‘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?’
Lundin threw out his arms in a gesture that Humlin interpreted as a mixture of openness and boredom. Humlin went on to present his idea with the feeling that he was being judged in a court of law where all those not writing crime novels were presumed guilty. Lundin lit another cigarette and measured his blood pressure. When Humlin was done, Lundin leaned back in his chair and shook his head.
‘It’ll sell four thousand, three hundred and twenty copies at most.’
‘How can you know that?’
‘It’s that kind of book. But you can’t write about fat immigrant girls. What do you know about their lives?’
‘That’s what I’m going to find out.’
‘They’ll never tell you the truth.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m just telling you. I have experience in these matters.’
Lundin jumped up and leaned over the table.
‘What you should write is a crime novel. Nothing else. Leave these fat girls alone. You don’t need them and they don’t need you. What we do need is a crime novel from you and then let some young immigrant talent write the great new Swedish novel. I want a title on my desk by the end of the week.’
Lundin stood up.
‘It’s always a pleasure, Humlin. But I have a meeting with the oil executives. They have already indicated their approval of your new crime novel, by the way.’
Lundin swept out of the room. Humlin went to the nearest cafe and drank some coffee to try to regain body heat. He wondered briefly if he should talk to Viktor Leander about his latest idea, but decided against it. If the idea was as good as he thought it was Leander would immediately use it.
He took a taxi back to his apartment and noted with relief that neither Andrea nor his mother had left any messages. After leafing through the notes he had made for his next work of poetry – tentatively titled Torment and Antithesis – he lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Even though he was not entirely confident it still seemed that the idea he had had in Gothenburg was
the strongest impulse he had to go on right now.
He lay on his bed turning his thoughts this way and that until he got up and called Pelle Törnblom. Törnblom sounded short of breath when he finally answered.
‘What are you up to?’ Humlin asked.
‘I’m sparring with a guy from Pakistan. How did Andrea react?’
‘Exactly as I had predicted. But I survived.’
‘You have to agree it was a great party. The kids at the club feel very proud.’
‘Has an Iranian girl named Leyla given you her phone number by any chance?’
‘Her brother boxes at the club,’ Törnblom said. ‘He’s told me what this is all about. I think it’s a great idea.’
Humlin quickly rifled through the pages of his weekly planner.
‘Tell her I’ll come see her next Wednesday. Can we meet at your place?’
‘It’ll be better for you to meet here at the club. I have a large room on the ground floor that you could use.’
‘I hope we’ll be undisturbed there,’ Humlin said.
‘Of course, you realise her brother will have to be present.’
‘No – why is that?’
‘To make sure everything is above board, that no impropriety is committed.’
‘What could possibly happen?’
‘It’s not proper for her to meet alone with an unknown man. We’re talking serious cultural differences here, ones that need to be respected. You never know what could happen when a man and a woman are left alone together.’
‘Good God, Törnblom! You’ve seen her!’
‘She may not be the most beautiful woman on earth but that means nothing in this case. Her brother needs to be there to make sure all goes well.’
‘What do you think me capable of, anyway?’
‘I think it’s a wonderful idea for you to stop writing poetry and write something worthwhile. That’s what I think. You could really make something of yourself, you know.’
Humlin was starting to get angry. He felt insulted, but said nothing. He realised he would have to accept the fact that Leyla’s brother would be chaperoning her.
He hung up and the phone rang almost at once. Humlin let the answering machine pick up. It was a reporter from one of the biggest papers in the country. Humlin answered the phone and tried to sound as if he had just been interrupted in the middle of something very important.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ the reporter said.
Humlin always hoped against hope that the journalists who called would be women with soft, pleasing voices. But this was a man with a rough regional dialect.
‘I’m working, but I’m happy to take a moment to speak to you.’
‘I would like to ask you a couple of questions about your new book.’
Humlin assumed the reporter meant the book of poetry that had come out a few months earlier.
‘A few questions would be fine,’ Humlin said.
‘Do you mind if I turn on my tape recorder?’
‘Not at all.’
Humlin waited until the reporter, whose name he didn’t recognise, had turned on the tape recorder.
‘First I just want to know how you feel about it,’ the reporter said.
Images of the night at the Mölndal library flickered through Humlin’s mind.
‘I feel good about it,’ he said. ‘Very good.’
‘Is there anything in particular that you can point to as a reason for writing this book?’
Humlin looked forward to answering this question. It was one that reporters always asked. A few days ago he had thought of a new answer as he was lying in the bathtub.
‘I am always looking for ways to stray from my familiar literary surroundings and find my way along hitherto undiscovered paths. If I hadn’t become a poet I would probably have gone into topology. Mapping unknown terrain.’
‘I see. Could you translate that for me?’
‘I have a hard time thinking of a more important task than to show people new paths.’
‘Which people are these?’
‘The next generation.’
The reporter coughed.
‘That’s a strange but interesting answer.’
‘Thank you,’ Humlin said.
‘But you have to admit,’ the reporter continued, ‘it’s a big step for you as a poet to be trying your hand at a crime novel.’
Humlin stiffened. His knuckles on the hand holding the receiver grew white.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.’
‘We just received a press announcement from your publisher that you are working on a crime novel to be published in the autumn.’
Humlin had often had reason to think badly of Lundin in the past, but at this moment – cornered without warning by a reporter – he hated him. The only plot for a crime novel he could possibly think of was that of a writer who murdered his publisher by stuffing false press announcements down his throat.
‘Hello?’ the reporter said. ‘Are you still there?’
‘I’m here.’
‘Do you want me to repeat the question?’
‘No need. It’s just that I’ve decided not to answer any questions about the new book. I’ve only just started working on it and it’s easy to lose one’s sense of concentration. It’s a bit like letting unwelcome guests into one’s home.’
‘That sounds complicated. But surely you have something to say. Why would your publisher be releasing this information otherwise?’
‘That I have no idea about. But I will say that I should be ready to talk about the book in about a month.’
‘Can you at least tell me what it’s about?’
Humlin thought hard.
‘I suppose I can say it will play out in the minefields of cultural difference.’
‘Look here, Mr Humlin, I can’t write that. No one will understand a word of it.’
‘People from different cultures who meet and do not understand each other. Conflicts. Is that better?’ Humlin asked.
‘So the murderer targets immigrants?’
‘I’m not going to say anything else. But you’re on the wrong track.’
‘You mean immigrants are killing Swedes?’
‘There are no murders of any kind in this book.’
‘How can it be a crime novel?’
‘I will say more in due course.’
‘When will that be?’
‘In about a month.’
‘Can you say anything else?’
‘No, nothing more at this time.’
Humlin hung up. The reporter had sounded grumpy by the end. Humlin himself was furious and drenched in sweat. He wanted to call Lundin immediately, but knew that nothing would really come of it. The damage was already done. The crime novel he was thought to be writing was already the new literary sensation.
*
Andrea stopped by unexpectedly that evening. Humlin had fallen asleep on the couch, exhausted by his conversation with the reporter. When he heard Andrea at the door he jumped up as if caught in the act of doing something unlawful. But when he heard that she didn’t slam the door he breathed easy. That meant she was not immediately going to attack him. If she closed the door gently that usually meant she was in a good mood.
She lay down beside him on the sofa and shut her eyes.
‘I’m starting to get bitchy,’ she said. ‘I’m turning into an old woman.’
‘It’s me. I often give you reason to worry,’ Humlin said. ‘But I’m trying to change all that.’
Andrea opened her eyes.
‘Oh, I doubt that very much,’ she said. ‘But maybe one day I’ll get used to it.’
They cooked dinner together and drank some wine even though it was the middle of the week. Humlin listened patiently while she ranted about the increasing chaos of the Swedish medical system. At the same time he was thinking about the best way to tell her that he was going to meet with Leyla. But foremost in his mind was what his mother had told him the night b
efore, that she and Andrea discussed intimate details of their private life.
She seemed to have read his thoughts.
‘How was your visit with Märta?’
‘Oh, the way it usually is. But she had bought oysters. And then she told me something I didn’t like.’
‘That she’s going to write you out of her will?’
Humlin frowned.
‘She said that?’
‘No.’
‘Then why would you say that?’
‘For God’s sake, what’s the big deal?’
Humlin realised it probably wasn’t the right time to talk about it. Both he and Andrea had drunk too much wine. That could lead to an explosion. But he couldn’t stop himself.
‘She said you two talk about our sex life. According to my mother you said we aren’t sleeping with each other very often.’
‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Andrea said.
‘Do you have to tell her about it?’
‘Why not? She’s your mother.’
‘She has nothing to do with us.’
‘But we talk about everything. I like your mother.’
‘That’s not what you used to say.’
‘I’ve changed my mind. And she is very frank with me. I know things about her that you could never imagine.’
‘Like what?’ Humlin asked.
Andrea topped up their wine glasses and smiled enigmatically. Humlin didn’t like the look in her eye.
‘Like what?’ Humlin repeated. ‘What is it I don’t know about my mother?’
‘Things you don’t want to know.’
‘How can I know if I want to know them or not before I know what they are?’
‘She has a job.’
Humlin stared at her.
‘What kind of a job?’
‘That’s what you don’t want to know.’
‘My mother has never worked a day in her life. She’s jumped from one ridiculous artistic endeavour to another. But she’s never held down a real job.’
‘Well, she is now.’
‘What does she do?’
‘She’s a phone sex operator.’
Humlin slowly put his wine glass down.
‘I don’t want you saying things like that about her. It’s not funny.’
‘It’s true.’
‘What’s true?’
‘She’s a phone sex operator,’ Andrea repeated.