The Hand that Trembles (10 page)

He stood up in order to make his way down the slope and toward the nursery. Perhaps he had been sitting too long, he had been training himself to sit in a crouch, so that his muscles had become stiff and his joints immobile, for after only a couple of steps he tripped and pitched forward headlong. He automatically threw his hands up to break his fall. When he landed, a root poking out of the ground cut into his right arm, into the flesh from his wrist to his elbow. He remained prone for a while, in shock, shaken by his flight, experiencing a burning pain. Shortly thereafter he felt blood running down his arm. At first he did not even want to look at his injury, as he knew it was serious. His thoughts went – strangely enough – to Ante, and how his uncle with his all-seeing gaze, like a worshipped but also feared god, pointed his finger as if to say that sin punishes itself.

Finally he lifted his head and looked at his arm. The blood was flowing and had already formed a neat pool at the bottom of the pond. He managed to crawl to his feet and felt at that point that one knee had been banged up and that blood was also flowing from his forehead. He fumbled with his shirt, pulled it off, and wrapped it around his forearm.

On his way over to the nursery, he started to think of the consequences. He was not insured, but that was less important as he – in contrast to his co-workers – had enough money to pay for healthcare. What was much worse was the fact that he would be unable to work. He would have to take it easy and recuperate for a while. The routine of going to the garden every day gave his life meaning. A long convalescence, with a lack of assigned tasks and the anxiety-infused thoughts that he knew would come, would throw him off balance just at the time when he after many years had managed to find a kind of equilibrium and peace of mind.

But as it turned out, it was just the opposite. The period that followed the unfortunate accident was the best of his time to date in Bangalore.

After bandaging Sven-Arne with materials from the paltry first-aid kit at the nursery, Jyoti took him to a hospital in Vasanth Nagar that she claimed was good.

The long laceration needed nineteen stitches, his head was cleaned and bandaged, and he received a support bandage for his leg. He was treated quickly and well. Jyoti pointed out that he went before many others. When she saw his expression she smiled and said something he did not understand, but it sounded like a saying.

Jyoti hailed a rickshaw and they went home to Sven-Arne’s place, where she took charge and made him lie down while she made tea. His head throbbed and his limbs ached, but he took pleasure in listening to the rattle from the little kitchen alcove.

The next day she returned, changed the bandage on his head, massaged his leg, and made tea.

He was close to tearful gratitude for her attentions. He gave her money so that she could buy some food. Perhaps he exaggerated his pain, made faces when he tried to cross the room, and took his head in his hand as he rested on the bed.

Sven-Arne started to long for the sound of her footsteps on the stairs. Misfortune turned to joy.

After only a week, they embarked on an intimate relationship. He decided that they should celebrate the removal of his stitches and on the way back he bought delicacies, beer, and a bottle of Old Monk. He had imagined that it would be difficult to get Jyoti to indulge, but she ate with a wonderful appetite. They became somewhat intoxicated, she spoke about Chennai and described the life of a single, childless woman. He lied as usual about his life, now without hesitation. The friction he felt in the early days when he narrated his fictitious tale had evaporated.

He looked at her from across the table, wanted her, and when she got up to clear the table he made some clumsy advances. To his great surprise she did not reject them.

They undressed in the dark, lying close to each other all night, and when she left early in the morning Sven-Arne was possessed with happiness, a feeling from a very long time ago.

She returned the next evening and thereby confirmed their budding relationship. He knew it was not easy for her. The rumour that she was associating with ‘the Englishman’ and spending the nights there would soon spread. He could only imagine how it would affect her life, but when he asked her, he only received an embarrassed reply.

Their bliss lasted only half a year. Then Jyoti wanted them to get married. She gave him an ultimatum. The rumour of their relationship had reached Chennai. He had to explain he could not get married, but was obliged to lie as usual. He could not give her the real reason. He was already formally married, but above all he lacked an identity. He would never be able to register for anything in India, definitely not a marriage. His invented alias was all too transparent, he was convinced the Indian authorities wanted documents to prove who he was, perhaps a birth certificate.

She went without a word, gave up her post at the garden and left. To Chennai, Sven-Arne supposed, where else would she go?

He asked himself if he would have married, if he were free? He did not think so.

He wanted love, but no longer believed himself capable of receiving it, and definitely not giving it. This insight came to him one day in the alley outside his home. He sat, as he often did in the early evening, on a stool leaning against the wall. There he could follow life on the street, catch his breath after work, and exchange a few words with his neighbours. A cat, or rather, a kitten, rubbed against his legs and unexpectedly jumped into his lap.

The emaciated body immediately started to purr. It stretched its paws, showed its puny claws, found a comfortable position, and purred loudly. A feeling of well-being arose in Sven-Arne, perhaps it was even love, that such a vulnerable creature found a haven in his skinny lap. He was also slightly ashamed. Would the street’s ‘Englishman’ play a host to a miserable, bony kitten?

But it was as if he grew a little more human with his temporary visitor, because he cherished no illusions that it would ever return. To be a cat in Bangalore was to be jilted, cast aside. Passers-by did not ridicule him, quite the opposite. They paused, stroked the cat, and smiled. And Sven-Arne felt he got a drop or two, he felt they were patting him.

It struck him that he loved the cat and that animals were perhaps the only thing he was capable of loving. Mute creatures who came and went as they pleased, who exchanged warmth, stole a few minutes of rest and security, perhaps a morsel of food, and showed a form of trust in return.

While he slowly ran his hand along the cat’s back he thought of Elsa, how much he had taken for granted, and how little he had given in return.

He had not loved. He had simply not been capable. He had loved the cause, the task, the movement. There was his source, the tenacity, after the initial passion had died away, which is necessary in order to have a long life together.

He realised this in a narrow alley in India, miles and years from Uppsala, with a flea-bitten cat in his lap. At that point it was too late. Nothing could be made undone. He mumbled something. A woman passing on the pavement stopped questioningly but Sven-Arne waved her on. At the same time he hoped that she, in some unconscious way, could accept his tardy apology, make it universal, and in this way reconcile him with Elsa. At that moment he wished for nothing else.

‘Is it my fault?’ he asked of the cracked mirror, well aware of how the answer would sound, raised as he was on Ante’s doctrines.

All of a sudden he perceived the smell of cut grass. He stared down at his body but realised his unconscious was playing a trick on him. He was back in his grandmother’s cottage, back in Rosberg’s fields. Lightning, so strong in his calmness, made his way across the meadow with the harvester as a laughable burden. Rosberg smiled at him. The cap that he always wore from the spring planting to harvest had that jaunty proletarian style that Sven-Arne had never seen after, that reminded him of the figures in Ante’s photographs from the 1930s.

‘Maybe it’s a Blackfoot Indian,’ Bosse Marksson said.

‘What are you talking about? Is it a black foot?’

‘Well, I don’t know about black, but it’s a bit charred.’

Ann Lindell tried to picture her colleague from the Östhammar police who was on the other end of the line. She had a vague recollection of having met him, his name sounded so familiar. But she could not conjure up a face to match the gravely voice.

‘Do you have a cold?’

‘No, I always sound like this. It’s hereditary.’

‘Okay, and you found this foot in a boot that was bobbing around in the sea.’

‘Three mistakes in one sentence; you need someone from Crimes for that. First, we weren’t the ones who found it, that was Örjan Bäck; second, it was a sandal; third, it was washed up on the beach.’

‘Who is Örjan Bäck?’

‘An old friend from school who lives out there. Right now he’s home on furlough.’

‘A sailor?’

‘Right you are, this time.’

‘Was he out taking a walk on the beach, or—’

‘Örjan doesn’t walk, he rushes. Yes, he was on his way to check on his dad’s boat. The old man is starting to fail. And he has a prosthesis.’

‘I get it. And then he called you?’

‘Yes, we’re old friends, as I said. He has my mobile phone number.’

Bosse Marksson snuffled. I’ll bet he’s got a cold after all, Lindell thought.

‘And what then?’

She was getting tired, mining her co-worker for information. Bosse Marksson was not one to rush anything, that much was clear.

‘I went out there.’

‘Of course you did. But can’t you just tell me what has been done so far, if you have secured any—’

‘Hold your horses, partner. Why don’t you come out here so we can chat. I’ve heard that you’re crazy about murders and island life. I’ll send some info by email.’

Lindell was taken aback. Was ‘island life’ a reference to her relationship with Edvard on Gräsö Island? Did all of Roslagen know about this?

‘I’ll be there at ten a.m. tomorrow,’ Lindell said, in a much meeker voice than she had intended. ‘Will that work?’

‘Bring your boots,’ Bosse Marksson said, ending the conversation.

Lindell turned on her computer, but did not log on. She thought about the foot by the sea. Had forgotten to ask if it had belonged to a man or a woman. She guessed the latter. Who wore sandals in November? Perhaps it was a slipper.

Her visit with Berglund and his melancholy had slowed her down, as if he had transferred some of his sadness to her.

She opened the telephone book and immediately found Elsa Persson. She dialled the number but no one answered, and she hung up with a tired gesture. Perhaps Elsa was at the school. Berglund had said she was a teacher.

A faint knock on the door made her jump. Ottosson poked his head in.

‘I’m driving out to the coast tomorrow,’ Lindell said as a way of anticipating his question. ‘And I’m supposed to tell you Berglund says hello. He is a bit tired and I don’t think he wants people to come visit, but he does want to get the files from an old case from the nineties. The county commissioner who disappeared, Sven-Arne Gotthard Edvin Persson, has surfaced in India.’

Ottosson stepped into the office, closed the door behind him, and sat down.

‘I know,’ Ottosson said, ‘but Berglund has changed his mind. He doesn’t want to look at that case anymore. He called and told me he didn’t want it.’

‘He wanted another case?’

Ottosson nodded.

‘An old homicide where Berglund was the investigative lead. It was at least ten years ago. He didn’t manage to crack it. It was an old guy who was killed at Kungsgärdet. You know, in one of those little houses, the sugar cubes, as people called them when I was growing up. Despite prints and a couple of witnesses we drew a blank.’

‘He’s never talked about it.’

‘I think he might feel some shame,’ Ottosson said. ‘Maybe not shame exactly, but you know …’

‘Yes,’ Lindell said. ‘I’ll go check out the foot tomorrow. We’ll see.’

‘That Marksson they have out there is a good sort, but his voice takes some getting used to. His dad sounded just like him. He was also a police officer. He was an extra in
Bathing
Devils
, if you remember that film. I’m an Ernst Günther fan.’

Lindell had a little smile on her face long after Ottosson had shut the door behind him. He knew how to handle her.

She logged in and discovered to her surprise that the ‘good sort’ had already sent her a report on the foot. She printed the document and started to read.

‘A foot, female,’ she muttered.

Jan Svensk knew he was paying too much, but nonetheless gave the rickshaw driver a smile, which the driver replied to with a vague shake of the head.

Bangalore’s botanical garden was impressive, at least the main entrance. The ticket seller explained that he had no change for the twenty-rupee note that the Swede handed over, which was a blatant lie since the next visitor received a ten-rupee note. But Jan Svensk took it in stride. Normally he would have stood his ground but today he felt generous. Why argue about a couple of pennies, he thought, and walked into the garden. It was easy to be magnanimous in India.

He immediately encountered a man in a wheelchair who offered to take his picture, a memory for life, and then, when Jan Svensk declined the offer, declared he was the best guide in the garden, even authorised. He held up a wrinkled piece of paper.

‘No, thank you,’ Svensk said, and continued farther into the park before changing his mind and walking back.

‘Could you tell me where the staff area is?’

‘Do you mean the office?’

‘Yes, that is …’

He did not quite know how to express himself.

‘Do you know if there is a foreigner working here, a European?’

The man came closer, so close that a wheel touched Svensk’s pant leg, looked swiftly around, bent to the side and spit, before he answered.