After the Fire

Chapter 14

During the drive to Arlanda many thoughts about Louise passed through my mind, along with memories from my younger days: hitchhiking by the roadside, travelling from town to town, sometimes even crossing the border into a new country. I remembered drivers who had stopped, but turned out to be drunk. On one occasion I was picked up by a young woman. She was driving an expensive sports car, and there was barely room for my rucksack between my legs. In broken English she informed me that she had just murdered her husband. I recalled with particular clarity that she said she had stabbed him in the back. She tried to excuse her actions by saying that he hadn’t had time to realise what was happening; I don’t know what I said in response. She suddenly slammed on the brakes and told me to get out of the car in the middle of nowhere in the dark. I don’t remember how I continued my journey.

Just as my hitchhiking to Paris always led me to Belgium, especially the city of Ghent, if I travelled by train I always ended up in the central station in Hamburg at three o’clock in the morning. I used to change trains there for Paris, where I would either stay or go on to Spain or Portugal, perhaps even across to North Africa. Homeless beggars used to wander around the deserted station in Hamburg; this was only about fifteen years after the end of the Second World War, so I always imagined that these elderly men in their long, dirty overcoats were soldiers who had survived the Western or Eastern Front. There was a dark imprint of horror in their eyes. However, I don’t recall ever giving any of them money, either because I had no German currency or because I felt too poor. The pale light transformed the enormous space into a theatre set, where the actors had left long ago but the lighting technician had forgotten to switch everything off before he went home. The few nocturnal wanderers, the passengers and the cleaners were acting out a drama that had no beginning and no end.

When I had reached Arlanda and parked my car, I stepped straight into a world swarming with people. Long queues stretched from every check-in desk. I hadn’t a clue what to do. I couldn’t tell you when I was last in an airport.

It was a while before I managed to pull myself together sufficiently to start looking for a ticket office. According to one of the big electronic information boards, the 19:30 Air France flight to Paris was delayed by two hours. That was the only departure I could find, but luckily there were still spaces. I paid with the credit card I had collected from the bank earlier in the day. I was holding the ticket in my hand when I realised I had an important question for the woman behind the glass in her blue uniform.

‘I’ve left my passport at home,’ I said. ‘As a Swedish citizen, I assume I can travel to France without it?’

‘As long as you have ID, that’s fine,’ she replied. ‘Otherwise the police here in the airport can issue a passport which is valid for one journey.’

I went and sorted out a provisional passport, then changed some money, found the right check-in desk and went through security. In the departure hall I bought a cheap suitcase on wheels. I transferred the contents of Harriet’s old bag into it and purchased some more shirts and underwear. I sat down by one of the huge windows overlooking the tarmac, where the planes were squatting at their gates like beasts in their stalls.

I called Lisa Modin; she answered just as I was about to give up hope. I briefly explained what had happened — my daughter’s cry for help, my hurried departure.

‘Can I ask you a favour?’ I said. ‘I haven’t even managed to sort out a hotel. Could you possibly use your computer to find something that’s in the city centre but no more than three-star? From tomorrow — the plane’s delayed, so I’ll be arriving in the middle of the night.’

‘How much do you want to spend? And for how many nights?’

‘I’ve no idea about the cost — three-star is three-star. I need the room for at least two nights.’

‘No problem.’

She called me back after twenty minutes to say that she had found a hotel.

‘It’s called the Hotel Celtic, and it’s in Montparnasse, Rue d’Odessa, not far from Rue de Vaugirard.’

At first I wondered if she was joking. Of all the thousands of streets in Paris, Rue de Vaugirard is the one I know best. During my longest stay in the city, in 1963, I rented a room on Rue de Cadix, just off the far end of that long street, right next to the Porte de Versailles. It was a forty-minute walk from Montparnasse. When I was out and about at night I often saw packs of huge rats by the kerb moving from one drain to another. Some of them were as big as cats. It was frightening; I felt as if they could change direction and attack me at any moment.

At night my footsteps echoed on the cobblestones. My shoes were brown and far from clean. I had been given them by someone I met by chance in a jazz club in Rue Mouffetard. He thought the shoes I was wearing, with the left-hand sole coming away, looked dreadful. Late that night I accompanied him and his girlfriend to one of the streets behind the Jardin du Luxembourg. He lived right at the top of a house in one of the tiny garrets that had once provided accommodation for servants. He didn’t want to come all the way down again, so he tossed the brown shoes out of the window. They hit the cobblestones with a short, sharp smack. I put them on there and then, and they fitted perfectly.

‘Are you still there?’ Lisa asked. ‘Shall I make the booking? There are rooms available.’

‘Yes, please. Will they want my credit card number?’

‘I’ll give them mine to secure the booking, then you can pay with yours.’

‘Won’t you come with me?’

Only when I heard myself say those words did I realise that that was what I had been planning ever since I asked her to find me a hotel. I wanted to entice her to come with me, even though I would be searching for my daughter.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Exactly what I say. Come to Paris. I’ll pay for everything. To say thank you for the night I spent in your apartment.’

‘A trip to Paris is a big thank you for an uncomfortable sofa.’

‘You’re wrong.’

She laughed.

‘You’ve got my phone number,’ I went on. ‘Call me when you arrive and I’ll meet you.’

‘I’m not coming. We don’t know one another.’

‘I know myself. I mean what I say.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m at Arlanda, waiting for my flight. I don’t think I’ve ever felt more lonely in my life. I can’t imagine what it will be like when I’m dead.’

‘What do you mean?’ she said again.

‘That death seems to be a very lonely place, and an equally lonely state.’

‘I’ve got work to do. I can’t just swan off to Paris.’

‘Write about Paris. Write about the arsonist who’s on the run, looking for his daughter.’

‘Have you managed to get hold of her?’

‘No. I’m getting more and more worried.’

She didn’t say anything for a long time; life seemed to stop. Lisa Modin was present but silent. I was waiting for her to say that she loved me. I didn’t love her, I just had an overpowering need for a woman, any woman, and I was ready to say anything in order to persuade her.

When I was younger, a woman I had dumped accused me of being like a spider, catching my prey then watching it struggle. I never ate my victims, I just scuttled away to spin a new web.

‘Are you coming or not?’ I asked when the silence began to feel uncomfortable.

‘Not.’

‘I’ll wait for you.’

‘What exactly are you expecting?’

‘Nothing. Company, that’s all.’

‘This conversation is making me uneasy.’

‘That wasn’t my intention.’

‘I’ll text you the address of the hotel.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I can’t talk any more right now.’

‘Why not?’

She ended the call, and neither of us rang back.

The plane was indeed two hours late by the time we took off. When Paris finally lay glittering below us, we had to wait in a holding pattern before we were allowed to land. I stayed in my seat, observing my fellow passengers as they grabbed their outdoor clothing and hand luggage. It was as if they had all lost vital time and were now pushing and shoving to get off the plane as quickly as possible. I watched the whole thing with growing astonishment. A flock of people, desperate to flee. But from what? Cramped seats, fear of flying or their own lives? Had I been like them once upon a time, a person who regarded time as a game where winning or losing was all that mattered? I knew I had, but now that time really was an issue for me, the important thing was to be careful with whatever I had left.

I was the last person to disembark. One of the stewardesses was yawning so widely that I could almost hear her jaw crack. It reminded me of an occasion when I had arrived in Paris by train, having developed severe toothache the previous night in Hamburg. It was a very cold winter and I had stayed put on the train when it stopped at the Gare du Nord until a sour-faced conductor flung open the door of my compartment and ordered me to get off. I was sixteen years old at the time, escaping from a muddled decision to leave school.

The airport, with its many escalators, reminded me of a factory I had visited with my father when he was running the canteen there for a brief period. We arrived early in the morning, just before the first shift was due to clock on. I had the same feeling now as I approached passport control and customs. I was waved through without anyone asking for my passport or ID; no one was interested in my suitcase either.

The night was chilly as I emerged through the glass doors, looking for the airport bus. However, I immediately changed my mind. Why go to my hotel and sit around in reception until late afternoon, when my room would be available? I went back inside the terminal building and found some empty plastic chairs. I lay down, using my suitcase as a pillow, and soon fell asleep. Unfortunately I woke up every time someone came near me. I had learned the art of dropping off for just a few minutes at a time during the years I spent on call at various hospitals.

It was just after seven o’clock when I sat up. My body was frozen stiff. I had a cup of coffee and a croissant in a cafe that had just opened. The black woman who served me had a noticeable scar down one cheek and part of her ear on the same side was also missing. I wondered which African civil war with its concomitant slaughterhouse she had managed to escape from. Liberia? Rwanda? I smiled at her to show that I understood, but she looked tired; perhaps she was also someone who could no longer trust people.

I sensed so many of the dead behind her. Family, friends, strangers who had not managed to get away, unlike her.

By quarter to eight the airport was beginning to fill up. I went outside and got on a bus showing the Opéra as its final destination. Half the seats were occupied by a large number of Chinese men and women who belonged to a tour group. The group leader moved up and down the aisle, chatting to them. I found a seat right at the back, wondering if I ought to mention that my shirt was made in China.

A black family with an enormous amount of luggage were the last to board before the bus set off with a jolt. The journey into the city centre was drawn out and tedious, with frequent delays. The view from the window was the same as the view in so many other countries. The densely packed traffic induced in me a feeling of despair about the world into which I had been born and in which I happened to live. What were these people, many of them alone in their cars, thinking? Were they thinking at all?

I carried on staring out of the window but decided to ignore the traffic and turn my attention instead to how I was going to track down Louise. My French was far from perfect, but I could usually make myself understood and grasp what others were saying to me.

I got off at the Opéra, which looked almost exactly the same as it had fifty years ago when I saw it for the first time. I had intended to walk to Montparnasse, but after a glance at the Metro map I realised the distance was too great. As a young man I had happily walked from the city centre to the outskirts to visit a flea market, or simply in order to get to know different areas, but now it was too far. I made my way underground and found the line which would take me to Montparnasse, with one change at Châtelet. I remembered that the line going east from Châtelet used to have the most up-to-date trains. Those new trains had rubber wheels that hissed instead of scraping and squealing. I couldn’t get a seat and was squashed up against several women talking to each other in low, intense voices.

By the time I emerged it had started to drizzle, but I knew where I was going. Rue d’Odessa was quite close by, and it took me ten minutes to get to my hotel, during which time I kept having to duck to avoid open umbrellas that threatened to poke me in the eye. It was ten o’clock. I wouldn’t be allowed access to my room for several hours. The brass nameplate did indeed show three stars. The building dated from the end of the nineteenth century and the stone was somewhat crumbling, as if the place was slowly but imperceptibly falling down. The main door was up a short flight of steps, and an African girl was busy cleaning the glass with the name of the hotel etched upon it. She smiled and opened the door for me.

The compact reception area, adorned with brown wallpaper and wooden panelling, smelled of lavender. A thick, worn rug covered the floor. It was dark red, with a motif of smiling mermaids woven into it. A man was standing behind the counter, looking at me with what I perceived to be an odd expression. Then I realised he had a glass eye, just like Oslovski.

I produced my credit card and my temporary passport, and told him in halting French that I had a room booked. He immediately found my name on his computer screen and said that a different card had been used to secure the booking. I explained that this was my wife’s card, but that I wanted him to use the one I had just handed over.

‘Will I be able to get into the room at two o’clock?’ I asked.

The receptionist wore a name badge announcing that he was Monsieur Pierre. His expression was friendly as he said, ‘You can go up now. We had a guest who left very early, poor man — at half past four.’

He nodded in the direction of the black girl who was still polishing the glass door.

‘Rachel has already cleaned your room.’

He took down an old, heavy key with the number 213, pointed towards the lift and bade me welcome.

My room overlooked a courtyard at the back. Just as in the reception area, everything was in shades of brown, and once again there was the scent of lavender. The place wasn’t large, but Rachel had done her job well. I took off my shoes, folded back the bedspread and lay down. I gazed up at the ceiling, where a network of thin black cracks extended across a white background.

The ceiling was like a fog that was beginning to lift.

I took out my phone and tried Louise’s number once again. Still no answer, still no possibility of leaving a message.

I thought about the ruins of my house. About the tent out on the skerry, used by some unknown person.

And now room 213.

I remembered what Louise had told me about the Japanese garden known as the Ocean of Emptiness.

Suddenly there was just one thought in my head. I didn’t want to die of a heart attack or a stroke in this hotel room. Not before I had found my daughter. I sat up; I had to start searching for her. I went over to the window; it was raining harder now.

I caught a glimpse of a rat disappearing among the rubbish bins.

I left the room. The lift was busy and didn’t arrive even though I pressed the button several times. I met Rachel on the stairs, carrying a pile of clean sheets. She smiled at me again, and I thanked her for cleaning my room so well. I gave her a five-euro note and carried on down the stairs.

When I glanced over my shoulder, she was standing there watching me.

Chapter 15

In reception I asked Monsieur Pierre if I could borrow the Paris telephone directories. He immediately offered to look up the number I wanted on his computer, but I declined; I didn’t want to tell him that I was going to make a list of all the prisons and police stations in the city.

He gave me the heavy directories; I also asked him for a pen and some paper, then settled down in the closed bar. I spent almost an hour jotting down addresses and phone numbers. I also found the name of the prison where I had spent an afternoon, a night and several hours the following morning in the spring of 1968.

I had realised that my visit coincided with the student riots only when I was looking for cheap accommodation around the Latin Quarter. I ended up right in the middle of utter chaos — burning cars, tear gas, riot police, a boiling sea of people. Of course I was aware of the student movement in Europe, but I had never been a part of it. I had just started training to be a doctor and never joined in the political discussions over lunch or at break time. I distrusted those who became doctors in order to travel to poor countries. I wanted to be a doctor so that I could earn a good salary and have the freedom to choose where I worked. The thought of going off to Africa or Asia was complete anathema to me. I regarded my colleagues who were contemplating such a course of action as naive; I had no doubt that they would change their minds or regret their decision. Today I think I was probably wrong.

I had gone to Paris for a week because my exams were over. I went alone, looking forward to strolling along the boulevards. I had no plans other than to immerse myself in the anonymity of the city.

I found a small, shabby boarding house not far from the Sorbonne, then went out for something to eat. There were no demonstrations, no burning cars, no ranks of riot police. I turned into a side street where I knew there were a number of restaurants. It was a very short street, and in seconds two police cars arrived and blocked off both ends. A large number of officers poured out and arrested everyone in sight. There was no explanation; I was simply thrown in the back of a dark blue police van with barred windows and driven away. We were an odd mixture of men and women, French workers, students and foreign tourists. Nobody knew what was going on. One of the women started to cry. I don’t remember whether I was afraid or merely surprised. However, I do recall that I was very hungry.

I didn’t get any food until the following day. We were delivered to the police station on the Île de la Cité and bundled into a gigantic windowless cellar. I counted over two hundred people sitting on the stone floor or on the benches lining the whitewashed walls. I could see no connection between the members of this disparate group. Some of the women might have been prostitutes, judging by their clothing, but most were perfectly ordinary people. No doubt many of them were just as hungry as I was.

Our passports or ID documents were taken away, but no one would tell us why we had been arrested. During the night a rumour spread, alleging that it had nothing to do with the student protests. Apparently some hitchhikers had murdered a driver somewhere between Rouen and Paris. I looked around the enormous prison cell and couldn’t see anyone that looked like a hitchhiking killer.

In the morning I was taken to an interview room, where I explained that I was a medical student, that I had a week off and was staying in a boarding house in Paris. The officer sighed, returned my passport and suggested that I should avoid open areas for the rest of my visit. As I was hungry and tired after a sleepless night on the concrete floor, I immediately replied, ‘I’m on the side of the students, of course.’

I went straight to a cafe and ordered coffee and sandwiches. I spent the rest of the week sticking close to the walls of buildings whenever I ventured out, and I felt a surge of anxiety every time I saw a police car.

I gave the directories back to Monsieur Pierre and left the hotel, taking care not to leave any fingerprints on the newly polished glass doors.

The sun was shining through a thin mist. I was struck by the fact that the people I saw, with very few exceptions, were younger than me. It had never been more noticeable. I was part of a marginal group on my way out of this life. Every person who passed me drove the point home as they hurried towards destinations of which I knew nothing.

When I was young I was one of those people who used to run up the escalator. I was always in a rush, even if I wasn’t actually going anywhere in particular. One desolate Midsummer’s Eve in Stockholm I went to visit the Museum of Modern Art in Skeppsholmen. Afterwards I followed an attractive woman, who must have been ten years older than me, taking care to keep my distance. My only aim was to watch her walking in front of me. We had reached Norrmalmstorg when she suddenly stopped, turned and smiled. I caught up with her and she asked what I wanted.

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I guess we’re just going in the same direction.’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘We’re not. And you are going to stay here and stop following me, otherwise I won’t be smiling.’

I watched her turn into Biblioteksgatan. At that moment I wasn’t the oldest person on the street.

The memory of that long night in the prison cell had made me hungry. I strolled down the street and couldn’t help calling in at La Coupole, even though I suspected that particular restaurant charged an arm and a leg because of its reputation. To my surprise it wasn’t too busy. I was immediately shown to a table for one overlooking the pavement cafe.

I studied the menu, trying to get used to the noise echoing around the room. I had sat here alone or in company each time I visited Paris — sometimes very late at night, occasionally during the peaceful hours of the afternoon. I had once initiated a conversation with an American lady on the next table; it transpired that she was a doctor at a hospital in Tulsa. For some reason which I still don’t understand, I didn’t tell her that I was a doctor; instead I turned myself into an architect with a small practice in a town in Denmark. I must have been very drunk, I think, and amused by the idea of putting on a mask and pretending to be someone else. I vaguely remembered the meaningless and totally fictitious descriptions of a manor house I was busy designing.

I dismissed my memories of the American lady. After some indecision I plumped for a pasta dish and a beer. The waiter had beads of sweat on his forehead. Even before he had finished taking my order, he was on his way to another table.

My sense of being the oldest person was reinforced when I glanced around the restaurant. The waiters were young, and most of the diners were nowhere near my age. There was the odd middle-aged man or woman, but they were few and far between.

I ate my meal and ordered a Calvados with my coffee afterwards. By the time I emerged my head was a little woolly. I decided to walk all the way to the Swedish embassy on Rue Barbet-de-Jouy, near Varenne. I didn’t need a map to find my way from Montparnasse. All thoughts of my age had vanished; I was enjoying being out and about on the streets of Paris.

I went wrong more than once, and it took me a long time to reach the embassy. The gold-coloured sign below the Swedish state insignia informed me that the consular section was open. I went to a nearby cafe and had an espresso while I thought through the events that had been set in motion by Louise’s desperate phone call. I needed the embassy’s help to track her down and possibly to obtain legal representation and support.

I crossed the street and went inside. The woman on reception spoke Swedish with a French accent. I explained why I was there.

‘How old is your daughter?’ she asked.

‘She’s forty. She’s also expecting her first child.’

‘And you’re sure she’s been arrested?’

‘She wouldn’t lie about something like that.’

‘But she didn’t tell you where she was?’

‘She didn’t have time. That’s why I’m here.’

‘And she’s accused of being a pickpocket?’

‘I’m afraid that might be how she makes her living, but I’m not sure.’

She looked a little dubious. I nodded, hoping to make her understand that I wasn’t exaggerating. She picked up the phone and spoke to someone on the other end.

‘If you wait over there by the newspapers, Petra will come down and you can explain your business to her.’

‘My daughter is not “business”. She’s a person.’

I sat down by the newspapers and contemplated a portrait of the king and queen. It was crooked. I got up and gave it a push so that it was even more askew.

Petra couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old and looked like an overgrown child in her jeans and a thin top straining over a generous bust. She was frowning as she held out her hand.

She sat down and asked, ‘How can I help?’

‘Not here. This isn’t something to be discussed in a corner where people come to read the newspapers. I’m assuming you have an office?’

She looked at me with something I interpreted as distaste. I realised we wouldn’t be going anywhere.

I told her what had happened, giving dates and times, from Louise’s initial phone call to my arrival in Paris, and the fact that I hadn’t managed to contact her. I also explained that we hadn’t known about one another until Louise was an adult, and that I had only recently realised that she probably made her living as a pickpocket. At least sometimes. Hopefully not all the time.

I could see from Petra’s name badge that her surname was Munter, but it didn’t give a title. She took notes while I was talking, occasionally raising her hand to stop me until she had caught up.

‘This can’t be the first time a parent has turned up at the embassy, worried because their child has disappeared or ended up in prison,’ I said. ‘You must know what I ought to do.’

‘First of all we need to find out where she is. We have official channels.’

‘So you’re responsible for what the receptionist referred to as my “business”?’

‘I’m a trainee,’ Petra said. ‘I’m at the bottom of the heap. But I’m the one who kicks this upstairs or makes the decision not to pursue the matter.’

‘And you’re going to kick it upstairs?’

‘I think what you’ve told me is perfectly true.’

‘I’m worried about my daughter.’

She made a note of my mobile number and the name of my hotel.

‘We should know more tomorrow,’ she said, rising to her feet to indicate that the meeting was over.

‘My daughter is pregnant,’ I said again. ‘She was scared when she called me.’

Petra Munter gazed at me for a long time. She suddenly seemed to have grown up, no longer the teenager I had seen when she walked into reception.

‘I’ll make sure something is done, but the French don’t like foreign thieves operating here. They don’t exactly get a slapped wrist.’

‘So what do they get?’

She pulled a face but didn’t answer. I pictured Louise sitting in the same cellar where I had once spent the night.

Petra walked me to the door and I shook her hand.

‘Someone will contact you tomorrow,’ she said. ‘You have my word.’

As she walked away, I remembered something else.

‘I need a passport,’ I said. ‘A few weeks ago my house burned down. Everything was destroyed. I travelled here on a provisional passport, but I’d feel better if I had a proper one.’

‘We have an excellent machine here,’ she said. ‘It produces a Swedish passport within a very short time. But you could just as easily wait until you get back home.’

I left the embassy, making a mental note of the opening hours, and set off back to Montparnasse.

My mobile rang. There was a lot of traffic, so I hurried into a side street before I answered. It was a Swedish number that I didn’t immediately recognise.

It was Jansson.

‘I noticed you weren’t at home,’ he yelled.

Jansson always yells down the phone. He has never been able to accept that distance is irrelevant when he makes a call or when someone calls him. I remembered old fru Hultin, who lived on Vesselskär for a long time after she was widowed. I used to help her out with her bad feet now and again.

‘Jansson screams like a jay,’ she would say whenever he came up in the conversation. She herself spoke so quietly on the phone that it was hard to make out what she was saying. She probably thought that everyone in the archipelago was sitting by their phone, listening to the latest gossip about her corns.

‘How do you know I’m not at home?’

‘I happened to be passing. The police have been looking for you.’

‘They haven’t phoned me.’

‘They came by boat. Something to do with the fire.’

‘Have I been charged?’

‘I don’t know anything about that.’

‘So what did they say?’

‘They just asked if I knew where you were.’

‘But you didn’t?’

‘No.’

‘I left a note for Alexandersson before I left. He knows I’m away.’

‘So I don’t need to worry?’

‘Why would you worry? Was it you who set fire to my house?’

‘Why would you say such a thing?’

‘I’m in Paris.’

‘What the hell are you doing there?’

Jansson rarely swears. Just as he rarely uses his beautiful singing voice.

‘I’m the one who’s looking for the police, rather than the other way round.’

‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

‘It seems as if Louise has got into some difficulties, but I’d rather you didn’t spread that throughout the archipelago.’

‘I would never do such a thing.’

‘Both you and I know that you would. During all those years when you were a postman you spread just as many rumours as letters.’ Jansson said nothing, but I knew he was offended. ‘The police must have said something else,’ I went on.

‘They asked me to let them know when you came back.’

‘And of course you said you would?’

‘What else was I supposed to say?’

‘Has there been anything in the newspaper?’

‘No.’

I wondered what I should ask Jansson to do; I didn’t want anyone thinking I had fled from my homeland.

‘So you’re really in Paris?’

‘My battery’s running out; you’re breaking up.’

It wasn’t true, but Jansson would carry on trying to draw the story out of me unless I ended the call right now.

‘Talk to you later,’ I said and hung up.

I was sweating. The fact that the police were looking for me could only mean they were convinced I was guilty. I hated sympathy, particularly when it was offered by people as stupid as Jansson. Only I have the right to feel sorry for myself.

I strolled along Boul’Mich and stopped at the bistro where Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir used to spend their days. There were lots of people inside, so I sat down at one of the pavement tables. I had a coffee and two glasses of Calvados. My trip to Paris was beginning to resemble an alcohol-sodden escape from my isolated island, where the ruins of my burned-out house lay waiting for the winter snow.

I tried to think through what would happen when I found Louise. I didn’t even know what she was accused of.

I couldn’t focus. I headed back to the hotel, my pace getting slower and slower. When I glanced at the shop windows, I saw an old man’s face looking back at me. A lady by the name of Madame Rosini was on duty instead of Monsieur Pierre, and gave me my key. They were very much alike, somehow: the same faint smile, the same warmth. There was no sign of Rachel.

I lay down on the bed and fell asleep. In my dream the house was burning down once more. I ran outside to escape the blinding light, only to be transported straight back to my bed. Over and over again the darkness metamorphosed into dazzling searchlights, searing my eyeballs. My dog, who died several years ago, came back to life. I also thought I saw my last cat, running away with her fur on fire.

It was dark when I woke up. I got undressed and had a shower. The water was just as cold as the sea; I couldn’t work out how to adjust the taps.

I had just wound the biggest towel around my waist when my phone rang — a Swedish number again. I hesitated; should I answer? Was it Jansson or someone from the police?

It was Lisa Modin.

‘What’s the hotel like?’ she asked.

‘Is that why you’re calling?’

‘I’m going to come over.’

‘Today?’

‘Tomorrow. Don’t ask me why.’

‘I’m really pleased.’

‘Don’t expect anything.’

‘Why do you always say that?’

‘I just want to make sure you’re not expecting anything.’

‘When are you arriving?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ll come and meet you.’

‘I don’t want you to do that. Have you found your daughter?’

‘I’ve been to the embassy; they’re hoping to be able to help me tomorrow.’

The connection was broken; perhaps Lisa had ended the call. I tried her number but couldn’t get through. However, she was coming to Paris, and she knew which hotel I was staying in. That must mean she wanted to see me. Everything was changing. I got dressed and went down to reception. Monsieur Pierre was back, looking less than clean-shaven.

I asked whether a Madame Modin from Sweden had booked a room for the following day. He studied his computer screen, then shook his head.

‘No Madame from Sweden, I’m afraid. Just a Canadian lady, Madame Andrews, who comes to stay with us once a year, in the autumn.’

I went out into the mild November evening. I ambled down to Gare Montparnasse, bought a Swedish newspaper, then went into a little restaurant that seemed to serve only French customers. I couldn’t see any tourists. I ordered sweetbreads; they weren’t very nice, but I was hungry. I drank wine and thought about my daughter, Lisa Modin and bloody Jansson — I would never be able to work him out.

When I had finished eating I drank a cup of coffee while I flicked through the newspaper. I realised I had already read it while I was waiting at the airport.

I left the restaurant feeling unexpectedly cheerful. I set off towards the Latin Quarter, even though my legs were aching from all the walking I had done during the day.

On the way I was once again overwhelmed by the feeling that I was older than everyone else.

I thought about Louise. Had someone at the embassy managed to track her down in the labyrinth of Paris police stations?

It occurred to me with something that might have been sorrow that I had never allowed myself to be Louise’s father. When she suddenly came into my life, I regarded her as more of a nuisance than a joy for a long time. Needless to say I had never admitted this to her. Nor had I confronted Harriet with my feelings, although I did blame her. She had robbed me of my daughter. Even though Louise was now part of my world, I would always be incapable of loving her the way I imagined one would love a child.

But perhaps that love would blossom when I met the child she was carrying? Or was that already a lost cause?

I wandered the streets, unable to reach any kind of clarity. Eventually I decided that the birth of a child meant the beginning of a new story in the great chronicle of mankind.

I had reached the lower part of the Jardin du Luxembourg when I remembered a jazz club I used to frequent whenever I came to Paris: Caveau de la Huchette. I knew exactly where it was. Perhaps it was still a jazz club? I needed a goal for my evening stroll.

I went into a bistro for a coffee. I noticed that a black woman who was sitting at a table with a man of about the same age kept glancing over at me. I looked around to see if she might be trying to attract the attention of someone else, but there was no one there — just the window panes glimmering in the light of the street lamps. She was perhaps ten years younger than me. I didn’t recognise her. I concentrated on my coffee, but every time I raised my eyes she was staring at me.

She must recognise me. Or possibly she thought she knew who I was, which seemed more likely.

She stood up abruptly and came towards me, pushing her way between the tables. Her husband, or whoever her companion was, seemed totally uninterested.

She spoke to me in English; I naturally assumed she had mistaken me for someone else.

‘I’m sure I recognise you,’ she said. I gestured to the chair opposite, and she sat down. ‘I remember your face,’ she went on. ‘From a long time ago. My mother was the same; she could recognise a person she had met only once, thirty or forty years earlier.’

‘And you can do that?’

‘Yes.’

‘But I have no idea who you are. Your face doesn’t ring any bells, your voice hasn’t triggered anything in my memory.’

She looked at me searchingly.

‘Now I’m certain,’ she said. ‘When we were both young you came to the customs office here in Paris to pick up a typewriter someone had sent you — I don’t remember which country it was from. You had to pay import duty because it was new, but you didn’t have any money. In the end I let you take it without paying anything. You were almost in tears.’

Now I remembered not just her but the whole situation. I had gone to Paris with a burning ambition to become a writer. I had sent a letter to my father, asking him to buy a typewriter and send it to me. I promised I would earn enough money through my writing to be able to pay him back. I didn’t think for a moment that he would actually do it, but one day I was summoned to the French customs office. And it was indeed the woman sitting opposite me who had allowed me to take away the pale blue typewriter in its black case without paying the import duty.

‘How can you possibly remember that?’ I asked her.

‘I don’t know. I just saw you and I knew exactly who you were. You pleaded with me; you were young and poor. Was it Ireland you came from?’

‘Sweden.’

‘How did things turn out for you? Did you become a writer?’

‘I became a doctor.’

‘And what happened to the typewriter?’

‘I sold it a few years later when I ran out of money.’

She nodded and got to her feet.

‘Sometimes people do meet again,’ she said. ‘I’m glad I inherited my mother’s ability to recognise faces.’

She smiled and went back to her table. I was astounded. She didn’t seem to be telling her husband what had transpired.

I left the bistro; my legs were no longer aching, my footsteps felt light. For a while I was an old man allowing myself to forget about my burned-out house.

The club was exactly where I thought it was. I paid and went in. It was still early. My memories from all those years ago involved going down the stairs to a cellar bar late at night; now it was only eleven o’clock. The staircase and the cellar bar were the same, but when I reached the bottom step I realised I should have taken a closer look at the poster outside to see what kind of music was on tonight. The instruments and amplifiers arranged on the stage in the far corner told me it wasn’t going to be either modern or trad jazz. When I glanced around in the semi-darkness I could see that a reggae band was taking a break; there were dreadlocks and brightly coloured Rasta hats everywhere. However, there were plenty of older men and women with greying dreads sitting at the tables; I wasn’t the only person of my age.

I went to the bar and ordered a glass of Calvados. When the music burst into life behind me, I felt a wave of warmth flood my body.

I stayed by the bar and carried on drinking. The compact dance floor was soon packed; everyone seemed to be dancing with everyone else. Small, almost imperceptible movements of the legs and hips. The gentle sway made me think of the smooth swell of the sea.

A woman wearing a colourful turban was standing next to me at the bar. I asked if she would like to dance; I was astonished at my own courage. She said yes. We shuffled onto the floor. I learned the basics of dancing when I was at school, but on the few occasions when I danced with Harriet I was embarrassed by my ineptitude. Now, even though the floor was so crowded, I felt at more of a loss than ever. My partner noticed at once; I was moving as if I had hooves. Her disappointment was obvious; she looked at me as if I had deceived her, then walked away and left me there. Total humiliation.

I went up the stairs, followed by the sound of reggae music, and out onto the street.

I had almost reached my hotel when I took out my phone for some reason. It hadn’t rung, but I discovered that there was a text message from Louise: Where are you?

I tried to call her, but I still couldn’t get through.

‘I’m here,’ I said out loud to myself. ‘I’m actually here.’

Chapter 16

I hated the woman who had left me on the dance floor. With every step I took towards my hotel, I subjected her to increasingly vicious attacks in my head.

On a dark street just before I reached the Gare Montparnasse a drunken man came up to me and asked for cigarettes. I told him I hadn’t smoked for thirty years.

I was afraid he might attack me, but the tone of my voice clearly made him think again, and he staggered away.

I had difficulty sleeping that night. The incident in the club hurt; I was still embarrassed. I lay awake for a long time. I thought I could hear the guests in neighbouring rooms starting to make preparations to leave, and a cleaning trolley trundled past. I wondered if it was Rachel, starting work at this early hour.

It was five o’clock by the time I managed to doze off in my brown room. At eight my mobile rang; it was the embassy, a man who introduced himself as Olof Rutgersson. I wasn’t sure I understood his title.

‘We still haven’t managed to locate your daughter,’ he said.

He had a nasal voice; I’m sure it wasn’t his fault that it gave his tone an air of arrogance.

‘What happens now?’

‘We will definitely find her. After all, Paris is a city not a continent. She’s probably under local arrest, but that does mean the search will take time. I’ll be in touch as soon as I have something further to communicate on this matter.’

I wanted to protest at the way he expressed himself: ‘something further to communicate on this matter’?! But I said nothing; I needed him.

There were hardly any guests in the breakfast room, where the gigantic head of a kudu with large curly horns hung on the wall next to etchings of bridges over the Seine. Monsieur Pierre had once again been replaced by Madame Rosini, while a short Vietnamese girl took my order for coffee.

There was a bottle of sparkling wine in an ice bucket, and I couldn’t resist the temptation. My anger towards the woman who had abandoned me on the dance floor dissipated.

After breakfast I took a short walk to the railway station and bought a Swedish newspaper. When I got back to the hotel I sank down in a worn leather armchair in reception.

I liked the hotel. Lisa Modin had made a good choice. Before I started reading the paper, I asked Madame Rosini if they had received a booking for a Swedish lady. They hadn’t. She must have decided to stay somewhere else.

I leafed through the paper; it was half past ten. Rachel came down the stairs carrying a basket of cloths and cleaning products. She smiled before making a start on the glass door.

My phone rang; it was the man from the embassy.

‘Good news,’ he said. ‘We’ve found your daughter. She’s at a police station in Belleville.’

‘What on earth is she doing in that part of the city?’

‘I can’t answer that, but I’ll come and pick you up.’

Exactly one hour later a chauffeur-driven car with diplomatic plates pulled up outside the hotel. I got in beside Olof Rutgersson. He was aged about fifty and rather thin. His face was grey, colourless.

As we drove off I asked him to tell me what he knew.

‘I haven’t got much to report,’ he said. ‘We found her through our usual channels and the extraordinarily poor computer system used by the French police. That’s all I know. The important thing now is to assess her position so that we can work out how to proceed.’

‘You’re talking about my daughter as if she were a ship,’ I said.

‘It’s just words,’ Olof Rutgersson replied. ‘By the way, I suggest you let me do the talking when we arrive. I have diplomatic status. You don’t.’

He made a few calls; I noticed he had a small tattoo just above his wrist. It said MUM.

We were in a traffic jam, and Rutgersson was talking on his phone when I recognised the street, one of Haussmann’s wide boulevards.

I knew where I was. One day almost fifty years ago I had come up from the Metro exactly where our car was currently stuck in a queue of impatient drivers. It was during the period when I was working illegally, sitting in a little workshop in Jourdain repairing clarinets under the quiet guidance of Monsieur Simon. I don’t remember how I got the job, but it didn’t pay well. The workshop was in a backyard, and it was cramped and dirty. Apart from Monsieur Simon, who was a kind man, there was another young man working there who was fat, short-sighted and downright unpleasant. As soon as Monsieur Simon was out on some errand, he would start having a go at me, telling me that I was a burden because I had clumsy fingers and always arrived late in the mornings. I never argued with him, I simply despised his cowardice and wished he would drop dead among his saxophone valves.

Sometimes Monsieur Simon would send me out to various music shops to deliver instruments that had been repaired. It was as I emerged from the Metro with a parcel under my arm that I had found myself in the middle of a huge crowd. At first I thought there had been an accident, but then I realised people were waiting for someone to pass by. I peered down the road and saw President de Gaulle approaching; he was standing in an open-topped car. I had the instrument under my arm, and I made a movement with the other hand to get my cigarettes out of an inside pocket. I immediately felt two pairs of hands seize my wrist and shoulder. I dropped the clarinet. The two men, who I later realised were plain-clothes security guards, had thought I was reaching for a gun.

When they were satisfied that I had no evil intentions, and that my parcel contained a clarinet and not a bomb, they simply shrugged and let me go.

By that time the president was long gone, and the crowd had begun to disperse.

‘I once saw President de Gaulle just here,’ I said to Olof Rutgersson.

He was busy sending a text and didn’t hear what I said.

‘I once saw de Gaulle,’ I repeated. ‘Just here. Almost fifty years ago.’

‘Of course you did,’ he replied. ‘Of course you saw de Gaulle just here. Fifty years ago.’

I felt like punching him. After I’d taken his phone and chucked it out of the car window. I wished I were that kind of person. But I wasn’t.

I didn’t notice the name of the street on which the police station in Belleville was situated. Rutgersson leaped out of the car with an energy I found surprising. He had spent the journey yawning, hunched over his phone. Now he was transformed. He repeated his earlier exhortation to let him do the talking.

A young drug addict was throwing up in the shabby reception area while two uniformed officers observed him with distaste. A plain-clothes officer behind the tall desk nodded to Rutgersson when he waved his diplomatic pass. After a brief telephone call an older officer who walked with a stick emerged from another room. We accompanied him to an office where the air was thick with dust from a desk piled high with papers and shelves bellying under the weight of books and files. I had the sense of having been transported several hundred years back in time. The premises of law enforcers must have looked like this during Napoleon’s day.

The man lowered himself laboriously into the chair behind the desk; I realised he was in considerable pain. His stiff hands told me that he probably suffered from severe rheumatism.

Olof Rutgersson took the visitor’s chair on the other side of the desk and waved me to a seat by the door. He spoke fluent French. He also spoke very quickly, with the emphasis typical of those who tolerate no contradictions. I found it difficult to follow the conversation, but I did grasp that there was some doubt as to whether Louise was actually at this police station. The officer, whose name was Armand, sent for a younger colleague who couldn’t help either. When the two Frenchmen had finished talking, Rutgersson stood up and came over to me.

‘It’s always the same with the French police,’ he said. ‘You can never get any sense out of anybody.’

‘So Louise isn’t here?’

‘The French police often lose people, but of course we’re not giving up. I expect the Swedish police are the same.’

After yet more confused conversations and various junior officers running in and out, it seemed that Louise had been at the station, but earlier that morning she had been transferred to a custody suite on the Île de la Cité. Armand was unable to tell us why. He drank cup after cup of strong black coffee; as he grimaced at the temperature of the liquid, I saw that he had bad teeth, which made me feel slightly nauseous. Olof Rutgersson showed great tenacity, insisting that he wanted to know why Louise had been moved and what exactly she was accused of. He didn’t get any answers. The van that had collected her and a number of other individuals who were under arrest had taken all the paperwork.

‘Was she with anyone else?’ I asked.

Rutgersson passed on the question, but no one could tell us whether Louise had known any of those who had been arrested at the same time.

It took half an hour, with Rutgersson getting increasingly annoyed, before he realised there was no point in staying in Belleville. When we left the police station, he wanted something to eat, so we went to a nearby cafe while the chauffeur waited in the car. I drank tea while Rutgersson had coffee and a sandwich.

My phone rang; it was Lisa Modin. Rutgersson listened discreetly to our brief conversation.

‘The girl’s mother?’ he asked.

‘She’s dead. That was a friend.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know you’d lost your wife.’

‘We weren’t married, we just had a daughter together.’

As we left Belleville, the traffic heavier now, Rutgersson went back to making calls and sending texts. He wore a wedding ring on his left hand. I tried to picture his wife but without success.

I was waiting for Lisa to call back. I hadn’t been able to work out whether she was already in Paris. The thought of sharing a room with her, lying right next to her, sometimes drove Louise out of my head completely. I was too old to have a guilty conscience. I didn’t want to end up like my father. As he got older and was plagued with severe joint pain, he began to brood about the people he had treated badly or bullied during his lifetime. Even though he had been just as shabbily treated by unpleasant maître d’s and toffee-nosed customers, it was as if he was determined to spend the time he had left atoning for his sins.

I remember one occasion just after my mother’s death when I went to visit him in the small, dingy apartment in Vasastan. I had recently qualified as a doctor, and had taken my stethoscope and blood pressure monitor with me to show my father that I was now able to check those aspects of his health that he constantly worried about.

I stayed the night, going to bed early because I had to be at the hospital in the Söder district the following morning. My father had a tendency to wander late at night. He had spent so many years as a waiter that he rarely went to bed before three o’clock in the morning.

I suddenly woke up without knowing why. The door of my bedroom was ajar, and I could hear my father dialling a telephone number. I wondered who he was calling at this hour. I got out of bed and crept over to the door; I could see him sitting there with the receiver pressed to his ear. When he didn’t get an answer, he gently replaced it and crossed off a name on the handwritten list in front of him.

He was asleep when I got up in the morning. I looked at the piece of paper by the telephone; it was a list of names, people I didn’t know. Next to some of the names he had made a note that the person in question was dead. There were also various telephone numbers followed by a question mark.

The next time I visited him, I asked him about the nocturnal calls. Who was he ringing? Who were the people on his list? He told me without hesitation that they were people he thought he had mistreated during his life. Now, before it was too late, he wanted to call them and apologise. Unfortunately many of them had already passed away, which he found very difficult to deal with. I wondered whether that was why he had started neglecting his clothing; he no longer bothered to change if there were stains on his shirts or trousers.

He died six months after our conversation. I have no idea how many of those on the list he managed to speak to by then, but I kept it when I cleared his apartment. It had been in my desk drawer ever since, until my house burned down. Now it was gone for good.

We drove across the bridge to the Île de la Cité and found the address we had been given. Olof Rutgersson brandished his diplomatic pass like a crucifix, and within no time we had tracked down someone who would be able to tell us where Louise was. A female preliminary investigator called us into her spacious office, which I was surprised to see contained a grand piano, a Bechstein. She asked us to sit down and opened the file in front of her on the desk. She turned to me because I was Louise’s father, but Rutgersson immediately took over; he was the one who wanted answers to our questions. The woman, who was wearing a wine-red skirt suit and had a small burn mark on one cheek, spoke just as quickly as Rutgersson. I had no chance of following the conversation. I had begun to change my opinion of Rutgersson; he seemed to be taking his task extremely seriously. He was not indifferent to what had befallen Louise after all. From time to time he interrupted the Frenchwoman, and gave me a brief summary of what was being said.

Eventually the picture became clear. Louise had been arrested after stealing a wallet from someone’s inside pocket on a crowded Metro train near Saint-Sulpice. It appeared that she had been taken to Belleville, which was some considerable distance away, because the local custody facilities were already full. There was no doubt that she had stolen the wallet. The elderly victim hadn’t noticed anything, but a fellow passenger had seen exactly what Louise had done and had grabbed her. It turned out he was a civilian employee of the French police.

There was no evidence that anyone else was involved, but she probably hadn’t been working alone.

Louise had been arrested and would be formally charged. According to Rutgersson, over the past twelve months the French police had made a point of tackling the increase in muggings and the large number of pickpockets operating in Paris, which had almost become like Barcelona, the pickpockets’ European paradise. When I asked him to find out if it would be possible to let Louise off with a caution because she didn’t have a criminal record in France and was pregnant, the French officer merely spread her hands wide. It seemed unlikely that Louise would be released any time soon.

‘Can’t they just fine her?’ I asked.

‘It’s too early to discuss any kind of penalty,’ Rutgersson replied. ‘The most important thing right now is to see her and hear her version of events.’

‘The most important thing is that she knows we’re here,’ I said. ‘Everything else is secondary.’

A uniformed officer led us through corridors, down stairs and passageways, moving deeper and deeper underground. I began to wonder if this really was the place where I had been held when I was picked up by the police in 1968. I thought I recognised the whitewashed vaulted cellar, the steel doors, the wooden benches, the distant sounds of people shouting to one another. The place was a maze; you could get lost at any moment and never find your way out.

Eventually Rutgersson and I were shown into a windowless room with a dark-stained wooden table and a few rickety chairs. We waited, Rutgersson with a kind of exaggerated calm, while I became more and more agitated. Then the door opened and Louise was brought in by a female officer. She was wearing her own clothes, a pair of trousers and a shirt I recognised. She was very pale. For the first time I could remember she looked pleased to see me. She usually regarded me with some degree of caution, but not this time.

She wasn’t handcuffed, and the officer made no attempt to stop me from hugging her.

‘You came,’ Louise said.

‘Of course I came.’

‘In my life people don’t usually come when I need them.’

I introduced her to Olof Rutgersson. The police officer had stationed herself by the door and seemed to have no interest in our conversation. We sat down at the table, and Louise immediately began to tell us what had happened.

She admitted stealing the wallet on the crowded train. I no longer had any doubt that this was how she made her living, but she was prepared to admit only this one incident. I had some sympathy with her; why should she reveal to Rutgersson that her principal source of income was whatever she managed to steal? We had established a tacit mutual understanding. She had been arrested for the theft of this one wallet, nothing else.

‘Are you so short of money?’ Rutgersson asked when she fell silent.

Once again I changed my mind about him. I had thought he was an energetic and efficient embassy official; now I saw a remarkably insensitive individual sitting beside me.

‘Why else would she have stolen a wallet?’ I said. ‘Don’t forget she’s pregnant, and that her inheritance, my house in Sweden, burned to the ground just a few weeks ago.’

Rutgersson looked at me in surprise, and I realised I hadn’t mentioned my house. I told him the story, and he nodded to himself.

‘We’ll sort out legal representation for you,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately the embassy can’t cover the cost, but we can advance you the money for the time being.’

‘Will it be expensive?’ I asked.

‘Not necessarily.’

‘Then I’ll pay.’

He nodded and took out his phone, but there was no signal deep in the bowels of the building. He exchanged a few words with the officer, who let him out. I heard his footsteps hurrying up the stairs as he sought daylight and a phone signal.

I took my daughter’s hand. I wasn’t used to doing such a thing. For the first time since that day almost ten years ago, when Harriet had told me that the woman standing in the doorway of her caravan in the forests of Hälsingland was my daughter, I actually felt as if she was.

I wished that Harriet was still alive, able to see that at long last Louise and I had found one another.

I asked her how she was feeling. I asked about the baby. She answered quietly that everything was fine. Eventually I couldn’t avoid asking why she hadn’t turned up for lunch that day, why she had simply left a note under my windscreen wiper.

‘I just needed to get away.’

I left it there. Her response made it clear that she didn’t want to tell me why she had suddenly taken off.

We got quite close while Rutgersson was upstairs chasing a phone signal. I felt I understood my daughter better than I had in the past; she was running away, but nothing more.

I had one more question.

‘You called me. Did you call anyone else?’

‘No.’

‘Why me? Of course it was absolutely the right thing to do, but just a few days earlier you’d gone off and left me without a word.’

‘There’s no one else I can ask for help.’

‘You’ve always said you have a lot of friends.’

‘That might not be true.’

‘Why would a person lie about something like that?’

‘I have no idea what other people do, but I don’t always tell the truth. Just like you.’

I could tell from her voice that she didn’t want to continue the conversation. We’d gone this far but no further. She had called me. No one else.

Rutgersson returned; there was something weasel-like about the way he moved. He brandished the phone as if it were a gun. He always seemed to be in a hurry.

‘Madame Riveri will take on your case,’ he said before the police officer had time to close the door behind him. ‘She’s helped us out in the past; on three separate occasions she’s managed to get Swedish citizens out of tricky situations. We can safely leave matters with her.’

He shook hands with Louise and wished her luck.

‘Unfortunately I can’t stay,’ he said. ‘I have a meeting at the embassy. But Madame Riveri will keep me informed.’

He left the room, and I could hear his footsteps dashing up the stairs.

‘He’s been a great help,’ I said.

‘I’m glad he’s not the father of my child,’ was Louise’s response.

I didn’t understand what she meant. Or perhaps I did.

Madame Riveri was about fifty years old and elegantly dressed. She moved and talked in a relaxed manner which left no one in any doubt about her opinion of her own ability in legal affairs. With a firm gesture she dismissed the female officer and took a notebook out of her bag. When she realised that Louise’s French wasn’t good enough to sustain a meaningful discussion, she switched to English. I now heard in detail how Louise had travelled around on the Metro looking for a suitable victim. Madame Riveri wanted to know exactly where and when she had boarded the first train, where she had changed and why she had chosen that particular man as her target. The way Louise answered convinced me that she trusted Madame Riveri.

They spoke about the baby, but the identity of the father wasn’t mentioned. Finally Madame Riveri asked if this was the first time Louise had committed a crime. She said it was, but I could see that the other woman didn’t believe her. Louise’s dexterity spoke of a great deal of practice over a long period.

‘What you have just told me is not true, of course. However, it will help our case if you are a first-time offender who just happened to get caught.’

Madame Riveri snapped her leather-bound notebook shut and slipped it into her bag.

‘I would ask you not to speak to anyone unless I am present,’ she said. ‘We’ll have you out of here in a couple of days, three at the most. I doubt if it will be sooner, but it is possible.’

She got to her feet, shook Louise’s hand then nodded to indicate that she wanted me to accompany her. The police officer escorted Louise away and I trotted up the stairs after Madame Riveri; she was moving so fast that I found it difficult to keep up. When we were out on the street and the heavy door had closed behind us, she gave me her card.

‘I’ll pay whatever it costs, of course,’ I said.

She gave me an ironic smile. ‘Indeed,’ she said. ‘But we don’t need to discuss that at the moment.’

I wanted to find out what was going to happen next, but she hailed a cab and disappeared without even saying goodbye.

I set off for my hotel. There was rain in the air. I stopped on the bridge over the Seine and watched a barge as it passed beneath me. A woman was hanging out washing, and there was a pram anchored to the deck. I jumped when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and looked straight into a dirty, unshaven face. When the man asked me for money, there was no avoiding his bad breath. I gave him a euro and walked away.

I remembered my father confiding his great fear: he was terrified that one day he would be unable to pay his bills and would end up living on the street. I never understood why he told me that. Perhaps he wanted to warn me? But I was careful and always made sure I had money put aside in case of something unexpected.

When I reached the hotel, Monsieur Pierre was back with his warm smile. I went into the bar and had a cup of tea as a change from all that coffee before taking the lift up to my room.

I had just lain down on the bed when my telephone rang. It was Madame Riveri; she had arranged an appointment with the magistrate’s court for the following day to request that Louise be released and deported from France. She wanted to know if I would be able to pay for my daughter’s flight to Sweden; I told her that wasn’t a problem.

I fell asleep, and in my dream my father was running around a deserted pavement cafe. It was very windy, and the napkin over his arm was flapping like a partially torn-off wing. I tried to call out to him, but I couldn’t force a single sound from my throat.

As my father fell over, I woke up with my heart racing. I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to slow my breathing. After a few minutes I checked my pulse: ninety-seven. Much too fast. I lay down again and thought about my heart. Had I lived a life that put me at risk of an unexpected heart attack? I tried to dismiss the idea but without success. I took a tranquilliser from the pack I always carried with me and waited for it to take effect.

My phone rang again; this time it was Lisa Modin.

‘I’m in Paris. Where are you?’

‘At the hotel you booked for me.’

‘Is it OK?’

‘Yes. Where are you?’

‘At the station — Gare du Nord.’

‘Not Gare Montparnasse?’

‘I’m on my way there.’

‘Are you staying in this hotel?’

‘No, but not far away.’

‘I’ll come and meet you. Just tell me where you are in the station, and I’ll come over.’

‘There’s no need. I know where my hotel is.’

‘I’ve always dreamed of meeting a woman arriving in Paris.’

She laughed, briefly and with a hint of embarrassment.

‘I’ve found my daughter,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell you more later.’

‘Pick me up in an hour. I’ve only just got here; I need to sit down and get used to the idea.’

I promised to meet her, then I went down to the bar and ordered a mineral water. Monsieur Pierre was just getting ready to hand over to the night porter.

Thirty minutes later Lisa rang to tell me she was in a small cafe next to a big Dubonnet sign.

There were still plenty of people in the station, but the rush hour was over. I immediately spotted the Dubonnet sign; Lisa was sitting alone, drinking tea next to the barrier separating the cafe from the waiting room. She was wearing a dark blue coat, and her suitcase was by her feet.

I thought how pretty she was, and that she had come to visit me.

I was just about to go over to her when my phone rang. I thought it might be Louise, so I answered.

Needless to say, it was Jansson.

‘Am I disturbing you?’ he asked. ‘Where are you?’

‘It doesn’t matter where I am. What do you want? If you’ve developed some new imaginary illness, I don’t have time for that right now.’

‘I just wanted to call and tell you there’s a fire.’

At first I didn’t understand what he meant, and then I went cold all over.

‘What’s on fire? My boathouse?’

‘The house on Källö. The widow Westerfeldt’s house.’

‘Has it burned down?’

‘It’s still burning. I just wanted you to know.’

The call ended abruptly; I guessed that Jansson had failed to charge his phone, as usual.

I thought about what he had said; I hoped the widow Westerfeldt had managed to get out. Her house was very similar to mine. It had been built along the same lines by skilled carpenters at the end of the nineteenth century.

I stood there clutching my phone. I was finding it very difficult to process what Jansson had said, but surely it must mean that I couldn’t possibly be a suspect? Unless of course there were natural causes behind this latest blaze.

I couldn’t know, and yet I was sure. There was a pyromaniac or an arsonist loose on our islands.

I slipped my phone into my pocket, and when I looked over at Lisa again she had seen me. She waved hesitantly, as if she really wanted to hide the gesture.

I waved back and went over to her table.

Chapter 17

We started off talking like strangers who just happened to be sitting next to one another. I ordered wine from the waitress, and we raised our glasses. I brushed against her hand and said I was pleased to see her. I asked pointless questions about her journey; her responses were equally meaningless.

She suggested we should settle the bill; I wanted to pay, but she refused. When I offered to carry her case, she shook her head.

We went to her hotel together. I still hadn’t said anything about Louise, and she hadn’t asked. I was preoccupied with that horrible phone call from Jansson, and the fact that the widow Westerfeldt’s house was in flames right now.

We walked along in silence. Eventually I said, ‘Paris is always Paris.’

‘Always,’ Lisa replied.

Her hotel, the Mignon, appeared to be more modest than mine. A dark-skinned young man was on duty at the small reception desk; apparently guests were issued with some kind of plastic card instead of a heavy key. I waited while Lisa registered and handed over her credit card.

‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I need to sleep.’

‘312,’ I said. ‘I’m sure that’s a good room. If you’re up on the third floor, you won’t be disturbed by the traffic.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

The bar next to reception was just about to close.

‘Just a few minutes,’ I said. ‘Stay for a drink. I’ve got news.’

She hesitated. ‘I need to wash my hands. I won’t be long.’

I watched her disappear into the lift; a couple speaking Danish rather too loudly collected their key card and I went into the bar. The woman behind the counter didn’t exactly look pleased to see me.

‘I won’t stay long,’ I said apologetically. ‘A glass of red wine, please. A guest who’s staying at the hotel will be down shortly. We won’t stay long.’

She nodded without speaking, poured me a glass of wine then went into the kitchen at the back. I wondered how many bars I had visited in my life. Thought about the endless hours I had spent hunched over wine glasses and coffee cups.

When Lisa came in I could see that she had combed her hair and changed her blouse. The barmaid emerged from the kitchen and asked her what she wanted; Lisa simply pointed to my glass.

‘The bar is closing,’ I said. ‘She seems a bit annoyed with us.’

‘My room is small,’ Lisa said. ‘I was kind of disappointed, but then I noticed how quiet it was. You were right: I couldn’t hear the traffic at all.’

‘I’ve found Louise, and she has a lawyer who’s helping her. We’re hoping she’ll be released either tomorrow or the following day, if the judge is sympathetic.’

‘You must be so pleased. I should have asked about her as soon as we met.’

‘I’m relieved. A man from the Swedish embassy helped me; without him I would never have found her.’

The barmaid brought the bill over, and this time Lisa let me pay. We emptied our glasses and stood up; before we had even got through the door, the lights had been switched off.

‘I’ve got something else to tell you as well,’ I said when we were waiting for the lift. ‘Jansson, the man who brought you to the island, called to tell me that a house on a neighbouring island is on fire. Right now, tonight.’

‘What? And was that deliberate too?’

‘I don’t know, but fires are rare out on the islands. There’s something strange going on. It’s frightening.’

For the first time since she saw me at the railway station, Lisa actually seemed interested in talking to me. I was disappointed; a burning house was clearly more important than the man who wanted nothing more than to get close to her.

‘We can talk about it tomorrow,’ I said, preparing to leave. ‘When shall I call round?’

‘Let me come to your hotel, then I can see what I booked for you.’

We arranged for her to be there at ten. When I got outside I was overcome by the urge to set off into the night, to see where life might take me. Without further thought I went over to a taxi waiting by a lamp post, and asked the driver to take me to the Place Pigalle. He was North African, and he was playing loud music. I asked him to turn it down as we drove off, but he pretended not to hear me.

I had had enough. I yelled at him, told him to pull over. I threw him a handful of euros and got out of the car.

‘Fucking music!’ I shouted at him through the open side window.

He shouted something in response, but I didn’t understand. I had already turned and was walking away. I was afraid he might come after me; if he attacked me, I wouldn’t stand a chance. I heard the car screech past; the driver didn’t even look at me.

I was so scared I was shaking. I knew I ought to go back to my hotel, but instead I got into another taxi. This one was driven by a grey-haired man; I guessed he was part of the distinguished tradition of Russian taxi drivers in Paris. His radio was switched off. The interior of the car smelled of sausages and strong tea. When I asked him to take me to the Place Pigalle, his only response was a brief nod. He dropped me off near the Moulin Rouge, and I went straight to the nearest bistro.

I drank. A lot. Partly due to relief, because I thought Louise would be released within a day or two, and partly because of Jansson’s phone call. I couldn’t believe he would have contacted me if this new fire hadn’t also been started deliberately.

But I drank mainly because I had realised that whatever reasons Lisa Modin might have had for coming to Paris, they were nothing to do with my hopes and dreams. She might be interested in me as a person, but not as a man.

I kept ordering, kept drinking. Eventually I called Jansson. It was a long time before he answered; he sounded out of breath as he shouted in my ear.

‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Where are you?’

‘We’re trying to stop the fire from reaching the barn, but the lovely old house is beyond saving.’

‘Hold the phone away from your ear.’

‘What?’

‘I want to hear the fire.’

He did as I said, and I really thought I could hear the roar of the flames.

‘Did you get the widow out?’ I asked when he came back on the line.

‘They’ve taken her to the Sundells’ place on Ormö so that she doesn’t have to see this.’

‘Take a picture.’

‘A picture?’

Jansson didn’t seem to understand.

‘Have you got a camera phone? Take a picture and send it to me.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to see that what you’re saying is true. I want you to send a picture to my phone, here in this bar where I’m drinking myself into a stupor.’

‘Why?’

‘Why am I drinking or why do I want a picture? I’ll tell you when I get home. I’ll say it one more time: I’m in Paris. I’m waiting for that picture.’

Jansson did as I asked. I had another drink, then my phone pinged. I looked at the image; it was terrible. You couldn’t see anything of the house, just a formless glow.

I held the phone up to the barman.

‘My house is burning down,’ I said.

He looked at me but didn’t say anything. I could understand why.

I went out into the night. I had neither the courage nor the desire to speak to the women hanging around on the street, but I suddenly recalled a New Year’s Eve, the year before I met Harriet, when I had a relationship with a girl who worked in an ironmonger’s shop.

At Christmas I realised I didn’t want to carry on seeing her, but I didn’t know how to tell her because she would be devastated. I needed time to think. A few days before New Year’s Eve I was in the apartment where she lived with her parents, who happened to be away. The original plan had been that we would celebrate the New Year quietly together, which was something I wanted to avoid at any price.

I told her I had to go out to buy some new shoes. I had already left a note under her nightdress so that she would find it at bedtime.

I didn’t go to a shoe shop; I went straight to Arlanda and flew to Paris. In my dishonest message I had written that of course I loved her but that I needed to be alone for a few days. My love was just too overwhelming.

In Paris I found a cheap hotel not far from Clichy, slept until twelve every day and spent my nights in various bars in the Pigalle or Les Halles, which at that time were in the city centre. The whole time I was trying to pluck up the courage to approach a prostitute. The women on the street scared me. I fancied one of the women who hung out in a bar I frequented, but I didn’t have the nerve to speak to her either. Every night I slunk around like a randy tomcat, sticking close to the walls to avoid a stray kick. It wasn’t until New Year’s Eve, the day before I was due to fly home, that I ventured into one of the many bars where I thought I might find prostitutes.

Heavy curtains covered the window, a single lamp burned outside. As I seized the door handle, I had no idea what to expect. Would there be a lot of people, a lot of women? I stepped into the dimly lit room and discovered that it was virtually empty. An elderly man who resembled little more than a shadow was moving around behind the bar, the bottles sparkling in the mirrored wall. He glanced at me, assessing whether I was a punter who should be allowed in or someone who was likely to cause trouble, and gave me a nod. I had a choice: the empty tables and red chairs, or one of the leather-covered stools. The only woman in the place was sitting at the far end of the bar smoking a cigarette. I avoided looking at her, ordered a glass of wine and tried to appear as relaxed as possible. Music poured out of invisible speakers. I ordered another glass of wine, and the bartender wondered if I would like to buy the woman a drink. Naturally I said yes, and he gave her something that might have been a weak Martini. She raised her glass, I did the same. Despite the poor lighting I could see that she was in her thirties. She had brown hair cut in a pageboy bob, she wasn’t heavily made up, and was as far from my idea of a prostitute as it was possible to be. However, I was aroused by the thought that she was for sale. I had three hundred francs in my inside pocket; was that enough? I hadn’t a clue about the price of women in Paris, neither then nor now.

I stayed there until the bells had rung in the New Year on the radio behind the bar. Only one other male customer turned up all evening, and he and the woman knew one another. Perhaps he was her pimp. Just before he left they had a row about her lighter, which she insisted he had taken. It got quite nasty, and I wondered if I ought to leave. But the lighter turned up, everything calmed down, and the man disappeared. When the door closed and the curtain keeping out the cold fell back into place, the woman suddenly moved to the stool next to mine. She told me her name was Anne. I don’t remember what I said, possibly that my name was Erik or Anders. She asked where I came from; I said Denmark. What was I doing in Paris? Taking a break from my post as the manager of a bank in Copenhagen. I removed all traces of who I actually was. As if that made any difference. She asked for another drink; I nodded to the bartender, although I was starting to worry in case the drinks were sold at inflated prices. Surely the business couldn’t be profitable if they only had one customer on New Year’s Eve?

I wondered what my girlfriend in Stockholm was doing. Was she sitting in her parents’ apartment thinking about me? I didn’t know, but I was glad I had flown to Paris. When I got back I must find the courage to tell her that our relationship had no future.

Anne gently nudged me with her leg.

‘You know we can get together in the room at the back,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, I know.’

I didn’t say any more; I was grateful that she didn’t push it.

It was half past twelve. From the street came the sound of the odd firework and the shouts of people celebrating. I offered her another drink; I was terrified that she would suggest we withdrew to the other room. The initial temptation was gone; all I wanted now was an escape route. We sat there in silence. Every fifteen minutes, almost as if she were obeying an inaudible signal, she lit a cigarette with her Ronson lighter. As the flame sprang into life, I saw that her nails were bitten to the quick.

I asked for the bill. I paid and gave her a hundred francs. She took the money and smiled; I stood up and left. People were still partying. In the distance I could see the flare of rockets soaring into the air in Montmartre. I lingered for a little while; after ten minutes, just as I had decided to move on, Anne came out. She was wearing a suede coat trimmed with fur and a beret. I said hello as she walked past; she looked at me as if she had been molested. I was definitely someone she no longer knew.

I walked through Paris on that long, cold winter’s night, and the following day I flew home. I hadn’t bought any shoes. Nor could I bring myself to end our relationship. It wasn’t until the beginning of February that I managed to say the words, to harden my heart against her despairing sobs, and finally to walk out never to return. Thirty years later I happened to bump into her; by then she was married and had three children. One of the first things she said was that now, with hindsight, she was very glad I had left her. If I hadn’t, our life together would have been a disaster.

I walked around Place Pigalle trying to remember where that bar had been. All the buildings looked just as they had back then, but I still couldn’t work out where it was. Eventually I thought I’d found it; I was sure I recognised the door, the closed curtains. It was still a bar. I hesitated before I went in. I was afraid I would be opening a door to the past. I even feared the same woman would be sitting there smoking her Gitanes. In order to bring myself back to the present day, I took out my phone and looked at the picture of the fire again. Should I call Jansson? I decided against it, put away my phone and went into the bar.

Everything was different. A new counter, brighter lights, a television with the sound off. A few men were sitting at the bar; there was a young barmaid with a ring through her nose and a gemstone in her left ear.

There were no other women; this came as a relief rather than a disappointment. However, the relief worried me; did I no longer know what I wanted? Was I incapable of drinking without keeping my thoughts under control?

I left the bar, hailed a taxi and went back to my hotel. I dropped my clothes in a heap on the floor and got into bed. From the room next door I could hear the sound of a television. I looked at my watch; it was quarter past two. I banged my fist on the wall behind the bed a few times, and the noise stopped.

This is the point I have reached, I thought. I’m just an old man, lying alone in his bed in a hotel in Paris, feeling unwell. My daughter is under arrest in the bowels of a French police station, and a woman who doesn’t love me is staying in a hotel nearby.

I was woken by my phone ringing: Jansson. It was six o’clock. The curtains were moving in the draught from the window; during the early hours of the morning the wind had got up over Paris.

‘The fire is out,’ Jansson said. ‘Did I wake you?’

‘No. Do they know how the fire started?’

‘Alexandersson seems to think it’s exactly the same as your house.’

‘What?’

‘The fire started simultaneously in several different places.’

‘So we have a lunatic on the loose in the archipelago. I was fast asleep when my house went up in flames, and now someone has set fire to an eighty-five-year-old lady’s home.’

‘The dog must have woken her,’ Jansson said thoughtfully. ‘If she hadn’t had the dog, the smoke could have killed her before we got there.’

‘Thanks for letting me know. Have the police been looking for me? Do people still think I set fire to my own house?’

‘I’ve no idea what people think.’

‘I’ll be back in a few days.’

‘I’ve never been to Paris. Sometimes I feel as if I’ve never been any further than Söderköping.’

‘Didn’t you go to the Canaries, years and years ago?’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘Send me another picture,’ I said finally. ‘If you’re still there.’

The picture arrived a couple of minutes later; the house was a ruin. The fire had died down, although I could still see smoke and glowing embers. The coastguard had rigged up bright floodlights, illuminating the remains of the house with a ghostly brilliance. It was just possible to make out the shadowy figures of those who had helped to put out the blaze.

I got out of bed and looked down at the courtyard. Leaves and rubbish were swirling around in the strong wind. There was no sign of the rat I had spotted the previous day.

Lisa was waiting in reception when I went downstairs at ten o’clock. She rose to her feet as soon as she saw me.

‘Let’s go out,’ she said. ‘I need some fresh air.’

She turned into Rue de Vaugirard without knowing what she was doing. I hadn’t told her that this had once been my street, the longest in Paris. We walked towards Porte de Versailles; after about half an hour, when the gusts of wind were making it hard to walk, she led me to a bistro that I recognised from the time when I used to live nearby.

I remembered an occasion when I had had some money and decided to treat myself to breakfast before I embarked on the long trek to the clarinet workshop in Jourdain. I had ordered a hot chocolate and a sandwich. The elderly man who served me, who was probably the owner of the bistro, had stopped dead and bent double, banging his head on the metal counter. Everyone could see that he had been stricken with severe pain of some kind. It was early in the morning, and the bistro was full of people eating and drinking before they went to work. A man in blue overalls was standing next to me with a glass of red wine; he knocked it back just as the man behind the counter collapsed.

I don’t know what happened next. I couldn’t cope with the groaning, so I emptied my cup, picked up my food, put the money in a little plastic dish and walked out.

I went back the next day — in fact I went there almost every day for a month — but I never saw the elderly man again.

One day, over a month after the incident, the waiters were wearing black armbands on their white shirtsleeves.

I had never been back since then. Until now. I recognised the colour of the walls, although the tables and chairs had been replaced. Of course I didn’t recognise any of the staff or customers. What was familiar, I realised, was the sound of glasses being dipped into the washing-up bowls.

Lisa led me to a corner table next to the window overlooking the pavement section, which was closed. The tables and chairs were piled up and chained together. I felt as if I were looking at animals in a stall, waiting for the winter.

‘I used to live near here,’ I said. ‘But you couldn’t possibly have known that.’

‘You must be wondering why I’ve come to Paris,’ Lisa said. ‘We don’t know one another. You’re here to look for your daughter. But why have I come? I’ve even lied to my editor about the reason for my trip.’

‘What did you say to him?’

‘That’s my business. It’s nothing to do with you.’

Her tone was sharp, and we didn’t say anything else for a while.

After we’d finished our drinks, we continued on our way. Rue de Vaugirard seemed endless, just as I remembered from when I had lived there. I recalled a Saturday afternoon when hordes of young people came pouring down the street. Later I found out they were on their way to a concert at Porte de Versailles where an English pop group that everyone was talking about was playing. They were called the Beatles. I knew nothing about their music; I lived in the world of jazz, although I did occasionally attend the organ recitals in the church at Saint-Germain.

This whole excursion seemed utterly pointless. I stopped.

‘Where are we going?’

‘Nowhere. Or to another cafe.’

‘Why have you come to Paris?’

‘Let’s keep walking,’ she replied.

We went into a bistro near Rue de Cadix; it wasn’t lunchtime yet, and there were very few customers. We sat right at the back. The waiter was old and walked with a limp. Lisa ordered a bottle of red wine; she chose the most expensive item on the grubby wine list. Her selection made me feel even more anxious. The waiter — who stank of sweaty armpits — brought the bottle and two glasses. Lisa noticed the smell too. She smiled at me.

‘I came because I was wondering what you really think.’

‘Think about what?’

‘I’ve noticed how you look at me, from that very first time when I wanted to hear about the fire. I wasn’t really surprised when you turned up asking to stay the night. You’re not the first man who’s stood there howling on my doorstep.’

‘I wasn’t howling. And what I told you was absolutely true.’

She frowned, as if my answer had annoyed her. When she spoke I realised she was angry.

‘You don’t have to lie to me.’

‘I haven’t lied to you.’

She pushed away her glass and leaned across the table.

‘You’ve lied to me,’ she insisted.

‘I haven’t.’

‘You have!’

This came out as a yell; she sounded like my daughter. In my peripheral vision I could see that the waiter had noticed what was going on, but he simply turned away and carried on wiping down tables.

That’s what the world is like, I thought vaguely to myself. People turning away everywhere you look.

I tried to remain calm, to pick up my glass without shaking. I swallowed the contents and got to my feet. I put some money on the table without saying a word, then walked out. I headed down the street as fast as I could; when I reached the Metro station at Porte de Versailles, I hurried underground and caught the train to Montparnasse.

I immediately regretted my actions. What had Lisa been trying to tell me? I sat in that rattling train carriage feeling totally exposed. She had seen inside my grubby old-man’s thoughts and decided to find out what I really wanted. Did I actually imagine that there could be any kind of romance between us? Didn’t I realise that she was offended now she had discovered what my motives were?

I carried on past Montparnasse and didn’t get off the train until we reached the Right Bank. I was in Châtelet once more. When I emerged into the daylight, it had started raining. I went into a newsagent’s and bought an umbrella.

I had just put it up when my phone rang. I stood outside a shoe shop under the projecting roof.

It was Olof Rutgersson. He immediately asked where I was.

‘Out in the rain,’ I replied. ‘With a newly purchased umbrella.’

‘I just wanted to let you know that Madame Riveri will be picking up your daughter at three o’clock this afternoon. I knew she was good, but even so I have to say this is sensationally fast. She must have had a very positive personal relationship with the judge in charge of the case. Your daughter will be released. Madame Riveri is going to call you to arrange a meeting place. For the exchange.’

‘The exchange?’

‘She hands over your daughter, you pay her for her work.’

‘Is Louise being deported?’

‘I don’t know, but if our esteemed Madame Riveri says she’s going to be released, then she’s going to be released. And that’s the most important thing.’

‘Thank you for all your efforts too.’

‘The Swedish Foreign Office and our embassies are always happy when we manage to achieve a positive outcome in any situation. Please let us know when you and Louise are safely back in Sweden. It might be as well if she avoids any further pickpocketing activities in France; she now has a criminal record, and French justice has a long memory.’

We ended the call with a few polite phrases. I put my phone away, thinking that Lisa Modin would never upset me again. Nor would I bother her with my dreams of some kind of relationship.

I ambled along in the rain, choosing my route at random. I wondered if I had ever visited as many cafes as I had during these few days in Paris.

Jansson called again. I asked if there was any new information about the fire, but there wasn’t. However, there were rumours of a connection between this latest blaze and the one that had destroyed my house.

‘Perhaps I’m no longer regarded as an arsonist?’

‘That was never the case.’

‘Don’t lie to me. There’s no point.’

‘People are afraid it will happen again.’

I could understand that. Fear spreads quickly, especially among the elderly. I sat there at my table thinking how ironic it was that out in the archipelago I was one of the younger residents. At least during the autumn, winter and early spring.

I was still thinking about Lisa. I tried to make myself feel contempt for her, but I couldn’t do it. I shouldn’t have walked out; I should have let her finish what she had to say. I’m sure I would have been able to convince her that she was wrong. I wasn’t the man she thought I was.

I stayed in the cafe until lunch was over and there were only a handful of customers left. A blind woman patted her guide dog, who was lying at her feet. Seeing her wrinkled hand stroking the dog’s fur was like witnessing a movement that had gone on for all eternity.

My grandfather had dominated my childhood out on the island, but my grandmother had been there too, providing the security I didn’t recognise or value until I was an adult. In the final years of her life she lived in a home, suffering with severe dementia. She used to go outside at night because she believed that my grandfather was at sea in a heavy storm. Even when there wasn’t a breath of wind, the storm raged within her; she was constantly worried about her husband.

They died only a few hours apart. First her, then him. There was no life for the one left behind when the other had gone. According to what I had heard, from Jansson needless to say, my grandfather had found out in the morning that she had passed away. He had folded up the newspaper he was reading, put his glasses in their case and lain down on his bed. Two hours later he was gone too.

My reminiscences were interrupted by the sound of my phone. This time it was Madame Riveri, suggesting that we should meet. She had made a note of my hotel; could I be there in an hour? She would bring Louise.

I thanked her, paid for my coffee and went back to the hotel. A brief power cut on the Metro was alarming; what if I wasn’t there to receive Louise and Madame Riveri’s bill? Fortunately the problem was short-lived and I was there in time. While I was waiting I asked Monsieur Pierre if there was a room available for tonight. There was, but I didn’t make a booking because I had no idea what Louise’s plans might be.

It had stopped raining. I went out into the street as the appointed time approached. I thought I caught a glimpse of Lisa; I never wanted to see her again. No, that wasn’t true. I didn’t want to give up my dream, however hopeless it had turned out to be.

Madame Riveri and Louise arrived by taxi. Louise was very pale. We went into the hotel; Madame Riveri went off to the ladies’ powder room and left us alone in the deserted bar.

‘I know nothing about the life you live here,’ I said, ‘but if you like you can stay in the hotel tonight. They have a room.’

She nodded without saying a word. I went back to reception and booked a single room.

‘It’s for my daughter,’ I said.

‘I assume she’s the lady sitting in the bar?’ Monsieur Pierre said. ‘May I ask if the lady who arrived with her is your wife?’

‘No. Louise’s mother is dead. I’m on my own.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Monsieur Pierre said sadly. ‘It’s not good for any human being to live alone.’

Madame Riveri returned; she was in a hurry. I thanked her for everything she had done and asked if it had been difficult to secure Louise’s release.

‘I explained that she was pregnant and pointed out that she didn’t have a criminal record. Then it was fairly straightforward, particularly as the judge and I get on very well. I also told him that Louise’s father had come to Paris to take her home.’

‘She’s staying here tonight, then we’ll see what happens.’

Madame Riveri took an envelope out of her bag.

‘There’s no rush as far as the payment is concerned, but don’t forget about it. If you do, you’ll be sorry.’

She said goodbye to Louise, then swept out of the hotel.

I went up to Louise’s room with her, which was on the same floor as mine. She didn’t have a bag with her; I asked if she had any money. She didn’t.

‘I need clothes,’ she said.

I gave her some money. I wanted to ask her where she had been living in Paris, where her belongings were, but I knew this wasn’t the right time. No doubt she was grateful for my help, but she didn’t want to be under an obligation to me.

Before I left her room I asked if she’d like to have dinner with me later.

‘I’m too tired,’ she said. ‘I want to wash off the dirt from prison, then I need to sleep.’

‘I’m in room 213,’ I said. ‘We’ll have breakfast together tomorrow when you’re feeling better.’

That evening I ate in a Chinese restaurant nearby, then watched a black and white Fernandel film on the television in my room. Louise wasn’t the only one who was tired.

I woke just after midnight; someone was knocking on my door. I stumbled across the room to find Louise standing there. She seemed to be shivering.

‘Can I sleep here?’ she said.

I didn’t ask why. I had a big double bed; she lay down on the unused side and turned away from me.

I switched off the light. After a little while she reached out with one hand. I took it and held it, then we both fell asleep.

Chapter 18

My house was on fire. The staircase leading to the ground floor seemed endless, not the twenty-three steps I had counted out loud as a child. I kept on running, but the staircase just kept on growing longer as the fire came closer and closer. I stumbled and fell, and then I woke up.

Louise was fast asleep. She hadn’t moved at all; her hand was still in mine.

I listened to her breathing. I could hear the breathing of many of the people I had listened to during my life. My father’s heavy, often irregular snores that came and went, silence giving way to something like a growl, then silence once more. My mother’s virtually inaudible breathing. My grandfather: sometimes he didn’t seem to be breathing at all, then he would loudly draw air into his lungs. My grandmother’s snores, often accompanied by whistling noises, as if the wind was blowing through the gaping cracks in the boathouse.

Strangely enough, I had no recollection of Harriet’s breathing from when she had slept beside me. She would often complain that I woke her up with my snoring. She had left no traces of her sleep; I searched my memory, but I couldn’t find her sound.

Thinking about all those sleeping people made me drop off again. When I woke a few hours later, Louise had got up. She was standing by the window peeping through a gap in the curtains, the grey light falling on her. Her belly was clearly visible now. A baby was growing in there, and I didn’t even know the name of its father. The sight evoked an intense feeling of joy. I had never experienced anything like it.

Louise noticed that I was awake. She turned to me, still holding onto the curtain.

‘Thanks for not snoring,’ she said. ‘I’ve slept away those terrible days in prison.’

‘You were certainly in a deep sleep,’ I said. ‘I woke up and thought you were far, far away.’

‘I dreamed about a dog. It was wet, and its fur almost looked like a coat of rags. Every time I tried to get near it, it started howling as if it was frightened of me.’

She crawled back into bed, while I got up, shaved and had a wash. I dressed and went down to the breakfast room. Louise joined me after half an hour. Now I recognised her. That washed-out pallor had gone, and she ate with a good appetite.

‘Why haven’t you asked me where I live?’ she said.

‘You usually complain when I ask you questions.’

‘That’s just your perception. What are you going to do today?’

‘That’s entirely up to you, but maybe we should go back to Sweden?’

She looked at me searchingly, as if my words had taken her by surprise.

‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘I want to show you where I live. If you’re interested?’

‘Of course I am.’

I thought I ought to tell her that Lisa Modin was in Paris, but I decided to leave it for the time being. If there was one thing I didn’t want right now, it was my daughter storming out of the hotel in a temper.

I told her about Jansson’s calls and showed her the pictures he had sent.

‘Weird,’ she said. ‘Creepy. Where’s this island?’

I tried to explain but without success. She said she understood, but I was pretty sure she hadn’t a clue which island I was talking about. However, she was relieved that I could no longer be suspected of arson.

‘Did you believe it?’ I asked. ‘Did you believe I set fire to my grandparents’ house?’

‘Not really, but you have to remember that I don’t know you particularly well.’

‘The torch,’ I said. ‘Why did you deny that it was you flashing the torch?’

At first she didn’t seem to know what I was talking about, then she shook her head with a smile.

‘It amused me, messing with your head.’

‘But why?’

‘Perhaps because you treated Harriet so badly.’

‘But I looked after her when she was sick!’

‘Maybe, but not before. Not when you were together. She told me.’

‘You made me row across from the skerry in the middle of the night — wasn’t that enough?’

‘No. I thought about you and Harriet a lot that night.’

I didn’t want to hear what Harriet had said about me, so I changed the subject.

‘Did you steal my watch when you brushed against me?’

‘If I have a speciality, it’s taking people’s watches.’

‘You must be very skilful; I didn’t notice a thing. But you could have told me it was you.’

‘I knew you’d realise eventually — that’s why I left it behind.’

She got to her feet, even though she didn’t appear to have finished her breakfast.

‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘I want to go home.’

We went upstairs and put on our outdoor clothes. I allowed myself to be led by my daughter, just as I had followed Lisa Modin the previous day.

We took the Metro and changed trains at Châtelet, using the same line on which I had travelled to Jourdain all those years ago. I wondered if it really was such a small world — would we end up getting off there? However, Louise didn’t move until Télégraphe, two stations further on. Many of those who disembarked were North Africans. Around me I could hear just as much Arabic as French. The station was terribly run-down, with the alcoholics who had always been there sitting or lying on several of the benches. They looked like statues that had fallen over.

When we emerged from underground, I thought of Morocco or Algeria.

Louise glanced at me with an unexpected smile.

‘Some people feel scared when they arrive here,’ she said.

‘Not me. I might not know for sure, but I have a good idea of what the world really looks like.’

We followed a winding street lined with old buildings, with crumbling plaster facades and layer upon layer of graffiti, which somehow managed to intensify the greyness rather than brightening the place up. A woman in a full hijab came towards us carrying a screaming child. A group of men sat smoking in a doorway. When I peered into the darkness I saw an elderly man feeding another man with a soup spoon, his movements slow and measured.

Louise was walking quickly. She seemed to be in a hurry to get home, but I thought she was also running away from the time she had spent in that subterranean cell.

She turned into a cul-de-sac and stopped at the last building, which was next to a high wall. It was a four-storey apartment block, just as dilapidated as everything else I had seen on our way from the Metro.

‘This is my island,’ she said, pushing open the door.

The stairwell was filled with the aroma of exotic spices. From one apartment I could hear music that mostly consisted of the sounds of a monotone flute, beautiful and melancholy. We went all the way up to the top floor; it annoyed me that I was out of breath. Louise waited for me on the landing.

‘This is where I live,’ she said. ‘But I don’t live alone.’

She had a bunch of keys in her hand and turned towards the door.

‘Hang on a minute,’ I said. ‘I need to know what to expect.’

‘My apartment.’

‘You just said you don’t live alone?’

‘I live with my partner.’

‘Your partner?’

She placed a hand on her belly. ‘My baby has a father.’

‘I’ve asked you about him, and you wouldn’t tell me anything. And now all of a sudden I’m going to meet him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does he have a name?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any chance you could tell me what it is? What he does? How long you’ve been together?’

‘Do we have to have this discussion on the landing? His name is Ahmed.’

I waited for her to go on, but instead she unlocked the door. I followed her into a dark hallway; it reminded me of the apartment in which I had lived on Rue de Cadix.

‘Ahmed will be asleep,’ she said, pointing at a closed door. ‘He works nights as a security guard. He’s from Algiers.’ She led me into the kitchen, which was small and cramped. I tried to picture Ahmed, to whom I would be related when the child was born, but nothing came into my head.

The kitchen was freshly painted and smelled of turpentine. The cooker and the fridge were old; the table and chairs could easily have been retrieved from a skip. I realised that Louise and this man called Ahmed were poor. Obviously life as a security guard and a pickpocket wasn’t very lucrative.

Louise made coffee; I sat down on the chair nearest the window. The adjacent block was just a few metres away, and a radio or some kind of stereo was playing loud music in the distance.

‘I have to know,’ I said. ‘Do you really make your living as a pickpocket? You’re clearly not very good at it — you got caught.’

‘You know what I used to be like,’ she said. ‘When we first met.’

I remembered only too well. Louise had turned up in a picture in the newspaper, which Jansson, needless to say, had got hold of. Louise had stripped naked in front of a group of international politicians to protest about something or other — I no longer recall what it was. I had realised then that my daughter was a rebel, as unlike me as it was possible to be. Where I had always been frightened and insecure and put on a front, pretending to be brave, she had burned with a passion for her beliefs and had thought it possible to bring about change through a lone protest.

I wondered what had happened to all the anger that had been directed at politicians and a world she couldn’t bear?

‘I have to make a living somehow.’

‘That’s why you became a pickpocket?’

‘I’ve never stolen from anyone who couldn’t afford to lose what I took.’

‘How can you possibly know that?’

She shrugged.

‘Does Ahmed know about this?’

‘Yes.’

‘And is he a pickpocket too?’

She hesitated before she answered.

‘There’s a part of my life you don’t know about,’ she said eventually. ‘I’ll tell you. The year after Harriet died, I hitched all the way to Barcelona. On a few occasions I had to fight off men who thought I’d got into their cars to do them a service; I always had a steel tail-comb at the ready. In the Pyrenees I once had to stab a guy in the cheek. I was afraid he might die; the blood was spurting all over the place.

‘Anyway, I managed to get out of the car before anything happened. I was going to Barcelona to join a demonstration against Spain’s abortion laws. I had a friend, Carmen Rius, who lived in a part of the city called Poble Sec; the people there are not exactly rolling in money. We took part in the demo, but then Carmen asked me to go with her to Las Ramblas, an area frequented by tourists. She didn’t tell me what we were going to do, she just said I should stick close to her and take anything she passed to me. Her English wasn’t very good, and my Spanish was even worse, but I went along with her all the same. I watched as she approached a Japanese tourist, a guiri as she put it. The woman had a rucksack on her back, and one of the pockets was open. Carmen removed a wallet so fast that I hardly saw her do it. She gave it to me and hissed at me to hide it. I slipped it into my handbag and Carmen disappeared. The Japanese tourist hadn’t noticed a thing. I realised then that Carmen was a carterista, a pickpocket. I was astonished at how easy it had been.

‘When I asked her how it felt to be a thief, she insisted that no one who lost their wallet or phone would go under. She never went for the poor, only tourists who could afford to travel, and therefore could also afford to lose a few possessions. I allowed myself to be persuaded, and she taught me how to do it. After a few weeks Carmen let me have a go. An Asian tourist with her money in her back pocket was my first victim. It went well, and Carmen said I was now a fully-fledged carterista. Strangely enough I wasn’t nervous at all. I stayed for six months and became part of a group of four women working together.’

She paused and waited for my reaction.

‘Now you know how it started.’

I was sure that she was telling the truth. She really did want me to know.

‘Ahmed,’ I said. ‘You said he’s from Algiers, but you’re telling me about Barcelona?’

‘I didn’t meet him there. Carmen was arrested, and I moved to Paris. I met him through friends of friends, and we were a couple.’

‘Did you tell him you were a pickpocket?’

‘Not right away. Not until I was sure we were really together.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘Not much. Nothing. But he’s not a pickpocket, even though he does have fantastic fingers.’

‘But he lets you do it? What kind of a man is he?’

Louise leaned across the table and grabbed my hand.

‘A man I love. The only man I’ve ever loved before, although in a different way, was Giaconelli the shoemaker. When I met Ahmed, I understood what love could be.’

I gave a start; there was a man standing in the doorway. I had no idea how long he’d been there. He was unshaven with cropped dark hair and was wearing a white vest and striped pyjama trousers. His bare feet were extremely hairy.

‘This is Fredrik, my father,’ Louise said in English. ‘And this is Ahmed, my partner.’

I stood up and shook his hand. He was considerably younger than my daughter, probably no more than thirty years old. He smiled at me, but his expression was watchful.

He pulled out a stool and sat down at the table. He looked as if he was expecting me to say something. Everything to do with my daughter was completely incomprehensible as far as I was concerned. I would never be able to work out how she had become what she had become.

‘I believe you’re a security guard,’ I said tentatively. ‘I hope we didn’t wake you.’

‘I don’t sleep much,’ Ahmed replied. ‘Perhaps deep down I’m already an old man. I believe you sleep less as you get older.’

I nodded. ‘Before that final slumber we sleep less and less over a number of years. As a doctor I ought to know why, but I can’t give you a reason.’

Louise poured coffee; Ahmed didn’t want any. I could see the love in her eyes when she looked at him. As she walked past him with the coffee pot, she quickly stroked his hair.

I asked Ahmed about his parents.

‘My father is dead. He worked on the docks in Algiers, and he was struck by a steel hawser from a ship. The tension was too tight, and it broke. He lost both legs and bled to death.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that.’

‘Thank you.’

‘And your mother?’

‘Dead.’

He didn’t explain how she had died, and I didn’t ask.

‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’

‘Two who are unfortunately no longer with us, one still alive.’

I thought that Ahmed was surrounded by many dead people. I tried to change the subject and asked about his job.

‘I look after stores where I could never afford to shop. Every night I enter a world which is otherwise closed to me.’

He looked at Louise.

‘To us,’ he corrected himself. ‘And to our child.’

‘Congratulations, by the way,’ I said. ‘I know these days people often find out in advance whether it’s a boy or a girl?’

Ahmed frowned. ‘We would never do that.’

‘We’re just having the scans to make sure everything is OK, given my age,’ Louise said.

I was finding the situation difficult to deal with. I suspected that Ahmed regarded me with a kind of controlled contempt. The fact that Louise was so besotted with him also bothered me. There was something submissive about the way she looked at him, the way she caressed his head. This was a Louise I had never seen before.

I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I almost felt insulted. Louise’s life choices were beyond my comprehension. She was a pregnant pickpocket living with an Algerian immigrant who had a hopeless job working nights as a security guard.

Ahmed got to his feet and left the kitchen; I wondered if he had read my mind.

‘He seems very nice,’ I said to Louise.

‘Do you really think I would have chosen to have a child with a man who wasn’t nice?’

Before I had time to answer, Ahmed was back. He had put on a pale blue shirt and a pair of shorts with Arabic lettering down the sides. He was carrying a glass bottle on a wooden stand, like a classic ship in a bottle.

‘A present for you,’ he said. ‘I might have to earn my living as a security guard at the moment, but this is the kind of thing I really want to do.’

He carefully put down the bottle and adjusted the table lamp so that I could see the contents.

This wasn’t a sailing ship that had been pushed through the narrow neck of a bottle to rest on stiff blue waves and then erected with the particular magic that characterises that patient art. This bottle contained a desert, its dunes billowing very differently from the waves formed by the sea. There was an ornate Bedouin tent, the opening allowing a glimpse of the interior, where men in white sat on soft cushions and veiled women served coffee or brought hookahs. Outside the tent a Bedouin dressed all in black was sitting on a horse, handing the reins to a servant. His turban was skilfully wound around his head.

I had some knowledge of the art of creating ships in bottles. My great-grandfather, who had worked on cargo ships on the North Sea before returning home to become a fisherman, had made a model of the Daphne; she went down off the treacherous Skagen reefs one Christmas Day in the 1870s. A Danish fishing boat went out into the storm and managed to save the crew, but eight of the rescuers died. When I was a child my grandfather explained that the ship, with its tall masts and its tattered sails, had been pushed through the neck of the bottle while lying flat. Using a clever system of the finest threads, it was then possible to raise the masts and fix the sails, and to secure the ship on the waves, which were made of coloured modelling clay.

However, the Bedouin camp Ahmed had created was far more impressive than any ship in a bottle that I had ever seen. His technique and skill were outstanding. I realised that with those fingers he would probably be an excellent teacher for anyone who wanted to become a pickpocket.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I said. ‘Is this setting, with the tent and the man on the horse, something you’ve experienced yourself?’

‘I grew up in the kasbah in Algiers. The desert was far away, outside the city, but I saw pictures and films. And my father was a Bedouin; he spent his entire childhood as a nomad, with tents erected in a different place each evening.’

‘I should have brought you something,’ I said. ‘But I didn’t have much warning about this trip.’

‘I’m grateful that you helped Louise get out of prison.’

‘Thieving in Paris isn’t a very good idea,’ I said, immediately regretting my choice of words.

‘It’s over now,’ Louise said crossly. ‘Going on about it is no help at all.’

Ahmed reached out and placed his hand on her arm.

‘Your father is right. I don’t think Fredrik will mention it unnecessarily.’

He pronounced my name with a French accent, presumably to be polite. I was sorry about my earlier suspicions.

He stood up.

‘I think I need to sleep for a couple of hours more,’ he said.

He gave a slight bow and left the kitchen. Louise went with him, and I got ready to leave. After a few seconds she came back; I was standing there with the Bedouin bottle in my hand.

‘There’s something else you need to know,’ she said. ‘Put down the bottle.’

I did as she said and followed her into the room beyond the kitchen.

‘This is also my life,’ she said as she opened the door.

The room was small, painted white, simply furnished. A bed, a fitted carpet, a ceiling light. And a wheelchair. The chair was facing the window; I could just see hair and the back of someone’s neck.

‘This is Muhammed. We don’t need to whisper; he’s deaf.’

Louise went over to the wheelchair, and the person sitting there immediately produced a stream of incomprehensible noises. Louise turned the chair around. Muhammed was a seven- or eight-year-old boy. His face was distorted by a grimace that seemed to have stiffened into a rigid scar. He stared up at me. I had the feeling that the twisted mouth could let out a scream of angst at any moment.

‘This is my father Fredrik,’ Louise said in French, while simultaneously writing something on a screen linked to a computer attached to the chair.

She jerked her head to indicate that I should come closer.

‘He can’t move his hands, but you can say hello by touching his cheek.’

I did as she said, almost recoiling when I felt the boy’s skin. It was ice cold.

I knew there were a number of chronic illnesses where people are completely lacking in subcutaneous fat. They are very cold and can often suffer from a range of different mental or physical problems. Perhaps he had hydrocephalus, or water on the brain as it is sometimes called. However, his head didn’t seem unnaturally swollen, so I had doubts about my diagnosis.

‘Who’s his mother?’ I asked.

‘Muhammed is Ahmed’s brother,’ Louise explained. ‘Their mother had a breakdown when he was born and it became clear that he would never live a normal life. She sought refuge in mental illness, but Ahmed was determined to take care of him. That’s why he moved to France. For the first few years he looked after Muhammed alone, then I turned up. He will be like a brother to the child I’m expecting.’

‘What’s the diagnosis?’

‘He has many problems. Apart from the deafness, his brain isn’t fully developed. He can’t talk, and he’ll go blind within the next few years.’

We went back to the kitchen.

‘Leave the bottle,’ she said. ‘I’ll wrap it up safely, make sure it doesn’t break.’

‘I realise you won’t be coming back to Sweden with me.’

‘Not right now. Not before the child is born. After that we might move to Sweden — out to the island, once the house has been rebuilt.’

I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to put my arms around her, hug her as tightly as I could. Another part simply wanted to run away from the whole thing, go back to the caravan.

She asked how long I was thinking of staying.

‘I’m leaving tomorrow,’ I said. ‘You’re out of prison; you haven’t been deported. I know what your life is like. There’s nothing to keep me here, and staying in a hotel is expensive.’

‘You could stay here.’

‘Cities don’t suit me any more. I need to go home. I’m longing to get back to my island and my burned-down house.’

Louise thought for a moment, then said, ‘I’ll come to your hotel this evening. I’ll bring the bottle with me.’

We said our quiet goodbyes in the dark hallway. I felt unsure of myself, like a young child. I don’t like it when I can’t understand things.

Out on the street I paused for a moment. It would be many hours before we saw one another. Without really making a conscious decision I headed for the Metro and travelled south. I changed trains and eventually got off at the Bastille. Slowly I walked towards the Hôtel de Ville. I ought to book my ticket home. Something was irrevocably over. Meeting Louise’s family had made it clear to me that we lived in different worlds, yet I still hoped it would be possible to change things, that our worlds could come together in the future.

Once again I started to observe the people passing by on the street. When I occasionally saw an older person, it served merely as a confirmation that we were the exceptions.

I made a phone call; after a long wait I was eventually able to book a seat on a flight leaving at 11.30 the following day.

I continued my long walk to Montparnasse. A female busker made me stop. She was singing old jazz songs in a powerful vibrato. The hat in front of her was well filled; I added a euro, and she smiled her thanks. Many of her teeth were missing.

My legs were aching by the time I arrived at the hotel. Monsieur Pierre was on reception, counting the contents of a cash box.

‘I’m going home tomorrow,’ I said.

‘Monsieur has finished with Paris for now?’

‘Possibly for ever. You can never tell, at my age.’

‘Quite right. Growing older is like walking on thinner and thinner ice.’

The bar was open but empty. I ordered coffee.

As I was passing reception on the way up to my room, I heard Monsieur Pierre in an inner room, which was hidden by a dark red curtain. He was humming along to some music I recognised. I listened for a moment and realised it was Offenbach.

There was a message on my bed to say that Rachel had been my cleaner today. I lay down and dozed off immediately. When I woke up after what I thought had been a long sleep, I saw that only twenty minutes had passed. I tucked the duvet around my legs and leaned back against the bedhead. In my mind I returned to the apartment and the moment when Ahmed had suddenly appeared in the kitchen. I saw his disabled brother; I thought about the gentle way Louise had stroked Ahmed’s head, her tenderness towards his brother. She had allowed me access to her life, but to me it had felt like walking into a room where nothing was familiar.

It seemed to me that I had a daughter who had great empathy for others; sharing responsibility for such a severely disabled child was impressive. How she could combine activities such as helping terminally ill patients to see Rembrandt’s paintings one last time with her ‘work’ as a pickpocket was beyond me. But I was a part of her and she was a part of me. This was a story that had only just begun. I wondered whether Louise understood me better than I understood her.

This is how far I have come. From a waiter’s house in Stockholm to a hotel room in Paris. Once I was a successful surgeon who made a mistake. Now I’m an old man whose house has burned down. Not much more than that.

I do not fear death. Death must be freedom from fear. The ultimate freedom.

I got out of bed, fetched some sheets of paper from the brown folder on the desk and tried to formulate my thoughts. But no words came, no sentences. Only childish maps of imaginary archipelagos, with narrow sounds, hidden inlets and strange, bottomless depths filled both sides of the paper. It was the only map of my life I was capable of creating.

I thought about Ahmed and the remarkable Bedouin in the bottle he had given me. Perhaps I ought to give him one of my imaginary archipelagos, from a part of the world that was completely unknown to him?

I went out and wandered around Montparnasse for a while before heading for the Metro station exit where I assumed Louise would eventually arrive. It was cold and dark, and the people hurrying up and down the stairs were all absorbed in their own lives.

No one saw me, no one was missing me.

Louise turned up just before seven. She was carrying the bottle, wrapped in newspaper and brown paper. She was surprised to see me waiting and asked if something had happened. I had the feeling that she was worried about me.

‘I’m going home tomorrow,’ I said. ‘I don’t like dramatic farewells. Neither do you.’

She laughed. Just like Harriet, I thought in surprise. I’d never noticed that before.

‘Well, at least we’re alike in one way,’ she said. ‘Dramatic meetings or goodbyes can often be unpleasant.’

She handed over the package and told me to be careful, particularly when I put it in the overhead locker on the plane.

‘32B,’ I said. ‘I’ll be squashed between two other people.’

Then there was no more to say.

‘I’ll come,’ she said. ‘We’ll come. But you need to go home and build a new house. You can’t die until you’ve done that.’

‘I have no intention of dying,’ I said. ‘And of course I’ll make sure the house is built. I’m not going to leave you a ruin.’

We hugged, then she turned and went back down the stairs. I watched until she disappeared. Perhaps I was hoping that she would turn around, change her mind?

I went to a nearby bistro and drew my old house on the white tablecloth. From memory, in full detail. I couldn’t imagine building anything different.

It was nine thirty by the time I went back to the hotel. A light drizzle was falling on Montparnasse. I hoped all the walking I had done during the course of the day would help me sleep.

Monsieur Pierre had gone home; I had never seen the night porter before. He was very young and had a ponytail and an earring. I wondered briefly what Monsieur Pierre thought about sharing a workspace with him.

Then I noticed Lisa Modin sitting in one of the armchairs in reception. She stood up and asked if she was disturbing me.

‘Not at all. I’ve just said goodbye to my daughter. She’s been released from prison, but she’s staying in Paris.’

I didn’t mention Ahmed or his brother.

‘I’ve been given a bottle with a Bedouin encampment inside it,’ I continued. ‘One day I hope I’ll be living in a house with a shelf I can put it on.’

Lisa didn’t say anything, she just carried on looking at me.

We went up in the lift. I placed the brown package on the desk in my room, then I sat down on the bed. Lisa sat down beside me. Neither of us said anything. When the silence had gone on for too long, I told her I was going home the next day.

‘Me too,’ she said.

‘Maybe we’re on the same flight?’

‘I’m going by train. Didn’t I tell you? I’m scared of flying. My train leaves at 16.20.’

‘Hamburg, Copenhagen, Stockholm?’

‘That’s right. I came here because I wanted to see you; I don’t know why. I’m not sorry I yelled at you; what happened, happened. But I don’t want my trip to have been completely pointless.’

‘Perhaps we share a feeling of loneliness,’ I said.

‘Sentimentality doesn’t suit you. Our expectations are different. I have none, but that’s not the case with you. Expecting nothing is an expectation in itself.’

‘We could lie down on the bed,’ I suggested. ‘Nothing more.’

She took off her jacket and her shoes. They were red and had higher heels than any of the shoes I had seen her wearing before. I took off my jumper.

Lisa was the second woman with whom I had shared a bed during my stay in Paris. Last night Louise had lain here, her breathing deep and steady. Now I had Lisa Modin by my side.

I thought about the desert and the Bedouin tent and the horse.

It was a moment of great calm, the beginning of freedom. Suddenly the fire and my flight from the blinding light were far, far away.

Chapter 19

We didn’t touch each other that night.

We talked for a long time about the city in which we found ourselves.

Lisa started to tell me about herself. The whole of her childhood had been almost unbelievably harmonious. She could remember moments when she had been so bored that she had wondered if life really was an endless, tedious road. She also talked about her fear of flying, which she had never managed to conquer. It had started on a long-haul flight home from Sri Lanka. At some point during the night, as she curled up in her seat on the darkened plane, she had suddenly understood that she was ten kilometres up in the air.

‘I was being carried on the shoulders of emptiness,’ she said. ‘Sooner or later the weight would become too great. I’ve never set foot on a plane since.’

Our nocturnal conversation came and went in waves. She told me she had spoken to the priest on the phone.

‘I asked him about the bear’s tooth that was supposed to have been found on Vrångskär, but he didn’t know what I was talking about. There was no bear’s tooth in his house, in the church or in the parish hall.’

‘That’s what I said,’ I replied. ‘I told you it was just something I’d heard. Even a non-existent bear’s tooth can become a legend.’

We talked about all the poor people we had seen on the streets of Paris.

‘Poverty is getting closer and closer to us,’ she said. ‘No one can escape.’

‘Sometimes I think that the period and the country in which I have lived is a great big, wonderful anomaly,’ I said. ‘I have never been without money, unless I have deliberately made that choice. We know very little about the world our children will inherit.’

‘Perhaps that’s why I’ve never wanted children,’ Lisa said. ‘Because I could never guarantee that they would have a good life.’

‘You can’t think that way. In the biological world children are the sole purpose. Nothing else matters.’

It was after three when we fell asleep. First Lisa. Her breathing was rapid, then slow, rapid again, silent, then it settled into a gentle snore. She slept as if she was awake. Cautiously I rested my head on her shoulder; she didn’t stir.

We woke up at almost the same moment. When I opened my eyes and turned my head, Lisa was lying there looking at me.

‘I just woke up,’ she said.

It was seven o’clock. She sat up.

‘I’m glad you didn’t throw me out yesterday.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘I shouted at you.’

‘I expect you felt you had good reason.’

She lay back down after gently moving aside my outstretched arm.

‘Thank you for not trying it on,’ she said. ‘You might have thought I came here offering myself on a plate.’

‘Why would I have thought that?’

‘Because it would have been a perfectly natural reaction.’

‘Not for me.’

She leaped out of bed and pulled back the curtain.

‘What is it that makes you different from other men?’ she asked.

‘I am the way I am.’

She looked irritated, and the conversation stalled. I got up and she disappeared into the bathroom. I stood by the window looking down into the courtyard while I waited. She had come to the hotel, and she had stayed the night. That must mean something, even if I still didn’t know what it was.

She emerged from the bathroom with the same energy about her that I recalled from the first time we met. I suggested that we should have breakfast together, but she shook her head with a smile.

‘We could have had dinner on the train if you weren’t flying home,’ she said.

She gently stroked my face before she left the room. For some reason I hoped Rachel wouldn’t see her.

After Lisa’s abrupt departure, I went down to the breakfast room even though I wasn’t hungry. Monsieur Pierre was on reception, gazing at his computer screen.

The breakfast room was very quiet, with just the odd guest concentrating on their boiled eggs and coffee.

When I couldn’t bear to sit there any longer, I went to Monsieur Pierre and asked for my bill. I paid with my card, but I was suddenly worried in case there wasn’t enough money in my account.

There was no reason to be concerned. If I didn’t start spending significantly more money, there would always be enough. In spite of everything I had a good pension from my career as a doctor.

I left a tip of ten euros and asked Monsieur Pierre to pass some of it on to Rachel.

‘She’s an excellent person,’ he said. ‘We’re very glad to have her.’

I headed towards the lift, then turned.

‘Who owns the hotel?’ I asked.

‘Madame Perrain, whose father started the business in 1922. She’s ninety-seven years old, and unfortunately she’s very ill. The last time she came here was twelve years ago.’

I thanked him and got into the lift. When I stepped out on the second floor, my key in my hand, I made a decision without really thinking things over. I would catch the same train as Lisa Modin. I wouldn’t fly. Seat 32B might be occupied, but not by me.

I slept for a few hours more then left the hotel. Even though it was still quite a long time before the train was due to depart, I took a taxi to the Gare du Nord. I was done with the city; I would return only if it was to see Louise and her family. I was ready to leave Paris for good.

The taxi driver had dreadlocks and was playing Bob Marley. I hummed along, and as we were waiting at a red light he turned and smiled. His teeth were white, but sparse on the top row. I thought about my visit to the former jazz club where they now played reggae; I asked him if he knew the place.

‘Of course,’ he replied as the lights changed to green.

I left Paris to the sound of ‘Buffalo Soldier’. I gave the driver a generous tip when he dropped me off at the station. I had arrived here the first time I came to Paris, as a very young man with terrible toothache and hardly any money. Now I was leaving. I had got into a taxi in this spot back then; now I was getting out of one. In spite of the distance between those two journeys, they were somehow linked.

I bought a ticket, assuming that Lisa would be travelling second class. I wandered around the station, trying to remember what it had looked like fifty years ago. I was sure my train had been pulled by a steam engine, and that I had sat in the very last carriage.

I called Jansson. I didn’t tell him I was on my way home. He had nothing new to report about the fire, but everyone on the islands was getting worried; they were afraid a seriously malevolent individual was on the loose.

That was the word he used — malevolent. It didn’t sound quite right on Jansson’s lips. If he had sung it in his fine tenor voice, it might have sounded more convincing, like something in an opera. I asked whether the police had found any similarities with the fire that had destroyed my house, but Jansson had no answers for me. He kept going back to the fear of something yet to happen.

I went into a newsagent’s and bought an English medical journal, which I slipped into my bag.

Half an hour before the departure time I made my way to the right platform. I stood next to one of the iron pillars supporting the roof; I wanted to see Lisa before she saw me.

She arrived fifteen minutes later; the train had just pulled in. I followed her at a distance, like a scruffy private eye. As she climbed aboard I saw that I was right: second class.

Just as the conductor was about to close the doors, I followed her on board. I stayed by the toilet until the train set off. After all these years my final journey home had begun.

I could see Lisa in the sparsely occupied carriage. Her eyes were closed, her head resting on the wall by the window. Fortunately she had chosen a spot with an empty seat opposite. I sat down as quietly as I could. After a minute or so she opened her eyes and smiled.

‘I ought to be surprised,’ she said. ‘But somehow I’m not.’

‘The first time I came to Paris I travelled by train,’ I said. ‘As I told you last night. But I’ve never left Paris on a train. I’ve stood by the roadside with my rucksack many times, hoping for a lift, but now I have the opportunity to make that missing journey home by rail.’

‘It’s good to see you,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been looking forward to this trip, but now maybe it will be different.’

‘Why did you come? I can’t make this long trek without knowing the answer.’

Before she had time to respond, the brakes squealed, triggering a memory of the very first time I arrived in the city. The same squealing brakes, people losing their balance, someone swearing. It was as if I had cracked through a shell and stuck my head out into a world that no longer existed.

We travelled through the suburbs, the train picking up speed. There was no one else in this part of the carriage. Lisa had her back to the engine; I asked if she wanted to swap places.

‘Those who were going to be executed were always transported facing away from the direction in which they were going,’ I explained. ‘It was so that they wouldn’t see the gallows or the executioner’s block as they approached.’

‘I’m fine here, thank you.’

Once again an incident from my youth came into my mind. I was standing out in the winter cold with a frightened girl; I think her name was Ada, and she had a great big Farah Diba hairstyle. I was drunk on arrak, somehow obtained from Hasse the baker’s son, the boy everyone wanted to be friends with. Before Ada had time to take evasive action I threw up all over her white shoes. The occasion was a school dance; I had been evicted because of my intoxicated state. Ada regarded herself as my girlfriend and had therefore felt obliged to share my humiliation. But now she ran straight back into the warmth, where well-behaved couples were dancing together to a jazz band with a blind double-bass player.

What was I thinking now, as we sped through the outskirts of Paris and a little man dragged a big heavy suitcase along the aisle of our carriage? Was I hoping not to be abandoned, as I had been all those years ago?

I rested my head against the wall and folded my arms.

We crossed the Belgian border. Our tickets were on the table in front of us; I pretended to be asleep when the conductor came along to check them.

Lisa stood up.

‘I’m hungry. I’m going to the restaurant car.’

I went with her. A man sitting across the aisle was watching a film on his tablet; I asked him to keep an eye on our bags, and he nodded. Lisa led the way; the restaurant car was packed, and we had to wait for a table. The waiter spoke French with an Eastern European accent. Outside the window darkness had fallen. We both ordered chicken; we ate, we drank.

‘You were crying in your sleep,’ Lisa suddenly said.

‘Was I?’

‘People rarely cry for no reason.’

‘I have no recollection of that at all. Nor of any dreams.’

The waiter topped up our glasses. He had developed the skill of pouring drinks on a moving train without spilling a drop, even when the carriage jolted and lurched.

‘I once took the overnight train through Switzerland,’ I said. ‘I was on my way to Italy. In the restaurant car I was seated at a table with a woman of about my age who was on her own. I was very young at the time. For some unknown reason we were drinking some kind of sugary punch. I was knocking back three glasses to her one. I had the crazy idea that I might be able to tempt her to my sleeping compartment; I had booked first class in an excess of arrogance and because I had plenty of money. I don’t know why I was so well off; I had just started training to be a doctor. If I remember rightly, it was the Easter holidays, and I had decided to go to Rome on a whim. Nothing happened, of course. When the restaurant car closed, she thanked me and disappeared. I staggered back to my compartment, opened the window and passed out, drunk. When I woke up in the morning, the bed was covered in snow. The inside of my mouth felt as if it were coated in a layer of syrup that had set. I have never had such a terrible hangover, neither before nor since. I was ill for days. My only memory of Rome is the suffocating traffic; I was furious because I had wasted my money on such a dreadful trip. I had thrown away a wonderful experience for God knows how many glasses of punch.’

‘I also have a memory of Rome,’ Lisa said, ‘although my trip was a bit more successful. I went there with two friends, one whom was about to start working there as an au pair for a Swedish diplomat. We went along to provide moral support during her first week. One day I went for a walk on my own; the other two had caught a cold and stayed in bed. I met a man called Marius, and a few evenings later I lost my virginity behind a tree in the gardens of the Villa Borghese. The whole thing consisted of inept fumbling on both sides. We were supposed to meet the following day, but I didn’t turn up. I still wonder what became of him; I wonder if he ever thinks of me.’

The restaurant car was beginning to empty. We were drinking coffee; Lisa had ordered a pudding, but it was far too sweet, and she hardly touched it.

She suddenly asked why I had turned up at her apartment that evening.

‘You already know the answer.’

‘I know nothing. But I have a suspicion.’

‘Which is?’

‘That you were hoping I would let you into my bed. How could you think such a thing?’

‘I didn’t think anything. I hoped.’

‘You snooped among my papers. You found a secret in my wardrobe.’

She angrily tossed aside her napkin, then she waved to the waiter, who appeared to be half-asleep on a stool by the kitchen door. He immediately brought over the bill, which he had already prepared. I wanted to pay, but Lisa took it. She said I had already spent more than enough. She gave the waiter a ridiculously large tip, and he beamed at her. It was the first time we had seen him smile all evening.

We went back to our carriage; this time I led the way, opening the stiff doors as we moved through the train.

The man who was supposed to be keeping an eye on our luggage was fast asleep, with the film still playing on his tablet. The bags were still there.

‘Where are we?’ Lisa asked when we had settled down. She had snuggled up under her coat, legs tucked up on the seat.

‘Maybe Germany?’ I said. I looked at my watch. ‘We’ll be in Hamburg in five or six hours; there’s always a break there.’

‘Wake me up when we get there. I love the fact that nobody knows where I am. A train racing through the night. If I could write novels, I would write about this journey.’

‘Would I be in your story?’

She didn’t answer. She had already closed her eyes and pulled her coat over her head.

I must have dozed off too. I woke up when the train stopped, and in the pale light on the platform I could see that we were in Hamburg. The man opposite got up and left. Lisa was still sleeping, one leg dangling off the seat.

We were exactly on time; it was quarter to three in the morning. In contrast to my trip all those years ago, there was no need to change trains, although we would be waiting here for thirty-five minutes. I touched Lisa’s shoulder through her coat. She threw it off as if she had been attacked, blinking at me in bewilderment.

‘We’re in Hamburg,’ I said. ‘We’ll be here for half an hour.’

‘I was asleep,’ she said, still only half-awake. ‘Such a deep sleep. I dreamed about a hole that suddenly opened up.’

‘I’m going to get some fresh air,’ I said.

Lisa pulled on her shoes, stood up and ran her fingers through her hair.

‘Can we leave our bags?’ she asked.

‘Someone usually walks up and down keeping an eye on the train. Anyway, we’ll be able to see what’s going on from upstairs.’

We were quite close to an escalator leading to the upper floor, where shops, cafes and the ticket office were located. It was cold when we got off. A man in uniform was already patrolling the platform, monitoring the train.

I asked if Lisa was hungry.

‘Are you?’ she said, sounding surprised. ‘At three o’clock in the morning?’

We bought two cups of tea to take away from a cafe. A long-haired man with a grubby rucksack was fast asleep at one of the tables. It seemed to me that he had been there for ever, the timeless vagabond, constantly reborn, always looking exactly the same. A small group of apathetic, possibly homeless youngsters was sitting at another table. They formed a sharp contrast to a couple in their thirties who were tenderly stroking each other’s cheeks and hair.

Lisa walked over to the barrier; from up here it was possible to see every platform in the almost deserted station, with its domed roof made of iron and glass, the panes grubby with the accumulated dirt of so many years. She placed her cup on the barrier.

I took a risk and put my arm around her. She didn’t resist, but she gently pulled away.

‘Don’t do that,’ she said. ‘Just stay where you are. If things happen too fast, they always go wrong.’

A scruffy, emaciated junkie came up to us, begging for money. I gave him one euro; when he asked for more, I shouted at him to clear off. He moved away; Lisa watched him go.

‘I don’t understand how people find the courage to have children,’ she said. ‘When the result could be a beggar in a railway station.’

‘That’s rather cynical. Life guarantees nothing but constant risk. That also applies to having children.’

‘Did you never think that way? When you were waiting for your daughter to be born?’

‘I knew nothing about her. I’ve already told you that.’

We threw our empty paper cups in the bin and went back to the train. Some new passengers had joined our carriage. I wondered whether to suggest that Lisa and I should move so that we could sit next to one another, but I realised she wouldn’t want to. There was no need to ask her. As soon as she sat down she had established the boundaries and closed her eyes, as if I had no access to her world.

We continued our journey northwards. I don’t know if Lisa slept, but she snuggled under her coat once more. I sat gazing out into the night, with fragments of memory swirling around in my mind like truncated film clips. When the conductor passed by, I asked if there was a buffet car open. He shook his head, explaining that there was a drinks machine at the back of the train. I knew it was unlikely to contain anything alcoholic.

We arrived in Stockholm on time, having eaten both breakfast and lunch on board. Lisa had accepted my offer of a lift home. Neither of us mentioned the brief embrace in Hamburg. I couldn’t decide whether it all seemed like a dream to her, something that hadn’t really happened. For me the reverse was true. I had sat opposite her for hours as the train took us to Copenhagen and on through the Swedish autumn landscape. I wondered if it was possible to yearn for a person who was less than a metre away.

She spent much of the journey absorbed in a book about the history of Swedish journalism. I had nothing to read but my pocket diary. I went through all the different names listed for each day of the year, tried to imagine myself as something other than Fredrik. Only Filip seemed even remotely possible. When I had run out of names to consider, I picked up my pen and made anagrams out of Fredrik Welin and Lisa Modin. Hers was easier to have fun with than mine.

Refkrid Nilew wasn’t as interesting as Masdi Olin.

We caught the train from the central station in Stockholm to the airport. A cold rain was falling. I collected my car and spent ages circling and trying various exits before I eventually found the right one and picked Lisa up outside Terminal 3.

Southwards through the rain. The heat inside the car was unpleasant. The traffic was heavy, everyone was in a hurry. It didn’t thin out until we were past Södertälje. I asked Lisa if she was hungry.

‘I’m just enjoying the trip; I don’t want it to end,’ she replied. ‘I’m like a child who can never get enough.’

‘Enough of what?’

She shook her head and didn’t say any more. I could see the wet surface of the road shimmering in the headlights, and I thought I probably felt the same. This trip could go on forever as far as I was concerned.

We had reached the dark depths of the Kolmården forest when she asked me to stop in a parking area. She got out of the car and disappeared into the gloom. I switched on the radio and listened to the news; it seemed to me that I had heard it all before. I turned it off as Lisa got back in the car. It was pouring with rain now and her hair was soaking wet.

‘So what’s going on in the world?’ she asked.

‘Everything. All over again. Or afresh. Always the same, always different.’

Outside Norrköping we stopped at a service station for something to eat. Lisa tasted her food, then pushed away the plate.

‘We ought to complain,’ she said. ‘That’s inedible.’

‘I’ll go and say something.’

‘No — if I can’t do it myself, nobody is going to do it for me.’

She pulled the plate towards her and ate small forkfuls of the fish gratin. A quarrel flared at a nearby table: a couple of young men started fighting before their companions managed to calm them down.

We drove on through the darkness. I had to slam the brakes on just past Söderköping when a hare ran across the road. We didn’t say much during the journey, we just shared the silence, which I found difficult. I wanted to talk to her, but I didn’t know what I wanted to talk about.

We arrived at Lisa’s apartment block shortly after ten. The cold rain was still falling. I put my jacket over my head and lifted her suitcase out of the boot.

‘How are you going to get home tonight?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Stay here.’

I could hear from her voice that this wasn’t an offer made on the spur of the moment; she had been thinking about it for a while. I grabbed my bag, locked the car, and we hurried over to the door.

As we reached the bicycle stands I stumbled and cut my leg. By the time we reached Lisa’s apartment, I was bleeding heavily. In the bathroom she washed and bandaged the wound.

The trip to Paris was over.

As I sat on the toilet watching her tend to my leg, I knew that we were getting close to a critical moment.

I just didn’t know what it was.