The Shadow Girls (14 page)

‘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?’