Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

“Where are you?” she said.

“I’m still in Europe.”

“Where?”

He thought about the map he’d been studying in the car, trying to come to a decision.

“Norway.”

“What are you doing there?”

“I’m looking at furniture. I’ll be coming home soon.”

“Don Batista’s been asking for you. He’s upset. He says you promised to renovate an antique sofa for him. He wanted to give it to his daughter as a wedding present in December.”

“Tell him it will be ready in time. Has anything else happened?”

“What do you expect to have happened? A revolution?”

“I don’t know. I’m only asking.”

“Juan has died.”

“Who?”

“Juan. The old caretaker.”

She was speaking more slowly now, but still far too loudly, as if that was necessary because Norway was so far away. He suspected that she wouldn’t even be able to point to it on a map. It also struck him that she was never closer to him than when she was talking about somebody who’d died. He was not surprised to hear that the old caretaker was dead. He’d had a stroke a few years back, and since then had only been able to shuffle around the courtyard, looking at all the work that needed doing but he no longer had the strength to do.

“When’s the funeral?”

“It’s already happened. I sent flowers from both of us.”

“Thank you.” There was a swishing and crackling in the receiver. “Maria, I’ll be back home soon. I miss you. I haven’t been unfaithful to you, but this journey has been very important. I feel as if I’m moving around in a dream, as if I’m really back in Buenos Aires. I had to make this trip because there was something I needed to see that I’d never seen before. Not just this foreign furniture in such light colors, but also something inside myself. I’m starting to get old, Maria. A man of my age should only make journeys by himself. To find out who he really is. I’ll be a different person when I get back.”

“What do you mean, a different person?” She sounded worried.

He knew that Maria was always worrying in case something changed. He wished he hadn’t said that.

“I’ll be changed for the better. I will have dinner at home in future. I’ll very seldom dine at La Cãbana and leave you alone.”

She didn’t believe him and was silent again.

“I’ve killed a man,” he said. “A man who committed a terrible crime, a long time ago, when I still lived in Germany.”

Why had he said that? A confession made over the phone from a chalet in the mountains in the Swedish province of Härjedalen to a cramped, damp apartment in Buenos Aires. A confession to somebody who didn’t understand what he was talking about, and was even less able to imagine him doing harm to any other person. It was probably because he couldn’t bear anymore not sharing his secret with someone else, even if it was only Maria, who wouldn’t understand what he said.

“When are you coming home?” she said again.

“Soon.”

“They’ve raised the rent again.”

“Think of me in your prayers.”

“Because they’ve raised the rent?”

“Don’t worry about the rent. Just think of me. Every morning and every night.”

“Do you think of me when you say your prayers?”

“I don’t say any prayers, Maria, you know that. You’re the one who does that job in our household. I have to go now. I’ll call again later.”

“When?”

“I can’t say. Goodbye, Maria.”

He put the phone down, and at once it occurred to him that he should have told her he loved her, even if he didn’t. After all, she was the one who was always around, she’d be the one who held his hand when he was dying. He wondered if what he’d told her had sunk in.

He stood up and went over to one of the low windows. It was light outside now. He looked at the mountains, and in his mind’s eye he could also see Maria, sitting in the plush red armchair next to the little table with the telephone.

He needed to get back home.

He made some coffee and opened the front door to let in some air. If anybody were to come along the path to the house, he knew what he would say. He’d tell them he’d killed Molin, but not the other man. But nobody would come, he was convinced of that. He was alone here. He could make this little chalet his base while he tried to find out what had happened to Andersson.

There was a framed photograph on a shelf. Two children were sitting on the stone slab under which he’d found the key, smiling at the camera. He took it down and looked at the back. He could just about make out a date: 1998. It also said “Stockholm.” He searched for the name of the owner of the cabin. He found an invoice from an appliance store in Sveg addressed to a man by the name of Frostengren with a home address in Stockholm. That persuaded him that he need have no fear of being disturbed. The chalet was a long way off the beaten track, and November was not a month for hikers or skiers. The only thing he’d have to avoid was being seen when he got onto the main road. He’d also better keep an eye on the other cottages whenever he left or returned, to make sure that they were closed up for the winter.

He spent the rest of the day in the chalet. He slept a lot, dreamlessly, and woke up without feeling restless. He drank coffee, grilled a hamburger, and occasionally went out to look at the mountains. At about 2 P.M. it started raining. He switched on the light over the table in the living room and sat by the window to work out what to do next.

There was only one obvious and absolutely incontrovertible starting point: Aron Silberstein or Fernando Hereira, whoever he happened to be at the time, had committed murder. If he’d been a believer, like Maria, that would have ensured eternal hell. He was not a believer, however; as far as he was concerned there were no gods, apart from those he occasionally created for himself in moments of weakness, and then only fleetingly. Gods were for the poor and weak. He was neither poor nor weak. Even as a child he’d cultivated a thick skin, which had become part of his nature as the years went by. He was unsure if he was first and foremost a Jew or a German emigrant to Argentina. Neither the Jewish religion and traditions nor the Jewish community had given him any assistance in life.

He had visited Jerusalem once, in the late 1960s. It was after the first of the wars with Egypt, and it was in no sense a pilgrimage. He’d made the journey out of curiosity and perhaps as a penance for his father, an apology for not yet having traced the man who killed him. Staying at the same hotel as Silberstein in Jerusalem was an old Jewish gentleman from Chicago, an orthodox believer, and they’d often eaten breakfast together. Isak Sadler was a friendly man. With a friendly smile that did not disguise the fact that he was still astonished at how it happened, he told Silberstein how he survived a concentration camp. When the U.S. troops arrived to liberate them, Sadler was so emaciated that he’d had to use his last reserves of strength to let the Americans know he was still alive and shouldn’t be buried. After that it seemed only natural that he should go to America and spend the rest of his life there. One morning they’d spoken about Eichmann, and discussed the principle of revenge. It had been a depressing time for Silberstein. He’d grown resigned by the end of the 1960s, and supposed that he would never be able to trace the man who’d killed his father.

However, his conversations with Sadler had given him the inspiration to take up the search once more. Sadler had argued very strongly that the execution of Eichmann had been appropriate. The hunt for German Nazis must continue for as long as there was the slightest hope of finding alive anyone who had been associated with the horrendous crimes.