The Shadow Girls

8

When he woke up the following morning Humlin felt more refreshed than he could remember being for a long time. It was as if his meeting with the smiling girl named Tea-Bag or perhaps Florence had allowed him to access some hidden energy reserves. He got out of his bed as soon as he woke up instead of lying in like he usually did. He decided that this was the day to confront his mother. He was also finally going to get in touch with his investment broker.

The latter was easier than he had imagined. His broker picked up one of his mobile phone lines.

‘Burén.’

‘Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tried to reach you during the past week?’

‘Nineteen, I think.’

‘Why in God’s name can’t you return a call?’

‘I don’t like to trouble my clients unnecessarily.’

‘But I told you I wanted to speak to you.’

‘You’re speaking to me now.’

‘I’m coming by your office in half an hour.’

‘By all means. Let’s talk if I’m still here then.’

‘Why wouldn’t you still be there?’

‘Something might come up. You never know.’

Humlin called a taxi immediately since he suspected a moment’s delay would allow Burén to disappear into any one of the labyrinths of his financial world from which it would be impossible to retrieve him.

The taxi driver wore a turban and had loud reggae music playing on the sound system. Burén’s office was on Strandvägen which was easy to find. Humlin became increasingly more irritated by the music as the trip wore on. What irritated him the most was his own inability to ask the driver to turn it down. Why can’t I make a simple request, he thought. Do I think he’ll assume I’m racist just because I’d like for the music to be turned down during a ride that I’m paying for? When the taxi pulled up outside Burén’s building Humlin was still irritated and compensated by tipping the driver way too much.

Humlin always felt uncomfortable when he entered Burén’s office. He had often asked him why the curtains always had to stay drawn.

‘I think it creates a cosier atmosphere,’ Burén said.

‘I think it creates the feeling of sitting in a cellar.’

‘When talking about money I find one needs to stay completely calm and rid oneself of all extraneous thoughts.’

‘The only thought I have when I come to see you is that I want to get out of here as soon as possible.’

‘That is also the point.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That I don’t like for my clients to stay longer than necessary.’

Burén was all of twenty-four years old, but looked closer to fifteen. He had had a skyrocketing career within the financial world, beginning when he borrowed money in school to make a couple of extremely lucky investments in the growing Internet business. He had made his first million before he even graduated. For a few years he worked for one of the largest investment firms in the country, then he had broken off to start his own business in this dim office. Humlin sat down in the uncomfortable wooden chair Burén had bought for an outrageous sum of money at the Bukowski auction house.

‘I just want to know how my investments are doing,’ Humlin said.

‘Everything is fine.’

‘What about the recent stock-market fluctuations?’

‘What fluctuations?’

‘Every paper in the country has been running this as front-page news! The market has lost fourteen per cent of its value.’

‘An excellent development,’ Burén said.

‘How can you say that?’

‘It just depends on what perspective you use to look at it.’

‘I can only see it this way: how are my stocks doing?’

When Humlin started investing a few years ago, he decided to follow his mother’s advice to be conservative and not put all of his 250,000 kronor in one basket. He had insisted that Burén — whom Viktor Leander had recommended — buy shares in a variety of companies and industries. But after about a year Burén had convinced him that it was time to make a concerted investment in some extremely promising Internet company. Burén had suggested White Vision, a company that apparently made ‘cloned accessories’, which was a phrase Humlin still did not understand. The company was being praised to the skies in the media and the founder was a nineteen-year-old student at Chalmers Business School who was considered a brilliant innovator. She was also a beautiful woman whose private life was often the subject of extra press coverage.

At first the new strategy had been extremely profitable. Humlin’s initial investment of 250,000 had risen in just a few months to three times his original stake. Every time he suggested selling and pocketing the profits Burén had convinced him the stock had not yet peaked. Now Burén was looking at his computer screen in an inscrutable, thoughtful silence. Humlin’s stomach was starting to hurt.

‘Your shares are doing just fine,’ Burén said finally.

Humlin felt a wave of relief. He had been worried about the market for several weeks now and had not been able to make himself follow the numbers in the papers.

‘So they’re still going up?’

Burén looked again at his screen.

‘They’re not going up. But they’re fine.’

‘You sound as if you’re talking about an unruly group of schoolchildren. When we bought those shares they were worth a hundred and twenty kronor per share. Last time we talked they were up at almost four hundred. What are they today?’

‘Their recent fluctuations have been negligible.’

‘Is that up or down?’

‘Both. Sometimes mostly up, sometimes mostly down.’

Humlin’s worry was starting to return.

‘And where are they right now, exactly?’

‘They appear to have stabilised.’

‘Can’t you give me a straight answer?’

‘I am giving you straight answers.’

‘What are they worth?’

‘Right now: nineteen fifty.’

Humlin stared with horror at the man he only saw dimly on the other side of the desk. In his mind he saw all his savings turning from a mountain of gold to a heap of ashes.

‘But that’s a catastrophe. I bought shares for two hundred and fifty thousand kronor. What would I get today if I sold everything?’

‘About thirty-five thousand.’

Humlin gave a bitter roar.

‘You mean to tell me I have lost two hundred thousand kronor?’

‘As long as you don’t sell you haven’t lost anything.’

Humlin’s heart was starting to beat irregularly.

‘Do you think they will go back up?’

‘Of course they will.’

‘When?’

‘In all probability they will go up shortly.’

‘How can you know that? How soon?’

‘White Vision is a well-run company. If they don’t declare bankruptcy they will almost certainly grow strongly over the next few years.’

‘Bankruptcy?’

‘And in that case we can deduct your losses against the profits you’ve made in other deals.’

‘But I have no other shares!’

Burén looked at him sternly, and with a certain amount of pity.

‘I have been trying to tell you this for a long time,’ he said. ‘You should have diversified earlier. Then you would always be able to counter losses.’

‘I had no more money!’

‘You can always borrow.’

‘So I should have taken out a loan to buy shares that will be profitable so that I can deduct the losses of the shares I have that I lost everything on?’

Humlin felt completely crushed. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to beat up the spotty young man on the other side of the desk.

‘You need to keep a cool head in these situations,’ Burén said.

‘What I have is a pain in my head.’

‘The market always bounces back. Your shares have stabilised at a very satisfactory number. The company has already alerted investors about anticipated losses and cash-flow strain in the next quarter. But these things are never written in stone. How are the poems coming along?’

‘At least they haven’t lost all their value yet.’

Suddenly Burén leaned across the desk.

‘I should perhaps tell you that we will become colleagues soon.’

‘I will never set foot in the world of finance.’

‘That’s not what I mean. I’m writing a novel.’

For a split second Humlin imagined Burén publishing a book and being welcomed by the critics as the new hope, as Humlin himself was sidelined and forgotten.

‘What about?’

‘It’s a crime novel. It will centre on a terrible financial crisis.’

‘Will you figure in this novel?’

‘Not at all. The murderer is a woman. She is a ruthless investment broker who doesn’t simply stop at fleecing her clients.’

‘What else does she do?’

‘She literally skins them. I plan to finish the book next month.’

Humlin felt outraged that a man like Burén assumed he could master something as complicated as writing a novel. He wanted to protest, but of course said nothing.

Burén glanced at the computer screen.

‘They’re very stable. Nice and easy. Just levelling out at seventeen kronor.’

‘Five minutes ago they were up over nineteen, you said.’

‘These are negligible fluctuations. You bought for one hundred and twenty. What do you care if they are at nineteen or seventeen?’

Humlin was almost at the point of tears.

‘What is your professional advice?’ he asked.

‘To sit tight.’

‘Is that it?’

‘I’ll be in touch when things look better again.’

‘And when will that be?’

‘Shortly.’

‘How soon is that?’

‘In a few weeks. Ten years at most.’

Humlin stared at him. The chanting of Franciscan monks was coming from somewhere. Burén must have turned it on without him noticing. The music swelled to a deafening roar inside his head.

‘Ten years?’

‘That is the outer margin. Not more than that.’

Burén stood up.

‘I have to leave now. But please don’t worry. I’ll send you a copy of the manuscript when I finish. I look forward to getting your feedback.’

Humlin returned to the street in a daze. He searched in his head for some reassuring and calming thoughts but found nothing until he saw Tea-Bag’s smiling face. Then he started to come back to life, freed from the chill that had followed him from Burén’s dimly lit office. He wondered again if he should write that crime novel after all, if for no other reason than to make some money. The nagging thought that Burén would prove to be the more successful author wouldn’t leave him.

Humlin visited his mother that evening. He squirmed at the thought of having to confront her. When he called her to let her know he was on his way he sensed that she knew what he was planning.

‘I don’t want you to come over this evening,’ she said curtly.

‘What about the fact that I’m supposedly always welcome?’

‘Not tonight.’

Humlin immediately became suspicious. He was convinced there was a hint of a sexual moan in her voice even now.

‘Why exactly is this not a good evening for you, Mother?’

‘I had a dream last night that I shouldn’t have any visitors tonight.’

‘But I need to talk to you.’

‘What about?’

‘I’ll tell you as soon as I come over.’

‘I have already told you that’s not possible.’

‘I’ll be over around eleven.’

‘On no account are you to come over before midnight.’

‘I’ll be there at eleven-thirty, not a minute later.’

When he stepped into the apartment at exactly eleven-thirty he was assaulted by the smell of strong spices and smoke.

‘What is that smell?’ Humlin asked.

‘I’ve made a Javanese bamboo dish.’

‘You know I prefer not to eat in the middle of the night. Why do you never listen to what I say?’

His mother opened her mouth to say something and fell onto the floor. For a few paralysing seconds Humlin assumed that what he had always feared had finally come to pass, that she had suffered a heart attack and died. Then he realised she had simply executed one of her well-practised fainting manoeuvres.

‘There’s nothing wrong with you. Why are you lying on the floor?’

‘I won’t move until you’ve apologised.’

‘I have nothing to apologise for.’

‘You can’t treat your ninety-year-old mother like dirt. I have taken the trouble to search for a good recipe, carry home exotic foods, and then stand in front of the stove for four hours and only because my son insisted on carrying on with an unwanted visit.’

She pointed to a stool in a corner of the hall.

‘Sit down,’ she said.

‘Are you going to stay on the floor?’

‘I may never get up again.’

Humlin sighed and sat down on the stool. He knew his mother was capable of staying on the floor the whole night if he did not follow orders. Her methods of emotional terrorism were tried and tested.

‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to speak to you about,’ she said.

‘I’m the one who came to speak to you. Can’t you at least sit up?’

‘No.’

‘Do you want me to bring you a pillow?’

‘If you can bring yourself to do so.’

Humlin stood up, went into the kitchen and opened a window. Every time his mother cooked the kitchen was transformed into something that resembled the remains of a bloody battle. On his way to the bedroom to fetch a pillow he stopped and looked angrily at the phone. He had the sudden inspiration to lift up the phone book; underneath it lay an advert for ‘the Mature Women Hotline’. As he was carrying the pillow back to his mother he wondered if he should use it to suffocate her instead of helping to make her stay on the hall floor more comfortable.

‘What was it you wanted to tell me?’ he asked.

‘I want to inform you of my activities.’

Humlin stiffened. Was she a mind reader? He decided on a counter-attack.

‘I know what you’re doing,’ he said.

‘Of course you don’t know.’

‘That’s why I came here to talk to you. You do realise how upsetting this is for me, don’t you?’

His mother sat up.

‘Have you been snooping in my private papers?’

‘If anyone in this family roots around in other people’s papers, it’s you. I don’t.’

‘Well, then you can’t know what I’ve been up to.’

Humlin shifted around on the stool trying to find a more comfortable position. It reminded him of the chair he had sat on in Burén’s office. I’m going to wait her out, he thought. I won’t say another word, I’ll just wait.

‘Let’s just agree on that then. I have no idea what you’ve been doing and I don’t know what it is you want to tell me.’

‘I’m writing a book.’

Humlin stared at her.

‘What kind of a book?’

‘A crime novel.’

For a moment Humlin felt as if he was going insane. He was the victim of a great conspiracy, the extent of which he was only now beginning to realise. All of the people around him seemed to be working on crime novels.

‘Are you happy for me?’

‘Why on earth would I be happy for you?’

‘You could be happy that your mother’s creativity has remained intact into old age.’

‘Everyone is writing a crime novel these days. Except me.’

‘From what I read in the papers that’s not true. You are working on one, but I can’t imagine it’ll be any good.’

‘Whatever the papers have been saying it isn’t true. But why wouldn’t mine be any good?’

His mother lay back down on he floor.

‘It’s good to know you won’t be competing with me.’

‘I’m the writer in this family, not you.’

‘In a few months that won’t be true. I hope you realise what a sensation it will be when an eighty-seven-year-old woman makes her debut with a crime novel of international stature.’

Humlin felt an impending catastrophe speeding towards him. The final defeat would be when his own mother was hailed as a more accomplished writer than himself.

‘What’s it about?’ he finally made himself say.

‘I’m not going to tell you.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’ll steal my ideas.’

‘I have never in my life stolen anyone’s idea. I happen to be an artist who takes his work seriously. Just tell me what the book is about.’

‘A woman who kills her own children.’

‘How original.’

‘She also eats them.’

Even with the window in the kitchen open the smoke from the food started to make him feel sick.

‘That’s what you’re writing about?’

‘I’m already on chapter forty.’

‘So it’ll be a thick book?’

‘I’m assuming it will be around seven hundred pages. Since books are so expensive these days I think it’s only right to write books that last longer.’

‘Tell that to my publisher.’

‘I already have. I told him about the book and he was very interested. He is planning to market us as the “Literary Family”.’

Humlin was at a loss for words, the same way he had felt when Burén told him what his shares were actually worth. His mother got up, picked up the pillow and went into the living room. Humlin stayed on his stool. I lost my footing, he thought. Again. Then, in a series of brief but sharply focused images he saw in his mind Leyla, Tanya and Tea-Bag. Tea-Bag and her smile, Tanya with her face turned away from his, Leyla with her ungainly body. Maybe helping these girls tell their stories is actually something worthwhile, he thought. A good deed, when all is said and done.

Humlin forced himself to swallow a few bites of the tangy Javanese dish that his mother had prepared. He also drank a few glasses of wine in preparation for what was to come. During the meal they did not mention the crime novel Märta Humlin was writing nor the crime novel Humlin was not writing. They avoided all topics that could lead to dramatic conflict, since they both needed to rest up for the one that would soon take place.

Humlin pushed his bowl away from him, even though it was still filled with food.

‘You have never understood fine cooking,’ his mother remarked.

‘You have never understood that I’m not hungry at midnight.’

‘If you don’t learn to appreciate fine food, let alone get your sex life in order, you will come to a bad end, mark my words.’

Humlin was taken aback by her frankness, but it also gave him the opening he needed.

‘I don’t think it’s my sex life that needs discussing. What about yours?’

‘I have no sex life.’

‘That’s your business, but what I do know is you spend your time on revolting and most probably highly illegal phone sex conversations.’

She looked at him with surprise mingled with amusement.

‘You sound like a policeman. I’ve always known that about you, that there wasn’t a poet’s soul in you but a policeman’s.’

‘What would people say if this came out?’

‘That you have the soul of a policeman?’

Humlin banged his fist on the table.

‘We are not talking about me, we are talking about you. I am not acting like a policeman, I am telling you that I want this disgusting phone business of yours to stop. I don’t understand how you can live with yourself. Don’t you have any principles? You are denigrating and humiliating yourself.’

‘There’s no need to get so worked up over it. The old men who call are very nice. Many are interesting people. A famous author is one of my most faithful customers.’

Humlin couldn’t help his curiosity.

‘Who is it?’

‘I would never dream of telling you, of course. Discretion is the foundation of this business.’

‘But you get paid for this, don’t you? Your business is nothing more than common prostitution.’

‘I have to pay my phone bill somehow.’

‘I take it you make a lot of money?’

‘Not a lot.’

‘How much?’

‘Between fifty and sixty thousand kronor a month. Of course there are no taxes to pay in this line of work.’

Humlin couldn’t believe his ears.

‘You make fifty thousand a month by moaning into the phone?’

‘Basically.’

‘What do you do with all the money?’

‘Make Javanese bamboo dishes. I buy oysters to offer my children.’

‘But you’re doing something illegal! And you aren’t paying any taxes.’

His mother looked worried for a moment.

‘We have discussed the question of taxes in our board meetings. We have come up with a solution we find satisfactory.’

‘And what is that?’

‘We have written a will for all profits made by our company. All remaining profits will go directly to the state. That should be more than enough to take care of all back taxes.’

Humlin decided to hit as hard as he could.

‘If you and your girlfriends don’t stop with this at once I will anonymously inform the police of your activities.’

The intensity of her anger surprised him.

‘Didn’t I know it! There it is again, the policeman in you. I want you to leave my apartment this instant and never return. I am cutting you out of my will and I never want to see you again. I even forbid you to attend my funeral!’

When she finished she tossed the contents of her wine glass in his face. That had never happened before, in all of their most heated discussions. He was temporarily thrown and simply watched as his mother refilled her glass.

‘If you do not leave this apartment at once without making any further comments I will throw another glass of wine in your face.’

‘Mother, we need to talk about this. Please calm down.’

This time most of the wine landed on his shirt. Humlin realised the battle was lost, at least for the moment. He wiped off his face and shirt with his napkin and stood up.

‘We’ll talk about it when I get back from Gothenburg.’

‘I am never speaking to you again in my life.’

‘I’ll call you when I get back.’

His mother lifted her wine glass again. Humlin ran out of the apartment.

A mixture of snow and rain was falling outside. He did not manage to hail a taxi. Two drunk Finns begged a few cigarettes off him and then followed him in a threatening manner for several blocks. When he got home he was wet through and freezing. Andrea was sleeping. He had been hoping he would be alone. In order to avoid her sharp questions he buried the soiled shirt in the bottom of the rubbish. Looking at it, it occurred to him that the wine stains looked curiously like blood.

Since he was still worked up he decided against trying to sleep immediately. Instead he sat down in his study and tried to prepare for his second meeting with the girls in Gothenburg. Suddenly he was not so sure that Tea-Bag would meet him at the station and this made him disappointed, almost sad. He thought about what she had told him, the unfinished story. How much of what she had said was true? He couldn’t know, but as he sat there he started working on what she had said, filling in the blanks. In a way he felt he was taking her by the hand and leading her into her own story. He had never been to Africa but now it was as if he could finally go there in his imagination because he had found someone who made it come alive for him.

He walked into the kitchen and got a tea-bag that he put on his desk in front of him. It seemed to him that the small black specks behind the thin paper were letters, words, sentences, perhaps even songs that all told the real story of the girl with the big smile. .

‘Why are you sleeping with a tea-bag in your hand?’

Andrea was bent over him. He had fallen asleep at his desk. He tried to get up but fell back into his chair. One of his legs had fallen completely asleep.

‘I’m asking you why you have a tea-bag in your hand.’

‘I was going to make myself a cup and fell asleep.’

Andrea shook her head as if he were a hopeless case. He massaged his leg until he heard the front door slam shut behind her. He could see through the weak dawn light that it had stopped snowing outside. He crawled into bed on the side that was still warm from Andrea’s body. He slept heavily without dreaming.

He was at the Central station at exactly a quarter to two. He looked around but saw no one who smiled at him, everyone seemed despondent as if on their way to undesirable destinations. He was just about to give up when someone touched his arm.

Tea-Bag was smiling.

The train left the station with a jerk just after they had stepped on board.