Åke Edwardson - Sun and Shadow

He felt tired, and his head was pounding. He started the engine. He felt sad, and his emotion seemed to be exaggerated by the heat. As if the heat were an omen.

Winter unfolded the map of the Costa del Sol he’d been given by the car rental firm and checked his route to Marbella. It seemed straightforward. The E15 all the way. The motorway was reputed to be the most dangerous in the world, but he reflected that the media had suggested the same thing for other roads as well, as he reversed out of his parking space.

He drove westward and switched on the radio. A Spaniard was singing a version of “My Way” in lisping Castilian. That was followed by a flamenco set for orchestra: it sounded cheerful but out of tune to Winter’s ear. The flamenco gave way to a Mexican rhumba with ten thousand trumpets. Then the Spaniard came back with “The Green, Green Grass of Home.”

The grass bordering the road was dry and almost colorless.

He drove through the suburbs. The high-rise blocks looked black in the shade. The concrete façades were dotted with colorful washing hanging on balconies. The wasteland between the clusters of houses seemed to be deserted, apart from small groups of feral dogs chasing one another through piles of trash. No sign of any people now that it was siesta time.

He steered well clear of a truck that overtook him on a bend. The driver was sitting back, smoking, his elbow resting on the window frame. A woman in the passenger seat was playing with a couple of toddlers in the seat in the back, and the children waved to Winter. He waved back, then wiped his face. He was very hot. The air-conditioning didn’t work (“The very best, señor!”) and the slipstream was insufficient to cool him.

To the left he could see what must be Torremolinos, or “Torrie,” as his mother had called it, the way the English do: a series of concrete blocks halfway to heaven and halfway out into the sea. It could be a paradise or a living hell, depending on whom you asked. Winter didn’t ask, and had no intention of staying: he devoted no further thought to Torrie, regarding it as no more than a wall built along the shore, and drove on to the hospital.

Four miles outside Marbella, Winter noticed the Hospital Costa del Sol to the right, colored white and green. He turned off at the Hotel Los Monteros, followed a road running parallel to the highway, and then came around to the hospital. He parked close to a bus stop and followed the signs to the ENTRADA PRINCIPAL. The grass was green and the flowers red. A circle of pines had been planted around the gigantic building: cactus, bougainvillea. Flowers tumbling from balconies.

Broad steps led up to the entrance, which looked like a black hole. Winter took a deep breath, ran his hand through his closely cropped hair, and went in.

Morelius left Bartram standing outside the Park Lane Hotel and crossed over the Avenue to Hanne Ostergaard, who was still rooted to the spot. She didn’t see him until he was next to her. “You can’t stand here, Hanne.”

She looked at him.

“It’s not out-of-bounds, is it?” she said, and he thought he heard a dry laugh. She raised her head and looked for the youngsters, but they could no longer be seen among the mass of people. “This little drama seems to have attracted an audience. At least you were in the right place at the right time,” she said, looking straight at him. ‘Again.“ Then she laid her hand on his arm. ”Forgive me, Simon.“

“Nothing to forgive,” he said. “Can we give you a lift home?”

“No, thank you, I have the car parked at Heden… Assuming it hasn’t been stolen.” She looked down Berzeliigatan. ‘According to one of your younger colleagues who I speak to occasionally, all cars parked at Heden get stolen sooner or later.“

“That’s probably true.”

“Maybe I will need your help, then.”

“I can go there with you and take a look,” Morelius said.

‘Aren’t you on duty? You’re in uniform. Shouldn’t you be on patrol?“

“This is duty.”

‘All right,“ she said, and started walking. Morelius signaled to Bartram, who waved back and continued toward Götaplatsen.

‘All this makes you giddy,“ said Hanne, staring fixedly ahead. ”Chasing your child all over town.“ She turned to Morelius. ”I even start using words I’ve never used before. Like ’giddy.‘“

Morelius said nothing.

“It started out of the blue,” she said. “I never thought I would have to put up with this kind of thing. Never. Huh! Talk about being naive.”

Morelius didn’t comment. He knew that she lived alone with her daughter, but he didn’t want to say that it couldn’t be easy in those circumstances, or any of the other silly things people say.

“I suppose it’s a sort of emancipation,” she said. “And if your mom’s a vicar the emancipation is all the more hotheaded. More marked.” She looked at Morelius again as they crossed over the Avenue and waited for the lights to change at Södra Vägen. “Do you think that’s what it is, Simon?”

“I really don’t know,” he said, staring straight ahead. “I’m not the right person to ask about things like that.” He could feel the sweat breaking out under his cap. He hoped she wouldn’t see it. Sweat trickling down his face.

“Why not?” They crossed the road and aimed for the farthest corner of the car park. “Surely you can have an opinion on it. Why not?”

“I don’t have any children.”

“So much the better.” That dry laugh again. “No, I must stop this.” She halted and looked around. “I’m not quite sure where I left it. The car, that is.” She looked again. “I didn’t think about it. Then.”

“What does it look like?”

“It’s a Volvo. One of the early models. It’s about ten or eleven years old.”

“License plate number?”

She looked around again. “Do you know, I can’t remember. This is ridiculous.”

“It’s pretty common,” Morelius said. “Forgetting your car’s license plate number.”

“Especially when you’re under stress, is that right?”

“Yes.” He scanned the surrounding cars. Volvos everywhere.

“There it is, over there.” She pointed and set off toward it. “The one with the empty space at the side of it. To the right.”

The car was very dirty. He could see that from thirty feet away.

“We wouldn’t have been able to read the license plate number in any case.”

“That’s what happens when you keep putting things off,” Hanne said. “But it’s not good, when you think of rust and whatnot.”

“No.”

“It doesn’t seem to matter just at the moment.”

They had reached the car. Hanne unlocked it and sat down behind the wheel.

“Anyway… thank you,” she said.

“It’s a pleasure.”

She was staring straight ahead with the car keys in her hand, then turned to look at Morelius, who was leaning toward the car. She started the engine.

“And I always thought we had such a good relationship,” she said, but Morelius didn’t catch every word.

When Winter arrived at Room 1108 his father was awake. He approached the bed. It was a difficult moment. Winter had trouble swallowing. His father held out a hand. Winter took it. The hand felt warm and firm, as with a healthy man, but Winter could feel bone and sinew. He tried to say something, but his father got in first.

“Good of you to come, Erik.”

“Of course I came.” Winter could see that his father was in pain. Moving his hand had been awkward. “Take it easy now.” Winter squeezed the hand gently. “That’s the main thing.”

“It’s the only… possible thing.” Bengt Winter looked at his son. “This wasn’t exactly how I’d planned to greet you when you finally got yourself down here to the sun.”