Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

He wiped his brow. Then he forced the jimmy with all his might, simultaneously pressing hard against the screwdriver with his knee. The door gave way. The only noise was a creaking and the thud of the screwdriver landing on his shoe. He turned off his flashlight and listened, ready to flee if necessary. Nothing happened. He opened the door carefully and pulled it shut behind him. There was a stuffy, closed-in smell in the apartment. He had a vague feeling that it reminded him of his aunt’s house near Värnamo, where he’d been to visit several times as a child. A smell of old furniture. He switched on his flashlight, careful not to point it at a window. He had no plan and didn’t know what he was looking for. If he’d been an ordinary burglar it would have been easier. He’d have been looking for objects of value, and trying to find likely hiding places. He examined a pile of newspapers on a table. Nothing suggested that Wetterstedt subscribed to a morning paper that would be delivered in the early hours.

He walked slowly around the apartment. It was just three rooms, plus the kitchen and the bathroom. Unlike the spartan furniture and fixtures at the summer cottage, Wetterstedt’s apartment in town was overflowing with furniture. He glanced into the bedroom, then continued to the living room, which apparently also served as a studio. There was an empty easel, and a writing desk against one wall. He opened a drawer.

Old pairs of glasses, packs of playing cards, newspaper clips. “The portrait painter Emil Wetterstedt celebrates his fiftieth birthday.” The photograph had faded, but Lindman recognized Wetterstedt’s piercing eyes gazing straight at the photographer. The text was full of deference. “The nationally and internationally well-known portrait painter who never left his hometown of Kalmar, despite many chances to establish himself elsewhere... Rumors abounded of an offer to settle on the Riviera with famous and rich clients.” He replaced the clip, thinking that it wasn’t very well written. Wetterstedt had said that he didn’t like writing letters, only brief messages on postcards. Perhaps he’d written the newspaper article himself, and it had turned out so badly because he wasn’t used to writing. Lindman searched through the drawers. He still didn’t know what he was looking for. He moved on to the third room, a study, and went to the desk. The curtains were drawn. He took off his jacket and hung it over the desk lamp before switching it on.

There were two piles of paper on the desk. He looked through the first one. It consisted of bills and brochures from Tuscany and Provence. He wondered if Wetterstedt in fact enjoyed traveling, despite claiming not to. He replaced the pile, and drew the second one towards him. It was mainly crossword puzzles torn out of newspapers. They were all solved, with no cross-outs or alterations. He might not care for letter-writing, but he knew his words.

At the bottom of the pile was an envelope, already opened. He took out an invitation card printed in a typeface reminiscent of runestones. It was a reminder. “On November 30 we meet as usual at 1300 hours in the Great Hall. After lunch, reminiscences, and music, there will be a lecture given by our comrade, Captain Akan Forbes, on the subject of his years fighting to keep Southern Rhodesia white. This will be followed by our A.G.M.” It was signed by the “Senior Master of Ceremonies.” Lindman looked at the envelope. It was postmarked Hässleholm. He moved the desk lamp closer and read the text again. What exactly was this an invitation to? Where was this Great Hall? He put the card back in its envelope and replaced the pile.

Then he went through the drawers, which were unlocked. All the time he was listening for the slightest noise from the landing. In the bottom left-hand drawer was a brown leather file box. It filled the drawer. Lindman took it out and laid it on the desk. There was a swastika embossed on the leather. He opened it carefully because the side was split. It contained a thick bundle of typewritten sheets. They were carbon copies, not originals. The paper was thin. The text was written on a typewriter with a letter “c” that was slightly higher than the other letters. They seemed to be some kind of accounts. At the top of the first page was a handwritten heading: “Comrades, departed and deceased, who continue to fulfill their commitments.” Then followed long lists of names in alphabetical order. In front of every name was a number. Lindman moved carefully on to the next page: another long list of names. He glanced through them without recognizing any. They were all Swedish names. He turned to the next page.

Under the letter D, after Karl-Evert Danielsson, the same hand as had written on the first page had noted: “Now deceased. Pledged an annual subscription for 30 years.” Annual subscription to what? Lindman wondered. There was no reference to the title of an organization, just this list of names. He could see that many had died. In some places there was a handwritten note that future subscriptions had been specified in a will, in others that “the estate will pay” or “paid by the son or daughter, no name given.” He turned back to the letter B. There she was, Berggren, Elsa. He turned to the letter M. Sure enough, there was Molin, Herbert. He returned to the beginning. The letter A. No Andersson, Abraham. He moved on to the end. The last name was Oxe, Hans, numbered 1,430.

Lindman closed the file and replaced it in the drawer. Were these the papers Wetterstedt had referred to? A Nazi old comrades association, or a political organization? He tried to work out what he had stumbled upon. Somebody should take a look at this, he thought. It should be published. But I can’t take the file with me because there would be no way I could have gotten it without having broken into this apartment. He turned off the desk lamp and sat in the dark. The air was heavy with the disgust he was feeling. What stank was not the old carpets or the curtains — it was the list of names. All these living and dead individuals paying their subscriptions, in person or via their trustees, their sons or daughters — to some organization that declined to reveal its name — 1,430 persons still adhering to a doctrine that should have been dismissed once and for all. But that wasn’t the way it was. Standing behind Wetterstedt had been a boy, a reminder that everything was still very much alive.

He sat there in the dark, making up his mind that it was time for him to head home. But something held him back. He took out the file once more, opened it, and turned to the letter L. At the bottom of a page was the name “Lennartsson, David. Subscription paid by the wife.” He turned the page.

It was like being on the receiving end of a punch, he reflected afterwards, on his way to Borås, driving far too fast through the darkness. He had been totally unprepared. It was as if somebody had crept up on him from behind. But there was no room for doubt. It was his father’s name there at the top of the page: “Lindman, Evert, deceased, subscriptions pledged for 25 years.” There was also the date of his father’s death seven years ago, and there was something else that removed any possible doubt. He recalled as clear as day sitting with one of his father’s friends, a lawyer, going through the estate. There had been a gift written into the will a year or so before his father died. It was not a large sum, but striking nevertheless. He had left 15,000 kronor to something calling itself the Strong Sweden Foundation. There was a bank transfer number, but no name, no address. Lindman had wondered about that donation, and what kind of a foundation it was. The lawyer assured him that there was no ambiguity, his father had been very firm on this point; Lindman had been devastated by the death of his father, and lacked the strength to think any more about it.