talboth. “I have an apartment in Schöneberg. When should I expect you?”

“When would it suit you?”

“I’m a widower. You’re welcome whenever is good for you.”

“The day after tomorrow?”

“I’ll give you my phone number. Call me when you’re approaching Berlin, and I’ll guide you through the city. Do you eat fish or meat?”

“Both.”

“Wine?”

“Red.”

“That’s all I need to know. Do you have a pencil handy?”

Wallander wrote down the number in the margin of von Enke’s letter.

“I look forward to meeting you,” said Talboth. “If I understand correctly, your daughter is married to young Hans von Enke?”

“Not quite. They have a daughter, Klara. But they’re not married yet.”

“Please bring a photo of your granddaughter.”

Wallander ended the call. He had pictures of Klara pinned up all over the house. He took down two photos from the kitchen wall and put them on the table next to his passport. He ate his breakfast while studying a road atlas to establish how far it was to Berlin from the ferry terminal at Sassnitz. A phone call to the ferry company in Trelleborg provided him with the timetable. He noted down the times and found himself looking forward to the impending journey. I will remember this summer for all the car trips I’ve taken, he thought. It reminds me of when Linda was a little girl and we used to go to Denmark on vacation, sometimes to Gotland, and once even as far as Hammarfest in the north of Norway.