'I don't know. But I'm trying to find out.'
'You are all I have. I'm scared when you are so far away.'
'I'm always careful.'
'Sometimes that's not enough.'
'I'll get back to you. Have you had snow yet?'
'It came last night. Just a few flakes at first, but then it grew thicker. I was sitting here in the kitchen, watching. It's like a white silence falling down to embrace the ground.'
A white silence falling down to embrace the ground. Two men who attacked me. Had they followed me from the hotel? Or had they been lurking in the shadows, without my seeing them?
She hated them. She wanted to see them whipped, bleeding, screaming.
It was eleven when she went down to reception and asked for a taxi to take her to Feira Popular. The man at the information counter looked surprised, but then smiled.
'The porter will help you. It's only a ten-minute walk.'
'Is it dangerous there?'
She was surprised by her question, that just came out unexpectedly. But she was well aware that the muggers would resurface in her consciousness, no matter where she was. Even the man who had attacked her in London all those years ago still turned up to haunt her occasionally.
'Why should it be dangerous?'
'I don't know. That's why I'm asking you.'
'I suppose it might be dangerous for some, but they won't be interested in you.'
Prostitutes, she thought. But you find them everywhere, surely?
The taxi smelled of fish. The man behind the wheel drove fast and seemed not to notice the absence of a rear-view mirror. In the darkness the ride seemed to be like a descent into the underworld. He dropped her at what appeared to be the entrance to a fairground. She paid the entry fee, suspecting that she was being overcharged, then found herself in a conglomeration of little restaurants and bars. In the centre there was a dilapidated and forgotten carousel, on which many of the horses were headless, and an equally abandoned big wheel that had long since ceased to turn. Music from all sides, shadows, dimly lit rooms where men and women hunched over bottles and glasses. Young black girls in miniskirts, their breasts barely covered, swished past in their high-heeled shoes. Dangerous women hunting for harmless men.
Louise was looking for the bar named Malocura. She kept losing her way in the labyrinth, repeatedly finding herself back where she had started from. Occasionally she would give a start, as if she had been attacked yet again by muggers. She imagined knives glinting on all sides. She ventured into a bar that was distinguished from all the others by being brightly lit. She drank a beer and a glass of vodka. To her surprise she saw that two of the South Africans who had shared her minibus from the airport were sitting in a corner. Both the man and the woman were drunk. He kept tapping her shoulder, over and over again, as if he were trying to knock her over.
It was past midnight now. Louise continued her search for Malocura. She found it in the end. It really was called Malocura – the name was written on a piece of cardboard – and was tucked into a corner next to the outer wall. Louise peered into the dimly lit premises, and found an empty table.
Lucinda was standing by the bar, loading a tray with bottles and glasses. She was thinner than Louise had expected, but there was no doubt about who she was.
Lucinda went to a table and unloaded her tray.
Then she noticed Louise, who raised her hand. Lucinda came to her table.
'Would you like something to eat?'
'I just want a glass of wine.'
'We don't serve wine. Only beer.'
'Coffee?'
'Nobody ever asks for coffee.'
'Then I'll have a beer.'
Lucinda returned with a glass and a brown bottle.
'I know your name is Lucinda.'
'Who are you?'
'I'm Henrik's mother.'
Then it dawned on her that Lucinda could not possibly know that Henrik was dead. But it was too late now, it was impossible for her to withdraw that remark, there was no possibility of retreat.
'I've come to tell you that Henrik is dead. I've come to ask if you know why.'
Lucinda was motionless. Her eyes were very deep, her lips tightly closed.
'My name's Louise. Maybe he's told you about me?'
Did he ever mention his mother? Did he say anything about me? Or am I as unknown to you as you are to me?
CHAPTER 13
Lucinda took off her apron, exchanged a few words with the man behind the bar who appeared to be in charge, then led Louise to another dimly lit, out-of-the-way bar where young women were sitting along the walls. They sat down at a table and Lucinda ordered beer for them both without asking. It was totally silent in the room. There was no radio, no canned music. The heavily madeup women did not speak to one another. They either sat in silence, smoking, or looking at their lifeless faces in pocket mirrors, or swinging their legs restlessly back and forth. Louise noted that some of them were very young, thirteen or perhaps fourteen, no more. Their skirts were extremely short, hiding practically nothing, the heels of their shoes high and pointed, their breasts almost bare. They are made up like dead bodies, Louise thought. Bodies waiting to be buried, perhaps mummified. But no prostitute is preserved for generations to come. They just rot away behind their heavily painted faces.
Two bottles were brought to their table, glasses and paper serviettes. Lucinda leaned forward towards Louise. Her eyes were red.
'Say it again. Slowly. Tell me what has happened.'
* * *
Louise could detect no trace of dissimulation in Lucinda. Her face, covered in beads of sweat, was an open book. Lucinda's horror at what she had been forced to listen to was obvious.
'I found Henrik dead in his flat in Stockholm. Have you visited him there?'
'I have never been to Sweden.'
'He was lying in bed. His body was full of barbiturates. That's what caused his death. But why had he taken his own life?'
One of the young women came over to their table and asked for a light. Lucinda lit her cigarette. In the light from the match Louise could see the young woman's emaciated face.
Black patches on her cheeks, badly smeared over with make-up, powdered. Symptoms of Aids that I've read about. The black marks of death, wounds that refuse to heal.
Lucinda sat motionless.
'I can't understand it.'
'Nobody can understand it. But you might be able to help me. What could have happened? Might it have had something to do with Africa? He was here in early summer. What happened then?'
'Nothing that could have made him want to kill himself.'
'I have to know what happened. What state was he in when he arrived, who did he meet? How was he when he left?'
'Henrik was always the same.'
I must give her time, Louise thought. She has been shocked by what I've told her. At least now I know that Henrik meant something to her.
'He was my only child. He was all I had, there was nobody else.'
Louise noticed a sudden glint in Lucinda's eye, surprise, perhaps worry.
'Didn't he have any brothers and sisters?'
'No, he was an only child.'
'He told me he had a sister. He was the youngest.'
'It's not true. I'm his mother. I ought to know.'
'How do I know you're telling me the truth?'
Louise was furious.
'I'm his mother, and I'm totally devastated by his death. You hurt me deeply if you question who I am.'
'I didn't mean to offend you. But Henrik was always talking about his sister.'
'He didn't have a sister. Perhaps he would have liked one.'
The girls lined up along the walls left the bar one after the other. Soon Louise and Lucinda were alone in the silence and darkness, apart from the barman, busy filing away at a thumbnail.
'They are so young, the girls who were sitting here.'
'The youngest are the most sought-after. South African men who come here like to g
o with twelve- and thirteen-year-olds.'
'Aren't they carrying infections?'
'You mean Aids? The one whose cigarette I lit is ill. But not all of them are. Unlike many of their age, these girls know the score. They look after themselves. They are not the ones who die or pass the infection on.'
But you do, Louise thought. You passed it on to him, you opened the door and allowed death to enter his bloodstream.
'The girls hate what they do. But they only have white men as clients. That means they can tell their boyfriends that they haven't been unfaithful. They've only had sex with white men. That doesn't count.'
'Is that really the case?'
'Why shouldn't it be?'
Louise wanted to ask the question right out, no beating about the bush. Did you infect him? Didn't you know you had the virus? How could you do that?
But she said nothing.
'I have to know what happened,' she said after a while.
'Nothing happened while he was here. Was he alone when he died?'
'Yes, he was alone.'
I don't actually know that, Louise thought. There could have been somebody with him.
She suddenly thought of an explanation for the pyjamas. Henrik did not die in his bed. Only after he had lost consciousness or could no longer offer any resistance had he been undressed and the pyjamas put on him. Whoever was with him in the flat had not known that Henrik always slept naked.
Lucinda suddenly burst into tears. The whole of her body was shaking. The man behind the bar studying his thumbnail raised an eyebrow in the direction of Louise. She shook her head, she did not need any help.
Louise took hold of her hand. It was hot and sweaty. She held hard onto it. Lucinda calmed down, wiped her face with a serviette.
'How did you manage to find me?'
'Henrik left a letter in Barcelona. He wrote about you.'
'What did he say?'
'That you would know if something happened to him.'
'Know what?'
'I don't have the slightest idea.'
'And you've come all the way here, just to talk to me?'
'I have to try to understand what happened. Did he know anybody else here, apart from you?'
'Henrik knew lots of people.'
'That's not the same as having friends.'
'He had me. And Eusebio.'
'Who?'
'That's what he called him. Eusebio. A civil servant at the Swedish Embassy who used to be one of the gang that played football on the beach every Sunday. A very awkward person who was nothing like the footballer of that name. Henrik sometimes used to stay at his place.'
'I thought he stayed with you?'
'I live with my parents and the rest of the family. He couldn't sleep there. Sometimes he would borrow a flat from somebody at the embassy who was away on business. Eusebio used to help him.'
'Do you know his real name?'
'Lars Håkansson. I'm not sure if I'm pronouncing it right.'
'So you lived there with Henrik?'
'I was in love with him. I dreamed of marrying him. But I never lived with him in Eusebio's house.'
'Did you discuss that? Getting married?'
'Never. It was just a dream I had.'
'How did you meet?'
'The way you always meet – by chance. You walk down a street and turn a corner. Everything in life is about what's in store for you round the corner.'
'Which corner was it where you bumped into each other?'
Lucinda shook her head. Louise could see that she was worried.
'I must get back to the bar. We can talk tomorrow. Where are you staying?'
'At the Hotel Polana.'
Lucinda pulled a face.
'Henrik would never have stayed there. He didn't have enough money.'
Oh yes he did, Louise thought. So he didn't tell Lucinda the whole truth either.
'It's expensive,' she said. 'But my journey was unplanned, as you can probably understand. I'll change hotels.'
'How long is it since he died?'
'A few weeks.'
'I must know the exact date.'
'September 17.'
Lucinda stood up.
'Not yet,' said Louise, holding her back. 'There's something else I haven't told you yet.'
Lucinda sat down again. The man from behind the bar came to their table. Lucinda paid for the drinks. Louise took money from her jacket pocket, but Lucinda shook her head, almost aggressively. The man returned to the bar and his thumbnail. Louise braced herself to say what had to be said.
'Henrik was ill. He was HIV-positive.'
Lucinda was unmoved. She waited for what Louise was going to say next.
'Do you understand what I've just said?'
'I heard what you said.'
'Was it you who infected him?'
Lucinda's face went blank. She looked at Louise, as if from a distance.
'Before I can talk about anything else, I have to have an answer to that question.'
Lucinda's face was still expressionless. Her eyes were in partial shade. Her voice was steady when she replied. But Louise had learned from Aron that fury could be concealed just under the surface, especially in people of whom you would least expect it.
'It was not my intention to hurt you.'
'I never found in Henrik what I can see in you – your contempt. You despise black people. Maybe not consciously, but it's there even so. You think it's our own weaknesses that have made the agonies of Africa so devastating. Just like nearly all other white people, you think the most important thing is to know how we die. You couldn't care less about how we live. The miserable life an African leads is no more significant than a slight shift in the wind direction.'
'You can't accuse me of being racist.'
'You can decide for yourself if that's a justified accusation or not. If you must know, it wasn't me who infected Henrik.'
'How did he get the virus, then?'
'He put himself about. A lot of the girls you saw here not long ago could well have been to bed with him.'
'But you said a few minutes ago that they weren't carriers?'
'There only needs to be one. He was careless. He didn't always use a condom.'
'Good God!'
'When he was drunk he would become careless and went from woman to woman. When he came crawling back to me after his jaunts, he was full of remorse. But he soon forgot.'