Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

“You say you’ve come here to talk to me about Herbert Molin. What do you want to know? And as for that, what really happened? Was Herbert murdered, can that be right?”

Lindman decided not to beat around the bush. As far as Wetterstedt was concerned, it didn’t matter that Lindman was not officially connected to the murder investigation.

“We don’t have any specific clues pointing either to a motive or to a killer,” he said. “That means we have to dig deep. Who was Herbert Molin? Can we find a motive hidden in his past? Those are the sort of questions we’re asking ourselves, and others. People who knew him.”

Wetterstedt did not react. The boy made no secret of his dislike of Lindman.

“It was actually Herbert’s father I knew. I was younger than he was, but older than Herbert.”

“And Axel Molin was a captain in the cavalry?”

“An honorable rank that ran in the family. One of his ancestors fought in the battle of Narva. The Swedes won, but the forefather fell. That tragedy gave rise to a family tradition. Every year, they celebrated the victory at Narva. I remember the family had a big bust of King Karl XII on a table. There were always fresh flowers in a vase next to it. I still remember that clearly.”

“You were not related?”

“Not directly. But I did have a brother who also got into hot water because of all this.”

“The minister of justice?”

“Exactly right. I always advised him against going into politics. Especially since his views were way out there.”

“He was a Social Democrat.”

Wetterstedt looked Lindman in the eye. “I said his views were way out there. Perhaps you know that he was murdered by a madman. They found his body on a beach somewhere near Ystad. I never had any truck with him. We had no contact at all for the last twenty years of his life.”

“Was there any other bust on that table? Alongside the one of Karl XII?”

“What do you mean? Who?”

“Hitler.”

The boy standing behind the chair came to life. It was a momentary reaction, but Lindman noticed. Wetterstedt remained calm.

“What are you trying to suggest?”

“Molin volunteered to fight in Hitler’s army during the war. We’ve also discovered that his family were Nazis. Is that right?”

Wetterstedt responded without hesitation. “Of course it’s right. I too was a Nazi,” he said. “We don’t need to play games, Mr. Policeman. How much do you know about my past?”

“Only that you were a portrait painter, and were in contact with Molin.”

“I was very fond of him. He displayed great courage during the war. Everybody with a grain of common sense sided with Hitler. The choice was between watching the relentless advance of Communism or putting up some resistance. We had a government in Sweden we could trust only so far. Everything was set up.”

“Set up for what?”

“For a German invasion.” It was the boy who answered. Lindman looked at him in astonishment.

“But not everything was in vain,” Wetterstedt said. “I’ll soon paint my last portrait and be gone, but there’s a younger generation that applies common sense to what is going on in Sweden, in Europe, indeed in the world at large. We can be happy that Eastern Europe has collapsed. Not a pretty sight, but uplifting even so. On the other hand, the situation here in Sweden is worse than ever. Everything going to the dogs. No discipline. We don’t have borders anymore. Anybody can get in wherever they like, whenever they like, no matter what their motives. I fear the national character of Sweden has been lost forever. Nevertheless, one has to keep plugging away.”

Wetterstedt paused and turned to Lindman with a smile.

“As you have seen, I stand up for my opinions. I’ve never attempted to conceal them, nor have I ever had any regrets. Obviously, there have been folks who’ve preferred not to acknowledge me in the street, and some who have even spat at me. But they were insignificant beings. My brother, for instance. I’ve never been short of commissions for portraits. More to the contrary, in fact.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“That there has never been a shortage of people in this country of ours who have respected me for standing up for my opinions. People with the same views as mine, but who have preferred not to make their opinions public, for various reasons. I could understand them, at times. At others, I’ve thought they were cowards. But I’ve painted their portraits, even so.”

Wetterstedt indicated that he wanted to stand up. The boy moved smartly to assist him, and gave him a walking stick. Lindman wondered how Wetterstedt coped with the stairs at his apartment in Kalmar.

“There’s something I’d like to show you.”

They went out into the corridor, paved with stone flags. Wetterstedt paused and looked at Lindman.

“Did you say your name was Lindman?”

“Stefan Lindman.”

“If I’m not mistaken, your accent suggests you come from Västergötland?”

“I was born in Kinna, not far from Borås.”

Wetterstedt nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve never been to Kinna,” he said. “I’ve been through Borås. But I feel most at home on Öland or in Kalmar. I’ve never understood why folks want to travel around so much.” Wetterstedt tapped his walking stick hard on the floor.

It occurred to Lindman that only a few days earlier he’d heard another old man, Björn Wigren, say something similar about not wanting to travel. They kept walking until they came to a room with no furniture at all. There was a curtain on one of the walls. Wetterstedt moved it to one side with his walking stick. Behind it were three oil paintings in gilded oval frames. The one in the middle was of Hitler, in profile. On the left was a portrait of Goering, and on the right one of a woman.

“This is where I keep my gods,” Wetterstedt said. “I painted this one of Hitler in 1944, when everybody, including his generals, had started to turn their backs on him. This is the only portrait I’ve ever painted exclusively from photographs.”

“So you actually met Goering?”

“In Sweden and in Berlin as well. For some time in the interwar years he was married to a Swede by the name of Karin. I met him then. In May 1941 I was called by the German Legation in Stockholm. Goering wanted to have his portrait painted, and I’d been chosen to do it. That was a great honor. I’d painted Karin, and he’d been pleased with that. So I went to Berlin and did a portrait of him. He was very kind. On one occasion it was the intention that I should meet Hitler at some reception, but something cropped up and got in the way. That is the biggest regret of my life. I was so close, but in fact I never got near enough to shake his hand.”

“Who’s the woman?”

“My wife. Teresa. I painted her portrait the year we married, 1943. If you have eyes to see, you’ll appreciate that the picture is full of love. We had ten years together. She died of an inflamed heart muscle. If that had happened today, she’d have survived.”

Wetterstedt signaled to the boy, who drew the curtain shut. They returned to the studio.

“Now you know who I am,” Wetterstedt said, having settled in the armchair again and had the blanket spread over his knees. The boy had resumed his position behind the old man.

“You must have had some reaction to the news that Herbert Molin was dead. A retired police officer, murdered in the forests of Härjedalen. You must have wondered what happened?”

“I thought it had to be the work of a madman, obviously. Perhaps one of the many criminals who enter Sweden and commit crimes they are never punished for.”

Lindman was getting impatient with the views that Wetterstedt kept expressing.