Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

The pictures slowly brought memories to life. The album was made up of stepping stones that he could jump on. In between were other memories that had not been photographed, but which came to mind even so.

He must have been twelve years old. He’d been hoping for a new bike for ages. His father wasn’t stingy, but it took some time to convince him that the old one simply wasn’t much use anymore. In the end his father gave in, and they drove to Borås.

They had to wait their turn in the shop. Another man was buying a bike for his son. He spoke broken Swedish. It took some time to complete the deal, and the man and the boy went off with the new bicycle. The shop owner was about the same age as Stefan’s father. He apologized for the delay.

“Those Yugoslavians. We’re getting more and more of ’em.”

“What are they doing here?” his father said. “They should be sent back. They have no business being in Sweden. Haven’t we got enough problems. with all the Finns? Not to mention the gypsies. We should throw them all out.”

Lindman could remember it well. It wasn’t a wording made up in retrospect: that was exactly what his father said. And the owner didn’t react to the last comment: “We should throw them all out.” He might have smiled or nodded, but he didn’t say anything. Then they had bought the bicycle, tied it to the roof of the car, and driven back to Kinna. The memory was crystal-clear, but how had he reacted at the time? He’d been full of enthusiasm about the long-hoped-for bike. He remembered the smell of the shop — rubber and oil. Nevertheless, he remembered something else he’d felt at the time — not that his father thought the gypsies and Yugoslavs should be thrown out, but the fact that his father had expressed an opinion. A political opinion. That was so unusual.

When he was growing up, nothing had ever been discussed among the family apart from insignificant matters. What to have for dinner, whether the lawn needed mowing, what color they should choose for the kitchen tablecloth they were going to buy. There was one exception: music. That was something they could talk about.

All his father listened to was old-fashioned jazz. Lindman could still remember the names of some of the musicians his father had tried in vain to persuade him to listen to and admire. King Oliver, the cornet player who had inspired Louis Armstrong. He’d played with a handkerchief over his fingers so that other trumpeters wouldn’t be able to work out how he’d managed to produce his advanced solos. And then there was a clarinetist called Johnny Doods. And the outstanding Bix Beiderbecke. Time and time again Lindman had been forced to listen to these scratchy old recordings, and he’d pretended to like what he heard. Pretended to be as enthusiastic as his father wanted him to be. If he did that, he might stand a better chance of getting a new ice hockey set, or something else he badly wanted. In reality, he preferred to listen to the same music as his sisters. Often the Beatles, but more usually the Rolling Stones. His father had accepted that, as far as music was concerned, his daughters were a lost cause; but he thought that his son just might be saved.

When he was younger, his father had played the music he admired. There was a banjo hanging on the living-room wall. Occasionally he would take it down and play. Just a few chords, no more. It was a Levin with a long neck. A real beauty, his father had insisted, dating from the 1920s. There was also a picture of his father playing in the Bourbon Street Band — drums, bass, trumpet, clarinet, and trombone. Plus his father on the banjo.

They’d often discussed music at home — but nothing that might fuel his father’s furious outbursts, which were rare, but real. While Lindman grew up, he was constantly worried about the possibility of his father exploding into a fit of rage.

When they went to Borås to buy the bicycle, his father had expressed an opinion that went a long way beyond deploring the stupidity of listening to pathetic pop music. What he said had to do with people and their right to exist. “We should throw them all out.” The memory grew in Lindman’s consciousness as he recalled the incident.

And there was an epilogue.

He’d been sitting in the passenger seat. In the side mirror, he could see the bike handlebars sticking out from the roof.

“Why do gypsies have to be thrown out?” he’d said.

“Because they’re inadequate as people,” his father had told him. “They’re inferior. They’re not like us. If we don’t keep Sweden for the Swedes, everything will fall apart.”

He could still hear those words, as clear as a bell. He also remembered feeling worried about what his father had said. Not about what might happen to the gypsies if they didn’t have the sense to flee the country on their own. It had more to do with himself. If his father was right, he was destined to think the same thing, that the gypsies ought to be thrown out.

His memories drifted away. There was nothing left of the rest of the journey. It was only when they got back home and his mother came out to admire the new bicycle that his memory started to work again.

The telephone rang. He gave a start, put the album down, and answered.

“Olausson here. How are you?”

He’d expected to hear Elena’s voice. He was instantly on his guard. “I don’t know how I am. I just go through the motions, waiting for the treatment.”

“Can you come to the station? Are you up to it?”

“What about?”

“A minor matter. When can you be here?”

“Five minutes from now.”

“Let’s say half an hour, then. Come straight up to my office.”

Lindman hung up. Olausson hadn’t laughed. Kalmar has caught up with me already, he thought. The forced door, the police in Kalmar asking questions, another policeman, a colleague from Borås paying an unexpected visit. Does he know anything about the break-in? Let’s call our colleagues in Borås and ask.

That’s what must have happened. It was nearly 2 P.M. That meant the police in Kalmar would have had time to search the apartment and talk to Wetterstedt. He was sweating. He was sure there was nothing to link him to the affair, but he’d have to talk to Olausson without being able to mention anything about the contents of the brown leather file box in the desk drawer.

The telephone rang again. This time it was Elena.

“I thought you were going to come here?”

“I have a few things to take care of. Then I’ll come.”

“What sort of things?”

He was tempted to hang up the phone.

“I have to go to the police station. We can talk later. Bye.”

He hadn’t the energy to deal with questions just now. It would be hard enough inventing something plausible enough to convince Olausson.

He stood in the window and rehearsed the story he’d made up about his activities the previous day. Then he put on his jacket and headed for the police station.

He paused to greet the receptionists. Nobody asked him how he was. That convinced him that everybody in the building knew he had cancer. The duty officer, Corneliusson, also came out to the desk for a brief chat. No questions, no cancer, nothing. Lindman took the elevator up to Olausson’s floor. The door to his office was ajar. He knocked. Olausson shouted, “Come in!” Every time Lindman entered his room, he wondered what tie he would have to face. Olausson was notorious for ties with strange patterns and odd color combinations. Today, however, it was an unremarkable dark blue. Lindman sat down. Olausson burst out laughing.

“We caught a burglar this morning. He must be one of the dumbest people alive. You know that stereo shop in Österlånggatan, next to the square? He’d broken in through the back door, but he must have been so sweaty that he took off his coat and hung it up. And he forgot it when he left. In one of the pockets was a wallet with his driver’s license and some business cards. The bastard had his own business cards! ‘Consultant,’ goddammit. All we had to do was go to his address and take him in. He was in bed asleep. Forgotten all about his coat.”