The Shadow Girls (23 page)

‘Perhaps I do know a little about that,’ Humlin said. ‘I’m not completely without feeling.’

She looked at him in silence. Her eyes were tired and worried.

‘Are you a reporter?’ she asked finally.

‘Not exactly. I’m a writer. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m not going to tell anyone that you harbour refugees in your basement. I don’t know if I think it’s right or wrong – we do have laws and regulations in this country that ought to be followed. But I won’t say anything. The only thing I want to know is if the girl with the big smile lives here.’

‘Tea-Bag comes and goes. I don’t know if she lives here right now.’

‘But she does sometimes?’

‘Sometimes. Other times she stays with her sister in Gothenburg.’

‘What’s the name of that sister?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Do you have her address?’

‘No.’

‘How come she lives here when she spends so much time in Gothenburg?’

‘I don’t know that either. She just turned up one morning.’

Humlin was more and more confused. She’s lying, he thought. Why can’t she just tell me the truth?

‘Which room does she stay in?’

The minister pointed it out to him. She told him her name was Erika as she walked over and knocked on the door. A hotel of the underworld, Humlin thought. Erika tried the door handle, then let him into the room. There was a bed, a table and a chair inside, nothing else. He thought he recognised the jumper hanging on the chair. It looked like the one she had been wearing on the train.

Erika shook her head.

‘Tea-Bag comes and goes. I never know when she’s here. She keeps to herself and I let her be.’

They walked back up the stairs and into the garden. Humlin watched with fascination as she put her high-heeled shoes back on.

‘You have beautiful legs,’ he said. ‘But maybe that’s not the kind of thing one should say to a minister?’

‘People should feel free to say what they want to a minister.’

‘Who are the people down there right now?’

‘Right now we have a family from Bangladesh, two families from Kosovo, a single man from Iraq and two Chinese men.’

‘How did they all get here?’

‘All of our guests simply turn up at the door, either early in the morning or late at night. They hear rumours that they can stay here.’

‘Then what happens?’

‘They move on. They find other places to hide. A good friend of mine is a doctor. She comes to help out when we need her. A few parishioners help with food and clothing. Do you know that there are close to ten thousand people hiding illegally in Sweden today? They are here with no legal rights. It is a blot on our conscience.’

They walked out to the street together.

‘Don’t tell her I was here. I’ll see her later anyway,’ Humlin said.

Erika went back into her church. Humlin found a taxi and was taken back to his own world. When he came home he went to his desk and sat down. The picture of Tanya as a little girl was lying in front of him. Suddenly a new thought came to him. He found a magnifying glass and looked at the back of the photograph again. He thought he could see a faint imprint on the photographic paper of the year 1994. He turned the
picture face up again. The little girl stared up at him with serious eyes.

It’s not a picture of Tanya, he thought.

It is her daughter.

AFTER HIS APPOINTMENT
at the tanning salon, Humlin went to see his publisher. He didn’t really want to see Olof Lundin, but couldn’t bring himself to stay away. The thought of the profit-hungry oil executives wouldn’t leave him. For once Lundin’s office was at a normal temperature. But it was thick with cigarette smoke.

‘The air-conditioning unit is broken,’ Lundin said bitterly. ‘The repairmen are on their way.’

‘I suppose you can imagine you’re caught in a fog bank on the Baltic.’

‘That’s just what I’m doing. I should have caught sight of the lighthouse on Russar Island, at the entrance to the Finnish Bay, but right now I’m left unsure of my exact coordinates.’

Humlin decided to go on the attack immediately rather than risk being pulled into a conversation led by Lundin.

‘I hope you have finally accepted the fact that I am not going to write a crime novel.’

‘On the contrary. The PR department has come up with a brilliant marketing plan for your book. They are talking about pictures of you holding a gun.’

Humlin shivered at the thought. Lundin lit another cigarette from the stub of the one he had been smoking.

‘I am, however, seriously concerned about your lack of focus,’ Lundin continued. ‘Do you want to know how many copies of your poetry book have sold in the last two weeks?’

‘No thank you.’

‘I’m going to tell you anyway. You need to take this seriously.’

‘How many?’

‘Three.’

‘Three?’

‘One in Falköping and – strangely enough – two in Haparanda.’

Humlin was reminded of his Chinese letter-writing fan who lived in Haparanda and who would probably be sending him another lengthy missive soon.

‘It is a very serious situation. I understand that you are experiencing some form of writer’s block right now and that it suits you to hide out among these immigrant girls in Gothenburg, but you have to leave it at that. I am convinced that you can write a first-class thriller.’

‘I’m not hiding out. I wish I could get you to understand what it is they have been telling me. These are stories that haven’t yet been told in Swedish. Did you know that there are ten thousand illegal immigrants in Sweden?’

Lundin’s face brightened considerably.

‘That’s a wonderful idea for your second thriller. The investigative poet who roots out illegal immigrants.’

Humlin realised that the conversation was already out of his control. He was not going to be able to make Lundin understand. He changed the subject.

‘I hope you have also realised by now that my mother will never write a book.’

‘I’ve seen stranger things happen, but of course I’m going to wait and see if she delivers a manuscript.’

‘She claims she’s going to write seven hundred pages.’

Lundin shook his head.

‘We’ve just decided not to publish books over four hundred pages,’ he said. ‘People want shorter books.’

‘I thought it was the other way around.’

‘I think it’s best you leave the publishing business to me. There’s a great deal of talk about the creative genius and all that. Who talks about the genius in publishing? But I assure you it exists nonetheless.’

Humlin drew a deep breath.

‘I was going to suggest an alternative,’ he said. ‘No book of poetry, no thriller: an exciting book about the underworld. About these girls in Gothenburg. I’m going to weave their stories together, with me as the main protagonist.’

‘Who would read it?’

‘Many people.’

‘What makes it exciting?’

‘The fact that no one has heard stories like these before. It is a book about what is happening in this country. Real voices.’

Lundin waved away the smoke in front of his face. Humlin suddenly felt as if he were on a battlefield where an invisible cavalry, tucked away somewhere behind some trees, had just received the signal to attack.

‘Here’s my counter-offer,’ Lundin said. ‘First you write the thriller, then we can talk about this immigrant book.’

Humlin was enraged by Lundin’s complete lack of vision.

‘No,’ he said. ‘First the immigrant book. Then we’ll talk about the thriller.’

‘The oil executives are not going to be pleased to hear that.’

‘Quite frankly I don’t give a damn what they say. I just don’t understand what makes you so cynical.’

‘I’m not cynical.’

‘You despise these girls.’

‘I don’t even know them. How could I despise them?’

Two men carrying a ladder entered the room at this point. Lundin signalled that their conversation was at an end.

‘I will think this over since you are so stubborn about it. Call me tomorrow.’

Humlin got up.

‘There’s nothing to think about. We do as I say or we don’t do anything.’

He left Lundin’s office and walked down the hall with the soft red carpet and stepped into an office where an older man by the name of Jan Sundström worked. He handled international sales. One of Humlin’s earliest works had been translated into both Norwegian and Finnish. Then there had been nothing for nine years until one book was translated into Egyptian and naturally did very poorly. Sundström was an anxious man who viewed it as a personal victory every time he managed to place a book abroad.

‘Norway has shown some interest,’ he said when he saw Humlin. ‘There’s no need to abandon hope just yet.’

Humlin sat down across from him. He respected Sundström’s opinion.

‘What do you think of a book about immigrants? A novel about some immigrant girls and their – in my opinion – rather remarkable stories?’

‘That sounds like a wonderful idea.’

Sundström got up nervously and closed the door.

‘I must say I was rather surprised when I heard all this about you writing a murder mystery. What’s happening to the world of Swedish literature?’

‘I don’t know. I’m not writing a murder mystery.’

‘But I spent all morning in a long marketing meeting about it. They’re counting on huge international sales. I have to say I think you could have spelled out a little more of the plot.’

Humlin stared at him.

‘What plot?’

Sundström dug around in the mass of papers on his desk and pulled out a piece of paper. Humlin read the text with a rising sense of desperation.

‘Jesper Humlin, one of the most important poets of our time, has taken on the task of renewing the crime novel and giving this genre a deeper philosophical bent. The plot takes place in Sweden with travels to a dark and cold Helsinki as well as bright and warm locales in Brazil. No more shall be said about the actual details of the novel here, but it may be assumed that the protagonist bears a striking resemblance to the author himself . . .’

Humlin was so furious he started to shake and turn red.

‘Who the hell has written this?’

‘You did.’

‘Me? Says who?’

‘Olof.’

‘I am going to kill him. I haven’t written this. I don’t understand where this came from.’

‘It was Olof who gave us a copy of the text. He said it had been dictated to him by you over a mobile phone line. Apparently it was a little hard to hear what you were saying.’

Humlin was so angry he couldn’t sit still. He left the office, ran through the hallway and threw open Lundin’s door. But the workmen were the only people still in there. At the reception downstairs Humlin was told that Lundin had just left the
building for a meeting and was not expected until the following day.

‘Where is he?’ Humlin demanded.

‘He is in a closed meeting, sir.’

‘Where?’

‘That is classified information. Is it important?’

‘No,’ Humlin said. ‘I’m just going to kill him.’

*

The same evening Humlin finally had a long conversation with Andrea about their relationship. He was still fuming over the text he had read at the publishing house. He had left a number of irate messages on Lundin’s voice mail. Now he forced himself with some difficulty not to think about the thriller he was never going to write and to focus on Andrea. He immediately felt pressed into a corner.

‘You aren’t listening to me,’ she began.

He stared at her.

‘What do you mean? You haven’t said anything yet.’

‘You’re not listening.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m doing.’

‘Well, how is it going to be?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. We have a relationship. It’s been going on for many years. I want to have a child. I want you to be the father of that child. If you don’t want a child I have to ask myself if I should look around for another man.’

‘I want to have children too. I just don’t know if now is the right time.’

‘For me it is.’

‘But I am in the middle of changing my authorial profile right now. I’m not sure I can combine that with the responsibilities of fatherhood.’

‘You are never going to change anything about your profile,’ she said. ‘You are always going to be how you are right now. And important decisions regarding anyone but yourself will always be very low on your list of priorities.’

‘I don’t think this will take more than a year.’

‘That’s too long.’

‘At the very least I need a few more months.’

‘Are you going away again?’

‘I’m trying to write a book about those girls in Gothenburg.’

‘I thought the whole point was that they were going to do that for themselves? Why else are they doing this writing seminar?’

‘I’m not sure they’re up to the task of doing it themselves.’

‘Why are you doing this then?’

‘I’m trying to get the stories out of them, help them. You aren’t listening to me.’

‘It sounds to me like you’re stealing something.’

‘I’m not stealing anything. But one of the girls is a pickpocket.’

‘You’re still stealing their stories. But that’s not what we were talking about. I can’t wait for you to make up your mind. Not for ever.’

‘Can’t you give me a month?’

‘I want us to settle this now.’

‘I can’t.’

Andrea got up from the kitchen table.

‘Then as far as I’m concerned our relationship looks like it’s ending.’

‘Do you always have to be so dramatic? Every time we have a
serious talk it’s as if I’ve been thrown into a play where I haven’t even picked my own part.’

‘I am not particularly dramatic. In contrast to you I simply say what’s on my mind.’

‘So do I.’

Andrea looked down at him.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if you’ve ever really said what you think. I don’t think there’s room for anyone in your head except yourself.’

She left the kitchen and slammed the door. In her anger and disappointment she also turned off the light. Humlin was left in the dark. He pushed aside all thoughts of Andrea and the child she wanted to have and wondered what Tea-Bag was doing right now. He tried to imagine ten thousand people hidden in church cellars and the like, but without success. He lay down on the couch in the study where Tea-Bag’s sheets were still bundled. It was as if everything inside him had stopped. Thoughts of Lundin kept him from sleeping.