The Shadow Girls

5

Everyone was against it, but for different reasons. Andrea, who had been waiting furiously for him to return, didn’t even want to hear a word of his new plan.

‘I can’t take my eyes off you for a second, can I? The only thing you ever put any thought into is how you’re going to sneak around without getting caught.’

‘I’m not unfaithful to you, Andrea.’

‘Then who is Amanda?’

Jesper Humlin stared back at her with surprise. They were sitting across from each other at her dinner table in the apartment in Hagersten some days after his return from Gothenburg.

‘Amanda is married to a good friend of mine, Pelle Törnblom. He runs a boxing club.’

‘When did you ever let that stop you? You called out her name in your sleep.’

‘So what? What matters is I’ve been inspired to write a book about — and with — immigrants.’

‘And what makes you qualified to do this?’

‘You can’t deny that I am a writer.’

‘Soon you’ll be telling me you’re going to write a bestseller.’

Humlin looked at her with horror.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘It just sounds like you think you can write whatever you please without effort. I think you should leave this poor girl alone.’

Humlin stopped trying to convince Andrea of his new idea. The rest of the evening was spent discussing his inadequate commitment to having children. Then she left for her night shift at the hospital. Before she left he promised her he would spend the night in the apartment and be there when she came back.

As soon as she left he went into the bedroom and started looking through her papers and diaries. He found a draft of something that described one of their early encounters. He sat down in the living room and read it through thoroughly. His anxiety returned. It was good, unnervingly good, actually. He put the piece of paper down with a grimace. His first thought was to end the relationship immediately, or at least threaten to. But he wasn’t sure where that would lead.

According to his usual habit he then proceeded to read her diary. She had an old-fashioned model, the kind that teenage girls used, with a small heart-shaped lock. He knew how to pick the lock with a hairpin and he eyed the entries she had made since last time. He was indifferent to most of it since it was mainly about work-related matters. But he studied the few passages about marriage and children very carefully, poring over her jerky handwriting. A couple of the sentences caught his eye. I must keep asking myself what I want. If you don’t keep stoking the fire of your will, it dies. He decided to write them down in his own notebook immediately. He hadn’t written a poem on the topic of will yet. Her formulation here could perhaps be developed and used in his next poetry collection.

After the assault on her diary he started to feel better. He poured himself a glass of grappa in the kitchen, then lay down on the sofa with one of her fashion magazines that he read in secret.

Humlin, exhausted after his evening with Andrea, had just gone to bed when his mother called.

‘I thought you were coming over,’ she said.

‘I’ve just gone to bed. I was tired. If you like, I can come over tomorrow.’

‘Is Andrea there?’

‘She’s working.’

‘So should you be. It’s only half past eleven. I’ve set out a little supper for us. I went to a delicatessen just for your sake.’

Humlin put his clothes back on, ordered a taxi and noticed, as he looked in the hall mirror, that his South Pacific suntan was already fading. His taxi driver was a woman who couldn’t find her way at all in the inner city.

‘I’m a third-generation Stockholmer,’ she announced cheerfully after she had made a large detour to get to the one-way street his mother lived on. ‘I’m born and bred in this city but bless my soul if I can’t find my way to save my life.’

She also had no change, as it turned out, nor could she accept credit cards. In the end she took down his bank information and promised to send him the change.

Märta Humlin had bought oysters for supper. Humlin hated oysters.

‘Why did you buy oysters?’

‘I like to give my son the best. Isn’t this good enough for you?’

‘You know I’ve never liked oysters.’

‘I’ve never heard any such thing.’

He realised the futility of continuing the conversation. Instead he told her about the idea he had had in Gothenburg. At times his mother had been able to give him valuable feedback.

‘That sounds like a marvellous idea,’ she said when he finished.

His surprise was genuine.

‘Do you really think so?’

‘You know I always say what I think.’

‘I see. Then how come everyone else I’ve talked to has been against it?’

‘It doesn’t matter. You should listen to me, and I’m telling you to go ahead and write about this girl from India. It will be very romantic, very moving. Is it a love story?’

‘She’s from Iran, not India. I was thinking more of something along the lines of a socio-realist novel.’

‘A love story is better. I think you should write something thrilling about a Swedish author and a beautiful woman from a foreign land.’

‘She’s fat and ugly, mother. And anyway, I can’t write love stories.’

Märta Humlin fixed her eyes on him intently.

‘I thought the whole idea was to break away and try something new.’

‘I want to write about something real. The way things are,’ he said.

‘Tell me how they are. And why aren’t you eating your oysters?’

‘I’m full. I want to write about how hard it is to come to a new land and try to set down new roots.’

‘And who in God’s name would want to read about a fat girl with a headscarf who lives in the suburbs?’

‘Quite a few, actually.’

‘If you follow my advice you’ll do fine. Otherwise I would leave it. You know nothing of what it’s like to come to a foreign country. And why aren’t you and Andrea having babies?’

‘We’re talking about it.’

‘Andrea says you rarely make love these days.’

Humlin dropped the little fork that he had been using to skewer the oysters he was only pretending to eat.

‘You and Andrea talk about things like that?’

‘We have an open, trusting relationship.’

Humlin was shocked. Andrea had often said how overbearing and self-centred she found his mother. Now it turned out she had a completely different relationship to this woman in front of him who forced him to eat food he didn’t like.

‘I am never coming back here again if you and Andrea keep talking like this behind my back.’

‘We simply want what’s best for you.’

Humlin suddenly remembered the phone conversation he had had with his mother a few days ago. He didn’t want to get drawn in any further into a meaningless debate about what exactly Andrea and his mother talked about. What he had heard was already enough.

‘What was that important announcement you said you were going to make?’

‘What announcement?’

‘You called and told me I had to come over because you had an important announcement to make.’

‘I have no recollection of doing any such thing.’

‘If you have made changes in the will that leave me out I want to know about it,’ he said.

‘What is in my will is no one else’s business.’

‘If we knew we could count on some measure of economic security in the future that would really help me and Andrea make the decision to have children.’

‘Are you telling me you hope I’m going to die soon?’

Humlin pushed his chair back from the table. It was late, but that seemed to have no effect on his mother.

‘I have to go home now. I’m tired and I have no desire to talk finances with you in the middle of the night.’

His mother gave him a wounded look.

‘Where did I get this son who always complains of being tired? It must be from your father.’

Then she started talking about how tired her husband had always been and Humlin stayed until three in the morning. In order not to be woken up by Andrea when she came home he put in earplugs and lay down on the couch in the living room. It took him a long time to fall asleep. In his thoughts he returned to the memory of the young woman who called herself Tea-Bag.

The following day Humlin stopped by his publisher’s office. He was going to try to convince him that his new idea was worth taking seriously. He even brought a woollen cap with him since he expected to spend a long time in Lundin’s ice-cold office. Lundin was rowing when he walked in.

‘I’m just leaving the Åland islands,’ Lundin said. ‘How is that crime novel going? I’m going to need a title from you in a week. We have to start planning the marketing campaign.’

Humlin didn’t answer. He sat down in the chair furthest away from the air ventilation unit. When Lundin had finished rowing he marked his position with a red pin on a map of the Baltic. He lit a cigarette and sat down at his desk.

‘I take it you’re here to give me a title,’ Lundin said.

‘I’m here to tell you I will never write a crime novel. But I have another idea.’

‘It’s not as good.’

‘How can you say that when I haven’t even told you what it is?’

‘Only crime novels and certain indelicate confessional works sell more than fifty thousand copies.’

‘I’m going to write a book about an immigrant girl,’ Humlin said.

Lundin gave him an interested look.

‘A confessional, then? How long has this little affair been going on?’

Humlin pulled on his woollen cap. He was so cold he was shivering.

‘What’s the temperature in here, anyway, for God’s sake?’

‘One degree Celsius.’

‘Unbearable. How can you work in here?’

‘It’s good to toughen oneself up a little. Whatever happened to your tan, by the way?’

‘Nothing, other than the fact that it never stops raining in this godforsaken place. Do you want to hear me out or not?’

Lundin threw out his arms in a gesture that Humlin interpreted as a mixture of openness and boredom. Humlin went on to present his idea with the feeling that he was being judged in a court of law where all those not writing crime novels were presumed guilty. Lundin lit another cigarette and measured his blood pressure. When Humlin was done, Lundin leaned back in his chair and shook his head.

‘It’ll sell four thousand, three hundred and twenty copies at most.’

‘How can you know that?’

‘It’s that kind of book. But you can’t write about fat immigrant girls. What do you know about their lives?’

‘That’s what I’m going to find out.’

‘They’ll never tell you the truth.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m just telling you. I have experience in these matters.’

Lundin jumped up and leaned over the table.

‘What you should write is a crime novel. Nothing else. Leave these fat girls alone. You don’t need them and they don’t need you. What we do need is a crime novel from you and then let some young immigrant talent write the great new Swedish novel. I want a title on my desk by the end of the week.’

Lundin stood up.

‘It’s always a pleasure, Humlin. But I have a meeting with the oil executives. They have already indicated their approval of your new crime novel, by the way.’

Lundin swept out of the room. Humlin went to the nearest cafe and drank some coffee to try to regain body heat. He wondered briefly if he should talk to Viktor Leander about his latest idea, but decided against it. If the idea was as good as he thought it was Leander would immediately use it.

He took a taxi back to his apartment and noted with relief that neither Andrea nor his mother had left any messages. After leafing through the notes he had made for his next work of poetry — tentatively titled Torment and Antithesis — he lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Even though he was not entirely confident it still seemed that the idea he had had in Gothenburg was the strongest impulse he had to go on right now.

He lay on his bed turning his thoughts this way and that until he got up and called Pelle Törnblom. Törnblom sounded short of breath when he finally answered.

‘What are you up to?’ Humlin asked.

‘I’m sparring with a guy from Pakistan. How did Andrea react?’

‘Exactly as I had predicted. But I survived.’

‘You have to agree it was a great party. The kids at the club feel very proud.’

‘Has an Iranian girl named Leyla given you her phone number by any chance?’

‘Her brother boxes at the club,’ Törnblom said. ‘He’s told me what this is all about. I think it’s a great idea.’

Humlin quickly rifled through the pages of his weekly planner.

‘Tell her I’ll come see her next Wednesday. Can we meet at your place?’

‘It’ll be better for you to meet here at the club. I have a large room on the ground floor that you could use.’

‘I hope we’ll be undisturbed there,’ Humlin said.

‘Of course, you realise her brother will have to be present.’

‘No — why is that?’

‘To make sure everything is above board, that no impropriety is committed.’

‘What could possibly happen?’

‘It’s not proper for her to meet alone with an unknown man. We’re talking serious cultural differences here, ones that need to be respected. You never know what could happen when a man and a woman are left alone together.’

‘Good God, Törnblom! You’ve seen her!’

‘She may not be the most beautiful woman on earth but that means nothing in this case. Her brother needs to be there to make sure all goes well.’

‘What do you think me capable of, anyway?’

‘I think it’s a wonderful idea for you to stop writing poetry and write something worthwhile. That’s what I think. You could really make something of yourself, you know.’

Humlin was starting to get angry. He felt insulted, but said nothing. He realised he would have to accept the fact that Leyla’s brother would be chaperoning her.

He hung up and the phone rang almost at once. Humlin let the answering machine pick up. It was a reporter from one of the biggest papers in the country. Humlin answered the phone and tried to sound as if he had just been interrupted in the middle of something very important.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ the reporter said.

Humlin always hoped against hope that the journalists who called would be women with soft, pleasing voices. But this was a man with a rough regional dialect.

‘I’m working, but I’m happy to take a moment to speak to you.’

‘I would like to ask you a couple of questions about your new book.’

Humlin assumed the reporter meant the book of poetry that had come out a few months earlier.

‘A few questions would be fine,’ Humlin said.

‘Do you mind if I turn on my tape recorder?’

‘Not at all.’

Humlin waited until the reporter, whose name he didn’t recognise, had turned on the tape recorder.

‘First I just want to know how you feel about it,’ the reporter said.

Images of the night at the Mölndal library flickered through Humlin’s mind.

‘I feel good about it,’ he said. ‘Very good.’

‘Is there anything in particular that you can point to as a reason for writing this book?’

Humlin looked forward to answering this question. It was one that reporters always asked. A few days ago he had thought of a new answer as he was lying in the bathtub.

‘I am always looking for ways to stray from my familiar literary surroundings and find my way along hitherto undiscovered paths. If I hadn’t become a poet I would probably have gone into topology. Mapping unknown terrain.’

‘I see. Could you translate that for me?’

‘I have a hard time thinking of a more important task than to show people new paths.’

‘Which people are these?’

‘The next generation.’

The reporter coughed.

‘That’s a strange but interesting answer.’

‘Thank you,’ Humlin said.

‘But you have to admit,’ the reporter continued, ‘it’s a big step for you as a poet to be trying your hand at a crime novel.’

Humlin stiffened. His knuckles on the hand holding the receiver grew white.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.’

‘We just received a press announcement from your publisher that you are working on a crime novel to be published in the autumn.’

Humlin had often had reason to think badly of Lundin in the past, but at this moment — cornered without warning by a reporter — he hated him. The only plot for a crime novel he could possibly think of was that of a writer who murdered his publisher by stuffing false press announcements down his throat.

‘Hello?’ the reporter said. ‘Are you still there?’

‘I’m here.’

‘Do you want me to repeat the question?’

‘No need. It’s just that I’ve decided not to answer any questions about the new book. I’ve only just started working on it and it’s easy to lose one’s sense of concentration. It’s a bit like letting unwelcome guests into one’s home.’

‘That sounds complicated. But surely you have something to say. Why would your publisher be releasing this information otherwise?’

‘That I have no idea about. But I will say that I should be ready to talk about the book in about a month.’

‘Can you at least tell me what it’s about?’

Humlin thought hard.

‘I suppose I can say it will play out in the minefields of cultural difference.’

‘Look here, Mr Humlin, I can’t write that. No one will understand a word of it.’

‘People from different cultures who meet and do not understand each other. Conflicts. Is that better?’ Humlin asked.

‘So the murderer targets immigrants?’

‘I’m not going to say anything else. But you’re on the wrong track.’

‘You mean immigrants are killing Swedes?’

‘There are no murders of any kind in this book.’

‘How can it be a crime novel?’

‘I will say more in due course.’

‘When will that be?’

‘In about a month.’

‘Can you say anything else?’

‘No, nothing more at this time.’

Humlin hung up. The reporter had sounded grumpy by the end. Humlin himself was furious and drenched in sweat. He wanted to call Lundin immediately, but knew that nothing would really come of it. The damage was already done. The crime novel he was thought to be writing was already the new literary sensation.

Andrea stopped by unexpectedly that evening. Humlin had fallen asleep on the couch, exhausted by his conversation with the reporter. When he heard Andrea at the door he jumped up as if caught in the act of doing something unlawful. But when he heard that she didn’t slam the door he breathed easy. That meant she was not immediately going to attack him. If she closed the door gently that usually meant she was in a good mood.

She lay down beside him on the sofa and shut her eyes.

‘I’m starting to get bitchy,’ she said. ‘I’m turning into an old woman.’

‘It’s me. I often give you reason to worry,’ Humlin said. ‘But I’m trying to change all that.’

Andrea opened her eyes.

‘Oh, I doubt that very much,’ she said. ‘But maybe one day I’ll get used to it.’

They cooked dinner together and drank some wine even though it was the middle of the week. Humlin listened patiently while she ranted about the increasing chaos of the Swedish medical system. At the same time he was thinking about the best way to tell her that he was going to meet with Leyla. But foremost in his mind was what his mother had told him the night before, that she and Andrea discussed intimate details of their private life.

She seemed to have read his thoughts.

‘How was your visit with Märta?’

‘Oh, the way it usually is. But she had bought oysters. And then she told me something I didn’t like.’

‘That she’s going to write you out of her will?’

Humlin frowned.

‘She said that?’

‘No.’

‘Then why would you say that?’

‘For God’s sake, what’s the big deal?’

Humlin realised it probably wasn’t the right time to talk about it. Both he and Andrea had drunk too much wine. That could lead to an explosion. But he couldn’t stop himself.

‘She said you two talk about our sex life. According to my mother you said we aren’t sleeping with each other very often.’

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Andrea said.

‘Do you have to tell her about it?’

‘Why not? She’s your mother.’

‘She has nothing to do with us.’

‘But we talk about everything. I like your mother.’

‘That’s not what you used to say.’

‘I’ve changed my mind. And she is very frank with me. I know things about her that you could never imagine.’

‘Like what?’ Humlin asked.

Andrea topped up their wine glasses and smiled enigmatically. Humlin didn’t like the look in her eye.

‘Like what?’ Humlin repeated. ‘What is it I don’t know about my mother?’

‘Things you don’t want to know.’

‘How can I know if I want to know them or not before I know what they are?’

‘She has a job.’

Humlin stared at her.

‘What kind of a job?’

‘That’s what you don’t want to know.’

‘My mother has never worked a day in her life. She’s jumped from one ridiculous artistic endeavour to another. But she’s never held down a real job.’

‘Well, she is now.’

‘What does she do?’

‘She’s a phone sex operator.’

Humlin slowly put his wine glass down.

‘I don’t want you saying things like that about her. It’s not funny.’

‘It’s true.’

‘What’s true?’

‘She’s a phone sex operator,’ Andrea repeated.

‘She’s eighty-seven years old.’

‘I’ve heard her myself. And why can’t an eighty-seven year old woman be a phone sex operator?’

Humlin was starting to get the gnawing feeling that there was something to what Andrea was saying. He was just having trouble putting it all together.

‘What exactly does this work involve?’

‘There are ads at the back of every newspaper with phone numbers for these kinds of services. You call up to talk dirty and hear someone moan on the other end and God only knows what else. One of your mother’s friends came up with the idea that there might be a market for older men who would want to masturbate to the sounds of women their own age.’

‘And?’

‘Well, she was right. They formed one of these services, an incorporated business, actually. It’s run by four women, the youngest of whom is eighty-three and the oldest ninety-one. As it happens, your mother is the CEO. Last year, after deductions they made a profit of four hundred and forty-five thousand kronor.’

‘What kind of deductions? What are you talking about?’

‘I’m just telling you that your mother spends a few hours every day making sexy sounds into the phone for money. I’ve heard her myself and she sounds very convincing.’

‘Convincing?’

‘That she’s horny. Don’t play stupid. You know what I mean. How is your book coming along?’

‘I’m going to Gothenburg next week to get things going.’

‘Good luck.’

Andrea got up and started to clear the table. Humlin stayed where he was. What Andrea had told him made him both angry and uneasy. He knew deep down that what she had said was true. He had a mother who was capable of just about anything.

When Humlin got on the train to Gothenburg a week later he had spent most of the time in between fielding questions from more reporters wanting to know all about the crime novel he wasn’t going to write but that was nonetheless scheduled to come out next autumn. He had also had a fight with Viktor Leander who called him on the phone to accuse him of being a spineless plagiarist who stooped to stealing his best friend’s ideas. In exchange for the promise of total secrecy Humlin had finally managed to convince Leander that the rumour was false and no crime novel written by his hand was ever going to be published.

The man he had most wanted to speak to, Lundin, had been unreachable all week. Humlin had even called him at home in the middle of the night without receiving any answer. He had also not confronted his mother about the scandalous information he had heard. But he had forced himself to accept what Andrea had told him as the truth. One day when he was alone he had drunk two glasses of cognac and then called the number that Andrea had pointed out to him in the newspaper. The first two times he had not recognised the women’s voices, but on his third attempt he was horrified to recognise his mother’s — albeit disguised — voice on the other end. He had thrown down the receiver as if he had been bitten by it, then poured himself some additional glasses of cognac to calm his nerves.

Humlin sank down in his seat and wished he was on an aeroplane that was going to take him far away, rather than on a train to Gothenburg. He leaned back and closed his eyes. The previous week had exhausted him. But just as he was falling asleep someone close by started talking loudly into their mobile phone. Humlin decided to set all thoughts aside for a moment and pulled an evening paper towards him. He still felt a shiver of unease when he looked at an evening paper. After all, there was still the possibility that some reporter would find the events in Mölndal interesting enough to write about. Especially now that Humlin’s name had been figuring more frequently in the media, due to the book he was not going to write.

He picked at his food unenthusiastically and spent the rest of the trip looking out over the darkening landscape. A secure foothold, he thought. Here I am in the middle of my life, of the world of the Swedish winter. And I lack a secure foothold.

Törnblom met him at the station in a rusty van. Once they pulled out from the station they immediately got stuck in traffic.

‘Everyone’s already there,’ Törnblom said with satisfaction. ‘They are very excited.’

‘What do you mean they’re already there? I’m not supposed to meet with Leyla and her brother for another four hours.’

‘They have been there since this morning. It’s a big event for them.’

Humlin gave him a suspicious look. Was he being serious or sarcastic?

‘I don’t know exactly where this is going to lead. It may end in nothing,’ Humlin said.

‘The most important thing is that you do something. In this country immigrants are still treated like victims. Because of their circumstances, their poor language skills, for almost any other reason you can think of. Sometimes they think of themselves as victims. But most of them simply want to be treated like normal people. If you can help them tell their stories, you will have done a lot.’

‘Why do you say “them”? I’m working with Leyla, that’s it.’

The traffic let up for a couple of metres, then stopped again. A wet snow began to fall.

‘We’ll be more than just her and her brother tonight.’

‘What do you mean? How many more?’

‘We had to put in a couple of extra chairs.’

Humlin put his hand on the door as if he was preparing to jump out.

‘Extra chairs? How many people are we talking about?’

‘Oh, around fifty, I’d say.’

Humlin really did try to open the door. The handle came off in his hand.

‘What kind of car is this?’

‘It normally does that. I’ll fix it later.’

‘How can there be fifty people coming?’

‘Leyla decided to invite a couple of her friends who also want to write,’ Törnblom said.

‘And how does that make fifty people?’

‘She has a big family. And then there are also neighbours, friends.’

‘Why all these relatives?’

‘I already told you. They have to protect the virtue of their daughters. I think you should be proud that they are so interested in this project.’

‘I came here to talk to one girl. Not with any others and not with their families. I want you to take me back to the station.’

Törnblom turned to face him.

‘Come on, it’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘When the families see that you’re a man who can be trusted, fewer people will come in the future.’

‘I don’t care how many people stop coming. I’m here to talk to one girl. That was the arrangement. Take me back to the station immediately. I mean it!’

‘There’s one other person who’s coming that I should mention.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘A reporter.’

‘How did he find out about this?’

‘I called him.’

‘Damn you, Törnblom.’

‘You can imagine what he’ll write if you don’t show. These girls have already been let down by society. And now you as well?’

Humlin sat silently with the car handle in his hand. Why does no one listen to me? he thought. Why do I have to talk to fifty people when I came to talk to one?

The traffic was finally starting to let up. The snow fell more heavily. By the time they reached Stensgården and the boxing club Humlin felt a strong inclination to cry. But he followed Törnblom into the fully packed room. People sat tightly pressed together along the walls of the room. They were of all ages and appearance. There were a few very old people and a few young children who were crying loudly. The room was filled with the smell of exotic spices that Humlin could not identify.

He stopped once he had entered the room and looked around. Leyla and her girlfriends sat at a table at the far end of the room. To his great surprise one of the friends was Tea-Bag.

He turned around, but Törnblom was blocking the exit.

There was only one way for him to go.