The Shadow Girls (8 page)

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.

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?’