President J. F. Kennedy's brain disappeared, and its location is still unknown.
Louise lay in her bed with her eyes closed and tried to understand. What had Henrik been looking for? She thought through the marginal notes he had made in the various documents.
The dead president's brain is like a hard drive. Was somebody afraid that it would become possible to decode the brain, just as it is possible to dig down into the cellars of a hard drive and retrieve imprints of texts that really ought to have been erased?
Henrik did not answer his own question.
She lay on her side in bed and studied a painting on the wall next to the bathroom door. Three tulips in a beige vase. The table dark brown, the cloth white. A bad painting, she thought. It doesn't breathe, the flowers don't produce any perfume.
In one of the files Henrik had inserted a full page torn out of a notebook on which he had tried to answer the question about why the brain might have disappeared.
Fear of what it contains, of the possibility that it might become possible to extract the innermost thoughts of a dead man. Like safe cracking or stealing diaries from somebody's most intimate hiding place. Is it possible to penetrate any deeper into a person's private world than by stealing his thoughts?
Louise could not understand who was afraid, or of what. What does Henrik think the dead president can tell him? A story that came to an end a long time ago? What exactly is this story Henrik is searching for?
I must be on the wrong track, she thought. She sat up in bed and felt for the piece of paper on which he had made notes. She could see he had been writing quickly. The wording was careless, the punctuation haphazard, and there were a lot of crossings-out. She also thought she could detect that he had not been resting the paper on something solid, possibly just his knee. He had written down the word trophy. He continued: A scalp can be the ultimate prize, just like the antlers of a deer or the skin of a lion. So why couldn't a brain be a trophy? In that case, who is the hunter? Then came Robert Kennedy's name, with a question mark after it.
The third motive was the unknown alternative, something that it is impossible to imagine. As long as the brain is missing, this unknown alternative has to be a possibility. I cannot afford to overlook the unknown aspect.
It was still dark, but she got out of bed and stood by the window again. It was raining, car headlights were glistening. She was forced to lean against the wall so as not to fall down. What was he looking for? She felt sick and could stay in the room no longer.
By soon after seven she had packed up Henrik's papers, paid her hotel bill and was sitting in the breakfast room with a cup of coffee.
At a nearby table a man and a woman were reading lines from a play. The man was very old. He was peering short-sightedly at the script and his hands were shaking. The woman was wearing a red overcoat and read in a monotonous tone of voice. The play was about a separation, and the scene was set in a hallway, or possibly in a stairwell. Louise was unable to work out if he was leaving her, or if it was the other way round. She finished her coffee and left the hotel. It had stopped raining. She walked up the hill to Henrik's flat. She was exhausted, her mind was swimming. I shall think no further ahead than my next step. One step at a time, no more.
She sat down at the kitchen table and avoided looking at the breadcrumbs still on its surface. She thumbed through his diary one more time. The letter 'B' kept recurring. She tried to think of a possible name that it stood for: Birgitta, Barbara, Berit. There was no clue anywhere to be found. Why was Henrik so interested in President Kennedy and his brain? Something had taken possession of him. But was what he was looking for something real, or merely a symbol? Did the shattered vase actually exist in the real world, or was it only a mirage?
She forced herself to open his wardrobe door, and go through his pockets. All she found was small change, most of the coins Swedish, but there were a couple of euros. In the pocket of one of Henrik's jackets she found a dirty bus ticket, or it might have been for the underground. She went into the kitchen and examined it under the table lamp. Madrid. So Henrik had been in Spain. He had not mentioned anything about that, she would have remembered if he had. Often all he said about his travels was where he had been. He never said why he had gone to a particular place, just the name of it.
She went back to the wardrobe. In one trouser pocket she found the remains of a dried flower that crumbled into powder when she took it out. Nothing else.
She started to go through his shirts. There was a ring at the door. She gave a start. The shrill bell sound cut into her like a knife. Her heart was beating frenetically as she went to the hall and opened the door. It was not Henrik standing there, but a short girl with dark hair and eyes to match, wearing an overcoat buttoned high up at the neck.
The girl looked expectantly at Louise.
'Is Henrik in?'
Louise burst into tears. The girl backed away almost imperceptibly.
'What are you doing here?' she asked. She sounded frightened.
Louise was unable to reply. She turned and went back to the kitchen. She could hear the girl coming in and closing the door quietly behind her.
'What are you doing here?' she asked again.
'Henrik is dead.'
The girl stood motionless, staring at Louise.
'Who are you?' Louise asked.
'My name's Nazrin and I was in a relationship with Henrik. Perhaps we still are a couple. We are friends in any case. He is the best friend you could ask for.'
'He's dead.'
Louise drew up a chair for the girl to sit on. Her overcoat was still buttoned up at the neck. When Louise told her what had happened, Nazrin shook her head slowly.
'Henrik can't possibly be dead,' she said when Louise had finished.
'No. I agree. He can't be . . .'
Louise waited for Nazrin's reaction. But she waited in vain, there was no reaction. Then Nazrin started asking tentative questions. Louise thought the truth had still not struck home.
'Was he ill?'
'He was never ill. He'd had a few of the usual childhood illnesses, such as measles, without our really noticing there was anything wrong with him. He had a phase as a teenager when he kept getting nosebleeds. But that passed. He always used to say he was so fit because life passed by so slowly.'
'What did he mean by that?'
'I've no idea.'
'But he can't have just died, surely, without warning? That doesn't happen.'
'It doesn't happen. But it happens even so. What doesn't happen is the worst that can happen.'
Louise suddenly felt furious over the fact that Nazrin had not started to cry. It was as if she were desecrating his memory.
'I want you to leave now,' she said.
'Why should I leave?'
'You came to see Henrik. He doesn't exist any more. So you should leave.'
'I don't want to leave.'
'I don't even know who you are. He's never said anything about you.'
'He told me he'd never mentioned me to you. "You can't live without secrets".'
'Is that what he said?'
'He said it was you who had taught him that.'
Louise's anger faded. She felt embarrassed.
'I'm afraid,' she said. 'I'm shaking. I've lost my only child. I've lost my own life. I'm sitting here waiting to fall to pieces.'
Nazrin stood up and went to the other room. Louise could hear her sobbing. She was away for some considerable time. When she came back, she had unbuttoned her coat and her dark eyes were red.
'We had decided to "go for the long walk". That's what we used to call it. We'd follow the river and head out of town for as long as we could manage. The rule was that we shouldn't say a word on the way out, but we could talk on the way back.'
'How come that you are called Nazrin but don't speak Swedish with a foreign accent?'
'I was born at Arlanda airport. We'd been hanging around there for two days, waiting to be allocated to some refugee camp or oth
er. Mum gave birth to me on the floor next to passport control. It all went very quickly. I was born at the precise spot where Sweden begins. Neither Mum nor Dad had a passport, but as I was born on the floor there, I was awarded Swedish citizenship right away. An old passport officer still keeps in touch.'
'How did you and Henrik meet?'
'On a bus. We were sitting next to each other. He started laughing and pointed to something somebody had written in Indian ink next to the window. I didn't think it was funny at all.'
'What did it say?'
'I can't remember. Then he called on me at work. I'm a dental nurse. He'd stuffed cotton wool into his mouth and claimed that he had toothache.'
Nazrin took off her coat. Louise eyed her up and down and imagined her naked lying next to Henrik.
She reached out over the table and grasped Nazrin's arm.
'You must know something. I was in Greece. You were here. Did something happen? Did he change?'
'He was happy, happier than ever these last few weeks. I've never seen him so elated.'
'What had happened?'
'I don't know.'
Louise could tell that Nazrin was telling the truth. It's like digging down into complex strata, she thought. It can take even an experienced archaeologist some time to realise that they have come to a new cultural horizon. You can dig through these complex remains and only through analysis later can you realise the significance of what has been found.
'When did you notice this happiness?'
Nazrin's reply surprised her.
'When he came back home after a trip.'
'Where to?'
'I don't know.'
'Didn't he tell you where he was going to?'
'Not always. On this occasion he didn't say anything at all. I met him at the airport. He'd come from Frankfurt. But he'd started off from much further away than that. I don't know where.'
Louise felt a shooting pain, as if from a damaged tooth. Henrik had transferred in Frankfurt, just as she had done only the other day. She had come from Athens. Where had his aeroplane started from, before descending through the clouds over Germany?
'He must have said something. You must have noticed something. Was he tanned? Did he bring any gifts?'
'He said nothing at all. He has a more or less permanent tan. He was much happier than when he left. He never used to give me presents.'
'How long had he been away?'
'Three weeks.'
'But he didn't say where he'd been?'
'No.'
'When did this trip take place?'
'About two months ago.'
'Did he explain why he hadn't said anything about it?'
'He spoke about his "little secret".'
'Is that what he called it?'
'That's exactly what he said.'
'And he didn't have anything for you?'
'As I said, he never used to buy me presents. But he did write poems.'
'What about?'
'Darkness.'
Louise looked at Nazrin in astonishment.
'Are you saying he gave you some poems about darkness that he'd written on his journey?'
'There were seven poems, one written every third day throughout the trip. They were about remarkable people who lived in constant darkness. People who had given up looking for a way out.'
'That sounds pretty grim.'
'They were horrible.'
'Do you still have them?'
'He wanted me to burn them after I'd read them.'
'Why?'
'I asked the same question. He said they weren't needed any longer.'
'Was that usual? For him to ask you to burn what he's written?'
'It had never happened before. This was the only time.'
'Did he ever talk to you about a brain that had disappeared?'
Nazrin stared uncomprehendingly at her.
'John Kennedy was murdered in Dallas in 1963. After the post-mortem, his brain disappeared.'
Nazrin shook her head.
'I've no idea what you're talking about. I wasn't even born in 1963.'
'But you must have heard of President Kennedy?'
'I might have done.'
'Did Henrik ever talk about him?'
'Why should he?'
'I'm only asking. I've found lots of papers here about President Kennedy. And his missing brain.'
'Why should Henrik have been interested in that?'
'I don't know. It's just that I think it's important.'
There was a clatter from post dropping onto the doormat. Both of them gave a start. Nazrin went to the door and returned with advertising leaflets about special offers on pork loin and computers. She put them on the kitchen table, but did not sit down again.
'I can't stay here. I feel as if I'm suffocating.'
She burst out sobbing. Louise stood up and embraced her.
'What happened to bring things to an end?' she asked when Nazrin had calmed down. 'When love turned into friendship?'
'That only applied to him. I still loved him. I hoped everything would get back to normal.'
'Why was he so happy? Had he found another woman?'
Nazrin answered without hesitation. Louise realised that this was a question Nazrin had asked herself.
'There was no other woman.'
'Help me to understand. You saw him from a different point of view. For me, he was my son. You never see your own children clearly. There's always an expectation or a worry that distorts the picture.'
Nazrin sat down again. Louise could see that Nazrin's eyes were flitting back and forth over the kitchen walls, as if seeking a point of reference to hang on to.
'Maybe I'm using the wrong words,' Nazrin said. 'Maybe I ought to be talking about a sorrow that had suddenly disappeared, rather than unexpected happiness.'