The Shadow Girls Page 6

  ‘I did not understand your poems,’ Amanda said simply. ‘But they were very beautiful.’

  ‘I understood them,’ Törnblom said. ‘But I didn’t think they were very beautiful.’

  ‘Let me just get my coat,’ Humlin said. ‘Then I’ll meet you down at the boxing club.’

  Törnblom looked closely at him.

  ‘I thought we could walk over there together.’

  ‘After a reading I always like to have a little time to myself to clear my head.’

  ‘I think we should walk over together. But we don’t have to talk.’

  He senses I’d like to get out of this, Humlin thought. When he came back into the room with his coat he still wasn’t sure what he was going to do. The thought of calling Andrea and telling her of the change in his plans seemed too much. He got out his mobile phone to call a taxi when his phone rang. He didn’t recognise the number that appeared on his display. He answered. It was his mother.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask me how I am?’

  ‘We live in a new age now. With mobile phones one never knows where people might be. Why don’t you ask me where I am?’

  ‘I don’t recognise the number. Where are you?’

  ‘I’ve been invited out to a restaurant.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘A secret admirer.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you.’

  ‘Is that why you called? So you can tell me you’re not going to tell me who has invited you out to dinner?’

  ‘I’d like you to drop by later this evening. We have something important to talk about.’

  ‘I can’t come by this evening. I’m out of town.’

  ‘I spoke to Andrea earlier. She said very definitely that you were coming home tonight.’

  Humlin felt trapped.

  ‘I could be dead by tomorrow night. I’m almost ninety years old.’

  ‘You’re not going to die tonight. I’ll be over tomorrow evening.’

  ‘That’s not possible. Andrea is coming over then.’

  ‘Andrea?’

  ‘I’d like to see you tonight and her tomorrow.’

  ‘Why can’t we come over together?’

  ‘I have some important things to tell you. But I would like to speak to you separately.’

  Humlin tried to understand what could be going on with his mother.

  ‘I’ll be by if I make my flight.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Andrea didn’t tell you?’

  ‘She couldn’t remember if it was Luleå or Malmö.’

  ‘I’m in Gothenburg.’

  ‘I don’t have any more time to talk now. I’ll be home after midnight. We’ll have a glass of wine.’

  ‘I don’t want to have any wine.’

  The connection was already broken. Humlin called the taxi company but the number was busy. He found a phone book on a shelf in the hallway where he quickly looked up other companies. Everyone’s number was busy. Humlin was starting to sweat. I don’t want to go to a party, he thought. Maybe I would like to be alone with Amanda and explain the meaning of my poetry to her.

  He called the first company again and got through this time.

  ‘We can send a taxi out to you in twenty minutes.’

  ‘That’s too late. I’m trying to catch a flight.’

  ‘There’s a medical conference on in town. That’s why we’re so busy tonight.’

  ‘I need a cab out here immediately.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. It doesn’t look like we can help you.’

  Humlin decided he would try to wave one down on the street. He found the back exit and thought to himself that he was leaving by the door of the Failed Poets. Bestselling crime novelists probably always left through the front door.

  But when he got outside Törnblom was there waiting for him.

  ‘Amanda went the other way,’ Törnblom said. ‘We were afraid we might lose you.’

  Humlin felt humiliated.

  ‘I saw it in your face that you were going to try to stand us up,’ Törnblom said accusingly. ‘I have to look out for my kids, for everyone who’s going to be disappointed if you don’t show.’

  ‘You don’t know Andrea.’

  Törnblom held out his hand impatiently.

  ‘Give me your phone. I’ll call her.’

  ‘What are you going to say?’

  ‘That you’re indisposed.’

  ‘She knows I never get ill. She’s a nurse. She knows me.’

  ‘I’ll say you had a fainting spell.’

  ‘I’ve never had one before.’

  ‘Diarrhoea. That can happen any time.’

  ‘You don’t understand. Even if I actually had a heart attack she would accuse me of not keeping my promise.’

  Törnblom seemed to see the seriousness of the situation. He thought for a moment.

  ‘What time does the plane leave?’

  ‘In exactly seventy-seven minutes.’

  ‘Then let’s wait one hour and call and say that the car broke down while I was taking you to the airport.’

  ‘She won’t believe me.’

  ‘She doesn’t need to believe you, just as long as she believes me.’

  Törnblom’s voice was firm. Humlin realised there was no longer any point in trying to resist going to the party that had been organised for him. He handed Törnblom the phone.

  ‘Call Andrea whenever you feel is the best time. But remember that I’ll have to suffer an unimaginable nightmare if you aren’t convincing.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  Humlin’s anxiety increased.

  They walked across the barren square that was now empty of people. Humlin thought he should ask more about the event they were headed to but Törnblom beat him to it.

  ‘You’re lucky none of the kids heard your poetry.’

  ‘I already know you didn’t like it.’

  Törnblom shrugged.

  ‘It’s like most poetry.’

  ‘And how is that?’

  ‘Generally uninteresting.’

  They kept walking in silence. Humlin’s sense of discomfort and low self-worth increased with each step.

  When they arrived at the boxing club they saw some candles flickering outside the front door, which was slightly ajar. Humlin stopped Törnblom right before they went in.

  ‘What exactly do they expect of me?’

  ‘You’re the guest of honour.’

  ‘So what’s expected of me?’

  ‘That you behave like a guest of honour.’

  ‘And how is that?’

  ‘You answer questions. Sign autographs. Show them you’re grateful for the attention.’

  ‘Who am I to them?’

  Törnblom seemed surprised by the question and had to think for a while before answering.

  ‘Someone from a world foreign to them. You’re from Stockholm but you might as well be from outer space.’

  *

  Just as Humlin had feared Andrea blew up when Törnblom delivered the message about his car breaking down. Even in the din from the gypsy orchestra Humlin could hear her voice on the other end. It came out of the phone and whirled around Törnblom’s head like a torch blower’s flame. He flinched and held the phone away from his head.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She didn’t believe me.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘You told me she wouldn’t believe either one of us, and you were right.’

  Törnblom acknowledged defeat.

  ‘We should have stepped out before making the call.’

  ‘You mean you should have stepped out. You were the one making the call.’

  ‘I guess it didn’t sound much like I was calling from a broken-down car with the gypsy music in the background.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She started talking about some book that she’s going to start working on tonight.’

&nb
sp; ‘Don’t say anything else. I don’t want to know.’

  Humlin had decided he was not going to drink at this party. But now he decided to throw caution to the wind. One has to have one’s last meal somewhere, he thought. It can even be at a party in a boxing club. He started to drink; having some drinks, at first slowly and methodically, then becoming more manic. He and Törnblom were the only ones drinking wine. All the rest were drinking sodas. Törnblom introduced him to many people, all immigrants, and many of them spoke such poor Swedish that he couldn’t understand what they were saying. But people were constantly coming over wanting to talk to him, most of them young. His patience was stretched trying to understand and then answer the questions they put to him.

  Then someone pulled him up into the boxing ring to dance. Humlin hated dancing. He had never been good at it and had always envied those who could make their bodies move smoothly to the music. As he tried to climb out of the boxing ring he tripped and fell head over heels. Luckily, since he was extremely drunk by this time, he fell gently and did not hurt himself. Amanda helped him into the back office where he and Törnblom had spoken earlier. He wanted Amanda to stay with him but she only blushed very attractively when he groped after her and told her how beautiful she was. She hurried out of the room and closed the door behind her.

  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.

  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 l
ast 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.’