The Shadow Girls

  I stayed awake until dawn with fear beating in my chest. It was only when the first light of morning came that I saw a drunk man come stumbling down one of the paths. He sat down on a bench, leaned forward and threw up, then fell asleep. I crept towards him, stole his wallet and then ran away. Then I hid again, this time in a thicket that stank of urine. I found to my surprise that the wallet was full of cash. I put the money in my pocket, threw the wallet away and left the park. I ate breakfast in a cafe and realised I would not have to walk any more. I had money. I could buy a map and take the train to the border and then continue as long as the money lasted.

  I made my way into France by crawling through a ditch at the border. In the distance I heard dogs barking and whining exactly like the albino dogs in the camp. The money that was left I changed in a small town. I still had enough to eat regular meals and buy train tickets. But as I was leaving the bank I was stopped by a policeman who demanded to see my identification. I got out my Sudanese passport, then changed my mind and ran away. I heard the policeman shouting behind me but he was not able to catch me. At that moment I understood that I had been given magic powers. When I had crawled through the ditch my fear had made me invisible and when I was pursued by the policeman I moved as fast as one of the birds I had seen gliding on the warm air streams over the valley on the other side of the river next to the village where I was born. Now I knew I would make it to Sweden as long as I did not try to thwart my fear. It was my most important guide. It helped me to discover powers I did not know I had.

  During the next few days I was so excited I ran all night, towards the north. Sometimes I followed paths that snaked along roads with cars speeding by. But I moved just as fast and my eyes could see in the dark as if there had been strong lights posted nearby. If there was a rock or a hole in front of me I knew it was there even though it was completely dark.

  One morning I came to a large river filled with brown, slow-moving water. A rowing boat was pulled up on the shore and chained to a tree. I smashed the lock with a rock and pushed the boat into the water. That day I did not lie low during the day and wait for darkness. I let the boat drift along and stretched out along the bottom that smelled like tar and looked up at the clouds far above my head and noticed that I had started to breathe easily again. It was as if I had been short of breath ever since I climbed the fence in Spain and disappeared into the dark. I slept and dreamed that my passport was like two doors that opened into landscapes that I recognised from my childhood. I could see my father there, how he came towards me and lifted me like a feather he wanted to toss up towards the sun and then catch me again in his warm arms while I slowly floated back towards the ground.

  I woke from the dream when the boat started swaying. A barge had passed me. Shirts were hung out to dry from a line aboard the vessel. I waved even though I didn’t see anyone.

  *

  Tea-Bag stopped abruptly as if she had said too much and should never have revealed her secrets. Humlin waited for her to continue but she didn’t. She zipped up her jacket and pulled her chin down towards her throat.

  ‘Then what happened?’ he asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t want to tell more. Not now.’

  ‘How are you going to get back to Gothenburg? Where are you going to stay? You can’t stay with me. Do you have any money?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘I don’t know what your name is,’ he said slowly. ‘Maybe your name really is Tea-Bag. I don’t know where you live. I don’t know why you came here. But I suspect you are in this country illegally. I don’t know how you manage.’

  She still didn’t answer.

  ‘I’m going back to Gothenburg in two days,’ he said. ‘There I will meet with Leyla and Tanya again, and hopefully with you. Why don’t you take the train with me then? You can tell me the rest of your story. Meet me at the Central station at a quarter past two the day after tomorrow. If you aren’t there then I’ll assume you’re not coming. But if you do come I’ll pay your ticket. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘You have to go now.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Do you have anywhere to stay tonight?’

  She didn’t answer. He gave her two hundred kronor in notes that she pocketed without even looking at them.

  ‘Before you go I would very much like to know your real name,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Tea-Bag,’ she answered.

  For the first time since she had left the bedroom she smiled. Humlin escorted her to the door.

  ‘You can’t sleep in the stairwell.’

  ‘I’m not going to sleep,’ she said. ‘I’m going to visit my monkey.’

  He watched her – suddenly filled with energy – dance down the stairs until she was out of sight. While he smoothed the sheets in the bedroom and checked to make sure she hadn’t left any traces of herself, he only thought of one thing.

  Shirts hung out to dry on the line.

  A dark-skinned girl in a rowing boat waving to a boat where there was no one to be seen.

  8

  WHEN HE WOKE up the following morning Humlin felt more refreshed than he could remember being for a long time. It was as if his meeting with the smiling girl named Tea-Bag or perhaps Florence had allowed him to access some hidden energy reserves. He got out of his bed as soon as he woke up instead of lying in like he usually did. He decided that this was the day to confront his mother. He was also finally going to get in touch with his investment broker.

  The latter was easier than he had imagined. His broker picked up one of his mobile phone lines.

  ‘Burén.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how many times I’ve tried to reach you during the past week?’

  ‘Nineteen, I think.’

  ‘Why in God’s name can’t you return a call?’

  ‘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.’