The Shadow Girls

4

When Jesper Humlin woke up the following morning in his hotel in central Gothenburg he suddenly came to think of his old friend Pelle Törnblom who lived in a suburb called Stensgården. Pelle Törnblom was a one-time sailor who had finally returned to land and started a community boxing club. They had seen a lot of each other when they were young. Pelle Törnblom had also nourished literary ambitions for a short while. Over the years they had kept in sporadic contact with phone calls and postcards. Humlin tried to recall when they had last seen each other. The only thing he was sure of was that Törnblom had been working on a barge at the time, directing timber transports along the coast of northern Sweden.

Humlin decided to look for Törnblom’s telephone number after breakfast. First he nervously checked the morning paper but found nothing about last night’s events. That calmed him for the moment, though he feared the scandal was simply being held over for a day. He thought about having a word with the librarian whose brilliant idea it had been to invite a bunch of ex-cons to his poetry reading, but knew there was nothing to say. She had genuinely worked to draw in a group of people who were not usually exposed to the world of books.

The cell phone rang. It was Olof Lundin. Humlin did not want to talk to him.

‘Olof here. Where are you?’

Once upon a time people asked you how you were, Humlin thought. Now they ask you where you are.

‘This connection is bad. I can’t hear you.’

‘Where are you?’

‘This connection is bad. I’m in Gothenburg. I don’t want to talk to you.’

‘What are you doing in Gothenburg?’

‘You arranged two readings for me here.’

‘I’d forgotten about that. The library?’

‘Yesterday I was in Mölndal and tonight I’m going out to a place called Stensgården.’

‘Where is that?’

‘You should know since you set it up. I can’t keep talking. And anyway, I can hardly hear you.’

‘Why can’t you talk now? Did I wake you up?’

‘I’m awake, I just can’t hear you very well.’

‘You can hear me fine. Kudos for your performance in Mölndal, by the way.’

Humlin drew his breath in sharply.

‘How do you know about that? You didn’t even know where I was.’

‘Now you seem to hear fine.’

‘The connection got better.’

‘The librarian called me. She was very pleased.’

‘How can she be pleased? There was almost a fight.’

‘It’s not very common for a poetry reading to lead to such violent reactions. I’ve been calling the evening papers trying to get them to include it in tonight’s issue.’

Humlin almost dropped the phone.

‘What have you done?’

‘I talked to the evening papers.’

‘I don’t want anything in the evening papers!’ Humlin yelled. ‘There were just a bunch of drunk men who spewed forth about my poetry. They wanted to know what I make per word.’

‘An interesting question.’

‘You think so, do you?’

‘I can work it out for you, if you like.’

‘Why would I want to know that? Should I start writing longer poems? I don’t want you to speak to any papers, in fact, I forbid you to.’

‘Sorry, it’s getting harder to hear you.’

‘I said, I don’t want to see anything about this in the papers!’

‘Call me back and try to get a better connection. I must get back to the evening papers.’

He hung up. Humlin stared furiously at the phone. When he tried calling back he was told that Lundin was in a meeting and would not be reachable until the afternoon. Humlin lay down on the bed and decided he would change publishers. He didn’t want anything more to do with Lundin. As a kind of revenge he spent an hour thinking out the basic plot of a crime novel, although he promised himself he would never actually write it.

In the late afternoon as the rain had begun to drizzle down over Gothenburg, Humlin took a taxi to Stensgården. It was a depressingly generic city suburb with rows of concrete apartment buildings laid out like blocks. He got out on the windy main square of Stensgården where the library lay wedged in between McDonald’s and the government-owned wine store. Once again his taxi driver had been an African man, and once again he had found the address without any problems. The sign for the library was broken and the front door was covered in graffiti. Humlin went in search of the librarian in charge who turned out to be almost identical to the woman at Mölndal library. He asked with obvious trepidation if she had invited any special groups to the reading.

‘What kind of groups?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps you’ve been doing a community outreach of some kind to bring in a new clientele to the library.’

‘And what kind of people are we talking about?’

‘I don’t know. I was just asking.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I should warn you that we are not expecting very many people tonight. At best I think we’ll have ten.’

Humlin looked at her with horror.

‘Ten people?’

‘We normally only get that many for poets. If we have a writer of crime fiction we naturally draw a larger crowd.’

‘How many more?’

‘Last time we had a hundred and fifty-seven people.’

Humlin had no more questions. He placed his overnight bag in the librarian’s office and left. Once he was back out in the deserted main square he tried to call Lundin again. This time he was there.

‘I hope you didn’t talk to any media people.’

‘Of course I did, but unfortunately they didn’t seem very interested.’

Humlin felt a huge weight lift from his chest.

‘So there will be no story?’

‘Probably not. But I’m not going to give up just yet.’

‘I want you to give up.’

‘Have you given any more thought to your crime novel?’

‘No.’

‘You should. Let me know when you have a title.’

‘I’m a poet. I don’t write detective fiction.’

‘Let me know when you think of a title.’

Humlin put the phone back in his pocket, pulled his coat more tightly around his body and started wandering across the square. After a few steps he realised that there was something different about this place. At first he didn’t know what it was, then he understood that it was the people. It was as if he had suddenly crossed over an invisible line into a foreign country. The people he saw on the street were different in colouring, dress and posture.

It struck him that he had never spent any time in this other new Sweden that was emerging, the ghetto-like city suburbs where every immigrant or refugee ended up. It also struck him again with fearful clarity that only ten people were coming to his reading tonight. What did his poetry possibly have to say to these people?

He walked around the square until he got too cold. He went into a cafe with Arabic music playing over the loudspeakers and looked for Pelle Törnblom’s phone number. He found it under ‘Törnblom’s Boxing Club’. Then he turned to the dark-skinned girl behind the counter and asked her if she knew where the boxing club was located.

‘On the other side of the church.’

Humlin did not recall having seen a church. The girl walked over to the fogged-up window and pointed it out to him, then returned to her magazine.

Humlin finished his coffee and walked over to the church and the ramshackle industrial building where a small sign on the door read ‘Pelle Törnblom’s Boxing Club’. Humlin hesitated before ringing the bell. Why was he looking him up after all these years? What would they have to say to each other? He decided to go back to the library, but at that moment the door opened. It was Törnblom. Humlin saw at once that he had gained weight. Earlier he had kept himself fit. Now he had a large belly and a red face. The shirt under his leather jacket strained across the middle. Törnblom nodded in recognition.

‘We’re coming to see you tonight,’ he said with a smile.

‘Who’s we?’

‘Amanda and I.’

‘Who is Amanda?’

‘My wife. My fourth and last wife.’

‘Then that brings us to twelve people. The librarian is expecting ten.’

Törnblom invited him in. They walked up a narrow staircase and entered a room that smelled of old sweat. There was a boxing ring in the middle of the room. Weights and other tools for strength training were lined up along the walls. Humlin instinctively looked around for something that resembled Lundin’s rowing machine.

‘Thursdays are my day off,’ Törnblom said. ‘Otherwise this place would be full of kids.’

Törnblom escorted him to a small office in the back where they sat down. Törnblom seemed to take the measure of him.

‘Why are you so tanned?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been travelling.’

‘It doesn’t look natural.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s too even. It looks like you keep it up in a solarium.’

Humlin was now convinced he had made a mistake in looking up his old friend.

‘I’ve been out travelling in tropical places. It makes you tan.’

Törnblom shrugged.

‘You look like you’ve gained weight,’ Humlin said as a counter-attack.

‘I’m married for the fourth and last time now. I can let myself go.’

‘What about your health?’

‘I’m only this heavy in the winter. I lose weight in the summer.’

‘Tell me more about this Amanda.’

‘She’s from Turkey, although to be precise it is more like Iran. But her father was born in Pakistan. He lives in Canada now.’

‘So she’s an immigrant?’

‘She was born in Sweden. Whatever that makes her.’

‘I saw a lot of immigrants around here as I was wandering around the square.’

‘It’s probably only me and the alcoholics that hang out in front of the liquor store who are what you would call ethnic Swedes. Everyone in my boxing club has another nationality. I’ve counted nineteen different ones so far.’

‘I can’t imagine I’ll see many of them at the reading tonight,’ Humlin said, and noticed to his surprise that the thought disappointed him.

‘You’ll meet them later,’ Törnblom said cheerfully, and reached for a coffee maker that had been sitting high up on a shelf.

‘After the reading?’

‘I couldn’t convince anyone to come to the library, but they’re all coming to the party afterward.’

‘What party is this?’

‘The party we’re throwing for you. It’ll be here.’

Humlin felt a new wave of anxiety wash over him.

‘No one said anything to me about a party.’

‘Of course not. It was going to be a surprise.’

‘Unfortunately I’m not going to be able to attend. I just have enough time after the reading to catch the last flight out for Stockholm.’

‘Then why don’t you leave tomorrow?’

Humlin saw Andrea’s face in his mind’s eye.

‘I can’t. Andrea will go crazy.’

‘Who is Andrea?’

‘She’s the woman I guess I share my life with.’

‘Are you married?’

‘No. We don’t even live together.’

‘Call her and tell her you need to stay overnight. She’ll understand.’

‘No, she won’t. You don’t know Andrea.’

‘Not even one night?’

‘I can’t do it,’ Humlin said.

‘Everyone will be very disappointed if we cancel the party. All the kids were looking forward to it. They’ve never met a famous bestselling author before.’

‘I’m not a bestselling author. And I’m not even particularly famous.’

Pelle Törnblom had managed to get the coffee maker to work. He offered Humlin a cup, but the poet turned him down.

‘I didn’t think someone like you would have it in you to disappoint a group of young immigrant kids. Some of their parents are coming too.’

Humlin gave up. He tried to imagine how he would explain staying overnight to Andrea, but realised there was no way in which it would not be turned against him.

‘Some gypsies are coming to play music,’ Törnblom said encouragingly.

Humlin didn’t answer. Instead his gaze fastened on an old poster advertising a match between Eddie Machen and Ingemar Johansson.

Thirteen people came to the reading, since one of the janitors working in the building came in at the end of his shift. They could have been as many as seventeen, since a group of drunk men who had been hanging around outside the liquor store wanted to come in and warm up. Humlin, who still had not worked up the nerve to call Andrea, stared glumly out over his audience. But when the drunks from outside tumbled into the room he collected himself and said he refused to read his poetry to people who were clearly intoxicated and only interested in getting warm.

Right before he was about to start, Törnblom and his wife entered the room. Humlin immediately fell in love with her. She had a beautiful face, with deep-set eyes. During his reading he directed his inner attentions towards her, reading his poems for her and no one else. The rest of the audience consisted mainly of the retired, among them a man whose breath rattled worryingly in his chest. In Humlin’s mind the breathing came to sound like stormy waves smashing up against a rocky shore. After the reading there were no questions. Törnblom smiled and Humlin grew suspicious. He looks down on me, he thought. When we were younger the literature we had in mind was of a completely different sort. We were going to write deadly critiques of oppressive regimes. I ended up in the world of poetry, he in a barge and then a boxing club.

While the librarian was presenting Humlin with a small bouquet of flowers for his troubles — among the smallest he had ever received — he decided he would leave through a back door and take a taxi straight to the airport. He realised this would likely make any future contact with Törnblom impossible. But he was genuinely afraid of Andrea’s reaction. When the room was almost empty Pelle Törnblom and his wife approached him.

‘I did not understand your poems,’ Amanda said simply. ‘But they were very beautiful.’

‘I understood them,’ Törnblom said. ‘But I didn’t think they were very beautiful.’

‘Let me just get my coat,’ Humlin said. ‘Then I’ll meet you down at the boxing club.’

Törnblom looked closely at him.

‘I thought we could walk over there together.’

‘After a reading I always like to have a little time to myself to clear my head.’

‘I think we should walk over together. But we don’t have to talk.’

He senses I’d like to get out of this, Humlin thought. When he came back into the room with his coat he still wasn’t sure what he was going to do. The thought of calling Andrea and telling her of the change in his plans seemed too much. He got out his mobile phone to call a taxi when his phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number that appeared on his display. He answered. It was his mother.

‘Where are you?’

‘Why don’t you ask me how I am?’

‘We live in a new age now. With mobile phones one never knows where people might be. Why don’t you ask me where I am?’

‘I don’t recognise the number. Where are you?’

‘I’ve been invited out to a restaurant.’

‘By whom?’

‘A secret admirer.’

‘Who?’

‘I’m not going to tell you.’

‘Is that why you called? So you can tell me you’re not going to tell me who has invited you out to dinner?’

‘I’d like you to drop by later this evening. We have something important to talk about.’

‘I can’t come by this evening. I’m out of town.’

‘I spoke to Andrea earlier. She said very definitely that you were coming home tonight.’

Humlin felt trapped.

‘I could be dead by tomorrow night. I’m almost ninety years old.’

‘You’re not going to die tonight. I’ll be over tomorrow evening.’

‘That’s not possible. Andrea is coming over then.’

‘Andrea?’

‘I’d like to see you tonight and her tomorrow.’

‘Why can’t we come over together?’

‘I have some important things to tell you. But I would like to speak to you separately.’

Humlin tried to understand what could be going on with his mother.

‘I’ll be by if I make my flight.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Andrea didn’t tell you?’

‘She couldn’t remember if it was Luleå or Malmö.’

‘I’m in Gothenburg.’

‘I don’t have any more time to talk now. I’ll be home after midnight. We’ll have a glass of wine.’

‘I don’t want to have any wine.’

The connection was already broken. Humlin called the taxi company but the number was busy. He found a phone book on a shelf in the hallway where he quickly looked up other companies. Everyone’s number was busy. Humlin was starting to sweat. I don’t want to go to a party, he thought. Maybe I would like to be alone with Amanda and explain the meaning of my poetry to her.

He called the first company again and got through this time.

‘We can send a taxi out to you in twenty minutes.’

‘That’s too late. I’m trying to catch a flight.’

‘There’s a medical conference on in town. That’s why we’re so busy tonight.’

‘I need a cab out here immediately.’

‘I’m sorry, sir. It doesn’t look like we can help you.’

Humlin decided he would try to wave one down on the street. He found the back exit and thought to himself that he was leaving by the door of the Failed Poets. Bestselling crime novelists probably always left through the front door.

But when he got outside Törnblom was there waiting for him.

‘Amanda went the other way,’ Törnblom said. ‘We were afraid we might lose you.’

Humlin felt humiliated.

‘I saw it in your face that you were going to try to stand us up,’ Törnblom said accusingly. ‘I have to look out for my kids, for everyone who’s going to be disappointed if you don’t show.’

‘You don’t know Andrea.’

Törnblom held out his hand impatiently.

‘Give me your phone. I’ll call her.’

‘What are you going to say?’

‘That you’re indisposed.’

‘She knows I never get ill. She’s a nurse. She knows me.’

‘I’ll say you had a fainting spell.’

‘I’ve never had one before.’

‘Diarrhoea. That can happen any time.’

‘You don’t understand. Even if I actually had a heart attack she would accuse me of not keeping my promise.’

Törnblom seemed to see the seriousness of the situation. He thought for a moment.

‘What time does the plane leave?’

‘In exactly seventy-seven minutes.’

‘Then let’s wait one hour and call and say that the car broke down while I was taking you to the airport.’

‘She won’t believe me.’

‘She doesn’t need to believe you, just as long as she believes me.’

Törnblom’s voice was firm. Humlin realised there was no longer any point in trying to resist going to the party that had been organised for him. He handed Törnblom the phone.

‘Call Andrea whenever you feel is the best time. But remember that I’ll have to suffer an unimaginable nightmare if you aren’t convincing.’

‘Don’t worry.’

Humlin’s anxiety increased.

They walked across the barren square that was now empty of people. Humlin thought he should ask more about the event they were headed to but Törnblom beat him to it.

‘You’re lucky none of the kids heard your poetry.’

‘I already know you didn’t like it.’

Törnblom shrugged.

‘It’s like most poetry.’

‘And how is that?’

‘Generally uninteresting.’

They kept walking in silence. Humlin’s sense of discomfort and low self-worth increased with each step.

When they arrived at the boxing club they saw some candles flickering outside the front door, which was slightly ajar. Humlin stopped Törnblom right before they went in.

‘What exactly do they expect of me?’

‘You’re the guest of honour.’

‘So what’s expected of me?’

‘That you behave like a guest of honour.’

‘And how is that?’

‘You answer questions. Sign autographs. Show them you’re grateful for the attention.’

‘Who am I to them?’

Törnblom seemed surprised by the question and had to think for a while before answering.

‘Someone from a world foreign to them. You’re from Stockholm but you might as well be from outer space.’

Just as Humlin had feared Andrea blew up when Törnblom delivered the message about his car breaking down. Even in the din from the gypsy orchestra Humlin could hear her voice on the other end. It came out of the phone and whirled around Törnblom’s head like a torch blower’s flame. He flinched and held the phone away from his head.

‘What happened?’

‘She didn’t believe me.’

‘What did she say?’

‘You told me she wouldn’t believe either one of us, and you were right.’

Törnblom acknowledged defeat.

‘We should have stepped out before making the call.’

‘You mean you should have stepped out. You were the one making the call.’

‘I guess it didn’t sound much like I was calling from a broken-down car with the gypsy music in the background.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She started talking about some book that she’s going to start working on tonight.’

‘Don’t say anything else. I don’t want to know.’

Humlin had decided he was not going to drink at this party. But now he decided to throw caution to the wind. One has to have one’s last meal somewhere, he thought. It can even be at a party in a boxing club. He started to drink; having some drinks, at first slowly and methodically, then becoming more manic. He and Törnblom were the only ones drinking wine. All the rest were drinking sodas. Törnblom introduced him to many people, all immigrants, and many of them spoke such poor Swedish that he couldn’t understand what they were saying. But people were constantly coming over wanting to talk to him, most of them young. His patience was stretched trying to understand and then answer the questions they put to him.

Then someone pulled him up into the boxing ring to dance. Humlin hated dancing. He had never been good at it and had always envied those who could make their bodies move smoothly to the music. As he tried to climb out of the boxing ring he tripped and fell head over heels. Luckily, since he was extremely drunk by this time, he fell gently and did not hurt himself. Amanda helped him into the back office where he and Törnblom had spoken earlier. He wanted Amanda to stay with him but she only blushed very attractively when he groped after her and told her how beautiful she was. She hurried out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Suddenly Humlin was alone. The sound of music and excited voices filtered softly into the room. Without knowing why, he began to think of the young woman he had met in Mölndal, the one who said her name was Tea-Bag. He closed his eyes. No more poems, he thought. But I’m also never going to write that crime novel that Lundin wants me to. What I’m going to write next, and if I will be up to it, I have no idea.

The door opened and a girl with a Middle Eastern appearance looked in.

‘Am I disturbing you?’ she asked.

The whole world is disturbing to me right now, Humlin thought.

‘Not at all,’ he said.

The girl spoke broken Swedish but Humlin had no trouble understanding her.

‘I want to be a writer,’ she said.

Humlin flinched as if he had been jumped from behind. Although he was drunk he couldn’t help feeling the same worry and suspicion he always felt when a person stood in front of him and declared their intentions to become a writer. He always feared that the other person would prove to be the greater talent.

‘What on earth for?’

‘I want to tell my story,’ she said.

‘And what story is that?’

‘My story.’

Humlin looked at the girl who was maybe eighteen or nineteen. He was so drunk that the room was rocking but he managed to keep his eyes fixed on her. She was very fat. She was wearing a shawl that concealed much of her body but he could still tell that she was more than just a little chubby. Her face was covered in acne and was shiny with sweat.

‘Where do you come from?’

‘Iran.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Leyla.’

‘Are you a boxer?’

‘I’m here because my brother asked me to come. He does boxing here.’

‘And you want to be a writer?’

‘I just need to know how it’s done.’

Humlin stared at her. He didn’t know where his next thought came from but it was fully formulated and clear, the way he very occasionally saw a whole poem appear before his eyes and never had to change a single word. I just need to know how it’s done. Humlin straightened his back. Viktor Leander can write his crime novel, he thought. What I’m going to do is help this girl write her story. And in turn she’ll help me write about the people who live in Stensgården. Humlin pulled over the wine bottle that Amanda had left behind and finished off its contents. Leyla looked disapprovingly at him.

‘I can help you,’ he said when he put the bottle down. ‘If you give me your phone number, I’ll call you.’

Leyla jumped.

‘I can’t do that.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I can’t give out my phone number,’ she said.

‘Why not?’

‘My parents won’t like it if I start getting calls from a man.’

‘Just tell them who I am.’

She shook her head.

‘It won’t work. It’s not proper. Call Pelle Törnblom or Amanda.’

Then she smiled.

‘Are you sure you want to help me?’ she asked.

‘I am. If I can remains to be seen.’

Leyla left. Humlin stayed put and stared at the tattered posters on the wall. The outlines were still unclear but he finally had a sense of what he was going to write. Not the book Leander was working on, not the one Lundin wanted him to do. Something completely different.

Törnblom took him to the airport the following day. Humlin had a bad hangover and was not completely sure of what had happened towards the very end of the party. He had woken up to find himself lying on a training mat next to the ring. He had a pounding headache.

‘It was a great party, wasn’t it? I’m glad you decided to stay. Andrea will have cooled down by the time you get home.’

Humlin shuddered at the thought of what awaited him when he got home. He thought longingly of the beer he was hoping to get at the airport.

‘She won’t have cooled down one bit.’

‘Your visit meant a lot to the kids back there.’

Humlin didn’t reply. He thought of that fat girl, Leyla, and the idea that had come to him last night. In the grey light of the morning after he could no longer tell if he thought it was a good idea or not. And this suddenly frightened him more than the thought of what Andrea would say when he returned.