'Something odd must have happened. Something unnatural.'
'Why do you think that? Explain to me.'
Wrath's voice had changed. She could detect a trace of impatience in his question.
'I knew my son. He was a happy person.'
'What is a happy person?'
'I don't want to talk about your father. I'm talking about Henrik. He did not die willingly.'
'But nobody killed him. Either he died of natural causes, or he took his own life. Our pathologists are very thorough. We shall know the answer before long.'
'And then?'
'What do you mean?'
'When they have failed to find an explanation?'
The silence bounced back and forth between them.
'I'm sorry that I can't help you any more just now.'
'Nobody can help me.'
Louise stood up abruptly.
'There is no explanation. There is no missing link, no faulty connection. Henrik died because somebody else wanted him to die, not himself.'
Göran Wrath accompanied her to the entrance. They parted without saying a word.
* * *
Louise went to the car and drove out of Stockholm. Just before reaching Sala she stopped in a lay-by, tipped back her seat and fell asleep.
Vassilis appeared in her dreams. He insisted that he had nothing to do with Henrik's death.
Louise woke up and continued her journey northwards. That dream was a message, she thought. I dreamed about Vassilis, but in fact I was dreaming about myself. I was trying to convince myself that I hadn't abandoned Henrik. But I didn't listen to him as much as I ought to have done.
She stopped at Orsa for something to eat. A group of young men wearing football shirts – or maybe they were ice-hockey shirts – were laughing and shouting at a nearby table. She felt an urge to tell them about Henrik and ask them to be quiet. Then she started crying. A potbellied lorry driver stared at her. Louise shook her head and he looked away. She saw that he was carefully filling in some kind of betting slip or football coupon, and she hoped he would win.
It was evening by the time she came to the neverending forests. She thought she caught a glimpse of an elk in a clear-felled patch. She stopped and got out of the car. She thought hard in an attempt to find something she had overlooked.
Henrik did not die a natural death. Somebody killed him. The red soil under his shoes, the memory books, his sudden happiness. What is it that I can't see? Perhaps the shards fit together, even if I can't see how.
She stopped again in Noppikoski, when she felt so tired, she could not possibly drive any further.
She dreamed about Greece again, but this time Vassilis only appeared as a shadowy figure on the periphery. She was at the site of a dig when there was a sudden landslide. She was buried underneath the rubble, she was terrified and just as she found herself unable to breathe any more, she woke up.
She carried on driving north. This last dream had an obvious explanation.
It was late at night by the time she reached Sveg. She could see a light in the kitchen as she turned into the forecourt. Her father was still up, as usual. As she had done so many times before, she wondered how he had managed to survive all these years despite having so little sleep.
He was sitting at the kitchen table, greasing some of his carving tools. He did not seem surprised at her coming home in the middle of the night.
'Are you hungry?'
'I had a meal in Orsa.'
'That's a long way away.'
'I'm not hungry.'
'OK, I won't mention it again.'
She sat down on her usual chair, smoothed out the tablecloth and reported on what had happened. When she had finished, neither spoke for a long time.
'Perhaps Wrath is right,' he said eventually. 'Let's see if they can come up with an explanation.'
'I don't think they're doing everything they could do. They're not really interested in Henrik. One young man among thousands who's suddenly discovered dead in his bed.'
'You're being unfair.'
'I know I'm being unfair. But that's how I feel.'
'I suppose we'll have to wait and see what they say, anyway.'
Louise knew he was right. The truth about what had happened, about what had caused Henrik's death, would never be discovered if they refused to consider the postmortem examination.
Louise was tired. She was about to stand up and go to bed when Artur held her back.
'I've had another go at finding Aron.'
'Have you traced him?'
'No. But I've made an effort, at least. I've been in touch with our embassy in Canberra again, and talked to a few people at the friendship society. But nobody has ever heard of Aron Cantor. Are you sure he's living in Australia?'
'Nobody can be sure of anything as far as Aron is concerned.'
'It would be sad if he didn't find out what had happened and hence couldn't be present at the funeral.'
'Maybe he doesn't want to be there? Maybe he doesn't want us to find him at all?'
'Surely he would want to be there?'
'You don't know Aron.'
'You could be right about that. You hardly gave me a chance to meet him.'
'What do you mean by that?'
'There's no need to get het up. You know I'm right.'
'You're not right at all. I never got in the way of you and Aron.'
'It's too late at night for an argument like this.'
'It isn't an argument. It's a pointless conversation. Thank you for taking the trouble, but Aron won't be coming to the funeral.'
'Nevertheless, I think we ought to keep on looking.'
Louise made no reply. And Artur stopped talking about Aron.
Aron was not present at the funeral of his son, Henrik Cantor, in the Lutheran church in Sveg two weeks later. After the notice of Henrik's death had appeared, a lot of people contacted Nazrin, who was a big help to Louise during those difficult weeks. Many of Henrik's friends, most of whom Louise had never heard of, had said they would like to be present at the funeral. But Härjedalen was too far away. Nazrin had suggested a memorial service in Stockholm after the burial. Louise realised that she ought to meet Henrik's friends, who might be able to help her find an explanation of his death; but she did not feel up to anything more than the funeral. She asked Nazrin to keep a record of everybody who made enquiries.
The funeral took place on Wednesday, 20 October, at one o'clock. Nazrin arrived the day before, accompanied by another girl by the name of Vera who, if Louise understood the situation correctly, had also had a relationship with Henrik. There would be very few people present at the funeral. It seemed like a huge betrayal of Henrik and all the people he had known during his life. But there was no possible alternative to the arrangements they had made.
Louise and Artur had quarrelled vehemently over who should conduct the funeral. Louise had insisted that Henrik would not have wanted the ceremony to be carried out by a vicar, but Artur thought that his grandson may have been interested in spiritual matters. Who was there in Sveg who could carry off a worthy ceremony for Henrik? Nyblom, the vicar, was not an overzealous preacher of God's word and usually expressed himself in simple, everyday terms. He could be persuaded to omit God and sanctity from the funeral service.
Louise gave way. She lacked the strength to fight a battle. She felt weaker for each day that passed.
Göran Wrath phoned on Tuesday, 19 October. He informed Louise that the post-mortem had established that the cause of death had been barbiturate poisoning, a big overdose of sleeping tablets. He apologised once more for the length of time it had taken. Louise listened to what he had to say in a sort of trance. She knew that he would not dream of giving her this information unless it was a clear and incontestable outcome. He promised to send her all the documentation, expressed his sympathy once more, and told her that the investigation was now at an end. The police had nothing more to say, no prosecutor would need to be consulted as suicide had been confi
rmed.
When Louise told Artur what Wrath had said, he commented: 'Well, that's it confirmed.'
Louise knew that Artur did not believe this. He would worry about it endlessly. Why had Henrik decided to take his own life? Assuming that really was what had happened.
Nazrin and Vera could not believe either that what Wrath had told them was the truth. Nazrin said: 'If he was going to commit suicide he would have done it in some other way. Not in his bed, with sleeping tablets. That would have been too wimpish for Henrik.'
Louise awoke on the morning of 20 October and saw that there had been a frost during the night. She went down to the railway bridge and stood for ages leaning over the rail, staring into the black water below, just as black as the earth into which Henrik's coffin would shortly be lowered. Louise had been adamant on that point. Henrik should not be cremated, his body should be delivered into the ground. She stared down into the river and remembered standing at the very same spot when she had been young and unhappy, and perhaps even thought of taking her own life. It was as if Henrik were standing by her side. He would not have jumped either. He would have clung on to life, he would not have let go.
She stood on the bridge for a long time in the earlymorning hours.
Today I am about to bury my only child. I shall never have another child. Henrik's coffin contains a vital part of my life. A part that will never return.
The coffin was brown, decked with roses, no wreaths. The organist played Bach, and a piece by Scarlatti that he had suggested himself. The vicar spoke calmly, without fuss, and God was not present in the church. Louise sat beside Artur; on the other side of the coffin were Nazrin and Vera. Louise appeared to observe the whole funeral ceremony from a great distance. Nevertheless, she was the one that it was for. You could not feel sorry for the deceased. The dead cry no more. But Louise? She was a ruin. However, some arches inside her remained undamaged, and she was determined to preserve them.
Nazrin and Vera left early to begin their long bus ride back to Stockholm. But Nazrin promised to keep in touch, and said that when Louise felt up to emptying Henrik's flat in Stockholm, she would be pleased to help.
That evening Louise sat in the kitchen with Artur and a bottle of vodka. He drank it to accompany his coffee, Louise watered it down with lemonade. As if by silent agreement, they both drank themselves silly. By about ten o'clock they were slumped hollow-eyed over the kitchen table.
'I'm leaving tomorrow.'
'Going back?'
'Isn't everybody always going back to somewhere? I'm going to Greece. I must finish my work there. What happens after that, I have no idea.'
The next day, well before dawn, he drove her to Östersund airport. The ground had a thin covering of powdery snow. Artur took her hand and urged her to be careful. She could see he was trying to think of something else to say, but couldn't. As she sat back on the flight to Arlanda, she thought he would doubtless start work later that day on carving Henrik's face into one of his trees.
She caught the 7.55 flight from Arlanda to Frankfurt, intending to continue from there to Athens. But when she arrived in Frankfurt it seemed that all the decisions she had made collapsed. She cancelled her flight to Athens.
She knew now what she had to do. Artur had been neither right nor wrong, her concession had nothing to do with him. It was her own decision, her own insight into the reality of the situation.
Aron. He existed. He must exist.
She managed to catch the 9.50 Qantas flight to Sydney. The last thing she did before leaving was to ring one of her colleagues in Greece and say that she was not in a position to return there yet.
Another journey, another meeting would have to take place first.
Sitting next to her on the flight was an unaccompanied child, a little girl oblivious to everything around her. The only thing she had eyes for was her doll, a strange mixture of an elephant and an old lady.
Louise Cantor gazed out of the window.
Aron. He existed. He must exist.
CHAPTER 7
When they made a refuelling stop in Singapore, Louise left the plane and strolled in the damp heat through the long corridors with yellowish-brown carpets that only seemed to lead to new, distant terminals.
She paused at a shop selling stationery, and bought a diary with birds embroidered on the violet-coloured covers. The girl who served her smiled at her with eyes full of warmth. Louise immediately felt the tears welling up inside her. She turned on her heel and left.
On the way back she was afraid of being overcome with panic. She walked close to the walls, increased her pace and tried to concentrate on breathing. She was convinced that at any moment everything would go black and she would fall over. But she had no desire to wake up on that yellowish-brown carpet. She did not want to fall. Not now when she had made the vital decision to go and look for Aron.
The plane took off for Sydney soon before midnight. Even before she left Frankfurt she had lost count of the time zones she would pass through. She was travelling in a weightless and timeless state. Perhaps that was the best way of approaching Aron? During the years they had lived together he had always had a strange ability to be aware of when she was on her way home, when she was approaching him. On many an occasion when she was annoyed by something he had said or done, it had struck her that she would never be able to surprise him if he was unfaithful to her.
She had an aisle seat, 26D. Fast asleep in the seat next to her was a friendly man who had introduced himself as a retired group captain in the Australian air force. He had made no attempt to converse with her, and she was relieved about that. She sat in the dimly lit aircraft and accepted a series of glasses of water that the silent cabin crew carried round on trays at regular intervals. On the other side of the aisle was a woman about her own age, listening to one of the radio channels.
Louise took out her newly acquired diary, switched on her reading light, found a pencil and started writing.
Red soil. Those were her first words. Why was that the first thing to come to her mind? Was that the most important clue she had? The key piece that all the other fragments would eventually fit around?
In her mind's eye she leafed through the two memory books about the dead or dying women.
How had Henrik come across them? He was not a child who needed to have something to remember his parents by. He knew a lot, albeit not everything, about his mother. And Aron was somebody he was in regular contact with, even if his father was mostly absent. Where had he got those books from? Who had given them to him?
She wrote down a question. Where does the red soil come from? That was as far as she could get. She put away the diary, switched off the reading light and closed her eyes. I need Aron in order to think. In his best moments he was not only a good lover, he also understood the art of listening. He was one of those rare creatures who could give advice without taking into account what advantages he could gain for himself.
She opened her eyes in the darkness. Perhaps that was the aspect of Aron and their life together that she missed most of all? The listening and sometimes immensely clever man she had fallen in love with, and had a son with?
That's the Aron I'm looking for, she thought. Without his help I shall never be able to understand what has happened. I'll never be able to find my way back into my own life without his support.