Хеннинг Манкелль - Italian Shoes

‘Just like a painting,’ said Harriet, ‘left behind by the artist on nature’s easel.’

I got out of the car and lifted out the walker. Harriet shook her head, and stayed in the car. I stood in front of the house, listening. The dog was still sitting there motionless, staring at the door. A rusty old plough stuck out of the snow like the remains of a shipwreck. Everything seemed to be abandoned. I could see no tracks in the snow apart from those made by the dog. I was feeling more and more uneasy. I walked up to the house and knocked on the door. The dog stood up.

‘Who’s going to open it?’ I whispered. ‘Who are you waiting for? Why were you sitting out there on the main road?’

I knocked again, then tried the handle. The door wasn’t locked. The dog ran in between my legs. It smelled stuffy inside the house — not unaired, but as if time had stood still and begun emitting a scent of doom. The dog had run into what I assumed was the kitchen, and not returned. I shouted, but there was no answer. On the left was a room with old-fashioned furniture and a clock with a pendulum swinging silently behind the glass. On the right was a staircase leading to the upper floor. I went to where the dog had gone and stopped abruptly in the doorway.

An old woman was lying prone on the floor of grey linoleum. It was obvious that she was dead. Nevertheless, I did what one ought to do in the circumstance: knelt down and felt for a pulse in her neck, her wrist and in one temple. It wasn’t really necessary as the body was cold and rigor mortis had already set in. I assumed it was Sara Larsson lying there. It was cold in the kitchen as one of the windows was half open. That was no doubt the way the dog had taken in order to get out and try to fetch help. I stood up and looked around. Everything was neat and tidy in the kitchen. In all probability, Sara Larsson had died of natural causes. Her heart had stopped beating; perhaps a blood vessel had burst in her brain. I estimated her age at somewhere between eighty and ninety. She had thick white hair tied in a knot at the back of her head. I carefully turned the body over. The dog was watching everything I did with great interest. When the body was lying on its back, the dog sniffed at her face. I seemed to be looking at a painting different from the one Harriet had seen. I was looking at a depiction of loneliness beyond description. The dead woman had a beautiful face. There is a special kind of beauty that manifests itself only in the faces of really old women. Their furrowed skin contains all the marks and memories imprinted by a life lived. Old women whose bodies the earth is crying out to embrace.

I thought about my old father, shortly before he died. He had cancer that had spread all over his body. By the side of his deathbed was a pair of immaculately polished shoes. But he said nothing. He was so afraid of death that he had been struck dumb. And wasted away to such an extent that he was unrecognisable. The earth was crying out to embrace him as well.

I went out to Harriet, who had got out of the car and was leaning on her walker. She accompanied me back to the house, and held tightly on to my arm as she walked up the steps. The dog was still sitting in the kitchen.

‘She’s lying on the floor,’ I said. ‘She’s dead and stiff and her face has turned yellow. You don’t need to see her.’

‘I’m not afraid of death. What I think is horrific is the fact that I shall have to be dead for so long.’

Have to be dead for so long.

Later, I would remember those words spoken by Harriet as we stood in the dark hallway just before entering the kitchen where the old woman was lying on the floor.

We stood in silence. Then I scanned the house, looking for evidence of a relative I could contact. There had once been a man in the house, that much was obvious from the photographs hanging on the walls. But now she was alone with her dog. When I came downstairs again, Harriet had placed a handkerchief over Sara Larsson’s face. She’d had great difficulty in bending down. The dog was lying in its basket, watching us attentively.

I telephoned the police. It took me some time to explain exactly where I was.

We went out on to the porch to wait, both subdued. We said nothing, but I noticed that we were trying to stand as close together as possible. Then we saw headlights slicing through the forest, and a police car drew up outside. The officers who got out of it were very young. One of them, a woman with long fair hair tied in a ponytail behind her cap, seemed to be no more than twenty or twenty-one at most. Their names were Anna and Evert. They went into the kitchen. Harriet remained on the porch, but I followed them.

‘What will happen to the dog?’ I asked.

‘We’ll take it with us.’

‘And then what?’

‘I suppose it will have to sleep in the cells with the drunks until we can establish if there is some relative or other who can take care of it. Otherwise it will have to go to a dogs’ home. If the worst comes to the worst, it will be put down.’

There was a constant scraping sound coming from the radio receivers attached to their belts. The young woman made a note of my name and telephone number.

She said there was no need for us to stay there any longer. I squatted down in front of the basket and stroked the spaniel’s head. Did she have a name? What would happen to her now?

We drove through the gathering dusk. The headlights illuminated signs with unfamiliar names.

Everything is silent travelling in a car through a winter landscape. Summer or spring are never silent. But winter is mute.

We came to a crossroads. I stopped. We needed somewhere to stay; a sign indicated the Foxholes Inn five miles off.

The inn turned out to be a mansion-like building with two wings, situated in extensive grounds. A lot of cars were parked outside the main building.

I left Harriet in the car and entered the brightly lit lobby, where an elderly man, who gave the impression of being in another world, sat playing an old piano. He came down to earth when he heard me come in, and stood up. I asked if he had any rooms for the night.

‘We’re full,’ he said. ‘We have a large party celebrating the return of a relative from America.’

‘Have you any rooms at all?’

He studied a ledger.

‘We have one.’

‘I need two.’

‘We have one large, double room with a view of the lake. On the first floor, very quiet. It was booked, but somebody in the big party fell ill. It’s the only room we have available.’

‘Is it a double bed, or a twin?’

‘It’s a very comfortable double bed. Nobody has ever complained about it being difficult to get to sleep there. One of Sweden’s elderly princes, now dead, slept in that bed many times without trouble. Although I’m a monarchist, I have to admit that royal guests can sometimes be demanding.’

‘Can you divide the bed?’

‘Only by sawing it in half.’

I went out to Harriet and explained the situation. One room, a double bed. If she preferred, we could drive on and try to find somewhere else.

‘Do they serve food?’ Harriet asked. ‘I can sleep anywhere.’

I went back in. I recognised the tune the man at the piano was churning out, something that had been popular when I was a young man. Harriet would certainly be able to name it.

I asked if they served an evening meal.

‘We have a wine-tasting dinner that I can thoroughly recommend.’

‘Is that all?’

‘Isn’t that good enough?’

His response sounded very disapproving.

‘We’ll take the room,’ I said. ‘We’ll take the room, and look forward to the wine-tasting dinner.’

I went out again and helped Harriet out of her seat. I could see that she was still in pain. We walked slowly through the snow, up the ramp for wheelchairs, and entered the warmth. The man was back at the piano.