Хеннинг Манкелль - Italian Shoes

It is not clear why the two skerries are known as the Sighs. Jansson maintains that a long time ago, there was a wildfowler in these parts by the name of Måsse who used to sigh every time he shot an eider.

I don’t know if it’s true. The skerries are not named on any of my charts. But I like the idea of barren rocks rising out of the sea being called the Sighs. You sometimes get the feeling that trees are whispering, flowers murmuring, berry bushes humming unknown melodies, and that the wild roses in the crevices behind Grandma’s apple tree are playing beautiful tunes on invisible instruments. So why shouldn’t skerries sigh?

It took me almost an hour to row back to the jetty. No chance of a morning bath today. I walked back up to the house. Sima was asleep under the blanket. She hadn’t moved at all since lying down. As I watched her, I heard the throbbing sound of Jansson’s boat. I walked back down to the jetty and waited for him. There was a gentle north-easterly breeze, the temperature was around plus five, and spring still seemed a long way off. I noticed a pike near the end of the jetty, but then it darted away.

Jansson had problems with his scalp today. He was afraid that he was starting to go bald. I suggested he should consult a hairdresser. Instead, he unfolded a page he’d ripped out from some weekly magazine or other and asked me to read it. It was a whole-page advertisement for a miraculous potion that promised immediate results; I noticed that one of the ingredients was lavender. I thought of my mother, and told Jansson that he shouldn’t believe everything he read in expensive advertisements.

‘I want you to give me some advice.’

‘I already have done. Consult a hairdresser. He will no doubt know a lot more about hair loss than I do.’

‘Didn’t you learn anything about baldness when you trained as a doctor?’

‘Not a lot, I have to admit.’

He took off his cap and bowed his head as if he were suddenly expressing subservience. As far as I could tell his hair was thick and healthy, not least on the crown of his head.

‘Can’t you see that it’s getting thinner?’

‘That’s only natural as you grow older.’

‘According to that advert, you’re wrong.’

‘In that case I suggest you order the stuff and massage it into your scalp.’

Jansson crumpled up the page.

‘I sometimes wonder if you really are a doctor.’

‘Whatever, I can tell the difference between people with genuine aches and pains, and hypochondriac postmen.’

He was about to respond when I noticed that his gaze deviated from my face and focused on something behind my back. I turned round. Sima was standing there. She had the cat in her arms, and the samurai sword was hanging from her belt. She said nothing, only smiled. Jansson stared. Within days the whole of the archipelago would know that I was being visited by a young lady with dark eyes, tousled hair and a samurai sword.

‘I think I’ll go ahead and order that lotion,’ Jansson said in a friendly voice. ‘I’d better not disturb you any longer. I haven’t got any post for you today.’

I watched as he backed away from the jetty. When I turned round, Sima was on her way to the house. She had put the cat down halfway up the hill.

She was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking, when I entered.

‘Where’s the boat?’ she asked.

‘I’ve moved it to where it can’t be seen.’

‘Who was that you were talking to down by the jetty?’

‘His name’s Jansson, and he delivers mail out here in the archipelago. It wasn’t good for him to have seen you here.’

‘Why not?’

‘He gossips. He blabs.’

‘That doesn’t bother me.’

‘You don’t live here. But I do.’

She stubbed out her cigarette in one of Grandma’s old coffee saucers. I didn’t like that.

‘I dreamt that you were pouring an anthill over me. I tried to defend myself with the sword, but the blade broke. Then I woke up. Why do you have an anthill in that room?’

‘There was no reason for you to go in there.’

‘I think it’s pretty cool. Half the tablecloth has been swallowed up by it. In a few years the whole table will have been covered.’

I suddenly noticed something I had overlooked before. Sima was agitated. Her movements were nervous, and when I looked at her out of the corner of my eye, I could see that she was rubbing her fingers together.

It struck me that many years ago I had seen that same strange, nervous finger-rubbing in a patient whose leg I’d been forced to amputate, because of complications to do with his diabetes. He had an acute fear of germs, and was unstable mentally, suffering deep depressions.

The cat jumped up on to the table. Until a few years ago I always used to shoo it down again, but I no longer did. The cat has beaten me. I moved the sword so that she wouldn’t injure her paws. When I touched the hilt of the sword, Sima gave a start. The cat rolled up into a ball on the waxed cloth and started purring. Sima and I watched her in silence.

‘Come clean,’ I said. ‘Tell me why you’re here and where you think you’re going to. Then we can work out the best way of proceeding without unnecessary problems.’

‘Where’s the boat?’

‘I’ve moored it in a little cove between two small islands known as the Sighs.’

‘Why would anybody call an island a sigh?’

‘There’s a reef out here called the Copper Bottom. And some shallows just off Bogholmen are called the Fart. Islands have names just like people do. Sometimes nobody knows where they come from.’

‘So you’ve hidden the boat?’

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I don’t know if that’s anything to thank me for. But if you don’t come clean soon I shall pick up the phone and ring the coastguard. They’ll be here within half an hour and take you away.’

‘If you touch that phone I shall cut your hand off.’

I took a deep breath and said: ‘You don’t want to touch that sword because I’ve had hold of it. You’re afraid of germs. You’re terrified your body is going to be invaded by contagious diseases.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

I was right. A sort of invisible shudder passed right through her body. Her hard exterior had been penetrated. So she counter-attacked. She grabbed my ancient cat by the scruff of its neck and threw her in the direction of the firewood box. Then she started screaming at me in her native language. I stared at her, and tried to tell myself that she wasn’t my daughter, wasn’t my responsibility.

She suddenly stopped yelling.

‘Aren’t you going to pick the sword up? Aren’t you going to take hold of the hilt? Cut me to pieces?’

‘Why are you so horrible?’

‘Nobody treats my cat the way you’ve just done.’

‘I can’t stand cat fur. I’m allergic.’

‘That doesn’t give you the right to kill my cat.’

I stood up to let the cat out. She was sitting next to the outside door, eyeing me suspiciously. I went out with her, thinking that Sima might need to be alone for a while. The sun had broken through the cloud cover, it was dead calm, and the warmest spring day so far. The cat disappeared round the corner of the house. I glanced surreptitiously in through the window. Sima was standing at the sink, washing her hands. Then she dried them carefully, rubbed the hilt of the sword with the towel and put the sword back on the table.

As far as I was concerned, she was a totally incomprehensible person. I couldn’t imagine what was going on inside her head. I hadn’t the slightest idea.

I went back inside. She was sitting at the table, waiting. I didn’t mention the sword. She looked at me and said:

‘Chara. That’s what I’d like to be called.’