Henning Mankell - The Return of the Dancing Master

He headed out at midnight. He took with him a small axe that he had taken from the chalet. He waited until a heavy truck had gone past, then he hurried over the road and along the path down by the river.

Lindman stormed out of Elena’s home in a fury at 2 A.M. Even before he reached the street his rage had subsided, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back, for all that he really wanted to. He got into his car and drove into town, but he avoided Allégatan: he didn’t want to go home, at least not yet. He pulled up at the Gustav Adolf Church and switched off the engine. The place was deserted and dark.

What actually had happened? Elena had been pleased to see him. They had sat in the kitchen and shared a bottle of wine. He’d told her about his journey and the sudden pains he’d had in Sveg. He’d told her the bare minimum about Molin and Andersson and Wetterstedt: Elena wanted to know what he’d been doing. She was very concerned about him, and her eyes betrayed her worry. They’d sat up for a long time, but she shook her head when he asked if she was tired. No, she wanted to hear everything about what he’d been up to while he was away. We shouldn’t always insist on sleeping, she said, not when there were more important things to do. Even so, after a while they’d started clearing away the table before going to bed. After washing the glasses, she’d asked him in passing if he couldn’t have called her a little more often, despite everything. Hadn’t he realized how worried she’d been?

“You know I don’t like telephones. We’ve been through that lots of times.”

“There’s nothing to stop you from calling, saying hello, and hanging up.”

“Now you’re annoying me. You’re pressuring me.”

“All I’m asking is why you don’t call me more often.”

He grabbed his jacket and stormed out. He regretted it by the time he was running downstairs. He knew he shouldn’t drive. If he were caught by the police, he would be charged with drunk driving. I’m running away, he thought. All the time I’m running away from November 19. I go wandering around the forests in Härjedalen, I break into an apartment in Kalmar, and now I drive when I’ve been drinking. My illness is dictating my actions, or rather my fear, and it’s so strong that I can’t even be with the person I’m closest to in the whole world, a woman who is totally honest and showing that she loves me.

He took out his cell phone and dialed her number.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“I know that. Are you coming back?”

“No. I’ll sleep at home.”

He didn’t know why he’d said that. She didn’t say anything.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, trying to sound cheerful.

“We’ll see,” she said wearily and hung up.

He switched off his cell phone and remained sitting there in the darkness. Then he left the car and walked back to Allégatan. He wondered if this is what death looked like, a solitary figure walking through the night.

He slept badly and got up at 6 A.M. No doubt Elena would be awake already. He should call her, but he didn’t feel up to it. He forced himself to eat a substantial breakfast, then went to fetch his car. There was a gusty wind blowing, and he felt the cold. He drove south out of Borås. When he came to Kinna he left the main road and drove into the town itself. He stopped outside the house where he’d grown up. He knew that the man who lived there now was a potter who had made his studio in what used to be his father’s garage and workshop. The house looked deserted in the early morning light. The branches of the tree where Lindman and his sisters used to have a swing were swaying in the strong wind. He suddenly thought that he could see his father come out of the door and walk towards him, but instead of his usual suit and gray overcoat he was wearing the uniform that hung in Berggren’s closet.

Lindman drove back to the main road and didn’t stop again until he came to Varberg. He had coffee at the café opposite the railway station, and borrowed their phone book to look up Anna Jacobi’s number. The address was in a suburb to the south of the town. Perhaps he should call first, but then Anna Jacobi or whoever answered might say that the old man didn’t want to or wasn’t well enough to be visited. He eventually found the place, after several wrong turns.

The house looked as if it had been built around the turn of the century, and stood out from the other houses, which were all modern. He opened the gate and walked down the long gravel path to the front door, which was under a veranda roof. He hesitated before ringing the bell. What am I doing? he thought. What do I expect Jacobi to tell me? He was my father’s friend. Superficially, at least. What my father really thought about Jews I can only imagine, and fear the worst. Nevertheless, he was one of the small group of well-to-do people who lived in Kinna in those days. That must have been the most important thing as far as my father was concerned, keeping the peace in that little group. I’ll never know what he really thought about Jacobi.

He decided to take the Strong Sweden Foundation as his starting point, the reason why his father had made a pledge in his will. He’d asked about it once before. Now he was coming to ask again, and if necessary he would say it had to do with Molin’s death. I’ve already been in Olausson’s office and lied through my teeth to him. I can hardly make matters any worse. He rang the doorbell.

After the second ring, the door was opened by a woman in her forties. She looked at him from behind a pair of thick glasses that magnified her pupils. He introduced himself and explained what he wanted.

“My father doesn’t receive visitors,” she said. “He’s old and ill and wants to be left in peace.”

Lindman could hear the sound of classical music from inside the house.

“My father listens to Bach every morning. In case you’re wondering. Today he asked for the third Brandenburg Concerto. He says it’s the only thing that keeps him going. Bach’s music.”

“I have something important to ask him about.”

“My father stopped dealing with anything remotely connected with work a long time ago.”

“This is personal. He once drew up a will for my father. I spoke to your father about it in connection with my father’s estate. Now the matter of a pledge in the will has come up again, in connection with a difficult legal case. I won’t pretend that it doesn’t have great significance for me personally as well.”

She shook her head. “I’ve no doubt that what you want to ask is important, but the answer has to be no even so.”

“I promise not to stay for more than a couple of minutes.”

“The answer is still no. I’m sorry.”

She took a step back before closing the door.

“Your father is old, and he’ll soon be dead. I’m young, but I might die soon as well. I have cancer. It would make it easier for me to die if I were able to ask my questions.”

Anna Jacobi stared at him from behind her thick glasses. She was using a very strong perfume that irritated Lindman’s nose.

“I assume that people don’t tell lies about fatal illnesses.”

“If you like I can give you the telephone number of my doctor in Borås.”

“I’ll ask my father. If he says no, I shall have to ask you to leave.”

Lindman agreed and she shut the door. He could still hear the music. He waited. He was beginning to think she’d closed the door for good when she came back.

“Fifteen minutes, no more,” she said. “I’ll be timing you.”

She ushered him into the house. The music was still there, but the volume had been turned down. She opened the door of a large room with bare walls, and a hospital bed in the middle.