The Shadow Girls

  ‘She’s not here. What did my mother have to say?’

  ‘She’s worried about you. She thinks you should re-evaluate your life.’

  ‘What did she mean by that?’

  ‘You’ll just get angry if I tell you.’

  ‘I’ll be angry if you don’t tell me what she said.’

  ‘She thinks your last book stank.’

  Even though Humlin had decided a long time ago not to care what his mother thought of his work, he still felt a pain in his stomach at these words. But he said nothing about it to Andrea.

  ‘That’s enough. I don’t need to hear any more.’

  ‘I knew it would make you angry.’

  ‘I thought she wanted to know how nurses can kill people.’

  ‘That was just an excuse. She wanted to talk about you.’

  ‘I don’t want you two to talk about me.’

  ‘But we need to talk. Soon. Is that understood?’

  ‘I’ll be here.’

  ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’

  Humlin put the phone down, his head empty. Then he walked out to the mirror in the hall and looked at the remains of his rapidly fading tan. Luckily he had an appointment at the tanning salon tomorrow.

  He ate lunch at a small restaurant around the corner, read the paper and then caught a taxi to the doctor’s office. His driver was from a small town on the island of Gotland and still wasn’t sure of his way around town.

  *

  Dr Anna Beckman was almost six foot tall, very thin and with short spiky hair. She also had an earring in one eyebrow. Humlin had heard that she had broken off a promising research career because she had become tired of the intrigues that went on behind the scenes in the constant battle for research funds. She pulled open her door and stared at him. The waiting area was full of people.

  ‘There is absolutely nothing the matter with your heart,’ she shouted as she pushed him into the examination room.

  ‘I would be grateful if you announced your diagnosis in a quieter voice so not all of your patients hear it.’

  She listened to his heart and checked his pulse.

  ‘I can’t understand why you insist on bothering me with these things.’

  ‘Bother you? You’re my doctor.’

  She looked at him critically.

  ‘Are you aware of the fact that you’re putting on weight? And I’m sorry to say your tan is pathetic.’

  ‘No one could call me fat.’

  ‘You have gained at least four kilos since you were here last. When was that? Two months ago? You were afraid you were going to catch some intestinal bug in the South Pacific and shit your pants, if I recall correctly.’

  As usual her way of expressing herself irritated him.

  ‘I think it’s only normal to consult one’s doctor before setting out on a long international journey. And I have not gained four kilos.’

  Dr Beckman checked his chart and then pointed at the scales.

  ‘Take your clothes off and get on.’

  Humlin did as he was told. He weighed 79 kilos.

  ‘Last time you were here you weighed 75. Isn’t that four kilos?’

  ‘Then prescribe something for me.’

  ‘What kind of thing?’

  ‘Something to help me lose weight.’

  ‘You’ll have to deal with it yourself. I haven’t got time for this.’

  ‘Why do you always have to get so pissed off when I come to see you? There are other doctors I could go to, you know.’

  ‘I’m the only one who can stand you and you know it.’

  She reached for her prescription pad.

  ‘Is there anything you need?’

  ‘Some more calming pills for my nerves would be nice.’

  She looked in his chart.

  ‘You know I keep an eye on these things. I don’t want this to become a habit.’

  ‘It’s not a habit.’

  She threw the prescription at him and got up. Humlin stayed in his chair.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, actually. You’re not by any chance writing a book, are you?’

  ‘Why would I be doing that?’

  ‘No crime novel in the works?’

  ‘Can’t stand them. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. I was just wondering.’

  Humlin left Dr Beckman’s office and was at first unsure of where he should go. In his pocket he felt Tea-Bag’s used ticket stub. He was about to throw it in a rubbish bin when he saw that there was an address written on it, some place way out in one of Stockholm’s less attractive suburbs. After a moment’s hesitation he started walking to the nearest station. He was forced to ask at the ticket booth which station he should get off at. The clerk inside was African but spoke excellent Swedish. To his surprise Humlin saw that the man had been reading a poetry collection by Gunnar Ekelöf.

  ‘He’s one of our greats,’ Humlin said.

  ‘He is good,’ the clerk agreed while stamping Humlin’s ticket. ‘But I’m not sure he really understood much of what the Byzantine empire was all about.’

  Humlin was immediately insulted on Ekelöf’s behalf.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘It might take too long for us to straighten this out now,’ the clerk said. Then he pushed a card over to Humlin.

  ‘You can call me if you want to discuss his poetry some time. Before I came to Sweden, I was an associate professor of literature at a university. Here I stamp tickets.’

  The clerk gave him a searching look.

  ‘Is it possible that I have seen you before?’

  ‘It’s not impossible,’ Humlin said, somewhat encouraged. ‘I am Jesper Humlin. A poet.’

  The clerk shook his head.

  ‘You write poetry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Humlin took the escalator down into the underworld. When he arrived at the station where he was supposed to get off he again had the feeling that he was crossing over an invisible threshold into another country, not into a suburb of Stockholm. He walked across a main square that resembled the one in Stensgården. To his surprise he discovered that the address on Tea-Bag’s ticket was for a church. He walked in.

  The pews were empty. He went up and sat down on a brown wooden chair and stared up at the stained-glass window behind the altar. It was a picture of a man rowing a boat. There was a strong, blue-coloured light on the horizon. Humlin thought about the boats he had heard of in Tea-Bag’s and Tanya’s stories. One had drifted down a river in the middle of Europe, the other had rowed from Estonia to Gotland. Suddenly, as if in a vision, he imagined thousands of small boats across the world filled with refugees on their way to Sweden.

  Maybe this is the way it is, he thought. We are living in the time of the rowing boat.

  *

  He was about to get up when a woman came around the corner from the altar. She was wearing a minister’s collar, but the rest of her clothing did not make her look like a member of the clergy. She was wearing a short skirt and high heels. She smiled at Humlin, who smiled back.

  ‘The church doors were open. I came in.’

  ‘That’s how it’s supposed to be. A church should always be open.’

  ‘At first I thought this was a residential building.’

  ‘What made you think that?’

  ‘Someone gave me the address.’

  She looked searchingly at him. He sensed that something was not quite right.

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘A black girl.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Florence. But she calls herself Tea-Bag.’

  The minister shook her head.

  ‘She has the biggest, most beautiful smile I have ever seen,’ Humlin said.

  ‘I don’t know her. It doesn’t sound like anyone who comes here regularly.’

  Humlin realised at once that she was not telling the truth. Ministers don’t know how to l
ie convincingly, he thought. Perhaps when they are talking about the gods above and our inner spirits, but not when it comes to earthly matters.

  ‘No one by that name belongs to our parish,’ she continued.

  She picked up a psalm book that had fallen on the ground.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asked.

  ‘A visitor,’ he said.

  ‘Your face seems familiar.’

  Humlin thought of the clerk at the subway station.

  ‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

  ‘But I feel sure I’ve seen your face. Not here. Somewhere else.’

  ‘I’m afraid you’re mixing me up with someone else.’

  ‘But you’re here looking for someone?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘There’s no one else here apart from me.’

  Humlin wondered why she wasn’t telling the truth. She started walking towards the exit and he followed her.

  ‘I was about to lock up,’ she said.

  ‘I thought you said a church should always be open?’

  ‘We always lock up for a few hours every afternoon.’

  Humlin walked outside.

  ‘You are always welcome,’ the minister said before she locked the doors behind him.

  Humlin walked across the street, then turned around. She wanted me to leave, he thought. But why? He walked around to the back of the church. There was a little garden. It was empty. He was about to leave when he thought he saw something moving in one of the windows. Whether it was a person or a curtain he couldn’t say.

  There was a door in the back. He walked over and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. When he opened it he saw a staircase leading down to the basement. He turned on the light and listened. Then he started walking down. It led to a corridor with a number of doors leading off on either side. On the floor were some toys, a plastic bucket and a little shovel. He frowned. Then he opened the closest door and found himself staring at a woman, a man and three small children sitting on a couple of mattresses. They gave him frightened looks. He mumbled an apology and closed the door. He understood. The church was sheltering refugees in its basement, like a modern-day catacomb.

  Suddenly the minister turned up behind him. She had taken off her high-heeled shoes and approached him without making any sound.

  ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘Are you from the police?’

  She is the second woman in the space of a few days to compare me to a policeman, he thought. First my crazy mother, then a minister wearing high-heeled shoes. No Swedish minister should be dressed like she is. No minister should be dressed that way, full stop.

  ‘I’m not from the police.’

  ‘Are you from the Department of Immigration?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you who I am. Do I have to show my ID in this church?’

  ‘The people who live down here live in fear of deportation. I don’t think you know very much about that kind of fear.’

  ‘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.

  13

  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.