Sail of Stone

4

Aneta Djanali was back in Kortedala. It was a rainy day, and suddenly it was colder than early spring. Maybe autumn had arrived.

It seemed like the masses of houses on Befälsgatan and Beväringsgatan were marching away in the fog, or maybe it was like they were floating. They’re like battleships of stone, she thought. It’s like a living drawing, a film.

She suddenly thought of Pink Floyd, “Another Brick in the Wall.” The walls enclosed the people here, led them into the fog.

We don’t need no education.

But that’s what everyone needed. Education. A language. Communication, she thought.

She parked on one of the season streets, maybe spring, maybe autumn. She didn’t see a street sign. She walked toward one of the walls. Anette Lindsten lived behind it. It was a name that somehow fit in here, in this environment. Lindsten, “linden stone.” It was a very Swedish name, a compound of things in nature. That’s how it is with most Swedish last names, she thought. Everything has something to do with nature. Something soft and light, along with something hard and heavy. Something compound. Like the hovering houses. Stones in the wind.

She thought of the eyes in the crack of the door; they had also been like stone. Had she spoken with her husband? Really had a conversation? Had it been possible? Did he have a language? A language to speak with? Aneta knew one thing: A person who lacked any other method of expression often resorted to violence. Words were replaced by fists. In this way, violence was the ultimate form of communication, the most extreme, the most horrible.

Had he hit Anette? Had he even threatened her? Who was “he,” really? And who was she?

Aneta went in through the doors, which were propped open. A pickup with something that looked like a rented cover stood parked outside. She could see the corner of a sofa in the truck bed; two dining chairs, a bureau. A paper bag that contained green plants. Someone is coming or going, she thought.

A man in his sixties came out of the elevator with a packing case and walked past her and put it on the truck bed. Someone is going, she thought.

The man walked back and into the elevator, where she was waiting with the door open.

“Fifth floor for me,” he said.

“I’m going there, too,” she said, and pushed the button.

There were three apartments on the fifth floor. When they came out into the stairwell, she saw that the door to Anette Lindsten’s apartment was wide open.

That was a change from last time.

She realized that the woman was on her way out.

The man went in through the door. She could see boxes in the hall, clothes on hangers, more chairs. Some rolled-up rugs. She heard faint music, a radio tuned to one of the local commercial stations. Britney Spears. Always Britney Spears.

Aneta hesitated at the door. Should she ring the bell or call out? The man had turned around in the hall. She could see into the kitchen, which seemed completely empty. She didn’t see anyone else.

“Yes?” said the man. “Can I help you with something?”

He wasn’t unfriendly. He looked tired, but it was as though his tiredness didn’t come from lugging things down the stairs. His hair was completely white and she had seen the sweat on the back of his shirt, like a faint V-sign.

“I’m looking for Anette Lindsten,” she said.

A younger man came out from a room holding a black plastic bag with bedding sticking out of it.

“What is it?” he said, before the older man had time to answer. The younger man might have been her own age. He didn’t look friendly. He had given a start when he saw her.

“She’s looking for Anette,” the older man said. “Anette Lindsten.”

Aneta would later remember that she had wondered why he said her last name.

“Who are you?” asked the younger man.

She explained who she was, showed her ID. She asked who they were.

“This is Anette’s father, and I’m her brother. What does this concern?”

“I want to talk to Anette about it.”

“I think we know why you’re here, but that’s over with now so you don’t need to talk to her anymore,” the brother said.

“I’ve never talked to her,” said Aneta.

“And now it isn’t necessary,” he said. “Okay?”

The father cleared his throat.

“What is it?” said the brother, looking at him.

“I think you should lower your voice, Peter.”

The father turned toward her.

“I’m Anette’s dad,” he said, nodding from a distance in the hall. “And this is my son, Peter.” He gestured with his arm. “And we’re in the process of moving Anette’s things, as you can see.” He seemed to look at her with transparent eyes. “So, in other words, Anette is moving away from here.”

“Where to?” asked Aneta.

“What does that matter?” said Peter Lindsten. “Isn’t it best that as few people know as possible? It wouldn’t really be so good if all the damn authorities came running to the new place too, would it?”

“Have they, then?” said Aneta. “Before?”

“No,” he answered in the illogical manner that she had become used to hearing in this job. “But it’ll fu-” the brother began, but he was interrupted by his father.

“I think we should have a cup of coffee and talk about this properly,” he said, looking at her. He looked like a real father, someone who never wants to relinquish control. At that very moment, at that second, she thought of her own father’s shrinking figure in the half light in the white hut on the African desert steppe. The darkness inside, the white light outside, a world in black and white.

He wasn’t letting her go. She was the one who had relinquished his control.

“We don’t have time,” said Peter Lindsten.

“Put those things down and put on the coffee,” said the father calmly, and the son put down the sack he had been holding during the entire conversation and followed orders.

Winter got two cups of coffee and placed one in front of Johanna Osvald. She seemed determined and relieved at the same time, as though she had triumphed over something by coming there.

“I didn’t know where I should go,” she said.

“Do you know where he’s staying over there?” Winter asked.

“Where he was staying, at least. I called there and they said he had checked out. Four days ago.” She looked up without having taken a drink from her cup. “It’s a bed and breakfast. I don’t remember what it’s called right now. But I have it written down.” She started to look in her backpack. “I have the notebook here somewhere.” She looked up again.

“Where is it?” Winter asked. “The bed and breakfast?”

“In Inverness. Didn’t I say that?”

Inverness, he thought. The bridge over the river Ness.

“And he hasn’t contacted you since then?” he asked.

“No.”

“Did he tell you he was going to check out?”

“No.”

“What did he say, then? When he called the last time.”

“Like I said before. He was going to meet someone.”

“Who?”

“He didn’t say, I told you.”

“Did you ask?”

“Yes, of course I did. But he just said that he was going to check something and that he would call later.”

“What was he going to check?”

“He didn’t say, and no, I didn’t ask. That’s how it is with my dad; he hasn’t ever said much, especially not on the phone.”

“But it had to do with his disappearance? That is, the question of your grandfather’s disappearance?”

“Yes, I assumed it did. It’s obvious, isn’t it? What else could it be?”

“What else did he say?” Winter asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You must have talked about something else. Other than that he was going to meet someone who might have had a connection to your grandfather.”

“No. I asked how things were going in general. He said it was raining.” Winter thought she gave a small smile. “But that’s not really unusual for Scotland, is it?”

“Was he calling from a cell phone? From the hotel? From a bar or a café?”

“I don’t actually know. I assumed he was calling from…” She had a notebook in her hand now; it was open. “… from this place, it’s called Glen Islay Bed and Breakfast.” She looked at him. “Ross Avenue, Inverness. The street is called Ross Avenue. I assume he was calling from there.”

Glen Islay, thought Winter. It sounds like a brand of whisky. I recognize it, but it’s not whisky.

“Why do you assume your father called from there?” he asked.

“He might have mentioned it, now that I think about it. And anyway, he doesn’t have a cell phone.”

So there are still people who aren’t cellified, Winter thought. In my next life I’ll be one of them.

“I tried to send my cell along with him, but he refused,” said Johanna. “Said that it wouldn’t work and then he’d just get frustrated on his trip.”

“He had a point there,” said Winter.

“In any case, he hasn’t made any sort of contact since then,” she said.

“Is it really that long a time?” Winter asked.

“How do you mean?”

“Four days. After all, you did wait four days to become worried. It could-”

“What do you mean?” she interrupted. “Like I wasn’t worried the whole time. But as I just said, my father is not the type to call every day. But finally I became worried enough on top of my normal worrying that I called Glen Is… Glen Is…” She broke off and started to cry.

Winter felt immobile, like a stone. I’m an idiot, he thought. And this is something I can’t really handle. It suddenly feels personal. Now I have to find a way out.

“What is your dad’s name?” he asked gently.

“Ax… Axel,” she answered. “Axel Osvald.”

Winter got up, took her cup and his own, put them away to create a distraction, another way of thinking.

He went back to his chair and sat down.

“What do you think?” he said. “What could have happened? What are you thinking right now?”

“I think something has happened to him.”

“Why do you think that?”

“There’s no other explanation for why he hasn’t contacted me by now.”

Winter thought. Thought like a detective. It felt like an effort after all his other thoughts this summer, all his other plans.

“Did he rent a car?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“But your father has a driver’s license?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of work does he do?”

“He’s… a carpenter.”

“That took you a moment,” said Winter.

“Yes. He was a fisherman before, like everyone else in the Osvald family. And like almost everyone else on the island. But he quit.”

Winter didn’t question this further. He continued:

“Maybe he found something, met someone, and maybe it was somewhere other than in Inverness and he’ll contact you soon.”

“Oh, it’s such a relief to hear you say that,” she said with sudden irony.

“Well, what do you want me to do?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “Forgive me. I just thought that you would know.”

“We can register a description of him with Interpol,” Winter said. “If you want to do that, I can help you.”

“Interpol-that sounds so formal. Will it really get results? Isn’t there something else you can do?”

“Listen, Johanna. It hasn’t been very long yet. There’s nothing to indicate that your dad is in danger. He could-”

“How do you explain that letter, then?” she interrupted, nodding toward the letter that was still on the table.

“I can’t explain it,” said Winter.

“You think it’s some nutcase?”

“Is that what you think?” asked Winter.

“I don’t know what to think. I only know that Dad took the fact that he was going very seriously. Or maybe he learned something new, like I said before. And that it’s weird that he hasn’t contacted me.”

Inverness. Winter got up and walked over to the map of Europe that hung on the wall facing the hall. Inverness, the northern point of the Highlands. He had been there, twenty years ago. Only one time, on his way through from north to south. He thought of the woman who was sitting behind him. It must have been the same summer…

He considered this as he looked at the map. Yes, it could have been that summer, or right after it. An Indian summer like this one, in September. He had been on his way somewhere in his life, but he didn’t know where. He had decided to quit studying law after the survey course, because that survey was quite enough, thank you very much.

He had worked as a sorter at the post office. That was before the inheritance from his grandfather, which changed a lot. He had said adiós to the letters and decided to travel in Great Britain because he had never been there. He wanted to do it right. He took the ferry to Newcastle and the northbound train all the way to Thurso and out to Dunnet Head, which was the northernmost point of the island nation, and then he traveled south by train and bus and thumb to the southernmost point, Lizard Point; it was a mission he’d assigned to himself, and he realized that this was what his life would be like forever after: He was on his way, but he never really knew how, and yet his uncertainty was methodical and planned.

I haven’t allowed myself to have confidence in my uncertainty until now, he suddenly thought, and he looked at the name “Inverness” on the map again. He had stayed there for one night, at a B and B.

There was one particular memory. He thought of that place. He remembered it now because he had gone from the station to the streets where all the B and Bs were, and it had been a long way there, at least that’s how he remembered it; longer than they’d told him at the tourist bureau at the station, and they had called a place he didn’t remember the name of and gotten him a room and then he walked, walked through the city center and over a bridge and through a new city center that looked like it came from a different civilization and into a neighborhood of small houses, houses of stone, granite, and to the left and to the right and straight ahead and to the left and right and right and right and left. You can’t miss it, dear. It was one of his first experiences with the peculiar people of Britain.

He had looked for the name of the street his B and B was supposed to be on for so long that the name was forever archived deep in his memory. He also remembered it because he had been looking for a fancy avenue but hadn’t seen one, especially not when he found the right street: Ross Avenue. A street like any other.

Winter turned to her with a feeling of wonder in his body.

“Didn’t you say that his B and B was on Ross Avenue?”

“Yes.”

He turned back to the map.

“I’ve been there,” he said. “I stayed in a B and B on Ross Avenue. For one night.”

“How strange,” he heard her say.

Winter didn’t want to say that it was then, that it was after that summer. He turned to her again. He had been struck by another thought.

“I know someone from the Inverness area,” he said. “A colleague, actually.”

Anette’s dad poured her a cup and placed it in her hand. His son had been standing by the window looking out, and then he left and continued carrying things.

Aneta sat on a stool in the bare kitchen. The table was folded up and leaning against the wall.

“Why did you decide to come here now?” Lindsten asked.

“I was here the other day, and it didn’t look so good,” she answered.

“What didn’t?”

Aneta sipped her coffee, which was hot and strong.

“The situation.”

“Did the neighbors call?”

“Yes,” she answered. “And it wasn’t the first time.”

“But it was the last,” he said.

“At least from here,” she said, looking around the kitchen. “From this place.”

“No,” said Lindsten, and she saw the resolve in his face. “There will be no more times.” He drank from his cup, with the same resolve. She could see that the hot coffee hurt his throat.

“Where is Anette now?” Aneta asked.

He didn’t answer at first.

“In a safe place,” he said after a bit.

“Is she staying at your house?”

“For the time being,” he said, and looked away.

“Do you know where her husband is?”

“No,” he answered.

“What we’re discussing now is very important,” said Aneta. “From a general perspective, too. There are many women who are afraid of their husbands. Or their exes. Who try to stay away. Who must go into hiding. Or who sometimes hope for a change. Who stay.”

“Well, that’s over with in this case,” said Lindsten.

“Who rents the apartment?” asked Aneta.

“It’s always been in Anette’s name,” he said. “There are two months left on the lease but that’s our treat, if I can say so. It will be empty.”

“Have you spoken with the husband? Her husband?”

“That damn bastard? He called yesterday and I told him to stay away.”

“Will he?”

“If he shows up at our house, I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop Peter from beating him up, and then we’d really have to deal with the police, wouldn’t we?”

“Yes. That’s not a good way to go about it.”

“He’d be getting a taste of his own medicine,” said Lindsten. “His own bitter medicine.”

They heard a box thud in the hall, a curse from Peter Lindsten. The dad motioned toward the hall with his head. “The difference would be that that devil would be dealing with someone his own size.”

Forsblad, Hans Forsblad. That was the man’s name. Aneta had seen the name in the papers at the dispatch center, and later with her colleagues in Kortedala. The matter was on its way to the coordinator for the violence against women program.

Forsblad’s name was very Swedish too, she thought-“rapids leaf”-it came from nature, and just like his wife’s it linked something with great power to infinite lightness. An airiness. Who stood for what? Should it be interpreted physically?

“Doesn’t he have the keys to this place?” she asked.

“We’ve changed the locks,” said Lindsten.

“Where are his things?”

“He knows where he can collect them,” said Lindsten.

Somewhere where the sun doesn’t shine, thought Aneta.

“So you’ve made him homeless.”

Lindsten laughed suddenly, a laugh without joy.

“He hasn’t stayed a night in this apartment for a damn long time,” he said. “He’s been here, it’s true. But only to… to…” And suddenly it was as though his face cracked and she saw his eyes fill and how he suddenly turned toward the window, as though he were ashamed of his behavior, but it wasn’t shame.

“She didn’t have a restraining order,” said Aneta. “Unfortunately.”

“As though it would help,” said Lindsten in a muffled voice, with his head lowered.

“He could have been issued a restraining order if Anette had reported him,” said Aneta. “Or someone else. I could have made the decision myself, for the short term. I was prepared to do it now. That’s why I came here.”

He looked up, his eyes still glistening.

“It’s not a concern anymore,” he said, “none of it.”

Suddenly it was as though the father didn’t believe his own words. She heard another thud in the hall, another curse. It was time for her to go. These people had a move to undertake, a departure that would lead to a new era in their lives. She truly hoped that it would be so for the woman whose face she had seen for only three seconds.

“You know someone from there?” asked Johanna Osvald. She looked like she was about to get up. Winter remained standing by the map. “From Inverness?”

“I think so.”

“A colleague? You mean a policeman?”

“Yes. He lives in London but he’s a Scot.”

Winter thought, searched the archives of his memory. There were many corridors. He saw London, an inspector his own age with a Scottish accent, a picture of a beautiful wife and two beautiful children who were twins, the inspector’s face, which perhaps couldn’t be called beautiful, but was probably attractive to one who could judge such things.

The face had an origin. A farm outside of Inverness. That’s what Steve had said. Winter looked at the map; it was of an impossibly large scale.

“Steve Macdonald,” said Winter. “He’s from there.”

“Do you mean that you could ask him?” said Johanna.

“Yes,” said Winter.

“He could probably check if Dad rented a car?” she said.

“We can do that,” he said. “You can do it yourself.”

“Yes, but if your colleague is from there maybe he knows someone who can… oh… check if it… no, I don’t know.” Now she was standing next to Winter, in front of the map. It seemed as though she didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to see any of the country that had played such a large and tumultuous role in the Osvald family’s lives. And might continue to do so, he thought.

He felt her nearness, heard her breathing. At that second, he thought of how the years go by, a completely banal thought, but true.

“If you want to know more, maybe Steve knows who we should ask,” said Winter, turning toward her.

What am I getting roped into here? he thought. In normal cases, this conversation would have been finished before it started. Now it has almost become a case. An international case.