The Shadow Girls

12

Humlin was upset to find Tea-Bag in his kitchen. How long had she been there? What had she told Andrea? What would he tell Andrea about why he hadn’t mentioned Tea-Bag’s previous visit when Tea-Bag left? He foresaw a whole host of difficult questions.

‘This is unexpected,’ he said carefully.

‘Tea-Bag has told me quite a remarkable and shocking story,’ Andrea said.

I don’t doubt it, Humlin thought. If her name really is Tea-Bag and not Florence. At this point I don’t believe much of what people tell me, particularly not if they are young female refugees.

Andrea frowned at him.

‘Why don’t you say hello and sit down? I thought you two were friends?’

He sat down and nodded kindly in Tea-Bag’s direction without looking at her.

‘Why have you never talked about her brother?’ Andrea continued.

Warning bells went off in his head.

‘Her brother?’

‘Why are you giving me such a funny look?’

‘It’s not a funny look. I just don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m tired.’

‘Adamah? Who has the restaurant where you often eat lunch? I’ve never heard of either one of them, of course. I don’t know why you are always so secretive about your life. I would think you would have enough of being mysterious with your poetry, but you insist on weaving these inexplicable subtexts into your life as well.’

‘You’ve never told me you thought my poetry was mysterious before,’ Humlin said.

‘I’ve only used that word every time you publish a new collection. But we’ll talk about your poetry another time. I just want to come with you next time and have some African food. Adamah seems to be quite something, both as a chef and a person.’

She’s probably not the only person who’s never heard of Adamah or his restaurant, Humlin thought. I just hope Tea-Bag didn’t say anything about having slept in our bed.

‘It was nice of you to let her sleep here since she had lost her ticket and couldn’t get back to Eskilstuna.’

The phone rang and Andrea left the kitchen. Humlin leaned over to Tea-Bag — who was still smiling — and quietly shot a string of questions at her.

‘When did you get here? What have you said? Why are you going to Eskilstuna? Why do you disappear the whole time? What happened in Hallsberg? Why do you come out to Stockholm when we have arranged to meet in Gothenburg?’

The questions just poured out of him. She didn’t answer, just took his hand as if to calm him down. He pulled it back.

‘Don’t do that! Andrea is insanely jealous.’

Tea-Bag looked affronted.

‘I just wanted to show you I was happy to see you. Why would she be jealous of me?’

‘That’s beside the point. Why did you come? What have you said? Why did you disappear? You have to answer these questions.’

‘I always tell the truth.’

‘Who is Adamah, and what restaurant is she talking about? I never eat African food.’

‘You should.’

‘I should do many things. Why did you say you were going to Eskilstuna?’

‘That’s where I live.’

‘You live in Gothenburg.’

‘Have I ever said so?’

‘That was where we met. In Gothenburg, or more precisely Mölndal and Stensgården. That’s where your friends live. You can’t turn up at a reading in Mölndal or Stensgården if you live in Eskilstuna.’

‘I never said I lived in Eskilstuna.’

‘You just did. What happened in Hallsberg anyway? Why did you leave the train? Can’t you understand that I was worried?’

But Humlin had to wait for his answer. Andrea came back.

‘That was Märta.’

‘What did she want?’

‘She’s coming over.’

‘I don’t want to see her.’

‘That’s not going to be a problem.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She doesn’t want to see you either. She’s coming over to see me. She made a point of saying that she’ll leave at once if she sees you.’

‘Then why does she have to meet you here? Can’t you go over to your place?’

‘She needs some advice for the book she’s writing.’

‘She’s not going to write a book. What kind of advice?’

‘She wants suggestions for how a nurse could use her expertise to kill people.’

‘And why does she need to know this in the middle of the night?’

‘Anything your mother does normally happens after midnight.’

Andrea changed the subject by turning to Tea-Bag.

‘Jesper will help you make up the sofa bed in the study. I was planning to go home to my place tonight but now I’ll be staying after all.’

I don’t even count, Humlin thought. She’s not staying for my sake but for the sake of my crazy mother.

Tea-Bag got up and went to the bathroom.

‘Why does she have to spend the night?’ Humlin asked.

‘There are no trains to Eskilstuna at this hour.’

‘She doesn’t live in Eskilstuna. She lives in Gothenburg.’

‘Her brother Adamah lives in Eskilstuna.’

‘I want to know what happened. Did she knock on the door?’

‘Why are you so nervous all of a sudden? What have you been getting up to in Gothenburg?’

‘I’ve already told you everything.’

‘Everything you’ve told me has been completely disjointed and incomprehensible. She was sitting in the stairwell when I came back from work. She asked about you. She wondered if you were back from Gothenburg yet. She told me she was forced to cancel her plans and get off in Hallsberg.’

‘Did she tell you why?’

‘No, just that it was necessary. But I imagine you probably said something objectionable. She’s very sensitive.’

‘So am I.’

‘What did you say to her?’

‘I didn’t say anything. She told me her story of how she came to Sweden. Then I closed my eyes for a while. She disappeared.’

‘Think of cycling across all of Europe.’

‘Cycling?’

‘I thought you said she told you how she managed to get to the border through northern Finland?’

Humlin realised there was no point in asking more questions. Tea-Bag’s story was as full of contradictions as Tanya’s. He wondered more than ever which story really belonged to whom. If anyone could have cycled over the border at Tornea it was Tanya and not Tea-Bag.

‘Help her make up the bed. Märta will be here soon. We’ll sit in the kitchen and I’ll keep the door closed. I’ll tell her you’re sleeping.’

‘And how am I supposed to sleep knowing that my mother is sitting in the kitchen with you plotting how best to kill me?’

‘You silly man. She loves you. Why would she want to kill you?’

‘Because she’s off her rocker.’

‘She’s writing a book. I think it’s wonderful that a person her age has that kind of energy and drive.’

Humlin brought sheets and a blanket to the study and made up the sofa bed. Tea-Bag came in wearing his robe. He turned away while she removed it and crawled into bed. That was when the front doorbell rang. Tea-Bag made a startled sound and seemed frightened.

‘It’s just my mother.’

Humlin closed the door to the study and sat down in his chair. Tea-Bag lay in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin. He saw her gaze travel over the wall-to-wall bookcases.

‘This is where I write my poetry,’ he announced.

‘You don’t happen to have a book about monkeys?’ she asked.

‘Not that I can remember.’

She seemed disappointed.

‘What are most of these books about, then?’

‘People, I guess.’

Then he took the plunge.

‘What happened that made you get off that train?’

Tea-Bag didn’t answer. She started to cry. Humlin felt like an oaf.

‘Shall I leave you alone?’ he asked.

She shook her head and Humlin stayed put. It was as if he were holding her book in his hands again, waiting for it to be opened.

‘I got scared.’

‘Were you scared of me?’

‘Nothing from the outside frightens me any more. My fear comes from inside. I heard my father’s voice. He told me to run. I couldn’t see him, but I knew I had to do as he said. I ran as fast as I could and I didn’t look back.’

‘Then what?’

‘The fear went away. I hitched a ride all the way back to Stockholm.’

‘And what’s all this talk of a brother?’

‘Who?’

‘You say you have a brother by the name of Adamah. He has a restaurant where I often eat, apparently.’

She turned her back to him and curled up so that all he could see was her braided hair against the pillow. In a few seconds she had fallen asleep. He looked at the contours of her body under the covers and thought about what she had said: My fear comes from inside. I heard my father’s voice. He told me to run. Humlin turned off the light and carefully opened the door. He tiptoed over to the kitchen door. His mother’s voice was loud and authoritative. He fled to the bedroom.

When he woke up in the morning the other side of the bed was empty. It was half past seven in the morning. Andrea had already left. He got up and walked to the study. Tea-Bag was also gone. The train ticket he had bought her was lying on the floor. She’s disappeared again, he thought. I still don’t know why or where she’s gone.

The phone rang and when he heard on the answering machine that it was Anders Burén he picked up.

‘I hope I’m not calling too early?’

‘Writers work best in the morning.’

‘I thought you said writers worked best at night. But that’s not why I’m calling. I’ve just returned from my monastery. For a meditation retreat.’

Humlin knew that Burén went out to some monastic health spa in the archipelago about four times a year. Rumour had it that the place was run like a private club and cost a small fortune in membership fees.

‘And did you think of a way to raise the prices of my White Vision shares?’

‘White Vision is unimportant.’

‘Not for me.’

‘I have had a brilliant idea. We are going to make you an incorporated company.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘It’s very simple. We start a company and call it “Humlin Magic”. I own fifty-one per cent, you forty-nine. The company consists of your publishing contracts and copyrights.’

Humlin interrupted him.

‘For an author to even try to present himself as an investment opportunity he surely has to be someone who actually makes money. The only incorporated authors I know are ones who write crime fiction. Which I do not.’

‘You didn’t let me finish. Your contracts and the like are negligible in this context.’

‘Thank you.’

‘What I mean is that you will be the company’s biggest asset.’

‘And how does that work?’

‘We divide you up into shares and sell you. It’s the same principle as selling timeshares in a mountain retreat.’

‘I’m not sure I enjoy being compared to a holiday rental.’

‘Where’s your sense of imagination? I thought writers had imagination.’

‘I use my imagination to write books.’

‘Don’t you see what a brilliant idea this is? People buy shares in you, in your future books. I’m thinking the first public offering will bring in around fifty million. We’ll divide you into a thousand shares. People with money like new ideas. Then the board of directors will meet once a year to decide what you should write. If the worst comes to the worst we’ll declare bankruptcy, liquidate the company, wait until you write something good and then try again.’

‘When I hear the word “liquidate” I think of the Mafia and tough guys executing unpopular members by shooting them in the neck. I take it all this is your idea of a joke?’

‘On the contrary, I am already drafting the first mission statement for “Humlin Magic”.’

‘You can go ahead and stop wasting your time right now. I have no plans to sell my soul.’

‘No one wants your soul, Humlin. I am simply suggesting a way to make the most of your value as a writer. Nothing more. Think about it. I’ll call you back in a few hours.’

‘I won’t be here. How are my shares?’

‘They are wonderfully stable. At yesterday’s closing they were at fourteen fifty.’

Humlin slammed the phone and held his receiver down against the base as if he were drowning it, foreswearing any future calls from Burén. He finally let go and it remained silent.

The small amount of light coming in from the windows was grey. The noises from the street were soft and muffled. Humlin stood frozen on the spot and held his breath. He felt he was going to have a dizzy spell. All these damned problems, he thought. An investment broker who wants to turn me into an incorporated company and a girl called Tea-Bag who sleeps on my couch and only fears the nightmares she carries on the inside. Where do my fears come from? From the knowledge that my shares are losing value and that Andrea places demands on me I can’t meet. I fear my mother will write a masterpiece. I am afraid that my publisher is going to drop me and that my next book will only sell a thousand copies. I’m afraid of scathing reviews, and of losing my tan. In short, I am afraid of anything that will reveal that I am a person devoid of passion and true character.

Humlin tried to shake off all these unpleasant thoughts and went to get a cup of coffee from the kitchen. He sat down in the study and looked at the two texts that the girls had given him last night. He had been meaning to read them on the way home but had been too tired.

He reread Leyla’s short text, then reached for Tanya’s packet and opened it. Inside was a photograph wrapped in a piece of cloth. It was a picture of a girl. The name ‘Irina’ was written on the back. A picture of Irina as a child, he thought. Or Tanya or Inez, whatever her name really is. He thought he could recognise her face even though the girl in the picture was hardly more than three. He lay down the photograph and leaned back in his chair. She presents her life as a puzzle, he thought. She carefully gives me one piece at a time, never turning her back to me, never taking the chance that I may betray her. She shows me pine cones and pieces of crystal, she lets me know she is a skilled pickpocket, that she is not afraid, that she is alone. And now she shows me a picture of herself as a child.

During the next few hours Humlin sat in front of his computer and entered in everything he could remember about his first encounters with Tea-Bag. Although he was simply making notes for himself, he felt that he could already feel a book starting to take shape. The various stories dovetailed into each other. When he finally turned off the computer he felt satisfied for the first time in a long while. There is something here, he thought. So far I have only been allowed to browse through their stories, but if I keep going out to Gothenburg I will one day have something to write about. I don’t have to concern myself with their dreams for the future. I doubt any one of them has the necessary talent to become a writer. If they can make it in TV I have no idea. But I won’t leave this project empty-handed.

When he was done he called his doctor. He had begged his way to a weekly phone appointment with her.

‘Beckman.’

‘This is Jesper Humlin. I don’t feel well.’

‘You never do. What is it this time?’

Anna Beckman, who had been his doctor for ten years, had a somewhat brusque manner that he had never completely been able to get used to.

‘I think it may be something with my heart.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with your heart.’

‘I’ve had palpitations.’

‘I do too sometimes.’

‘Who are we talking about here? Me or you? I am telling you I’m concerned about my heart.’

‘I’m concerned about wasting my lunch hour. You are of course welcome to come in on a drop-in appointment.’

‘Yes, is that possible?’

‘As luck would have it I have a cancellation. Two o’clock.’

She hung up before she had received his reply. Immediately the phone rang. It was Andrea.

‘Is she gone?’ she asked.

‘She’s not here. What did my mother have to say?’

‘She’s worried about you. She thinks you should re-evaluate your life.’

‘What did she mean by that?’

‘You’ll just get angry if I tell you.’

‘I’ll be angry if you don’t tell me what she said.’

‘She thinks your last book stank.’

Even though Humlin had decided a long time ago not to care what his mother thought of his work, he still felt a pain in his stomach at these words. But he said nothing about it to Andrea.

‘That’s enough. I don’t need to hear any more.’

‘I knew it would make you angry.’

‘I thought she wanted to know how nurses can kill people.’

‘That was just an excuse. She wanted to talk about you.’

‘I don’t want you two to talk about me.’

‘But we need to talk. Soon. Is that understood?’

‘I’ll be here.’

‘That’s all I wanted to know.’

Humlin put the phone down, his head empty. Then he walked out to the mirror in the hall and looked at the remains of his rapidly fading tan. Luckily he had an appointment at the tanning salon tomorrow.

He ate lunch at a small restaurant around the corner, read the paper and then caught a taxi to the doctor’s office. His driver was from a small town on the island of Gotland and still wasn’t sure of his way around town.

Dr Anna Beckman was almost six foot tall, very thin and with short spiky hair. She also had an earring in one eyebrow. Humlin had heard that she had broken off a promising research career because she had become tired of the intrigues that went on behind the scenes in the constant battle for research funds. She pulled open her door and stared at him. The waiting area was full of people.

‘There is absolutely nothing the matter with your heart,’ she shouted as she pushed him into the examination room.

‘I would be grateful if you announced your diagnosis in a quieter voice so not all of your patients hear it.’

She listened to his heart and checked his pulse.

‘I can’t understand why you insist on bothering me with these things.’

‘Bother you? You’re my doctor.’

She looked at him critically.

‘Are you aware of the fact that you’re putting on weight? And I’m sorry to say your tan is pathetic.’

‘No one could call me fat.’

‘You have gained at least four kilos since you were here last. When was that? Two months ago? You were afraid you were going to catch some intestinal bug in the South Pacific and shit your pants, if I recall correctly.’

As usual her way of expressing herself irritated him.

‘I think it’s only normal to consult one’s doctor before setting out on a long international journey. And I have not gained four kilos.’

Dr Beckman checked his chart and then pointed at the scales.

‘Take your clothes off and get on.’

Humlin did as he was told. He weighed 79 kilos.

‘Last time you were here you weighed 75. Isn’t that four kilos?’

‘Then prescribe something for me.’

‘What kind of thing?’

‘Something to help me lose weight.’

‘You’ll have to deal with it yourself. I haven’t got time for this.’

‘Why do you always have to get so pissed off when I come to see you? There are other doctors I could go to, you know.’

‘I’m the only one who can stand you and you know it.’

She reached for her prescription pad.

‘Is there anything you need?’

‘Some more calming pills for my nerves would be nice.’

She looked in his chart.

‘You know I keep an eye on these things. I don’t want this to become a habit.’

‘It’s not a habit.’

She threw the prescription at him and got up. Humlin stayed in his chair.

‘Is there anything else?’ she asked.

‘Yes, actually. You’re not by any chance writing a book, are you?’

‘Why would I be doing that?’

‘No crime novel in the works?’

‘Can’t stand them. Why do you ask?’

‘Oh, nothing. I was just wondering.’

Humlin left Dr Beckman’s office and was at first unsure of where he should go. In his pocket he felt Tea-Bag’s used ticket stub. He was about to throw it in a rubbish bin when he saw that there was an address written on it, some place way out in one of Stockholm’s less attractive suburbs. After a moment’s hesitation he started walking to the nearest station. He was forced to ask at the ticket booth which station he should get off at. The clerk inside was African but spoke excellent Swedish. To his surprise Humlin saw that the man had been reading a poetry collection by Gunnar Ekelöf.

‘He’s one of our greats,’ Humlin said.

‘He is good,’ the clerk agreed while stamping Humlin’s ticket. ‘But I’m not sure he really understood much of what the Byzantine empire was all about.’

Humlin was immediately insulted on Ekelöf’s behalf.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘It might take too long for us to straighten this out now,’ the clerk said. Then he pushed a card over to Humlin.

‘You can call me if you want to discuss his poetry some time. Before I came to Sweden, I was an associate professor of literature at a university. Here I stamp tickets.’

The clerk gave him a searching look.

‘Is it possible that I have seen you before?’

‘It’s not impossible,’ Humlin said, somewhat encouraged. ‘I am Jesper Humlin. A poet.’

The clerk shook his head.

‘You write poetry?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Humlin took the escalator down into the underworld. When he arrived at the station where he was supposed to get off he again had the feeling that he was crossing over an invisible threshold into another country, not into a suburb of Stockholm. He walked across a main square that resembled the one in Stensgården. To his surprise he discovered that the address on Tea-Bag’s ticket was for a church. He walked in.

The pews were empty. He went up and sat down on a brown wooden chair and stared up at the stained-glass window behind the altar. It was a picture of a man rowing a boat. There was a strong, blue-coloured light on the horizon. Humlin thought about the boats he had heard of in Tea-Bag’s and Tanya’s stories. One had drifted down a river in the middle of Europe, the other had rowed from Estonia to Gotland. Suddenly, as if in a vision, he imagined thousands of small boats across the world filled with refugees on their way to Sweden.

Maybe this is the way it is, he thought. We are living in the time of the rowing boat.

He was about to get up when a woman came around the corner from the altar. She was wearing a minister’s collar, but the rest of her clothing did not make her look like a member of the clergy. She was wearing a short skirt and high heels. She smiled at Humlin, who smiled back.

‘The church doors were open. I came in.’

‘That’s how it’s supposed to be. A church should always be open.’

‘At first I thought this was a residential building.’

‘What made you think that?’

‘Someone gave me the address.’

She looked searchingly at him. He sensed that something was not quite right.

‘Who was that?’

‘A black girl.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Florence. But she calls herself Tea-Bag.’

The minister shook her head.

‘She has the biggest, most beautiful smile I have ever seen,’ Humlin said.

‘I don’t know her. It doesn’t sound like anyone who comes here regularly.’

Humlin realised at once that she was not telling the truth. Ministers don’t know how to lie convincingly, he thought. Perhaps when they are talking about the gods above and our inner spirits, but not when it comes to earthly matters.

‘No one by that name belongs to our parish,’ she continued.

She picked up a psalm book that had fallen on the ground.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘A visitor,’ he said.

‘Your face seems familiar.’

Humlin thought of the clerk at the subway station.

‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

‘But I feel sure I’ve seen your face. Not here. Somewhere else.’

‘I’m afraid you’re mixing me up with someone else.’

‘But you’re here looking for someone?’

‘You could say that.’

‘There’s no one else here apart from me.’

Humlin wondered why she wasn’t telling the truth. She started walking towards the exit and he followed her.

‘I was about to lock up,’ she said.

‘I thought you said a church should always be open?’

‘We always lock up for a few hours every afternoon.’

Humlin walked outside.

‘You are always welcome,’ the minister said before she locked the doors behind him.

Humlin walked across the street, then turned around. She wanted me to leave, he thought. But why? He walked around to the back of the church. There was a little garden. It was empty. He was about to leave when he thought he saw something moving in one of the windows. Whether it was a person or a curtain he couldn’t say.

There was a door in the back. He walked over and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. When he opened it he saw a staircase leading down to the basement. He turned on the light and listened. Then he started walking down. It led to a corridor with a number of doors leading off on either side. On the floor were some toys, a plastic bucket and a little shovel. He frowned. Then he opened the closest door and found himself staring at a woman, a man and three small children sitting on a couple of mattresses. They gave him frightened looks. He mumbled an apology and closed the door. He understood. The church was sheltering refugees in its basement, like a modern-day catacomb.

Suddenly the minister turned up behind him. She had taken off her high-heeled shoes and approached him without making any sound.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘Are you from the police?’

She is the second woman in the space of a few days to compare me to a policeman, he thought. First my crazy mother, then a minister wearing high-heeled shoes. No Swedish minister should be dressed like she is. No minister should be dressed that way, full stop.

‘I’m not from the police.’

‘Are you from the Department of Immigration?’

‘I’m not going to tell you who I am. Do I have to show my ID in this church?’

‘The people who live down here live in fear of deportation. I don’t think you know very much about that kind of fear.’

‘Perhaps I do know a little about that,’ Humlin said. ‘I’m not completely without feeling.’

She looked at him in silence. Her eyes were tired and worried.

‘Are you a reporter?’ she asked finally.

‘Not exactly. I’m a writer. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m not going to tell anyone that you harbour refugees in your basement. I don’t know if I think it’s right or wrong — we do have laws and regulations in this country that ought to be followed. But I won’t say anything. The only thing I want to know is if the girl with the big smile lives here.’

‘Tea-Bag comes and goes. I don’t know if she lives here right now.’

‘But she does sometimes?’

‘Sometimes. Other times she stays with her sister in Gothenburg.’

‘What’s the name of that sister?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you have her address?’

‘No.’

‘How come she lives here when she spends so much time in Gothenburg?’

‘I don’t know that either. She just turned up one morning.’

Humlin was more and more confused. She’s lying, he thought. Why can’t she just tell me the truth?

‘Which room does she stay in?’

The minister pointed it out to him. She told him her name was Erika as she walked over and knocked on the door. A hotel of the underworld, Humlin thought. Erika tried the door handle, then let him into the room. There was a bed, a table and a chair inside, nothing else. He thought he recognised the jumper hanging on the chair. It looked like the one she had been wearing on the train.

Erika shook her head.

‘Tea-Bag comes and goes. I never know when she’s here. She keeps to herself and I let her be.’

They walked back up the stairs and into the garden. Humlin watched with fascination as she put her high-heeled shoes back on.

‘You have beautiful legs,’ he said. ‘But maybe that’s not the kind of thing one should say to a minister?’

‘People should feel free to say what they want to a minister.’

‘Who are the people down there right now?’

‘Right now we have a family from Bangladesh, two families from Kosovo, a single man from Iraq and two Chinese men.’

‘How did they all get here?’

‘All of our guests simply turn up at the door, either early in the morning or late at night. They hear rumours that they can stay here.’

‘Then what happens?’

‘They move on. They find other places to hide. A good friend of mine is a doctor. She comes to help out when we need her. A few parishioners help with food and clothing. Do you know that there are close to ten thousand people hiding illegally in Sweden today? They are here with no legal rights. It is a blot on our conscience.’

They walked out to the street together.

‘Don’t tell her I was here. I’ll see her later anyway,’ Humlin said.

Erika went back into her church. Humlin found a taxi and was taken back to his own world. When he came home he went to his desk and sat down. The picture of Tanya as a little girl was lying in front of him. Suddenly a new thought came to him. He found a magnifying glass and looked at the back of the photograph again. He thought he could see a faint imprint on the photographic paper of the year 1994. He turned the picture face up again. The little girl stared up at him with serious eyes.

It’s not a picture of Tanya, he thought.

It is her daughter.