The Shadow Girls (25 page)

‘Not bad. She’s quick,’ Törnblom whispered to Humlin. ‘But I wonder who that punchbag is.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve learned a little bit about human psychology over the years. She’s hitting someone. A lot of the guys who come down here hit their dads or uncles or whoever it is that’s pissed them off.
Three times a week they come down here and beat someone up. People in the shape of punchbags, that is.’

Tea-Bag stopped abruptly. Törnblom helped her off with the gloves and turned to Humlin.

‘The TV crew will be downstairs in the lecture room in about five minutes.’

Humlin wondered briefly if he should bring Tea-Bag with him or not. It seemed like the natural thing to do, but he decided he wanted to do the interview alone. A few moments alone in front of the camera might be just what his rather battered ego needed at this point.

‘Wait here,’ he said to Tea-Bag. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

Törnblom frowned.

‘She’s not coming with you?’

‘I think I had better handle this alone.’

‘But I thought this was about the girls? Why should you have the starring role?’

‘This is not about a starring role. This is about the way I’ve decided to handle things.’

Tea-Bag sat down on a stool. Humlin turned and walked down the stairs without giving Törnblom a chance to continue the conversation.

*

The TV crew were already there, setting up their equipment. There were three of them: a camera operator, sound engineer and reporter. All three were women. Very young women.

‘I take it you are waiting for me?’

‘Don’t think so. Where are the girls?’

Humlin was thrown off balance. The girl who had spoken
to him had a foreign accent and did not hide her impatience.

‘My name is Azar Petterson,’ she said. ‘I will be doing this interview. But I had taken it for granted that the young women in your seminar would be present.’

‘For now I would like to handle this situation with the utmost discretion,’ Humlin answered. ‘There’s a chance that we cannot continue our work in peace if there is too much publicity and unwanted attention.’

Azar looked critically at him.

‘What should I ask you?’

Humlin was starting to feel nervous.

‘I thought it was your job to come up with the questions.’

Azar shrugged then turned to her crew.

‘We’ll do a short interview,’ she said to the fat young woman holding the camera. ‘Then we’ll come back another time and shoot the girls.’

Humlin was very uncomfortable by this point. He had never been in a situation where the reporter showed such reluctance towards her task.

‘Where do you want me to stand?’

‘Right there is fine.’

The red light on the camera started glowing and the boom hung down over his head.

‘Stensgården is one of the suburbs outside Gothenburg that has unfairly earned the reputation of a slum, simply because of the high percentage of immigrants that live here. Right now I am standing in Pelle Törnblom’s Boxing Club where the author Jesper Hultin has been conducting a writing seminar for immigrant girls. Tell me, why did you decide to do this?’

‘It felt important.’

Azar turned to the camera woman.

‘We’ll cut here.’

Humlin’s mouth dropped.

‘That’s it?’

‘We can use it as an intro to the segment with the girls.’

‘My name is Humlin, not Hultin.’

‘I’ll cut that.’

Azar handed him her card.

‘Call me a few days before your next meeting. And make sure the girls are going to be there.’

‘They’ll be here soon.’

‘We don’t have time to wait around.’

The TV crew packed up and left. Humlin felt humiliated, but did not have time to ponder his hurt feelings. Haiman came in through the door. Humlin’s feelings turned to fear. Haiman was coming straight at him, holding a plastic bag in one hand.

‘I did not mean to hurt you. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘If I had been really angry, the blow would have killed you.’

‘I believe you.’

Haiman took a stained and worn rugby ball from the bag and held it out to Humlin.

‘I hope we can be friends.’

‘It’s all behind us,’ Humlin said breezily. ‘I’ve already forgotten about it.’

Haiman frowned.

‘I have not forgotten. I never forget what I do.’

‘Of course we both remember what happened. But we just won’t think about it any more.’

Haiman looked at him in a confused way. The furrow in his brow grew deeper.

‘I don’t understand you.’

Humlin broke out in a light sweat.

‘I mean the same thing you do. Neither one of us has forgotten what happened but now you give me this wonderful rugby ball and we are friends.’

Haiman smiled.

‘That’s exactly what I mean. Do you like rugby?’

‘It is one of my favourite sports.’

Törnblom appeared in the doorway and said it was time to start. When Humlin walked into the room he saw that Leila’s large family was once again in attendance. Leyla, Tanya and Tea-Bag were sitting up in the front waiting for him. He pushed his way through the throng. The chatter died away. Humlin waited until there was complete silence in the room.

‘We are now at the point where we can start the course in earnest. Tonight I want you to take twenty minutes to write down the most important thing that happened to you today. You can write in any format you please: a poem, whatever you like. But you only get twenty minutes. Then we’ll read what you’ve written. Don’t talk to each other. And please, no chatter from the audience.’

‘What about what we wrote last time?’ Leyla asked. ‘Aren’t we going to talk about that?’

The tone of her voice irritated Humlin, but he tried not to show it.

‘Of course we’ll talk about it. Just not right now.’

Leyla got up and walked over to a corner of the room, asking some of her relatives to move. Tea-Bag stayed in her chair
hunched up in her thick coat. Tanya moved as far away from the others as possible. There was complete silence in the room. Humlin looked at Tea-Bag and her bowed head. She seemed completely oblivious of her surroundings. He got to his feet.

‘I’ll be back when the time is up,’ he said, and left.

*

Törnblom had brewed some coffee in his office. Humlin looked at the old boxing posters and thought about how appropriate it was – not that it had ever been his decision – to hold these writing seminars in a place devoted to the art of fighting.

‘Things are going well,’ Törnblom said and squeezed himself into a chair behind the overflowing desk.

‘How can you say that? We’ve hardly started.’

‘Life isn’t what you think it is, Humlin.’

Humlin was immediately on guard.

‘And what do I think it is?’

‘That this is an essentially peaceful and harmonious country.’

‘Of course I don’t think that.’

‘Well, your poetry certainly doesn’t betray any knowledge of reality.’

Humlin got up at once at this insult.

‘Sit, sit,’ Törnblom said. ‘You’re overreacting again. None of these girls have had an easy time of it. It’s still not easy for them.’

Törnblom was right, Humlin thought. He sat down again with the feeling that he should try to get out of this whole thing as fast as he could. Maybe it would even be better to capitulate and write that thriller that Lundin and the oil executives wanted.

A noise at the door made him jump. Haiman was in the doorway.

‘I just want to say that the girl called Tea-Bag isn’t writing anything. If you like I can have a word with her so she’ll do as she’s told.’

Humlin could easily imagine Tea-Bag’s reaction to such a thing.

‘It’s probably best to let her be,’ he said.

‘Then I think we should tell her to leave.’

‘We can’t force anyone to write against their will.’

‘She will have a bad influence on the other two. They’re writing. I’ve walked around and checked them.’

Humlin was glad he wasn’t alone with Haiman.

‘We don’t need a writing police in this seminar.’

‘I want order in the classroom.’

‘If we leave them in peace I’m sure they’ll do just fine.’

Haiman left the room, but more because of Törnblom’s look than Humlin’s words.

‘I don’t want him here,’ Humlin hissed when Haiman had left. ‘I don’t want anyone walking around checking up on them.’

‘Haiman is a good sort. He just wants to maintain order in there.’

‘Is he one of Leila’s relatives?’

‘No, he’s just a person with a strong sense of responsibility.’

*

After exactly twenty minutes Humlin went back into the room. Tea-Bag was still hunched up in her coat just as she had been when he left. Tanya and Leyla got up from their respective corners and returned to the table.

‘Let’s see what you’ve written,’ Humlin said. ‘Who wants to start?’

He turned to Tanya.

‘Did you write anything?’

She looked at him angrily.

‘Why do you ask that? Why wouldn’t I have written anything?’

‘You didn’t write anything last time, that’s all.’

Tanya waved her crumpled paper in front of him.

‘Read it,’ Humlin said.

Tanya took a breath. Tea-Bag was still enveloped by her voluminous coat and her thoughts. Leyla looked worried. Humlin sensed that she was nervous that Tanya might have written something better than her.

Tanya started reading.

‘
The most important thing that happened to me today was that I woke up
.’

Humlin waited but there was nothing else.

‘That was it?’ he asked carefully.

Tanya turned on him furiously.

‘You didn’t say it had to be long. Did you? No, you didn’t. This is – a poem.’

Humlin backtracked to the best of his ability.

‘I was just checking,’ he said. ‘That was wonderful, Tanya.
The most important thing that happened to me today was that I woke up.
Wonderful. That is so true. And what would have happened if you hadn’t woken up?’

‘I would have been dead.’

Humlin realised he was not going to be able to get her to develop her insight any further. He turned to Tea-Bag.

‘I haven’t written anything.’

‘Why not?’

‘Nothing important happened today.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘No.’

‘Even when something doesn’t feel profoundly important it can sometimes be worth writing down. Don’t you think?’

Leyla suddenly jumped in as if to defend Tea-Bag.

‘Did anything important happen to
you
today?’

Humlin gave up and was about to ask Leyla to read what she had written when Tea-Bag grabbed Tanya’s pad of paper and ripped out a blank page. Then she stood up and spoke, as if reading from the blank page.

*

She, the other one, the one who is not me but who could have been my sister, the one who sells the yellow plastic frogs in the street next to the florist, she has become the only friend I have, she has told me that her name is Laurinda, just like her mother, the old Laurinda. She has a white mark that runs down her cheek like a dried-up riverbed and continues over her shoulder. She swears it is true, not as if she were swearing an oath by God because she no longer believes in such things – how could she when she has lived for so long as a person who is not allowed to exist? She proves it in another way. She has said we live in a time when no one knows any more what another’s name really is, no one knows where anyone comes from or where they are going. It is when you get to some place where you don’t have to run any more that you can say your real name, and her name is Laurinda.

She has been on the run for nine years and everyone around her has whipped her with their invisible whips so that she won’t stay, so that she won’t exist, won’t be seen, won’t stop, but will keep going the whole time as if she were in eternal orbit, an orbit where life slowly crumbles away into death and emptiness. It has gone on for
so long that she has started becoming invisible even to herself. She can no longer see her face in the mirror or her reflection in the shop windows. The only thing she sees is a shadow, moving abruptly as if it too were afraid of being caught.

And she has also become invisible on the inside; once where there were memories there is now only a shell as if from the nuts that a monkey has eaten and tossed away. No real memories, just the shell of reminiscence, not even smells are left, everything is gone. She only recalls the music as a noise in the distance, the songs that her mother, the old Laurinda, used to sing for her.

Sometimes she is overcome by a blinding rage, it rushes up in her like a volcano, a volcano that has been sleeping for a thousand years and suddenly awakens with a roar. Then she speaks to her mother: Be quiet! Don’t speak. Why can’t you let your mouth be closed? Words are not coming out any longer, your insides are coming out. Be quiet!

You don’t have to speak any longer about my father’s head that was blown off by the grenade. I have that splinter inside me, it is tearing me up inside. I don’t want to talk about what happened to my father, it is so terrible, but you force me to with your words. You speak so much I have started hating all the words. I don’t know what they mean any more, do they mean anything? If I ask you something you start speaking about something completely different. I get no answers and I don’t know what you are talking about, but the worst thing is that even you don’t understand all the words coming out of your mouth. It is making me crazy, all the words coming out of your mouth are beginning to stink and if you don’t shut up my nails will stop growing. It’s true, you talk so much my body is going to stop working.

I know you don’t like it when I talk about these things but I need
you to know how it is. I can hardly piss any more, even if we’re not supposed to talk about that, it is something so natural it has become unnatural, when I was little I was made to understand that it was as shameful as lying. I never dared tell you when I wet my pants even though it was perfectly natural, all children wet their pants. Have you ever been a child? Perhaps you deny that you were once a child too, that it is something your parents lie about. Is that how it is? And that is why you torment me?