Leyla’s father regarded her in silence.
‘What did you read?’ he asked finally.
‘I found a book about rugby.’
‘There are books about rugby? What am I supposed to think? Is she lying to me again?’
Haiman got up. Humlin was starting to realise that Leyla was craftier than he had expected.
‘There are great books about rugby,’ Haiman said. ‘She is speaking the truth. This initiative to go to the library is something a father should encourage.’
An appreciative murmur was heard from the audience, mainly people from Leyla’s large family who had not said anything until now. Her father now turned to them and threw out a question that raised a heated debate. The voices died down after a while.
‘We have decided,’ he said. ‘I will stay here and be interviewed by the TV people. We accept for now that Leyla continues the course.’
As Leyla’s many family members filed out of the room Humlin thought that he had just won his first fight in Törnblom’s boxing club. Leyla’s relief was palpable. She sank down on her chair and Tanya squeezed her hand. To Humlin’s surprise Törnblom grabbed a towel and waved it at Leyla as if she were a boxer waiting between rounds.
*
Naturally the TV crew never turned up. After an hour Törnblom pretended to call them and then declared that there had been a mix-up with the day. Leyla’s father looked put out but Humlin hastened to tell him that the delay would simply enable him to prepare his statements more carefully. Then he turned back to his students.
‘Write down your stories,’ Humlin said. ‘Write what you have told us today – everything. A story without an end is not a good piece of work.’
He saw that Leyla understood.
It was snowing when they came back out on the street. Leyla disappeared with her family, Tanya whispered something after them that Humlin didn’t hear. Törnblom locked the door and Tea-Bag ran around in circles making patterns in the wet snow. Tanya pulled her cap on.
‘Are you still in the Yüksel family’s apartment?’ Humlin asked.
‘No, they’re back.’
‘Where are you living now?’
Tanya shrugged her shoulders.
‘Maybe in this empty apartment on the other side of the square. Maybe somewhere else. I haven’t decided yet.’
Humlin had been meaning to talk to her about the little girl in the photograph, but it was as if she knew what he was thinking. Before he could say anything, she put her arm around Tea-Bag and the two of them left. He watched them walk away and wondered what he was really looking at.
Törnblom drove him to the station.
‘It’s going great,’ he said. ‘You should feel good about it.’
‘No,’ Humlin said. ‘It’s not going well. I have this constant feeling that I’m on the brink of an enormous disaster.’
‘Now you’re exaggerating again.’
Humlin didn’t bother to reply.
*
Törnblom dropped him off at the train station and Humlin walked into the waiting room. Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. The thought of going back to Stockholm that evening was starting to feel like an impossibility. He sat down. Tea-Bag’s face flashed through his mind, then Tanya’s and, last of all, Leyla’s. He wondered if he was ever going to see her move again from the place by the underpass where she and her story had so suddenly been frozen.
He left the station and checked into the nearest hotel. Before he turned out the light and fell asleep he sat with the phone in his hand for a long time. Andrea. But he didn’t call her.
*
He left the hotel at a quarter past eleven the next day. For the first time in a long while he felt fully rested. While he was waiting for his train to arrive he made several calls to the various phone numbers belonging to Burén, but to no avail. Before he turned off the phone he listened to the voice messages that had been left for the original owner, a detective inspector by the name of Sture who clearly spent a lot of his time betting on horses. A person with a lisp had called several times and left the message that ‘Lokus Harem is a sure bet.’ He was just about to turn the phone off when he saw that there was a text message as well. He stared at the words. Then he realised it was for him, not the unknown Officer Sture.
It was a short message, only four words long: Help. Tanya. Call Leyla.
At that moment the train pulled into the station. But Humlin did not get on.
16
HE CALLED THE boxing club. A young boy who could barely speak comprehensible Swedish answered the phone. After a few minutes Törnblom came to the phone.
‘It’s Jesper. What’s Leyla’s phone number?’
‘How would I know that? Where are you?’
Humlin had already decided to lie. Why, he wasn’t quite sure.
‘Back in Stockholm. I thought her brother was a student at your club?’
‘I never take down any phone numbers. It makes no sense. People come and go all the time.’
‘What about her last name?’
‘I can’t remember. But I’ll check if there’s anyone else who might know.’
It took Törnblom almost ten minutes to get back to the phone.
‘Allaf.’
‘Can you spell that?’
‘How would I know how it’s spelled? Why do you sound so worked up over this?’
‘Because I am worked up. I have to go now.’
Humlin called information and got a number for the last name ‘Allaf’. A woman answered the phone in a low voice, as if she were afraid of it.
‘I’m trying to get hold of Leyla,’ Humlin said.
He received no answer. A man who spoke in the same hushed tones came on the line.
‘I’m looking for Leyla.’
There was no answer. Another man came on the line.
‘I’m looking for Leyla.’
‘Whom am I speaking with?’
‘This is Jesper Humlin. I need to ask Leyla if she has Tanya’s number.’
‘Who?’
‘Her friend, Tanya.’
‘Do you mean Irina?’
‘I mean the other girl participating in the writing seminar, the non-African one.’
‘That is Irina.’
‘Perhaps I can speak with Leyla directly?’ Humlin asked gingerly.
‘She’s not at home.’
‘Do you know if she has Tanya’s – or Irina’s – number written down somewhere?’
‘I’ll see. Please hold.’
The phone was starting to make strange noises. The battery was about to run out. The man came back on the line and gave Humlin a number. Humlin fumbled around for something to write with.
‘What is that noise?’ the man asked.
‘My battery is about to run out. If we are cut off, it’s not because I’m being impolite.’
‘We are very happy that you have decided to come back.’
Humlin found a pen.
‘Would you mind repeating that number?’
Before the man had a chance to run through the number more than once, the phone died. Humlin wrote down what he thought was the correct number, on his hand. He went up to a pay phone and dialled, only to reach a noisy car repair shop in Skövde. He reordered the last few digits and tried again. This time a young girl barely old enough to have learned how to speak gurgled into the phone. Humlin tried yet another version of the number and this time he recognised the voice. It was Tanya.
‘What’s happened?’
‘Tea-Bag was about to get caught.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The police almost got her. They also found some mobile phones in a bag that she had. I don’t think the cops liked finding their own phones.’
Humlin tried to think straight.
‘Can you tell me what happened from the beginning, and more calmly?’
‘We need help. You have to get over here. Where are you?’
‘In Gothenburg. What can I do?’
&n
bsp; ‘You’re a famous writer, right? So, help us. I can’t talk any more.’
‘Where’s “here”?’
‘Just meet me at the boxing club.’
The line went dead.
*
Humlin did as he was told. He took a taxi to the boxing club which was almost deserted. Two young boys were leaning on each other in the ring. One of them had a nosebleed. They stood locked in a wrestling hold, swaying back and forth as if they had found themselves on a sinking vessel at sea. The office was empty. In the diary that was lying out Humlin could see that Törnblom was sitting in a dentist’s chair at that moment.
He walked back out into the training area. The boys in the ring had stopped swaying and the nosebleed had dried up. Humlin recognised the boy with the bloody nose. He was one of Leyla’s relatives. He smiled at Humlin, who only now noticed that the boy’s eye was swelling shut.
The boys went into the changing room. Humlin pulled on a pair of boxing gloves and started hitting a sand bag. It hurt. He wished he was punching Olof Lundin. When he broke into a sweat, he stopped. The boy with the nosebleed came back out. He was dressed in baggy pants and a long T-shirt, both articles of clothing covered with images of the American flag.
‘Someone’s coming.’
‘Who is it?’
‘I don’t know. One of them, but you’d better wait outside.’
The boy left, shortly followed by the other one. Humlin walked out onto the street. It was raining. He was reminded of the night Tanya had turned up out of the shadows and he had thought he was about to be mugged. He jumped. Tanya was right behind him. As usual she had managed not to make a sound.
‘Where’s Tea-Bag?’
She didn’t answer. They started walking.
‘Where are we going?’
‘The city centre.’
‘I thought Tea-Bag was here?’
Again there was no answer. They took the tram. A drunk man tried to talk to Tanya, but she swore at him with startling ferocity. It was like seeing her turn into a dangerous predator. The man immediately backed off.
They got off close to Göta square. The rain had stopped. Tanya led the way onto one of the small but impressive streets above the square where large stone villas lay nestled in expansive, well-tended gardens. Tanya stopped by the gate to one of the less-impressive mansions.
‘Is this where Tea-Bag is staying?’
Tanya nodded.
‘Who lives here?’
‘Gothenburg’s Chief of Police.’
Humlin flinched.
‘It’s no big deal. He’s gone to a conference, and his family aren’t home either. Plus he has no alarm system.’
Tanya opened the gate. The front door was slightly ajar. The curtains were drawn in the large living room on the ground floor. Tea-Bag lay on the floor watching TV with the sound turned low. The programme was a Swedish film from the 1950s. The actor Hasse Ekman was turning on the charm for some actress Humlin couldn’t remember the name of. She’s watching a film about an extinct species, Humlin thought. A Sweden whose inhabitants no longer exist.
There was a clatter from the kitchen. Tanya was making a meal. Tea-Bag quickly got up and joined her. Humlin heard them laughing. Then he was startled by the sound of the front door opening. But it wasn’t the Chief of Police, it was Leyla. She was red in the face and sweating heavily.
‘I love him,’ she said.
Then she too disappeared out into the kitchen. Humlin wondered if he was ever going to hear the rest of her story. He joined the girls and sat down next to Tanya who was chopping onions, tears streaming down her face.
‘How did you know this house was empty?’
‘Someone told me, I can’t remember who. After everything me and Tea-Bag have been through I think it’s only fair that we get to borrow it for a while.’
‘Can I help with anything?’
No one answered.
Slowly the table was filled with the contents of both of the large refrigerators. It was one of the most remarkable meals he had ever had, even compared to his mother’s late-night feasts. Everything was brought out and mixed; champagne and juice, pickled herring and jam. This isn’t happening, Humlin thought. If I were ever to write about this evening, this meal in the absent police chief’s house, no one would believe me.
He tried to remain alert for outside noises, checked that the curtains remained drawn and waited for the doors to be thrown open. But nothing happened. He did not participate in the conversation which simply jumped between the three girls. Giggling teenagers have the same language, he thought, regardless of where they come from.
A strip of passport pictures of the three of them was passed back and forth and finally landed in Humlin’s hands. He had done the same thing in his youth, pressed himself into a picture booth, pulled the curtain and had his picture taken. Tea-Bag found a pair of scissors and cut out the four snapshots. They walked into the living room. There was a row of family portraits on the bureau. They picked out a photograph of a large group of people gathered in the shade of a big tree.
‘What strange clothes,’ Tea-Bag said. ‘When was this?’
Humlin looked at the picture.
‘That’s from the late nineteenth century,’ he said.
‘This is where we belong,’ Tea-Bag said, opening up the back of the frame and stuffing one of the passport pictures into a corner.
‘What will they think?’ Leyla said when Tea-Bag had replaced the back of the frame and put the picture on the bureau. ‘They won’t understand. They won’t appreciate the riddle – the best gift anyone could get.’
Humlin looked at the picture. The three smiling faces were already blending into the old picture of the people who had posed for the camera one hundred years ago.
They returned to the kitchen. Even though it was warm, Tea-Bag had not taken off her coat. She hadn’t even unzipped it. Tanya sat down at one corner of the table where her face was in shadow. Leyla picked at a spot that was growing on one of her nostrils. Tea-Bag rocked back and forth on her chair.
‘What happened?’ Humlin asked, thinking the moment had arrived.
Tea-Bag shook her head and tucked her chin even deeper into her coat.
‘She tried to steal a monkey,’ Leyla said.
‘A monkey?’
‘A Chinese monkey. Made of china. It was in an antique store. It broke. It was pretty expensive.’
‘How much was it?’
‘Eighty thousand.’
‘How could it be so much?’
‘It’s from some ancient dynasty. Three thousand years old or something. It said something about it on the price tag.’
‘Good God. What did they do?’
‘The owners locked the front door and called the police. But she ran away. But the bag with the mobile phones was left behind.’
‘Why did you want to steal a china monkey, Tea-Bag?’
Tea-Bag didn’t answer. She got up and turned off the light. It was dark outside now. A narrow strip of light fell into the kitchen from the hall and living room. Humlin sensed that he was about to hear the continuation of the story that had been interrupted so many times before. He would perhaps even hear it to its end.
*
When I’m at a total loss for what to do next I sometimes choose a shop window at random and peer in to see if there’s something there behind the glass that can give me a sign as to what I should do next: where I should go, who I should talk to, what I should avoid. Before I came to Lagos I hadn’t even seen a shop window before. There were no shops in the village where I was born or in the small settlements out on the plain where roads came together and where the rivers were wide enough to sail on. Anyway, I saw that china monkey in the window display and its eyes looked straight into mine and I felt I had to hold it for a while. If the owners hadn’t started tugging at me I would have simply put it down again and walked away. I looked into the monkey’s eyes and knew it was very old, several thousand years probably. It was like lookin
g into the eyes of a very old person, like my grandmother’s eyes, Alemwa’s eyes. It was like being sucked into a waterfall and then being driven straight into her soul. Perhaps it really was Alemwa’s eyes in that china monkey – I don’t know – but suddenly it was as if I was back in the village where everything had started. I could see my journey, my whole life, completely clearly, like the stars in the African night sky.
Alemwa, I know you are watching over me although you have been dead for many years. I still remember, though I was so little at the time, how you lay down and closed your eyes for the last time. I can see how we carried your thin body wrapped in woven grasses and buried you at the bottom of the hillside where the path to the river took a sharp turn. My father said you had been a kind person who always took the time to listen to the problems of others and that was why you should be buried next to a path so that you would never lack company. Everyone said I was like you, especially my mother, and I think she was a little afraid of me in the same way she had been afraid of you. I can still feel your breath on my neck. It happens every day and it happened often on my long journey. I know you are close to me when I am in danger and there seems to be nothing but danger in this world.
Perhaps it was your breath that woke me up, Alemwa, that night when the soldiers came to take away my father. I remember how my mother screamed like an animal with its leg caught in a trap trying to gnaw it off. I think that is what she was trying to do; trying to gnaw off her arms, legs, ears, eyes, when they came for my father. They hit him until he was covered in blood but he was still alive when they dragged him away in the night.
I know I became an adult that night, way too fast, as if childhood were a skin that was torn from my body. I still remember the pain of seeing my father dragged away in a bloody heap by those soldiers, of knowing but not understanding. I think that was what made me grow up; the realisation that brutality could be accompanied by laughter. Every night during the following months my mother sat outside the hut waiting for my father to come back, to suddenly reappear on the roof so that she could lure him down with soft words and they could spend the rest of the night tightly curled up together.
Then there was the night when we heard that the laughing soldiers were on their way back. When my mother heard about it she covered her head with a white cloth and shook. I was the only child at home at that time. When she took the cloth from her face I could see she had been crying. Her face looked completely different, it had turned inward and I could not see any life in her eyes. She struck me with the white cloth and screamed at me to go away. She chased me away so that I would live.