Reading sample in english

The Maidenstone
Michael Mortimer
Original title: Jungfrustenen
Translated by Laura A. Wideburg
Published by Norstedts, Stockholm, Sweden 2013
Contacts: Linda Altrov Berg, [email protected],
Phone: +46 10 744 20 33
This book is dedicated to:
E.S.E.P.I.A
But man is a part of nature,
and his war against nature
is inevitably a war against himself.
Rachel Carson
The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb,
And the leopard shall die down with the kid;
And the calf and the young lion and the fatling together;
And a little child shall lead them.
Isaiah 11:5
A bolt of lightning flashes between humanism and
environmentalism.
The curse of our time is we do not dare to see its light.
Oleg Kuznetsov, The Post-Human Era
Prologue
As luck would have it, no one noticed them. They were isolated on one of the
balustrades overlooking the Blue Hall and the other guests of the Nobel festivities.
Dessert had concluded, and the tables of people were breaking up. King Carl XVI
Gustaf of Sweden, his dinner partner on his arm, led the honored guests from the
head table up the stairs towards the dance floor in the Golden Hall. Following them
came the long line of the latest winners of the Nobel Prize, as well as government
ministers and other dignitaries. After them trailed another group of various guests;
the women in ball gowns in all colors of the palette and the men in white tie and
tails. The crowd slowed at a chokepoint on the marble stairs to the second floor. To
entertain the guests as they waited in line, jazz music was playing. A number of
moving laser projections– flower stalks, tree trunks and leaf work -- were moving
along the brick walls, whirling higher and higher, almost reaching the railing of the
balustrade.
Lobov pulled something from his pocket: a plastic bag containing a green box with a
bronze clasp. It looked like an antique to Ida, like ones used to hold compasses, but
this one was wider, thicker, and appeared to be homemade.
“What’s that?”
“Shh!”
Lobov glanced around before he decided to speak again: Russian accented English.
“It’s best if you know nothing. Keep it safe until you’re told to give it back to me,
perhaps in a day or two.”
Ida took the surprisingly heavy box. She remembered again that her grandmother
had told her earlier that day that this box must never be opened under any
circumstances.
“But what is it?” she couldn’t help asking.
Lobov looked at her gravely. “No, you must not see it. Absolutely not.”
“But you have to tell me something, don’t you? It’s not dangerous, is it?”
Lobov appeared to reconsider, as if he were feeling sorry for her. He seemed to lose
himself in her gaze. His one remaining eye sparkled from the wine he’d had.
“This really isn’t wise…but…I’ll give you a glimpse. For the sake of those beautiful
eyes of yours…promise me, you won’t tell a soul.”
“I promise.”
“You have to understand. What’s in this box is beyond all description.”
What is he going on about? Ida thought.
Lobov pulled the box out of the plastic bag as if it were made of a strange, fragile
material. He held it in both hands and caught his breath in concentration.
“You’ll have just a few seconds. Ready?”
Ida nodded and felt her heart quicken. Applause came from the guests on the dance
floor far away. The laser projections were creeping closer and closer on the brick
walls beneath them. The flower arrangements and leaves had transitioned into
snowflakes and crystalline patterns. A blinding light bounced off the ceiling at the
exact moment Lobov sprung the bronze clasp to open the box.
Ida was just about to look into the box when an intense beam of light enveloped
them both. Lobov jumped back. The laser projections had crept high enough up the
balustrades to reach their bodies and at the same moment a concentrated green
beam of light leaped from the box itself, changing everything around them into a
harsh, unendurable bright white, as if they were at the epicenter of a soundless
explosion of light itself. Ida did not have time to think or even throw her arm up to
protect herself.
What…is happening…?
The light…where is it coming from…? My God…his head?
The explosion of light could not have lasted more than a second, perhaps less than
half a second, but Ida felt as if it had lasted interminably. When the explosive light
dimmed, Lobov had fallen to his knees, face turned away, but still holding the box.
Colors, all kinds of colors, were everywhere – but they turned the former
projections into pale ghosts. They seemed to hold sine waves, fractals, strange
characters from foreign scripts – and they all came up out of the box. She still had no
clue what it was—only that the intense light came from whatever was in there.
When another laser projection touched the box, a pulsing bolt shot from it as if it
were glowing. She saw that Lobov was shaking and moaning from pain.
She was blinded again by the light and then it disappeared completely. She realized
that the box was now shut. She’d had no chance to look inside. Lobov’s hands flew to
his eyes as Ida could hear another round of applause echo from the Golden Hall.
No, that’s not right, she thought. What just happened?
Lobov scrabbled backwards along the floor and then she saw...Blood? – coating the
lenses of his glasses was…Blood?
She blinked and blinked again until she could take in what she saw.
Blood filmed the inside of his glasses, was running thickly from the sockets of his
eyes that had…exploded?
She wanted to scream, but she choked on her breath.
Lobov was trying to get to his feet. He managed to struggle halfway up when Ida
reached out to help, but she didn’t catch him in time – he fell back and his head hit a
floodlight stand, knocking it over so it fell along with him to the ground. His left
temple hit the marble floor.
Ida could only stare, her hands to her mouth, holding back nausea.
What’s happening?
Ida could not believe what she was seeing. Lobov’s body was completely still.
Is he…? She threw herself down beside him.
A technician was running over to them, his ponytail bouncing.
“What the hell are you doing?” he was yelling, angry, only seeing the stand on the
floor.
Then he noticed Lobov and his face paled.
“A doctor!” he croaked. “A doctor!”
He whirled around and began to yell, “We need a doctor over here! Is there a doctor
in the house? We need a doctor!”
Ida heard Lobov groaning.
He’s alive!
“Don’t…go to the police…”
Blood was running from the corner of his mouth.
“Bring the box to your grandmother…don’t give it to the police…tell her…I love
her…promise me…give nothing to the police…”
“I promise,” Ida said.
“Alma…tell Alma I love her…I’ve always loved her.”
He seemed dazed. Ida picked up his hand and squeezed it.
Then his entire body suddenly relaxed and a strange sound gurgled from his throat.
She could hear excited voices from the staircase behind her.
This can’t be happening…
1.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
That damned alarm -- why can’t it just stop already!
Ida Nordlund’s smart phone alarm had just gone off in her apartment on
Studentbacken in the district of Gärdet. Outside was a coal black Stockholm
December morning. Barely awake, Ida reached up to the cold windowsill above her
bed and fumbled for the phone. Finally she was able to thumb off the alarm.
She lay in bed, drifting between sleep and wakefulness.
It can’t be seven thirty already, she thought. I’m much too tired…why did I set the
alarm so early? What day is it? Wednesday?
No, it’s Tuesday. I don’t have to rush. Just get to biochem by ten and then
study…nothing else.
As if I’d ever forget to study.
This alarm setting is left over from yesterday morning. Might as well go back to sleep.
Take it easy, as there’s nothing big on today. Maybe I’ll go to the student gym and
exercise a bit…I really ought to exercise more and lose a couple pounds…Maybe get a
cup of coffee with…someone from class.
Well, who’d go with me?
Or maybe I should get out of bed and head over to the dorm kitchen and grab some
cornflakes…what a thrill, since nobody bothers to do the dishes or clean up in there.
On the other hand, David, that guy with the curly hair, who seems to always be in a
good mood and has those white teeth, he usually gets up early on Tuesdays. Or is it
Wednesdays? Maybe I should be brave and ask him to come with me to the Christmas
party next week?
How many times have we actually had a conversation? Maybe five times since he
moved in this September. Usually I just keep an eye on him when I’ve been eating
spaghetti and he’s been making his pasta Ida rolled to her other side and thought
about how long she’d been living in this dorm. Two and a half years? Not quite. She’d
moved in during August. She remembered hauling banana crates filled with her stuff
up the stairs. Lasse had helped her move. Afterwards, almost like a father, he’d
invited her to a pizzeria where she’d ordered the Quattro Stagioni. The pizzeria was
in the wealthy part of Stockholm. Östermalm.
And then there she was, little Ida from the far away province of Jämtland in the
middle of the capital city, crazy, right?
All the time she’d been growing up people had told her she had a real head for
learning and should go to the capital to study, but it was hard to believe that she
really had a dorm room all to herself! Right in the middle of Gärdet and so close to
Östermalm!
Then Lasse had gotten into his old Volvo for the long drive home to Östersund. All at
once, she’d felt lonely. It took her some time to get used to the pace of things in
Stockholm and to realize that people were pretty much the same here as back home.
There were just more of them, and they were more frightened about losing face. The
stress of catching the subway, the fear of committing a faux pas like standing to the
left on the escalator, the desire to hide the fact that they might have come from the
sticks as if their clothing and body language could give away their secret.
Soon the strangeness was over. She had become the same kind of person, an average
Stockholmer, distant and disinterested. She moved at the same tempo, used the
same guarded language and turned cold and urbane.
Nevertheless she could always turn to Nature when she needed to in the huge parks
everywhere: Haga Park, Lill-Jan Forest, Djurgården or Järva Fields.
Yes, my classes had fit me perfectly, but now they’re no fun since Marina stopped
taking them. We were the only two people a little counter-culture and different from
everyone else. And we could fit in because there were two of us…but it worked only
because there were two of us.
Now I’m all by myself during the breaks and I’ve turned into a study fiend, a wallflower
in the corner of the classroom.
Ida slid back down underneath her comforter so that the neckline of her nightgown
pulled tightly across her neck.
I never have anything to say, even during the social evenings when I’ve had a few
beers. Just a girl from Norrland majoring in biophysics. Not the kind of thing you’d say
when hitting the nightclubs on Stureplan. If I’d even find myself going to a nightclub…
I’m turning into a silent, boring, shy girl as if…
The opposite of a guy like David…wouldn’t it be great if he were beside me right
now…right here in my bed….and we’d embrace and…
Ida fell back asleep.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
What the hell is wrong with this phone?
She sat up at once. This wasn’t the alarm. Someone was trying to call her.
She’d almost forgotten that people use phones to talk.
The display screen was reflected in the window.
The call was from abroad. The country code was +7. A long number. At first she
thought she wouldn’t bother to answer it.
Probably a wrong number.
A wrong number from a foreign country?
Country code +7? Maybe it was her?
Yes, it was. As soon as she answered the phone, she heard the unmistakable voice of
an old woman, and even though the time was 6:18 in the morning, energy filled her.
“My dear Ida, how are you?” Her grandmother Alma seemed happy and full of
expectation.
“Grandma! Where are you?”
“Sorry I’ve not called earlier. I’m in Moscow again.”
“Moscow? What are you doing there?”
“So much has been happening. I didn’t have the chance to call before,” Alma said.
There was an unfamiliar tension in her voice.
“When are you coming home?”
“I have no idea. I must stay here a while longer. A few things I need to do. It’s…”
“Your research?”
“Yes.”
Always the research, Ida thought. Never tells me what the research is about – never
has time to talk.
“I need your help,” Alma said, and the tension was there again.
Yeah, now you’re calling because you need something from me. Of course. And to call
at this hour in the morning!
“Maybe I’m being too cautious. Still, we need help.”
“We?”
“Yes, not just for myself but also for a good friend of mine. He also works on
this…research. He…”
“You work with someone else?”
“Yes, I do.” It seemed as if she were embarrassed.
“Is something going on between you two?” Alma laughed slightly.
“Perhaps.” She turned serious again. “We need your help, Ida. We need it today. I
hope I can count on you.”
“Sure. I don’t mind.”
“Good. First, save this number. You can call me later if you have to.”
“O.K. I have it on the display.”
“Are you sure it’s saved?”
“Yes, yes, it saves automatically!” Ida said while staring at the number. It was easy to
remember. Like a palindrome: +7 575 7667 5757.
“So what is this important thing you’d like me to do, then?” Ida asked, in an almost
joking voice, and she felt much happier than she’d felt in a while. She glanced over at
her desk and the textbooks and papers in one big pile. Oh dear God, not much
studying today…
Alma’s voice was not at all cheerful as she replied. She was guarded.
“Ida, this is very, very important. I’m serious.”
Ida waited until Alma was ready to explain the task at hand.
Alma’s voice was slow as she said gravely, “There is something you must pick up for
me.”
2.
Little more than a half hour later, Ida was riding down the hill from Studentbacken
on her old, lilac Crescent bike. She drove past the construction at the turnabout,
past the field by Stora Forest, the Engelska Villan, an historic summer house, and
finally straight through Stockholm’s Eko Park, the large National Park which pulled
all the green spaces of Stockholm together in a crescent sweep from the Royal Park
Djurgården to the housing projects of Rinkeby, twenty miles south.
She guessed she’d have to rearrange her whole schedule today. She rode as
carefully as possible over the icy jogging paths through Lill-Jan’s Forest and then
headed past Roslagstull and then Nortull. She then pedaled hard toward the
Karolinska Institute.
She locked her bike next to the entrance, walked into the cafeteria, and got herself a
cup of coffee. She took her usual table in the corner and sat down, not looking at
anything but her open biophysics books.
What had Alma said again?
There’s something you have to pick up.
You have to be there on time.
Just go to the cafeteria and don’t do anything in particular.
Be passive.
The rest will happen – all by itself.
3.
Ida glanced at the other tables—many other students with their laptops open, or
studying their books, or chatting – nothing out of the ordinary.
Then the noise in the room dwindled.
Something was going to happen. A small train of prefects and professors came in
escorting a thin, elderly gentleman in large glasses. There was a glimpse of white tie
and tails beneath his overcoat. Several students began to whisper among
themselves – or stared at the old man.
Dressed in white tie and tails, Ida thought. This must be one of the Nobel Prize winners.
She’d read about them in the papers – a Russian had won the prize in physics. Perhaps
this was he? The group picked up coffee and cinnamon buns from the cafeteria and
then started back.
As they passed Ida’s table, she looked up for a good look. The physicist was wrinkled
and hunchbacked and appeared to have difficulty walking, but the group veered
toward a few students. The old man greeted them and the Swedish professors said
something that made the students glow with pride as if they were small children
meeting their first teacher on the first day of school.
Yes, it must be the Nobel Prize winner.
Still, this Institute went through this ritual almost every year. It’s part of being the
famous Karolinska Institute.
The noise level fell further as the students whispered and continued to stare.
The old man seemed friendly and willing to shake hands with them.
Ida turned back to her books. Stay passive.
A shadow fell over her table.
The Nobel Prize winner had come to stand beside her table.
One of the prefects stepped forward.
“This is Anatoly Lobov, winner of the Nobel Prize this year in Physics.”
Ida got to her feet and let his fragile hand take hers.
“Hello, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Lobov. My name is Ida Nordlund,” she said in
English.
“Hello, Ida,” he replied in a loud voice with a strong Russian accent. He looked her
directly in the eye and then bent forward as if to take a look at what she was
studying. He whispered through clenched teeth:
“A mistake…Ida…forgive me. Things are not safe here. I underestimated them – our
enemies. They are following me…everywhere. Alma did not know they’d be here
when she called you.”
Ida looked up to peer into his face.
What had he just said?
The old man flipped through her book and pretended to look at an illustration of a
trans liposome. His face was cautious – wary.
“We’ll meet somewhere else, where things are more secure. You can help me…this
evening.” He changed the subject abruptly and spoke in a loud voice. “Oh,
biophysics! You have such beautiful eyes, young lady…as I’ve often said…the young
women who study biophysics always have beautiful eyes!”
Everyone following him laughed politely and Ida blushed, while she tried to figure
out the meaning behind what he’d said.
He whispered again:
“The same eyes as Alma. When she was young, she looked exactly like you.”
He turned around and rejoined the group of his Swedish colleagues. Then he headed
straight out of the cafeteria without even glancing at his tray with coffee and the
treat.
Ida remained sitting at her table, holding her coffee cup, while the noise in the
cafeteria rose again to its normal level. Her thoughts tumbled about.
Alma as a young woman?
Did he know my grandmother when she was young?
What about the – enemies?
Ida got up from her table and headed to the restroom. She tried to call Alma.
No answer. She tried again, without success. She left a message: “Call me as soon as
you can.”
She went back to her table. By the time she’d finished her coffee, the phone rang.
Finally she’s calling me back and I can get to the bottom of this.
A pressed voice was on the other end.
“Hello, let me introduce myself. I’m Håkan Jönsson, from the Physics Institute. I’ve
just spoken to the Nobel Foundation and been told there is a reserved seat for you at
tonight’s dinner. The invitation comes from this year’s winner of the prize in
physics, Anatoly Lobov. He would very much like you to attend.”
Ida was speechless for a second; quickly considering everything she’d heard from
Alma and Lobov this morning.
It’s important.
Enemies.
We need your help.
The Nobel Banquet – what is going on here?
“Of course,” she said. “I’ll be there…definitely.”
“Great,” Håkan Jönsson said. “We will send the actual invitation immediately. Please
give us your home address?”
She gave it to him and they said goodbye.
Immediately, she packed up her books, left the cafeteria and went back to her bike.
She felt tipsy and couldn’t think clearly.
She unlocked the bike and got on to head home.
The Nobel Banquet – what is Alma up to?
Whatever am I going to wear?
She chose to take the road toward Albano through Lill Jan’s Forest. She pedaled past
Norra Cemetery and caught a glimpse of the cross over August Strindberg’s grave.
All of a sudden, she felt the front wheel start to thump on the icy surface.
Just what I need – a flat tire!
I don’t have time for this! I can’t walk all the way home pushing my bike!
She found the closest bus stop and spotted a red bus farther up Uppsala Highway.
Perfect.
The bus stopped and she climbed on board. She found an empty two-place seat and
sat down. Thoughts were bubbling in her head.
So Alma and Lobov have known each other for, what, sixty years. And what am I
supposed to be picking up? Not to mention, who is following Lobov and why?
And what, oh what, am I going to wear?
The bus headed past Roslagstull and onto Valhallavägen. Ida kept thinking, and,
without realizing it, she started drumming her finger on a snuff label stuck to the
remains of a pinch of snuff.
Carl Linneaus
Carl Linnaeus (born Carl Nilsson Linnaueus) was born on May 13th, 1707 in Råshult,
the province of Småland, Sweden. He was the son of Christina Brodersonia and the
parish priest Nils Ingemarsson Linnaeus. His parents intended him for the
priesthood, but his interest in botany impressed his teacher and he was sent to Lund
University for further studies.
He soon moved to Uppsala and, a few years later, began a series of journeys around
Sweden. He categorized the flowers, geology and cultural artifacts of each Swedish
province he visited. In 1733, he met the daughter of a Dalecarlian doctor, Sara
Elisabeth Moraea. He proposed to her, but her father demanded that Linnaeus finish
his studies before a wedding could take place. Linnaeus traveled to the Netherlands
and finished his great work Systema Naturae, the basis for the systematic
organization of all living animals and plants according to their physical relationship.
Linnaeus’ system is still used today everywhere throughout the world.
In the June of 1739, Linnaeus married Sara Elisabeth. Three years later, he was
given the professorship in botany at Uppsala University. The couple had seven
children. In 1757, he was knighted, and changed his name to Linnaeus.
Linnaeus had gathered numerous disciples around him. He began to send his men
on various scientific expeditions all over the planet. Among the most famous were:
Pehr Kalm, who traveled to North America between 1748 – 1751; Fredrik
Hasselquist, who went to Palestine and the Near East; Carl Peter Thunberg, who
went to Japan, South Africa and Sri Lanka; and, last but not least, Daniel Solander,
who traveled with James Cook to the Pacific Ocean and New Zealand between 1768
and 1770, and then later to Iceland, the Faroe Islands and the Orkney Islands.
Linnaeus taught his disciples the importance of thorough, enthusiastic investigation
and trained them to make close and correct observations.
Linnaeus spent most of his later years in Uppsala. He spent his summers on his
estate Hammarby, just south of the city.
At eight in the morning on the tenth of January 1778, Linnaeus suffered a stroke and
passed away.
Without question, Carl Linnaeus was the most important botanist of his era. He is
still the Swedish scientist most noted in Wikipedia, where his biography and works
are covered in over one hundred languages. His fame rests on his amazing
systemization of all the organisms known in his time. No other scientist has ever
been able to match the scale of his work before or since. Linnaeus’s work Species
plantarum (1753) is the first publication, which covers accurate descriptions of
plants into classes, orders, families and species. His tenth edition of Systema Naturae
(1758) does the same for the animal kingdom.
Linnaeus also attempted to classify the rocks, minerals and fossils he found into a
systematic description of what he called the ‘mineral kingdom’. From today’s
perspective, some of his divisions are rather odd. For example, he attempted to
include kidney stones and gall bladder stones in this ‘mineral kingdom’. Linnaeus
also hoped to classify the various ‘races’ of human beings, including mythological
humans such as hydras, satyrs and troglodytes. Although this research was
eventually abandoned, it nevertheless lifted science away from the dogma of church
authorities.
Linnaeus’s grounding principle was that every kind of plant or animal must be given
a two-part scientific name in Latin. For instance, a foxglove is Digitalis purpurea.
Linnaeus has also given his name to a small wildflower from his native Småland:
Linnaeus. His face graces the Swedish hundred-crown note.
His estate Hammarby is run as a museum by Uppsala University and he is buried in
Uppsala Cathedral.
Source: Swedish Wikipedia
4.
A number of thwacks on the bus window. Hard thumps. Someone yelled in English:
Oh my God, did you see that?
Ida realized that icy snowballs – at least five, had struck the window. They stuck to
the glass for a few seconds before sliding down and falling off, one by one, into the
slush on the road. From there, they’d melt into the water underneath Stadshus
Bridge, over which the bus was now driving.
The bus driver did not even brake, but went on over the bridge as if nothing had
happened.
The bus was a double decker with beautiful wooden paneling and a carpet covering
the aisle. It had nothing in common with the old 570 bus she’d taken earlier that
day. This bus was one of five starting from the Grand Hotel on its way through
Stockholm to City Hall for the Banquet.
The chill of December fogged the windows and the sun already touched the horizon,
making the water of Riddarfjärden glitter like flowing gold.
The brown bricks of the City Hall façade gleamed red in the last rays.
Ida looked around. A few Americans in fur coats had started discussing the schedule
of events for the evening. Everyone on board was dressed elegantly and their faces
shone in excitement and anticipation.
How did I end up here with all these important people? And was there someone on this
bus watching her?
She’d felt all wound up since the events of that morning with no one to speak to
since. She’d tried to call her grandmother at least four times during the day, but no
one had picked up the phone.
Finally a text message came that afternoon.
Ida had read the text over and over.
Enemies who want to steal this box thing?
And what could it hold that was so valuable?
Lobov is being followed, but nobody knows who you are or that you know him. This
evening, during the Nobel festivities, he will give you something: a special box. We’ve
decided that only you can keep the box safe. Tell no one about it and don’t mention you
know Lobov. DO NOT open the box! We’re trusting you. In two days, he will find you in
Stockholm and take the box back. Do not lose it – its contents are irreplaceable. The
people following Lobov MUST NOT get their hands on it or all is lost. Now go have fun at
the party. Love, Alma
She’d read the message again, at least five times more.
The people following Lobov? It seems like…perhaps they do want to steal this thing,
this ‘box’, whatever it is.
No, I can’t allow myself to get too nervous.
Her eyes dwelt on a hat one of the elegant women was wearing. A few feathers were
projecting from the brim. She recognized they came from a pheasant. Carl
Linnaeus’s ordering system of species came to her head: Phasanius cholchicus.
Flowers: Anemonae pulsatilla. Briza media. Ranunculus acris. Artemisia
absinthium…So many times she’d review the Latin names for the flowers with Lasse.
She liked the sound of Phasanius colchicus. A pheasant, short and sweet. All these
feathers from a pheasant offered up for vanity and exhibitionism.
Small boys throwing snowballs at bus full of elegant guests –and me -- inside. And I’m
going to be eating all this elegant food and be part of something that many only dream
of doing.
She gazed out the window next to her seat and noticed a few traces of the snowball
that had hit it. She turned forward again to see Stockholm City Hall coming up. All
the well-dressed people beside her were even more excited. Many of them had
already started drinking the champagne someone had smuggled onto the bus. She
could not tell if anyone here was watching her.
I sure hope that Marina will be waiting for me at City Hall, or I will be in some serious
trouble.
She looked out into the darkness and caught sight of her reflection in the window.
Do I really resemble Alma that much? Apparently so.
The bus braked sharply to a stop and Ida almost fell into the American woman
sitting in front of her – the one with the pheasant feather hat. A quick hand grabbed
her around the waist and caught her before she fell over.
“That could have been embarrassing!” said a young man with warm, brown eyes.
“Thanks,” she managed to say.
“If you’d fallen, you might not have been able to dance later on at the party.”
“You’re right about that.”
Ida couldn’t help looking closely at the young man. How old was he? Twenty-five?
Thirty? Perhaps not so young as that?”
Ida was just about to say something more when the bus doors opened and everyone
began to bustle to leave.
After she’d stepped out into the cold, Ida could no longer spot the dark-haired man.
5.
Ida stepped a little aside from the stream of people exiting the bus and looked up at
the enormous brick building, where huge, flaming candles burned. She caught a
glimpse of the golden sarcophagus of Birger Jarl, the founder of Stockholm. The
illuminated colonnades were reflected in the black velvet water of Riddarfjärden.
Long rows of Gothic windows glimmered against the night sky.
Where is she – hope she isn’t late as usual.
I’m not going to get through this on my own.
Then there she was, right by the flagpoles on the other side of the street –dressed all
in black – only one person looked like her – Marina.
Ida felt a sense of relief. Her anxiety lessened at once.
Good old Marina – sad that she quit her university studies. We’d have been able to get
together more often if she’d stayed. Stupid parents of hers – making her spend her days
at an accounting firm just so she could have a steady income.
As Ida got nearer Marina, she saw a large paper bag from on the ground.
“Good Lord, why’d you have to order up such cold weather?” Marina asked.
“How are you doing these days?” Ida asked.
“Just fine, all things considered.”
Marina started to rummage through the bag.
“I really can’t promise you how this will turn out. Your hair’s always been hard to
manage.”
Ida bent her knees so that Marina could start her work. Marina brushed her hair and
then started a French braid.
“How did you get such steel wool for hair?” Marina joked. They both laughed.
“You know I was born with it.”
“Just be happy you get to go to this party – best food in the world and all that. But
how did you get the invitation? Were you at the medal awards ceremony?”
“No.” Ida said, and felt a twinge of anxiety return. “It’s actually a long story. I don’t
have time to explain everything right now.”
Marina gave her a look and then shrugged her shoulders.
“My fun evening will be spent scrubbing my laundry room. The dogs have gotten in
there and messed it all up.”
“Sounds…fun.”
“And then I’ll be testing my new sender up in the attic – I’m looking forward to that
at least.”
Marina was a short wave radio ham. She’d kept her old hobby and her radio friends.
“I can see why you’d look forward to that.”
“Perhaps I can reach those guys in Gothenburg. You remember them?”
Ida smiled.
“Or maybe I can reach your foster father in Norrland. What’s his name again?”
“Lasse…but he wasn’t my sugar daddy, he was my…”
Well, how could she put it? A father figure?
“Don’t call him…It’s been over a year and I don’t even know if he’s still into radio.”
When did I last talk to Lasse? Quite a few weeks by now. Hope he’s doing fine up in
Jämtland…he has his snowmobile and all his jobs in the forest…though God knows
what he’s up to there. At night he just watches TV, I bet.
Ida realized she missed him and determined she’d get in touch soon.
Marina pulled out a make-up bag and asked Ida to close her eyes. She brushed on
foundation and eye shadow.
“Well, I’m making sure you won’t be the ugly duckling at this party, as long as you
don’t mess with your hair. Have you seen what the Defense Minister’s wife looks
like, by the way? And here, put these on.”
Marina pulled out a pair of high-heeled shoes with red rosettes.
“I know, I know,” Marina said. “Not your type, but at least they look expensive. What
else was I supposed to do under such short notice?”
“They’ll do.”
“I just hope they fit. Blisters are no fun, especially if you intend to dance the night
away.”
I’d like to dance, Ida thought, finding herself smiling in spite of her anxiety. That is, if
anyone wants to dance with me.
“Let me take a look at you.”
Marina gave Ida’s hair one last adjustment, and then handed her a handbag in
imitation crocodile.
“Well, that’s as good as I could do. Still, you don’t look half bad – not so bad at all,
now that you’ve grown out of all your pimples.”
“Thanks, Marina,” Ida said, glancing at the time.
“You have to tell me one thing, though. How did you land an invitation?”
“Just luck…a lottery at the department. I guess Karolinska does it every year – a few
students get a chance. I can’t believe I was the lucky one.”
“Yeah, sounds a little crazy to me…on the other hand, you students have all the luck.”
“We students who keep studying, you mean.”
Marina smiled. “Touché. Have fun tonight. And don’t forget you’re wearing heels.”
Marina walked with her all the way to the City Hall entrance, where a line had
started to form.
“Oh, and take this,” Marina said, stuffing a small vanity case into Ida’s handbag. “Just
in case you have to freshen up. All right, see you later then.”
Mariana started to walk away down towards Tegelbacken.
Ida touched her hair with her hand. Everything was still in place.
Did I really say there was a department lottery? How did I think of that on the fly? And
here I find myself lying to my best friend.
Time to head inside.
What comes next?
6.
It took time to get through security. A few guards, with a bad grasp of English, were
talking to an irritated woman with a huge head of hair in a permanent. This had
halted the line completely.
A somber, strong-looking man stood behind the woman with the big hair. He
stamped his feet impatiently, touching an earpiece. Ida noticed how ill fitted his
tuxedo was.
“He is not on our list, madam,” the security guard said. “He must remain outside. Our
own security staff will take care of you.”
The woman’s face flushed red. She whispered to the blond bodyguard, who then
forced himself back through the crowd into the cold night air.
Ida showed her ID twice to two separate groups of security guards. Then she was
given a seating book where all the tables were listed. It took her a while to find her
own name. She’d been placed at a distance from the main table– a side table beneath
the podium.
She looked around as if she were half hoping to see someone she knew. Yeah, like
there’s a big chance of that.
She found a niche with small mirrors and slipped into the red shoes. American
women were touching up their make-up in the same spot.
“There you are.”
Ida looked up, surprised, and saw the dark-haired young man from the bus.
“Where’s your table?”
Ida showed him her spot in the seating book and he showed her his place at a
different table.
“A little too far apart for us to have a conversation,” he said with a smile. “Perhaps
we can grab a smoke together on the balcony after dinner?”
Ida was deeply aware of his hair and eyes, his long, straight back and the fact that
he’d tied his elegant bowtie with care.
“Have you ever been to the Nobel Banquet before?” she asked.
“First time, believe it or not,” he said, laughing. “I am a doctor but my uncle knows
the ropes. He knows the chairperson of the Science Academy and he got me the
invitation. I guess we should go in…see you later, up on the balcony!”
He merged with the crowd, which was growing thicker, and Ida stood quietly in
place.
A number of plump, middle-aged women in glittering gowns passed by. Then came a
group of security guards, gently surrounding someone from the royal family.
She slowly strolled to her own table, which was as yet completely empty.
What have I gotten myself into?
7.
The Kalix caviar glittered dark red against the green stalks of dill. Ida carefully ate
the fennel crème, using the tiny hors d’oevre utensils, her fingers a bit forward so as
to look casual and secure in her etiquette.
The conversation at the table flowed easily so far. She’d been seated at the end of the
rectangular table. A Japanese man by the name of Dr. Takekawa was seated beside
her and across the table was a thin American, whose name she’d forgotten the
minute he’d given it. She could not see the table of honor from where she sat, but
she had a good view of two fire extinguishers hanging on the wall.
The woman with the big hair sat kitty-corner from her place. She introduced herself
as the Executive Research Director of the renowned Russian ITEB Pushkin Institute
of Moscow, which worked closely with the Karolinska Institute. Then she smiled,
almost to herself, looking around the table with interest.
“So, what are you majoring in?” asked the thin, small American gentleman across
from Ida.
“Biophysics,” she replied.
“A fascinating subject,” he said. “Have you ever read Thomas Steitz?”
Ida didn’t recognize the name.
“He’s that ribosome guy from Cambridge,” the man said.
“Oh, yes, I’ve heard of his work.”
The conversation ran along as the dinner progressed. The American commented
that he admired the Scandinavian research tradition, going back to the nuclear
physicist Niels Bohr.
Ida asked him about his university connections, and, although she thought that the
American didn’t find her short answers very interesting, they kept her from making
too many errors in her English. The wine and water glasses were filled again and
again.
Saddle of venison was served on heated gold-rimmed plates. When Ida took her first
bite, she realized the meat was cold.
She found herself adjusting her neckline upward so that the men across the table
would stop staring.
She chatted with Dr. Takekawa on the Swedish climate, typical Swedish cuisine and
how Swedish it was to talk about all things Swedish. Then Dr. Takekawa changed
the subject to his research interests. She managed to understand it dealt with
further development of nanotechnology and how very important the results of his
research would be to the next stage of development.
The big-haired Russian woman leaned over to challenge his statement--she’d
already had several glasses of wine and her English was now somewhat forced. She
declared that the further applications of nanotechnology were entirely in another
direction and that the man’s research was of no importance.
“I beg your pardon,” Dr. Takekawa said loudly, and then the discussion grew more
animated.
The Russian would not budge. “That kind of pseudo-research is headed straight for
the dust bin of history. Nanotechnology must be utilized for more important things
than just cosmetics and advertising brochures.”
“What do you propose?” demanded Dr. Takekawa, now fairly upset.
“To challenge mankind’s view of its place in creation, of course. We must see
ourselves as only a part of the animal world and take a more humble view.”
Ida had no idea what the woman was talking about. The Japanese researcher looked
astonished and opened his mouth to offer a counter view when they were
interrupted by the sound of a trumpet.
The King of Sweden, Carl XVI Gustaf, stood up at the table of honor and raised his
glass. He then gave a speech to honor the donor, Alfred Nobel and called for a toast.
When the clink of glasses died down and the murmur of conversations began again,
the Blue Hall was filled with the sound of Swedish folk music. Three slightly pot-
bellied men with short beards walked into the room playing violins and accordion.
The Swedish part of the audience laughed and clapped as they recognized Benny
Andersson’s Orchestra, led by the ABBA star. The musicians played melancholy
traditional melodies and the laser projection behind them began to show Swedish
summer landscapes with Midsummer poles, herring plates and steamships on the
wall behind them.
Kind of strange to have the sights of summer in the middle of a Swedish December, but
at least it’s beautiful, Ida thought.
When the applause died down after the musical number, the Japanese scientist got
up to go to the men’s room.
The woman with big hair raised her eyebrow in amusement and smiled. “Men.
They’re good at so much, but they don’t like any opposition.”
She raised her glass and said, in Swedish, “Cheers!”
The woman was able to say the å-sound absolutely perfectly.
Ida raised her glass to praise the woman’s pronunciation.
“I’m probably a linguist who happened to end up in the wrong field,” the woman
said. “I’m extremely interested in your Swedish vowel system. It’s so unusual. The
sound of the u in hus – huuuus—that doesn’t exist anywhere else as far as I know.”
“How fascinating,” Ida said. “I’ve never paid attention to it before.”
“Yes, it’s the only vowel like it in the world,” the woman continued. She pouted her
lips and repeated, “Huuuuus.”
The table fell into genuine laughter for the first time that evening. The thin American
also tried to form his lips to make the u sound, which led to increased laughter. The
woman with big hair was at the center of attention.
Ida felt someone stood behind her. She slowly turned her head.
Lobov was there, but his expression was radically different from earlier that
morning. He seemed scared to death. He then walked past without a word.
“Do you know him?” the Russian woman asked sharply as she put down her wine
glass. “Do you know who he is?”
Dr. Takekawa returned from the restroom.
Don’t tell anyone you know him.
Ida shook her head. “No, who is he?”
“He’s only this year’s winner of the Nobel Prize in Physics,” the Japanese researcher
said shortly. “Anatoly Lobov. He’s a fascinating man.”
The tension had lifted from the table and everyone drank some more wine. The
woman with big hair was named Miranda. She seemed to want to draw them out so
she would have stories to tell back home about the Party of All Parties.
As the dinner drew to a close, Miranda told the two men to take home two napkin
rings apiece marked with the Nobel emblem.
“Just one napkin ring is not enough if you dine with a companion,” she said with a
smile.
She handed the peppershaker to Ida while she took the saltshaker for herself.
“Now you will always remember there is an old Russian lady somewhere in the
world with a Nobel salt shaker.”
A few women at another table stared at them. Ida and Miranda looked at each other
and then burst out in laughter.
8.
Ida realized she was becoming surprisingly tipsy…the warm air, concentrating on
English, not to mention the wine…
As the main course was being cleared, with time for the guests to stretch their legs,
Ida excused herself and headed to the entry hall to find a long line to the ladies’
room. After the wait and a short bathroom visit, she walked up to a balustrade to the
balcony door.
The dark-haired young man from the bus was coming up the other side.
“Oh, there you are!” Ida exclaimed. She realized she sounded a bit too enthusiastic.
She also realized her previous anxiety was completely gone – perhaps because of
the wine. “What did you think of the food?”
“Honestly?” the young man said, offering her a cigarette as they walked out onto the
balcony together. The December chill embraced them. “The food was rather flat,
don’t you think? How can you ruin a caviar?”
“Perhaps you were at one of the dull tables.”
“Aren’t they all dull?”
Ida couldn’t help laughing.
“And that light show! Making a Midsummer pole from lasers? How kitschy can you
get?”
She giggled. He was sweet but also pathetic. A couple their own age headed over
toward them, but didn’t stay long. They swore over the cold and went back inside.
“I see you’ve changed your hairstyle. Looks good,” he said.
“Thanks.”
As they smoked, they looked out over the water, which had grown even darker.
“So, are you going to the after party? There are only old folks here – and they even
smell mothballed.”
They laughed.
“Mini busses are going to Karolinska later tonight. It’s going to be a late party.”
He handed her his cell phone. “Here. Put your number in and I’ll give you a call.”
“Sure.”
“It was great to run into you. There’s something about your eyes…they’re unique. By
the way, my name is Paul.”
Someone came up behind them – someone with a slight hunchback in his silhouette.
Lobov.
He seemed relieved to see Ida, but still on guard. He shot a quick glance at Ida and
gave a slight cough. Clearly meaningful.
Ida handed the cell phone back to Paul. “See you later tonight. Now I have to make a
trip to the ladies’ room.”
“Sure,” Paul said. “Until later, then.”
Paul remained on the balcony as she made her way back inside to the warmth.
Lobov had already started to the balustrade, seeming to know she was following.
They passed side arches and then past the table run by Swedish Television. One of
the moderators, in an ill-fitting tuxedo, held his finger against his earpiece while
striking a line from his manuscript.
A security guard moved toward Lobov, informing them that the bathrooms and
smoking areas were on the other side of the building.
Lobov fished out his Nobel medal and name badge for the man, who stepped away.
Ida followed Lobov while the guard headed back to his post.
Another guard was posted in the hallway next to the kitchen, but Lobov pushed past
him and waited for Ida on the other side of the swinging double doors.
A whole row of waiters was standing waiting for the signal to troop out together.
They looked at Ida and Lobov in surprise. Nobody said a word.
What is he up to? Shouldn’t he be more careful that we’re not seen together? Is
he…drunk? Losing his caution?
The actual kitchen was farther along. Slams, bangs and excited voices came from
that direction. There was a small table with a movie screen, where an instructional
video on constant repeat showed the exact placement of a lingonberry sprig on a
ball of ice cream.
“I am truly sorry that I’m making your life so difficult right now,” Lobov said in
English. He kept his voice low. “I have to be absolutely certain that the Russian
ambassador doesn’t spy us.” He turned to glance behind them for a second.
“But you should know that you are doing your grandmother and me a true service.”
An elderly waiter came up and indicated an exit nearby, but Lobov moved to
another door opening to the service elevator.
A narrow, well-worn marble staircase spiraled three turns up to a thick metal door.
They walked up the stairs and through the open door. They came out on the highest
balustrade just under the brick ceiling, approximately twenty-five meters above the
floor.
Lobov kept glancing around as he picked his way over a number of cables and lights,
then past a mixing console. This is probably where they set up the light show, Ida
thought.
“So,” Lobov said. He was looking around with more than caution, more than
tipsiness.
He’s scared to death.
“Do you know the woman at your table?” Lobov asked.
“The one with the big hair?” asked Ida.
“A wig,” Lobov said.
“She’s wearing a wig?” asked Ida in surprise.
“I know that for sure. Her name is Miranda.”
“Yes, she mentioned her name was Miranda. No, I don’t know her.”
“Keep away from her. Bad luck you wound up at her table. She’s probably the only
one of them who managed to get in the door. But I don’t believe she noticed
anything.”
“What would she notice?”
Lobov stared right into Ida’s eyes.
“Listen to me. She must not know that you know me. She has much on her
conscience. She wants to steal what I am about to give you. Do you understand what
I’m trying to tell you? She will do whatever it takes…and by whatever I mean
anything…without hesitation…I was going to talk to you, but when I saw her at your
table, I kept walking. You didn’t tell her you knew who I was, did you? Or how you
got your ticket?”
“Nobody knows. I don’t know why I’m here myself.”
Lobov smiled slightly in spite of his tension.
“You told me,” Ida continued, “that she had a great deal on her conscience. What
does that mean?”
He smiled again, but it seemed artificial, just intended to reassure her.
“Don’t worry…it’s my fault that you’re here. Back in Moscow I made a mistake. When
I’d been awarded the Nobel Prize, I allowed a Swedish journalist into my apartment.
Until then, no one knew where I lived – I have more than one apartment, all secret.
The journalist let slip the address in his article. I was not careful. The award made
me vain. Miranda and her cronies barged into this second apartment and turned it
upside down…destroying everything I had there…”
“Her cronies? Who are they?”
They were standing beside each other, looking down at the table where the guests
were starting to eat dessert.
“A Russian closet research group which Miranda heads…and I don’t have time to
explain it all…”
He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Since I landed at Arlanda Airport two days ago, they’ve been after me. They’ve
shadowed me all over Stockholm, even at the Karolinska Institute. Not to mention
the cafeteria this morning. You probably think I am paranoid, but believe me, I have
reason to be. If you could just help me for a few days, so I can relax for a moment
and have a chance to think. I’m going crazy from all this, you see. I need to trust
you.”
This is really complicated, Ida thought, as her fear began to rise.
She said, “Yes, you can trust me. But what do you want me to do? Alma told me
something about a box of some kind?”
“That’s right,” Lobov said. He smiled and looked at her for a long pause.
“Do you know, looking at you, it’s like going back sixty years. Your eyes and
eyebrows, your chin – all Alma’s, all your grandmother’s. Genes are funny things,
aren’t they? They skip a generation and then, there they are again. Sorry, my
rambling on. This is the happiest day of my life. The Nobel Prize and this wonderful
letter I happened upon, and you -- all on the same day.”
He lapsed into thought and looked into space, while the murmur of the guests below
continued.
Wonderful letter? What’s he talking about now?
The fanfare of a trumpet suddenly cut through the air. The dinner music ended and
the king stood up to the scraping sound of a thousand guests pushing back their
chairs that filled the Blue Hall. Per protocol, everyone must stand as the king leaves
the room.
A man with a blond ponytail, wearing a tuxedo, came up behind them on the
balustrade. Lobov stiffened.
The man went to the mixing console and adjusted some knobs. Red laser light was
projected onto the wall on the other side of the Blue Hall – flower stems, the crowns
of trees, leaves of acanthus.
Really now, Ida thought. The flowers on the tables are more than enough for
decorations.
She watched as the king walked up the Lion Staircase partnering his lady dinner
guest. The Queen followed. Her dinner partner was a round man in glasses and Ida
had a brief thought of that sweet, perhaps not so smart, Paul. The other guests were
now following the king’s example and leaving the table. Slowly, the Blue Hall was
starting to empty as the guests strolled toward the Golden Hall for a night of
dancing.
The man at the mixing console got up and hurried away. Lobov followed him with
his eyes.
When the man was gone, Lobov looked at Ida intently.
“Let me show you what I found,” he said, as he pulled out a common sheet of paper.
“Oh, sorry, wait a minute, this is my speech. Here it is…”
He pulled another sheet of paper from a different pocket and worry flitted briefly
over his face. The laser show was moving in the same direction as the guests, giving
them something to watch as they waited in line.
Ida watched the guy from the mixing console on a middle floor near the north
balustrade. He changed the direction of some of the lamps and then jogged toward
another mix table.
Lobov held out a second sheet of paper and his expression changed again. Ida saw
the reflection of a tender thought, something fragile.
He lowered his voice and glanced around again to be sure no one could hear them.
“For more than two hundred years, people have been searching for the information
on this piece of paper. And it was right in front of our noses this entire time. Alma
will be so surprised. She will be…”
He seemed to alternate between high spirits and fright, as if he were afraid that the
roof might cascade down upon them – or that perhaps Heaven’s Gate would open.
He’s definitely tipsy.
“Why didn’t Alma come with you?”
He looked really concerned then.
“She had to stay behind in Moscow…keep an eye on all our…equipment over there. It
has to stay the right…temperature. You’re more than welcome to visit us in Moscow
and then we’ll show you everything. Just let us know.”
He held up the sheet of paper again.
“You understand. I went to the reading room for special books at the Karolinska
Institute after I saw you in the cafeteria. I’ve always wanted to look through the
classic material on science from the Medieval Period and beyond…it’s an impressive
collection. And there was one thing I had to see with my own eyes.”
“A letter.”
“Yes, an old letter. It’s tremendously famous. The man who wrote it was named
Solander…but it wasn’t just one letter, but two, you see? There was a sheet of paper
among the protective papers surrounding the actual letter. It looked like a normal
piece of blank paper. Nothing special. I don’t have time to explain it all to you now.
I’ve read the real letter many times before, but this new sheet of paper is priceless. I
still can’t believe I’ve found an unknown text on a normal piece of paper.
Unbelievable what this can lead to in the future.”
Lobov’s forehead was dotted in sweat and he looked even more agitated.
Ida felt out of the loop. She had no idea what he was talking about. He noticed her
confusion.
“The secret is cobalt chloride. The Swedes used it in the 1700’s – or to be more exact
he used it – your own Swedish genius Carl Linnaeus.”
Lobov glanced around once more.
“Cobalt chloride was used for invisible ink. Hold it to an even warm heat and it
appears, only to disappear when the paper cools again. You cannot believe how
elated I was in the reading room. As I held the original letter in my hands, I
happened to bring the cover sheet close to the reading lamp. A text appeared on it,
too! The text was meant to be hidden – and so there were now two letters. I realized
I wouldn’t have time to write it all down, and, besides, I only understood a few lines;
it was in an older form of Swedish. But I recognized the signature. So I just, well,
borrowed it. Take a look.”
Lobov held out a sheet of paper folded into quarters.
“You’ll have to explain this better,” Ida broke in. “You found a secret letter from Carl
Linnaeus?”
“No, a secret letter to him from one of his students. In fact, his star student, Daniel
Solander, his best and most mystic disciple. What this letter holds can lead us
beyond our present knowledge, far beyond, even if I’m not sure what…”
He tapped the paper.
“I could read only a few words. Alma has taught me only a little Swedish. The
important thing is, Ida, the word mussels. Do you know anything about freshwater
pearl mussels?
She shook her head.
“There’s also a line about a place where God’s wrath never abates, never! This can
lead to something extraordinary! I’ve had no chance to read the entire thing. This
has been a whirlwind of a day. I visited the Russian embassy and also been
interviewed. I’m not so good at Swedish and this older form, well…”
He took a deep breath, but still held the letter.
“Now I’m talking too much, Ida, and, oh, there’s so much that you don’t know about
your grandmother, either. Sorry, I am getting tipsy and sentimental.”
He was on high alert and kept glancing around.
“No one is here. Take the letter. Keep it safe for a few days. And the box itself. It’s
even more important.”
They were still all alone up on the balustrade, with, luckily, no one noticing them.
Lobov nodded as he drew out a plastic bag holding a green, five-inch long box with a
bronze clasp.
“What’s inside?” she asked.
“Shh!”
He looked around for the tenth time or so.
“It’s best if you don’t know anything about it. Just keep the box safe until you’re
asked to return it to me, in about two days or so.”
She took the box, which was unusually heavy, and remembered Alma’s warning to
never open it.
“But what is it?” She asked, in spite of all her anxiety. “It’s not dangerous, is it?”
Lobov seemed serious and it looked as if he were weighing things in his own mind
while also feeling just a bit sorry for her.
“It’s not a smart thing for me to do, but I’ll give you a little peek. Just for the sake of
your beautiful eyes, Ida, as long as you promise to never talk about it with anyone
else but Alma and me.”
“I promise.”
“The contents of this box are beyond all description.”
What is he going on about?
Lobov carefully touched the box as if it were made of an unusually fragile material.
He held it carefully in both hands as he held his breath in concentration.
“Look quickly for just a few seconds. Are you ready?”
She nodded and felt her pulse quicken. She also noticed that the laser projections
were creeping up the wall even closer to them. The light was reflected on the ceiling
and was starting to blind them just as he unlocked the bronze clasp and opened the
lid.
She was just about to look into the box when an intense beam of light enveloped
them both. Lobov jumped back – the laser projections had reached their balustrade
and illuminated their bodies – and at that same moment a hard, concentrated beam
of green light shot from the box and everything around them became a horrible,
unendurable white, as if they were at the center of a completely soundless explosion
of light. She wasn’t able to think or throw her hands up to protect her face.
What is happening?
The light -- where is it coming from? From his head?
Capitol Records Tower, Hollywood
November 17, 1990
It was a hot morning. As the sharp rays of sun beat through the unusually large
panels of the Persian blinds, the inlaid intarsia of the huge Eames desk gleamed. The
CEO, sitting in his leather chair behind the desk, was smoking a Lucky Strike.
Eliot Weisman was in the visitor’s chair, a matching Eames.
“I’m so sorry. Maybe this was just a too early for him,” Eliot said.
“Isn’t everything a little too early for him these days?” the CEO replied. “Or should I
say, isn’t it all too late?”
Rumbling came from the heavy traffic at Hollywood and Vine. Eliot glanced at his
watch: twenty past nine.
The CEO leaned forward and pushed a button on his desk phone. His growly voice
projected through his beard and slight mustache, “Can we get some coffee in here?
And some water, too.”
The assistant’s voice came through. “Right away, sir.”
Silence. Eliot was thinking of something to say when the phone beeped and the
assistant’s voice said, “Mr. Sinatra is here.”
The CEO hummed to himself.
The door opened and the CEO exclaimed, “Frank! Wonderful to see you!”
The CEO stood up and went over to shake hands as, at the same time, the assistant
came in with a steel tray supporting a chrome thermos and coffee cups.
Eliot got up and gave the singer a clap on the back. He noticed the singer’s toupé was
lopsided and the whiff of alcohol came off him. Other than that, he was tan and
energetic.
Frank pointed a thumb at Eliot and said, “World’s best manager, right?”
Eliot smiled. The assistant put the tray on the sideboard, while the CEO asked Frank
to go ahead and take a seat on the Eames chair next to Eliot’s. They made some
small talk about the weather and how great it was to have air conditioners in heat
like this. When the assistant served the coffee and left the room, they turned to more
serious matters.
“Well, Andy and I were sitting here talking while we were waiting for you and we
came up with a fantastic idea.”
“You did?” Frank said with a small laugh, while he turned around as if he were
looking for something specific behind his chair.
“The thing is,” Eliot said, sending a brief smile toward the CEO, “We thought that as
part of your next album…get this…we invite some other outstanding singers to
record with you.”
Eliot paused theatrically. “Each song will be a duet with a famous singer. Big hits as
well as some lesser known favorites…”
“Wait a minute,” Frank interrupted. “What time is it in New York?”
The CEO glanced at the wall clock, which was circled by portraits of Billie Holiday,
Miles Davis and Nat King Cole and gold records for MC Hammer and Ice Cube
“About four thirty.”
“Damn it,” Frank said as he started to get up. “Can you get me an outside line? Use
this number.”
He handed the CEO a business card. The CEO tried to keep back a sigh as he asked
his assistant to place the call. He kept his eyes on Eliot.
“Can you get me a double? I just got to check on something in New York…something
in an auction.”
Eliot shrugged and the CEO leaned back in his leather armchair. They said nothing,
just waited for the assistant to come back carrying a glass filled with ice and vodka.
“Your line is open,” she said, closing the door behind her.
“Great,” Frank said as he tried to shift the chair closer to the desk.
“Hey, take mine.” The CEO got up and gestured politely.
Frank settled into the CEO’s chair and picked up the receiver.
“Hi, Donald? How’s things?...Great…Hey…what’s going on with the auction?” Frank
glanced at Eliot and the CEO while he listened to Donald.
“OK, so it hasn’t sold yet?...Great!...Tell you what…no, I don’t want those ceramic
pieces…not the Jawlensky…Renoir? Oh God no…just that stone thing, OK?”
Frank held one hand over the microphone while he took a big gulp from his drink.
He looked at the CEO and said in a stage whisper, “There’s only two numbers before
the one I want. Good timing, right?”
Donald was saying something and Frank listened intently. “I understand. I’ll wait.”
Eliot tried to catch Frank’s eye.
“Can we get going here while you’re waiting?” he asked.
“Sure.”
The CEO drank some coffee.
“As I was saying…we’re thinking of inviting some really big names…it’ll be
magical…the kind of duets we could get…”
“Really big,” the CEO said. “We’re talking Aretha Franklin…Anita Baker…Luciano
Pavoratti, Julio Iglesias. Maybe U2’s Bono. We have one ready to sign on right now.
We could just call the album Duets.”
It seemed as if Frank’s attention was split between them and his ear glued to the
phone.
“We’ll get the best team…Phil Ramone as producer…” Eliot began.
“Don Rubin…Al Schmitt?”
“Shut up!” Frank held up a warning palm. “What did you just say Donald?”
“It’s up now? What’s the opening bid? OK, get ready.”
Frank said in a stage whisper, “You got to understand…this is a health stone…really
special…one of a kind. What, Donald? Raise it!...Well, then raise it again! Who else is
in the room? What? Some kind of crazy Swede is trying to outbid me? You got to be
kidding. Raise it!” A pause. “Raise it again. No limits, OK? What?...That crazy Swede is
still bidding? Where are we at now? Then bid nine! Jesus! Yes, I’m waiting.”
He smiled again and said: “You won’t believe me, guys, but this auction is on Greta
Garbo’s stuff. Everything she had in New York.”
The CEO whistled.
“Almost over?” Eliot asked.
“Quiet!” Frank was concentrating. “Yeah, go ahead and bid against Donald. No limits.
I already told you that. I just have to have this!”
Donald’s voice was loud enough to come through the receiver.
“Right! That’s it! Make a bid! I’m going to have that thing! That’s the way it is!”
The CEO rubbed out the cigarette stub in his ashtray and lit another. He sighed.
Frank kept his ear to the receiver. “Yeah…yeah…right…yeah…”
He jumped up and slammed his hand on the desk. His glass fell over and the vodka
spilled all over the desk. The ice cubes slid off to land on the red wall-to-wall carpet.
“I got it!” He laughed. “I won! I got Greta Garbo’s stone! Only eighteen thousand five
hundred bucks! What do you say to that?”
Frank practically danced toward the window, laughing, and said in exaltation, “You
guys can’t believe how happy this makes me! I met Greta a few times…no, don’t even
imagine we had an affair…if that’s what you were thinking…we met at a charity
event back at the Waldorf during the Seventies…she told me something I’d never
forget.”
He beamed at them.
“Yeah, it sounds crazy but I swear it’s true. She told me she had a special stone she’d
heat in the oven…she’d take it to bed inside a hot water bottle…she said it was like
magic because it kept warm for a long time and it would always make her feel
better…heal her even, no matter what, headache, colds, hang-overs even. Not to
mention her smoker’s cough. You get it? She told me this stone was incredible. I told
her I wanted to get one like it, but she said it was unique. She told me, forget about
it.”
He stopped to catch his breath and then began to laugh.
Eliot could only sit still and wait until Frank was done with his story.
“One more thing…I know it sounds crazy, but you know Greta was a little…off, shall
we say? She used to sleep with her Oscar statue, too…not just this stone…and
whenever she had both the statue and the stone together the stone would stay
warm for days on end…she was a little tipsy…me, too…but she insisted that this
stone made her better.
I met her a couple years later in New York and asked her if she still had that magic
stone, but she didn’t want to talk about it…she just laughed…it was as if she
regretted telling me about it, but I knew she still had it and I decided that I would
just wait for it…one day she’d pass away, and if her stuff was sold in an auction…and
then it was and I got it! Fantastic, right?”
Eliot smiled and waited. When he realized that Frank was waiting for him to show
interest in his story, he knew he had to feign it.
“I don’t get it. Why’d she take the Oscar to bed with her?”
“Well, the story is,” Frank began, smiling, “and I got it right from her, you see, though
not at the dinner at the Waldorf when we were so tipsy, but later…she told me she
kept her Oscar next to her and would hug it to her chest…she was so bitter at
Hollywood, you know and the Academy gave it to her long after her days as a star…it
was like an insult. Anyway, she said that when she had that stone inside its hot
water bottle and the Oscar…she would feel like a princess again. She said it was
better than any drug on the planet.”
He laughed again.
“And now it’s mine! I saw it in the Christie’s catalogue last week and I knew…it had
to be the stone she was talking about and I was going to get it! I have an Oscar, too!
I’ll heat it up just like she did and I’ll never have any problems with my smoker’s
cough ever again…and I’ll have lots of energy even after drinking the night
before…my Oscar and my stone!”
He broke out in You make me Feel so Young.
He stopped in front of a Mondrian painting on the wall and, amused, inspected its
black lines and colorful squares.
“Even if she exaggerated a bit at the Waldorf…so what? It still belonged to Greta
Garbo, the most beautiful woman in the world! Have you ever seen a woman with
such amazing eyes?”
He turned to face them and threw his arms wide open. The wrinkles creasing his
tanned face were deeper than the last time Eliot had seen him, and beneath his wellformed eyebrows, his light blue eyes were more clear than usual.
“Hey guys. What was that idea again? The one for a new album?”
9.
Ida felt a hand on her shoulder. A few men in tuxedos had helped her to her feet, as
she could not feel her own legs and then a blonde woman in rough clothes had led
her down the stairs, asking her questions. Ida tried to answer but could not hear her
own voice. Men wearing suits and carrying briefcases were running up the stairs
toward them.
“Hello?” the blonde woman was saying in English. “My name is Jenny Strömmer and
I’m a police officer.”
They were still continuing down the stairs while Ida tried to mumble some kind of
reply.
“So, you’re Swedish,” said Jenny. “Good. That makes it easier. I’m a detective. Now I
need to know your name. Let’s find a place to sit down first and then let’s talk about
everything that happened… from the beginning.”
The room was spinning.
Ida found herself perched on a stool in the huge City Hall kitchen. Someone had
wrapped a yellow blanket around her.
The policewoman had fished a radio from her pocket.
Ida stared at the kitchen around her, watching the waiters who had all shed their
white uniform jackets and, with startled eyes, walked past her as quietly as they
could.
She finally had a clear thought.
Where’s the box?
She touched her handbag and felt something hard. She must have picked up the box
and stuffed it in her bag without thinking.
The sheet of paper Lobov had stolen was there, too. Good.
Don’t go to the police.
Lobov’s bubbly, wheezing voice: Don’t go to the police.
She had no tears, just an enormous emptiness inside.
How could Lobov’s eyes…explode like that?
His Russian accented English: Tell Alma I love her.
Jenny returned with a glass of water.
“Wait here a moment.”
Jenny was directing two ambulance men who were rushing through the kitchen
with a foldable stretcher. Two other men were coming back. One, walking down the
marble staircase, was wiping his hands; the other had blood on his sleeve. Obviously
doctors who’d been the first two people at the scene.
Voices: “The party must go on.”
“Don’t tell the guests anything.”
“Good thing it happened up there, near the ceiling. Only the guy working the lights
saw what happened.”
People were mentioning Säpo, the Swedish Security Police.
No one was paying any attention to Ida.
She closed her eyes and realized she felt nauseous.
The eyes…the blood…
I have to call Alma.
She started to stand up and the policewoman came rushing over.
“Please, just sit still for a moment. How are you feeling?”
“I feel like I’m going to be sick.” Ida felt as if her knees could not support her weight.
“I’ll come with you. Let’s go.”
The policewoman helped her to her feet and talked to her in a calm, steady voice. Ida
realized the policewoman was soothing her, using the techniques for a person in
shock. She’d seen it in the movies – people wrapped in silver blankets with empty
looks on their faces.
I’m one of those people now. Is this what shock feels like?
I don’t feel much of anything…just focused…as if everything is going by extremely
slowly and I’m at a different speed.
“I’ll wait outside,” Jenny said, as she held open the door to the bathroom unit with its
toilet and sink.
Ida hung the blanket on a hook and sat down on the black seat. She still felt slightly
nauseous, but she knew that she wasn’t going to throw up. She stared at the toilet
paper holder.
After what seemed like just a moment or two, there was a knock on the door.
“Are you O.K. in there?” asked Jenny. “How are you feeling?”
“Not too good,” Ida replied. “Nauseous.”
“Just let me know if you need anything.”
Ida could hear someone’s voice on Jenny’s radio.
“Negative. I’m with the witness. She is not well. Over.”
A crackling voice came through the receiver.
“Understood. Over.”
She knocked on the door again.
“I have to take care of something, but I’ll be right back. You’re not going to go
anywhere, are you?”
“No, I’m staying here. My stomach hurts.”
“It’s not serious, is it? Do you need a doctor?”
“No, I’ll be fine.”
“O.K. Again, don’t go anywhere. Wait for me or one of my colleagues…that is, if
you’re ready before I get back. I want a doctor to take a look at you, just to be on the
safe side.”
Ida could hear the crackling of the radio and knew that Jenny was heading away
from the door.
She immediately picked up her cell phone and hit the button for incoming calls.
There was Alma’s palindrome number.
She didn’t know what to say, just that she had to talk.
Pick it up, Grandma! Jesus Christ, just pick up the phone!
10.
She was counting the rings.
Nine before Alma’s voice: “Yes?”
“Lobov is dead,” Ida whispered.
Silence on the other end for a moment, then Alma: “Wh…what? Ida?”
“Lobov is dead. Some kind of accident…”
“What? How? Where are you?”
“At the Nobel Party.” Ida kept whispering.
“I don’t understand. Tell me what’s going on.” Alma’s voice cracked.
“He fell at my feet. The police are here and saying I’m in shock.”
The sound of silence – a ray of nothing through the mobile signal masts between
Sweden and Russia. Just Alma’s breathing and a heavy sigh.
Then, from the other side of the Baltic, Alma said, “Ida, tell me what happened as
calmly as you can.”
“I am as calm as I can be. So. He was handing me the box. He said he felt as if he was
being followed. He gave me a secret letter and then there was a flash of light…really
strong light…and his eyes just…just…exploded…and he fell down.”
“I knew it. I knew they would find him in the end.”
Another pause.
“Where is the box?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Where is the box?”
“He told me that he loved you. That was the last thing he said.”
More silence. Then Alma’s voice again, still sharp, but now mixed with sorrow and
tears.
“Where is the box?”
“I have it.”
How could she think about that box at a time like this?
“What did you say about…a secret letter?”
“Yes, Lobov found it today. It was in the Karolinska library. An unknown letter with
invisible ink. He told me it could lead to things beyond our imagination. Something
to do with Linnaeus…and mussels.”
Alma inhaled sharply. “Mussels?”
“That’s right.”
“Where is the letter now?”
“I have it.”
“Good. Where are you now?”
“In a bathroom at City Hall. A police officer named Jenny has been assisting me.”
“Listen carefully to me now, Ida. You must leave at once. Avoid Jenny and the other
officers. Promise me you’ll get out of there.”
“Can you tell me what this is all about?”
“When there’s more time. Did you see anyone following Lobov at the party?”
“No, but he mentioned a woman named Miranda. I thought she was pleasant.”
“Did you talk to Miranda?”
“Yes, we were seated at the same table.”
Alma swore aloud in Russian. Then she muttered something as if she were talking to
herself.
“Grandma, what did you just say? I can’t hear you.”
“Ida, I am truly sorry that I brought you into this. You’re been saddled with a
responsibility far more important than you can understand. Get away as soon as you
can.”
Ida stiffened and her nausea vanished. Instead, she felt as if the walls of the
bathroom where pressing in on her.
“What are you saying? What are you saying?”
“You must trust me. Get out. Make sure that Miranda does not see you. Be as
unobtrusive as possible so no one will start following you. Hide both the box and the
letter. Only when they are safe and secure can you go to the police and explain what
you witnessed.”
“The police are already here and consider me a witness. They’re waiting for me on
the other side of the bathroom door. Grandma, you don’t understand.”
“Do the police know you have the box?”
“No, they don’t.”
“The police must not get their hands on it. Understand?”
Alma’s voice was worried as she continued, “I know that you’re in shock…what
you’ve witnessed... But listen to me. You must just get out of there as soon as you
can.”
Ida found that she’d been crying without realizing it. Her cell phone was now in her
lap and she could hear Alma saying her name. Her mascara started to run and she
wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. Then she put her phone back to her ear.
“It’s for your own sake. I’m telling you to get out of there! Trust me. Hide the box and
the letter and then go to the police. For your own safety!”
“Am I in danger?”
“With Miranda at that party, yes, I’m afraid that you are. If Miranda knows you have
the box, you are in terrible danger.”
“I don’t understand…” Ida could hear her own fear.
“Lobov is dead, and not by accident.” Alma’s voice was gravely direct.
Ida felt she was about to fall off her perch on the toilet seat. “It had to be an accident.
I was there, Grandma. It was some kind of explosion. He told me he loved you and it
was the last thing he said. It seems all you care about is this weird box…”
“Just do as I say. Avoid the police, avoid Miranda and promise me…”
A knock on the door.
“Are you in there?” It was Jenny again. “Are you feeling any better?”
Ida snapped the phone shut and hid it in her handbag.
“Yes, I am. A little.”
She wrapped the yellow blanket around her shoulders again and slowly opened the
door. Jenny was smiling, a cheerful, fake smile.
“Let’s sit together for a moment. I want a doctor for you, and then another of my
colleagues needs to ask you about what happened. Then you can go home, if that’s
what you want. Do you have someone to stay with you this evening?”
Jenny was leading her back to the stool in the kitchen. Ida looked around.
Where are the exits? How can I get out of here without being seen?
The ambulance men were returning with an empty stretcher.
Jenny squatted in front of Ida’s chair and stared unblinkingly into her eyes.
11.
A number of waiters were now streaming into the kitchen with piles of empty
dessert plates. The ambulance men and the Säpo personnel were trying to keep the
employees controlled, but in the middle of it all was the double-chinned man who’d
been the partner of the Queen. The man wore a light blue ribbon with a round, gold
medal around his neck and Ida finally figured out who he was: Marcus Storch, the
spokesperson for the Nobel Foundation. He was talking agitatedly with one of the
police officers.
A few seconds later, the officer decided that the stream of waiters would be diverted
around the kitchen.
Meanwhile Jenny had received new instructions on her phone and she turned
toward Ida, still sitting on the stool.
“It’s crowded here…as you see. We should go, perhaps to the station where we can
speak in peace and quiet, all right?”
“Fine,” Ida said, while thinking I can’t go to the station – I have to get away.
Her eye caught a movement by the door.
The woman with the big hair – her wig.
Miranda.
What is Miranda doing here?
Ida got to her feet as if she were getting ready to leave with Jenny. She was
shivering.
Did Miranda see me?
Not yet.
Miranda was showing her identification to one of the Säpo guards at the door, who
called for his superior.
“She says she’s Russian and the personal physician of the deceased.”
The superior shook his head. “I’m sorry. Nothing can be done for him and this is a
restricted area.”
“But why can’t I see him? Please, I’m begging you!”
At that moment, Miranda caught Ida’s gaze. Miranda stiffened and a dull red crawled
into her face. She collected herself and the warm expression she’d had at the dinner
table returned. This time, Ida saw how fake it was.
“Are you all right?” Miranda called to her. “What happened?”
Miranda could say no more as the police escorted her from the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” Ida could hear Miranda’s protests. “I know that girl! Where
are you taking her?”
“It’s time to go,” Jenny said, putting her gloved hand on Ida’s shoulder. “When we get
to the station, I’ll get you a cup of tea.”
12.
Jenny led Ida through the same door Miranda had just gone out from, but she was
nowhere in sight. The Big Band music from the Golden Hall echoed throughout the
building. Jenny escorted Ida beneath arch after arch toward the coatroom for Ida’s
coat.
My steps seem unbearably heavy, Ida thought. Everything around me seems unreal.
Alma’s words: You must trust me. Get out of there and hide the box and the letter.
Only then go to the police. It was not an accident.
Miranda’s words: I’m his personal physician.
Alma: Get out of there!
She felt dizzy and wanted to scream. She felt she had no control over her own
actions, and she stopped short in the middle of a marble staircase. Impressions of
trilobites in the marble.
Jenny stopped with her and asked, in a friendly tone, “Are you all right?”
Ida gave Jenny such a sudden push; Jenny tumbled over the railing and then ten feet
down onto the floor below. Her body made a dull thud, and the crackle of her radio
stopped as it shattered into pieces.
Ida began to run as fast as she could through the brick hallway with no idea where
she was heading, just that she was moving faster than she’d ever run before. She
found herself in the Blue Hall.
The waiters were clearing off the rest of the dinner debris.
She heard nothing. Nobody yelled her name. Nobody seemed to care about her. She
abruptly slowed her pace and walked sedately down toward the balustrade by the
Golden Hall.
She found herself stepping right onto the dance floor. The golden tiles glittered and
made her head spin. Tuxedos and evening gowns twirled around her as the band
played Glenn Miller’s “Chattanooga Choo Choo”. She headed toward a corner of the
room where she thought she’d seen an exit, but there was only a bar. She asked for a
glass of water and then pressed her back against the wall and stared out the window
at the black water of Riddarfjärden. She could feel her hands shaking. In fact, her
whole body was trembling. Although she felt like bursting into tears or screaming at
the top of her lungs, she realized she had found a point of calm inside that she’d
never known she had.
So, I’m in shock, but what can I do? And what did I do to poor Jenny? I have to get out
of here now, but not the main entrance. Breathe…calm down…good.
She felt a hand on her arm.
“Wow, you’re covered in sweat. You must have been really dancing up a storm out
there!”
It was the young man with the beautiful brown eyes. What was his name again? Paul,
right?
Paul casually held a cognac glass. “Where were you?”
She didn’t answer, just took his cognac and downed it in one gulp.
“I’ve got to go home. I’m not feeling well,” she said.
“Do you need another drink?” Paul laughed.
When she didn’t reply, he took a closer look. “Come on, now. You promised me a
dance. Just one more. It is the Nobel event after all.”
She shook her head, sweeping a searching gaze over the crowd. She glimpsed the
bright brass of the saxophones and trombones. She spotted the entrance, but not
Jenny or anyone else who resembled security or an officer.
Did I really push a police officer over a railing?
Did all of this really just happen to me?
“You can’t just stand here,” Paul said with a smile. “Damn it all, you’re wasting a
good party! All right, then…”
He wrapped an arm around her waist and led her through the crowd. He seemed so
calm and unconcerned.
Nothing matters anymore, Ida thought. Just follow his lead. I can’t think of anything
else on my own.
As they walked back into the Blue Hall, she stumbled. Paul caught her. She leaned
against one of the marble pillars.
Over Paul’s left shoulder she spotted two undercover officers in tuxedos. They wore
ear buds, and they were soon joined by two more tuxedoed officers.
The officers began to jog up the stairs. She tried not to look directly at them. She
drew closer to Paul so his body would block their view of her.
He misinterpreted her movement, and he leaned over her protectively to touch his
lips to hers. She let it happen. She felt blind and deaf – completely disconnected from
her surroundings. His kiss was moist and tasted like cognac. She could hear the clack
of the officers’ shoes on the stairs. The band began to play “The Girl from Ipanema.”
“There’s something going on,” Paul said.
They kept walking toward the coat check. Ida could see nothing where Jenny had
fallen just five minutes earlier, just a scrap of black plastic from the radio.
What have I done? What am I going to do?
Two men in tuxedos, also apparently undercover officers, stood by the coat check
talking urgently into their communicators.
“Negative. We need a description,” one was saying. “No, our colleague was not
seriously injured…she’s going to be fine…want us to close down the building?”
Are they hoping to catch me? I’m right here, idiots!
Paul took her ticket and collected her coat.
Ida kept looking at the floor. Her heart pounded violently in her chest as she heard
the police radio crackle to life again.
“Young woman. Alone. Maybe wearing a yellow blanket.”
As they walked to the exit, the police officer on the radio raised a hand to stop them.
“Is something going on?” asked Paul with an almost childlike innocence.
The officer peered closely at them and raised his radio, which crackled without
distinguishable words.
“Nothing serious, folks. Just a small accident.”
They were moving out onto the broad staircase and into the chill. As they walked
through the garden, Ida could hear:
“Should we let people through who do not match the description? The description of
the suspect is not clear…”
And the voice dwindled behind them as they kept going. Ida leaned against Paul as
they walked. She let him support her.
They came to Hantverkargatan.
Paul pulled out a flask he had in the inner pocket of his jacket. He let her drink some
of his whiskey.
She thought that the Stockholm sky above them began to whirl like an enormous,
self-illuminating top.
13.
The rest of the evening passed in a kaleidoscope of impressions among thoughts of
Lobov, the box and his exploding eyes—somewhere where she was handed a
sausage from a stand near Fridhemsplan--and then she was crying in a bus filled
with partying people and Paul gave her a pill--and they were on the highway north
of Stockholm and people were singing to Lady Gaga in the front seat and she found
herself singing too--and then there were two strong drinks with vodka in plastic
cups in some kind of bar and she saw one or two people who had been at the Nobel
festivities and they were hopping along to the Swedish folk song ‘Small Frogs’--and
then Paul was asking her why she was acting so strangely and gave her another pill
and then she’d borrowed his cell phone to try to call Alma as her own cell phone was
out of batteries and Alma did not answer--and then there was nothing--and then she
was in a kitchen crying, so she must be at somebody’s house--and then she was lying
on something soft and red, a fleece blanket, and she felt someone, probably Paul,
sticking his penis into her body and she found herself moving with him and he said
that it was already seven in the morning and they were lying back to back--and then
she fell asleep.
Paradise, October 31st
Dear Ida Nordlund?
Dear Ida?
My dear Ida?
My dearest child?
Forgive me?
Perhaps I should start with this. Forgive me?
I have promised that I would be completely truthful and straightforward in this
letter. If I let my feelings take over there will be nothing but useless tears. Bitter
tears. I betrayed you so I have no right to cry about my own sorrow.
I feel torn: should I even write this letter to you? How shall I? I have written to you
before, many times, during the past few years, but the letters are all here, next to the
woodpile, all of them unsent. Of course, I am worried about your reaction, but I am
also terrified that they will find me. Perhaps they will analyze the postmark. Perhaps
I will disclose more than I intended about my location. Perhaps even telling you
about the kind of apples growing here would be enough for them to find me. Still, I
am no longer as paranoid as when I first came here.
I want to tell you as much as I can about every point in my story. Logical and clear.
We have this trait in our family, and I have been developing this side of my
personality even more over the years. I carry water and tend to the garden during
the summer. I pickle cucumbers and carrots. I harvest potatoes and apples in the
fall. I carry in wood and turn on the generator in the winter. In the spring, the cycle
begins again. It is practical and everything is done as it always has been done. My
hands ache and my feet itch. This work is the work of survival, a gift to get me
through the days. In the evenings, I put all my time into what I, with some irony, call
my studies of the entirety of the universe. I use these studies to create the greatest
possible distance from you. It gives me something else to think about. I’ve created a
span of thought as wide as any cathedral.
I hope that you are happy and that you never think of me as more than a vague
dream. You were just two and a half when I left you. Today is your eighteenth
birthday. You are now an adult and responsible for your own life, no matter what
Alma thinks. Get away from Jämtland as soon as you’ve finished school. Anywhere at
all. Study or work. Oh, who am I to tell you what to do? Not thinking of you is a skill
I’ve polished to perfection. Just a few years ago, I was still an amateur at that; my
entire being was wrapped up in missing you. I could lie in bed for days using all my
concentration to not think of you. Sometimes I managed to get up only to find
myself sitting in a chair or lying beneath the table staring at nothing. It seemed I was
playing hide and seek with my own sorrow, a sorrow always seeking me out, always
searching angrily for as long as it took until it found me and dug its icy, child-hand
into my heart.
These days, my sorrow often doesn’t find me. It has gotten lost in the wilds outside.
One day I had counted up all the years that had gone by, and my sorrow released
me. I realized it was now too late; it had always been too late. Much of my sorrow
was because I had always thought I had a choice. Should I return or not? It was then
easier; it was impossible to return. Too much time had gone by.
Those first few years my illness had saved me, ironically enough. I had told myself
to postpone going crazy until I’d stabilized my physical health. To do that, I would
pick up my cane and walk to all ‘my old playgrounds,’ as I called them. First I would
sit for a full hour by a certain rock beside a wolverine den. Then I would walk to a
ravine and kneel for half an hour or so, or an entire hour if there was deep snow.
Finally, I would circle three times around an abandoned truck to sit behind the
wheel with my back tightly pressed against the damp, broken bucket seat until my
jacket was soaking wet. Every day I followed this routine, I got slightly better. First
my rear, then my legs up to my knees and, finally, my back. First the back side of my
body, then the front side. Every day I would tell myself that I was not crazy then and
I was not going to go crazy. I came here to survive. Still, these days I can’t make it
very far without my cane.
Of course, it is with some bitterness that I realize I have the same stubborn attitude
and the same pride as Alma. I hate that pride. It’s completely damaged Alma’s mind.
During the first years, I blamed my own weakness for driving me to flight. I thought I
could not handle being a mother and I could not live close to you or to Alma. I didn’t
want to live at all. Now, in my middle age, I no longer ask myself who I am, but who I
used to be. I am not at all weak, other than physically, of course. It was my goaloriented stubbornness that brought me here.
No, I am not mentally ill. Not in the least. (Though one might doubt that because of
the number of cats I surround myself with these days). I am a product of my isolated
childhood and my isolated life. (Of course men live here in Paradise, too, but they’re
not particularly attractive.) It is important that you understand I am mentally sound.
Physically, my body has never been my friend, so to speak.
Let’s set my body aside. Deal with that some other time, perhaps. Please excuse me
for writing only about myself. I know nothing about you, not even what you look like
now, nor what you believe and what you think. And I know that I will never send
this letter either. It will end up like all the others. It’ll lie around until I archive it or
burn it in the wood stove. Thinking about what I did to you sends me into my black
hole, where all my longing, my loss, my love is turned to self-hatred, anger and fear.
In order to stay keep from back from that, I’ve learned a small trick: I start thinking
about real black holes instead. Your grandmother and I are both practical people. I
have taken over an old teacher’s house, one of my better decisions, and among the
books, numbers were easier for me to learn than language. Numbers are something
Alma hates. She has an inferiority complex about them. Perhaps for some childish
reasons, but it still remains that mathematics and astronomy are innocently pure
sciences. Incorporeal. A soothing antidote for those plagued by their bodies.
Dear daughter, do you know that the only reason we live is due to the black holes in
space? Will it bother you if I tell you about them for a while? Let me state I write
about them because I must.
Without black holes, the balance of the universe could not hold. Out of these
exploding stars come new solar systems. There is an enormous black hole in the
middle of the Milky Way. It’s a super massive hole around which our entire universe
circles. Once upon a time, it pulled the dust and particles from another nebula and
transformed it into the cradle for new stars. A nebula is the remains of an exploded
star. All elements are built from such explosions and only in supernova explosions
are heat and pressure great enough to build those rare, heavy elements: gold,
europium, neptunium, platinum, uranium, mercury, radon…beautiful elements,
although some of them are quite dangerous. My favorite astronomical phenomenon
is the butterfly nebula: pink, yellow, green, blue. It glitters with its double wings in
all that darkness.
When the black hole pulled gases from nebulae to create a cradle for stars, a
medium size galaxy with millions of stars was born. Our galaxy, the Milky Way.
Finally, about four and a half billion years ago, our son was born, and around our
sun, our own planet.
And on our planet, on a chilly day, many years ago, I gave birth to you. You with your
glittering eyes, which I will never forget. And when I close my eyes, I see all the
colors of the butterfly nebula and its elements sparkle inside my lids.
So, maybe you will never be interested in the natural world in the same way I am.
Good for you! Keep to what you love! The humanities, basketball, computer games,
boys, I have no idea. Let me get to the point. You must realize that your grandfather
Manfred idolized Alma because he saw her genius. Alma looked down on me and
treated me badly because…no, I don’t want to go down that path today.
So, quite simply, I have lived my entire adult life beneath the most beautiful night
sky seen from our planet. It’s not destroyed by artificial light. Looking at this sky, I
have deep respect for the universe. During the day, I watch the buzzards circle in the
sky, the spread of green growth in the spring, fox families in hunting packs, and
apple trees heavily laden with a light green, knotty fruit, the ugly kind found
everywhere. But I come alive at night when the jewels in the sky are lit in their
groupings and constellations. This is why I think of this place as Paradise. I have
returned to Eden and found it abandoned. No Adam makes his appearance…the
entire Milky Way appears at five in the afternoon during the end of autumn…this is
the way mankind saw the stars in the olden days…the days of stories and sagas,
before electricity destroyed everything. Where did all those fantastic tales go? Have
you ever thought of the billions of human beings in their gigantic cities who have
never seen a clear night sky? What kind of impoverishment is that? Never to see
Cassiopeia’s five-point W – the same constellation that forms such a tiny birthmark
on your left cheek?
Or was it your right cheek? Forgive my uncertainty. And here it is again, this sorrow,
holding hands with guilt and fear.
In the center of the black hole we find the eye of the storm. The physicists call this
the singularity. It’s an extreme point where all the laws of physics are suspended:
time and place exchange places, or so they say. Not only is gravity so strong that all
light is sucked inside, but also all our dimensions: East, West, North, South. They are
all one: the Future is there.
I imagined this future when everything seemed so hopeless. A future where I was
healthy and we would see each other again, you and me. I would take you in my
arms just as I did when you were newborn and we still seemed a single body. A vain
dream – that the future would be like the past.
The thing is, I’ve realized there’s a problem, right under the nose of the
mathematicians, which very few have bothered to study. (Study what?) It’s like the
Emperor’s New Clothes of Quantum Physics. You see, you can’t just declare there is
this thing called the singularity! The singularity is the syntax error of mathematics.
If I find a singularity in my equations, it means that I’ve made a miscalculation. One
plus one cannot become ‘something strange’ just because you stick a terrible hole in
the middle of outer space. Still, everyone believes in black holes, find themselves
impressed by them, and in order to defend men like Stephen Hawking and Albert
Einstein and the black hole, they must also invent things like dark energy and the
singularity in order to make the whole system of the universe work. It’s nonsense.
That’s what the famous men have always done when something threatens their
worldview. Not in the least Carl Linnaeus – the scientist your grandmother Alma
cursed until she turned red in the face. She would always spit over her shoulder
when his name was mentioned. I understand her point.
The King of the Flowers, the Wigged One on our hundred crown note, the Father of
Taxonomy who discovered the sexuality of plants. He devoted his entire life to
working and sorting and sorting and working, sending his disciples out over the
earth in the greatest scientific expeditions the world has ever seen so that they, too,
could sort and work, collecting examples of all the species on earth and cataloguing
them.
If you ask Alma, Linnaeus is nothing but a scientific coward. Oh well. I don’t want to
get into that now. I sincerely hope Alma has given up her conspiracy theories, too.
But if you are bored one day, just ask Alma about her secrets! Ask her about
Linnaeus! Ask about his disciple, Daniel Solander! I hope that she will just smile and
realize her idiocy, but I’m afraid she will just give you her dark gaze of anger.
At any rate, in the black hole, everything is compressed – Stephen Hawking is right
about that. And I will feel it tonight, after going to bed on a day like this when I’ve
written to you, when I awaken all the feelings I keep buried. During the night, my
entire life is compressed. Even if I feel well during the day, the memory of my bodily
pain returns in my dreams: flowering throbbing flesh. Our isolated farm in Jämtland
whirls between the seasons: winter, spring, summer, fall. The school bus I glimpsed
through the trees driving past and never stopping for me. Manfred’s cowardice.
Lasse’s silence. Alma’s secret laboratory where she pulled apart butterflies and
cursed science, not even to mention those stones about which she obsessed. Her
repulsive Soviet secret, for which I paid the price. All of this is compressed during
the night, repeating our arguments and my trip here over stormy seas on a ferryboat
filled with drunken passengers. It is compressed to include the marshlands and the
dark nights and the wild boar that’s started to destroy my garden and scare me
when I have to go to the outhouse at night.
And deep within all this is you. You are one innocent miscalculation. A syntax error
which throws all calculations of how the universe is made into question. Just
because you are a piece of pure love, which counters all the darkness. Yes, the
opposite of all we call darkness.
I love you so much.
E.
14.
When Ida woke up, she found herself on a sofa in a neat, minimalist living room.
Three large abstract paintings in pastel were hanging over a large flat-screen TV
with an armchair set before it. She was completely naked without even a blanket
over her sweaty body.
She heard voices. Children playing on the street below.
She lifted her head but felt dizzy, and not the usual dizziness of a hangover.
Did I drink that much last night?
She felt remarkably heavy, and her neck ached. She realized she was face down on a
hard pillow covered with a Josef Frank fabric, and in the middle of one flower was a
circle of drool.
She slowly sat up.
So I’m in an row house.
The low light from the December sun shone on the snow covering a playground
outside the balcony window. A group of daycare children was playing there, and
their cries hurt her ears, although the door was closed.
What time is it? Where are my clothes?
Then she realized:
A gooey substance between her legs.
No, I can’t have…
No, no.
I had sex.
She suddenly felt nauseous.
Her memories started to return: yesterday evening, the Nobel festivities, Lobov, the
box, police officer Jenny, the alcohol, the night, Paul…
She blushed and tried to eliminate all other thoughts from her mind except the last
one. She could not ignore it.
I had sex with Paul?
How did that happen? I’ve never slept with anyone the first night…oh, hell!
She felt tears spring to her eyes. What happened last night?
She felt really sick. She looked around and found her panties and her bra. She put
them on as fast as she could. I can’t vomit on the rug!
She crept into the kitchen and saw two glasses of red wine, still half full, and the
crusts of a wedge of cheese. The rest of the kitchen was clean and well-organized. It
had chrome surfaces, and an oval, white dining table. One single thing marred the
clean design. A calendar on the wall with a woman in a Santa hat. The woman was
biting her lip in an ironic, pretend-sexy way.
Ida flipped backwards from the December photo and saw that all the photos showed
the same woman. In the August picture, on a sailboat somewhere in Thailand’s
archipelago, the woman was always standing next to a man who seemed the dream
of every mother-in-law, and whose house Ida assumed she was inside right now:
Paul.
She swore. What did he give me last night besides alcohol? What did he do to me?
She felt tears come, but she managed to stop them.
She spotted something on the hallway floor.
Her handbag!
There!
She ran to it at once to check.
The letter from Lobov was there. So was the box.
She sighed in relief and sank down on the floor beside it.
How could I forget something so important?
Drunkenness, the shock, Paul and I had sex…
How disgusting!
Well, I can’t think of that now.
She stared at the box.
Alma had texted: DO NOT open the box.
She stared at its lid: green and worn, but sturdy.
Lobov opened this just before the explosion.
What’s inside?
She weighed the box in her hand. Its contents are irreplaceable.
There was something heavy inside. It also rattled.
The entire apartment was quiet. Ida could only hear the hum of the metal
refrigerator.
She noticed her breathing had speeded up, so she made the effort to slow it and take
deeper breaths while she exhorted herself: I need to see this thing, what this is all
about. After all that has happened, I need to see this!
But I shouldn’t open it! It’s dangerous.
But then again, why was Lobov eager to show me a glimpse of it yesterday evening?
She stared at the box lying beside her on the floor.
She picked it up and took a close look at its lid. She realized again how heavy it was,
and she felt a wave of anger, as if she could crush the box between her hands, but
also she was curious. Didn’t she have the right to open it?
Doesn’t Alma owe me this much? Shouldn’t I take a look so I know what the alarm is all
about--after everything I went through yesterday?
But what if it explodes?
As she debated, the box slipped from her hands. The lid snapped open, but the box
had landed face down. Something rolled out onto the hallway rug.
She screamed and held her hands up to protect her face.
Nothing happened.
It was – the pepper shaker from last night.
How did that end up in the box?
She thought hard for a moment, remembering Miranda’s face, and guessed at what
must have happened.
I put the pepper shaker into my evening bag. I must have snatched up the box without
thinking right after the explosion and shoved it into the bag above the pepper shaker.
Then, as I shut my bag, the pressure must have made the box close around it.
That’s it.
Ida left the pepper shaker on the floor as she picked up the box.
Its inside was covered in a faded red velvet. Under the velvet was a thick, metal
layer. The weak smell of sulfur began to seep into the hallway as if an electric field
were building up within the tiny box. She felt her heart pound as she thought:
What if it explodes now?
Still, she had to examine it.
In the middle of the box was – well, the best she could think of was--a stone. Yet it
wasn’t a stone. A stone that was not a stone.
She decided not to let it drop into her hand.
A fossil? It seemed made of a matte, dark gray rock resembling basalt with vague,
distinctive lines, as if traced from phalanges or spines. Parts of it seemed to shift,
like oil, and seemed to slide away, although – and here Ida was so surprised, she
almost dropped it – there were a number of gems, all of them blue and round with
embossed surfaces and light seeming to glimmer from within.
Sapphires are the only blue gemstones, aren’t they?
Yet the gems were not why Ida almost lost her grip.
In the continuation of the strange, linear marks, something was emerging from the
stone.
A steel-colored growth, with some kind of fringe beneath it.
She had never seen anything like it.
It looked like the tip of a…tiny fin.
What could this be?
She stretched her finger slowly and touched the growth. Its metal-like surface
seemed as strong as the stone, if not stronger, and again she felt something like an
electric pulse.
Only a small part of the animal was here.
Animal? Why do I think of this as an animal? Well, what else am I supposed to call it?
If it is a fossil, what’s this bit sticking out, then?
She closed the heavy lid with a snap, and the electric feeling in her chest vanished.
She sat staring into space, cursing under her breath for quite some time after that.
Whatever the hell that was…it’s fucking insane.
She felt deeply confused, staring down on the closed box. She felt wonder,
temptation and fear.
All of a sudden there came the sound of snoring. Her thoughts interrupted, she
stuffed the box back into her handbag, and then picked up the pepper shaker to stuff
it inside as well.
She looked up the stairs. Paul, yes, that disgusting pig.
I ought to give him a piece of my mind before I leave.
Or – maybe – he’ll grab me again.
Her anger was washed away in sudden tears.
I feel so dirty. What did he do to me?
Her anger swelled again at once. She stalked into the kitchen and grabbed a small
knife for defense. You just try anything and I’ll make sure you get what’s coming to
you!
She tiptoed up the stairs.
There were three bedrooms and a bathroom on this floor. She could hear Paul’s
snoring from one of the bedrooms. She decided to take a look around, ignoring the
room he was sleeping in. One of the rooms was filled with moving boxes, a golf club
set, unhung pictures and other odds and ends. The other bedroom had been turned
into a study. It was filled with medical journals and Paul’s medical diploma, adorned
with the usual serpent and staff, hanging on the wall.
Of course. Paul had said he was a doctor.
Oh – those pills he gave me. In that disgusting packed party bus! And then later on he
told me to go ahead and take a half – a half a pill wouldn’t hurt!
She felt her face flush red. Angry, ashamed, hung-over and nauseous all at once.
So this is what the media meant…the hazy border between drunken sex and date
rape…How stupid could I be? Taking pills offered by a sleazy doctor so I would be
unable to resist…he could just take what he wanted.
She also felt afraid.
That fucking bastard. He used me!
She slipped into the bedroom where he slept, sprawled across the bed. She thought
he looked like a conceited, smug male lion. He moved a little restlessly, as if he’d
eaten more than he could digest. His stupid, flabby penis looked like a slimy
seahorse in the tangled seaweed of pubic hair.
She couldn’t help swearing out loud. Let’s have a little chat about this, shall we? She
thought about ripping his family photograph from the wall and throwing it at his
naked body.
She stopped. She felt too weak and small. She didn’t dare. If he’d had his way
yesterday, what would he do if he woke up now?
She sat down on the floor and started to cry. Her body shook. So dirty, she thought,
so lonely…all of this had happened so fast, in almost no time at all…I can’t handle all of
this!
I have to get out of here. I ought to report him…but not now.
Images flooded her brain: the police at City Hall, Jenny fallen from the stairs, Lobov’s
exploded eyes, the blinking lights, the blood as it ran from the eye sockets…a place
where God’s wrath never ends…and this, the sticky goo between her legs. No, no, no.
She found the strength to get up and sneak from the bedroom. She found her way to
the bathroom and turned on the water. She grabbed toilet paper and dampened it
to clean between her legs, her thighs, her stomach, her breasts. Disgust
overwhelmed her, but then she realized that getting in the shower would be much
simpler. Once there, she cried as hard as she could, washing herself over and over
until her private parts were tender. Still, she kept cleaning herself until she’d
stopped crying.
When she stepped from the shower, she felt slightly better.
Now to get out of here.
She found her evening gown and struggled into it; her nylon stockings were behind
the sofa, and she pulled them on as well. She found her cell phone plugged into an
outlet in the kitchen.
Well, that was practical. Even though I was drunk, I was still smart enough to think of
that!
She looked out the window and saw that the preschool children had gone back
inside the building. The sunshine highlighted the dirt on the window panes.
She turned on her cell phone.
You have 6 new text messages.
There were a number of missed calls as well, some from numbers she did not
recognize.
The first three messages were from Miranda:
What’s up? Don’t forget: a glass of water after every drink. Love/ The Sobriety Society
Sent 23:35. The second was sent in the morning:
How awful! Receiving the Nobel and then dying! Hope you still had fun. Call and tell me
everything!
The last one had just come in twelve minutes ago:
What happened? Are you the ‘female student’ the police are looking for? (Brown hair in a
ponytail, lavender ball gown)? / Worried
Ida read the message a second time. She had trouble comprehending what Miranda
had written.
Jesus, ‘female student’?
I ought to run to the police immediately.
This is absurd. I shoved a police officer over a railing. I ran from an accident scene. I’ve
turned into a criminal!
But what else was I supposed to do?
Fear filled her mind and she gnashed her teeth.
All I have to do is hide this box first, and then…I have to call Alma!
She was surprised to see the next message was in English from Miranda.
Hi! I feel so sorry for you! We are all shocked! What happened? Call me if you need
someone. I won’t tell anyone. Yours truly, Miranda
She shivered and had to control her impulse to throw the phone as far away as she
could.
How did that woman find my cell phone number?
Why hasn’t Alma tried to reach me?
The first of the two remaining texts was from a cell phone, sent 04:20:
Hello! We request that you contact us immediately. We need to figure out a few things.
Call me directly or call the station 114 14. Best wishes, Mats Arvidsson, Stockholm Police
The second was sent an hour later:
Important Message: This cell phone must be brought to the Stockholm Police Station. Call
114 14 and state the number 76-98. Best wishes, The Stockholm Police
She stiffened.
I have to figure out what’s really going on.
She could hear Paul still snoring upstairs. It was ten thirty in the morning.
I have to get out of here.
She found her jacket draped over one of the chairs in the kitchen, and cast a glance
around the place as she put it on. She felt like smashing something here. Get
revenge. Steal something, maybe.
I should just go. She walked through the hallway toward the front door. Then she
saw a black set of Volvo car keys on a dresser along with a wallet and a cell phone
with a pink case. I bet that belongs to his wife. Above the dresser were a few more
photos like those on the calendar showing Paul and the woman. If she wasn’t his
wife, she was still the woman he’d just betrayed, whoever she might be. She looks
awfully happy. After all, she’s married to a doctor! Hope she has her own boy toy and
turns the tables!
I’ll get my revenge soon enough. I’ll report him when I go to the police station, and I’ll
bet his wife won’t hang around much longer after that!
She peered through the oval window on the front door and spied a blue BMW
creeping along the narrow street in front of the row of townhouses.
It stopped.
A woman got out.
Ida stood absolutely still, feeling a shiver run down her back.
It was Miranda.
She was accompanied by the blond bodyguard she’d tried to bring into at the Nobel
festivities. Miranda held her cell phone before her as if it was a compass. She was
talking to the bodyguard as they looked at the house across the street.
Then Miranda turned around and looked right at the oval window.
Ida couldn’t move. Her eyes met Miranda’s.
Miranda called out and the bodyguard turned, too, reflexively pulling something
from his jacket.
Ida’s head was spinning, but she felt frozen.
The blond man held a revolver.
Lobov’s death was not an accident, Ida thought.
How in the world did they find me?
She slid her evening bag into the back of one of the dresser drawers then reflexively
lifted her arms into a defensive position, but helplessly found all her hand could do
was pick up her cell phone and put it into her jacket pocket. She thought of
screaming to wake Paul, but the door handle was already being quietly depressed.
The door was not even locked.
The bodyguard was aiming the revolver straight at her. He said nothing, but
frowned at her for a moment, before letting his eyes sweep the hallway. Then he
pushed the door open the rest of the way to allow Miranda to step inside.
“Good morning, Ida,” Miranda said. She spoke her accented English in a low voice.
Her black eyes had no expression. “Long night? You look tired.”
Ida remained mute.
Miranda looked around. She glanced at the photographs on the wall, the type of
interior decoration, the kitchen table with the two half-filled wine glasses.
“Where is he…your lover?”
Miranda smiled slightly. Ida pointed stiffly above them, indicating the second floor.
“Sleeping,” she whispered, feeling powerless.
Miranda said something in Russian. The bodyguard looked back at Ida who could
feel the tears welling in her eyes.
The bodyguard pulled out a black case from his pocket.
“Don’t worry. We’re going to make sure he sleeps a good long time,” Miranda said
with a smile.
From the case, the bodyguard took a vial and a syringe, which he handed to Miranda.
Miranda filled the syringe from the vial. The bodyguard kept his revolver trained on
Ida.
“He’ll wake up this evening,” Miranda said. She gave the syringe to the bodyguard,
who climbed soundlessly up the stairs.
Ida stood in place, looking at the floor and saying nothing.
“Lobov gave you something yesterday, didn’t he?” Miranda said slowly.
Ida did not dare answer.
“How do you know him, by the way?”
Silence. They could hear the guard as he made his way from room to room.
“I…don’t…know…him,” Ida managed to say at last. She wanted to scream, but she
didn’t dare. She thought about pressing 112 on her cell phone in her jacket to
summon the police, but she didn’t know if she could do it without alerting Miranda.
“Don’t lie to me,” Miranda said. “Just give me what Lobov gave you, and we will leave
you alone. You’re where you don’t belong. You’d do best to get out quickly, so you
can live a long and happy life. What did Lobov give you?”
Ida said nothing.
“Answer me!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. He didn’t give me anything.”
Miranda’s expression hardened. “Hand me your cell phone.”
Ida handed it over.
“Your code.”
“…46…48.”
A creaking noise upstairs, a slight struggle, silence.
Miranda was reading Ida’s text messages. “Who is Marina?”
“My friend.”
“This number? This is Russian! Whose number is this?”
“What…business is it of yours?” Ida said.
Miranda’s eyes softened and she put on that woman-to-woman expression she’d
used during the Nobel dinner.
“You poor thing. Please don’t be stupid. You look to me like a normal girl who’s
gotten into something she doesn’t understand. Don’t you realize that it would be
best for you, as well as for your good friend Marina, if you work with us? And any
other friends we find on your cell phone directory? You are not to speak to the
police of this. If they contact me, there could be, let us say, unfortunate
consequences for your friends. This is the way things work in the big, wide world.”
Ida nodded and felt tears and snot now mingling on her face. She swayed, and
Miranda pointed to a stool in the hallway.
“Sit down, my friend. Don’t be frightened. Tell me where you put whatever it was
Lobov handed to you last night.”
“A bag…in the kitchen. Or maybe the living room. I don’t know. We were really
drunk last night.”
“A bag?”
Ida nodded.
“In the kitchen?”
“I really don’t remember…”
Miranda was already on her way to the kitchen.
The bodyguard was still upstairs.
Ida’s head ached. Time slowed down; each tenth of a second seemed to take forever.
She looked at Paul’s car keys and wallet, still on the dresser. The Volvo logo.
She glanced out the window. A dark gray Volvo XC60 was parked on the street.
She heard Miranda leave the kitchen and enter the living room.
Miranda was tossing things about in her eager search.
There was about ten meters from the living room to the hallway.
And I am right by the front door.
She quietly picked up the keys and pressed the unlock button.
The Volvo’s headlights flashed once.
Now!
She grabbed the wallet and the pink cell phone, jerked open the drawer, and
snatched up her handbag. Then she hurtled out the front door. She heard Miranda
shout her name.
Ida reached the driver’s side of the Volvo and scrambled into the front seat. She
fumbled for a few seconds that seemed eternal before she realized there was no
keyhole—the entire key went into a slot by the ignition.
Miranda was running toward the passenger side. Ida managed to figure out how to
lock the door before Miranda could open it.
“Vlad! Vlad!” Miranda was yelling.
The car motor had started, and Ida threw the car into reverse. It backed into the
neighbor’s hedge. Ida switched to drive.
The bodyguard was racing from the house. Ida saw surprise on his face as if he’d just
realized the huge mistake in judgment they’d made concerning a silly, crying girl.
He was pointing his revolver into the air as if to indicate: Don’t be stupid! I’ll shoot!
As he ran toward her, she’d already floored the gas and she clipped him when she
veered to the left. The bodyguard tumbled away and she kept driving on.
She found herself going in the wrong direction, so she turned around. She saw the
sidewalk, the playground, and the newly fallen snow.
It’s OK – the kids are gone – go!
She drove right up onto a pedestrian path by the playground.
There’s going to be another street up ahead somewhere.
A bang.
What’s that?
Another bang, and then another.
Oh, he’s shooting at me!
The right mirror was now hanging off its hinge and banged against the right door.
The car slid in the snow.
She looked for a second in the rearview mirror and saw the bodyguard, clutching his
knee, still lying on the ground.
Miranda seemed to be trying to pull him back on his feet.
They’re really shooting at me! They want to kill me! Really kill me!
She found it odd, as if she were in an action film instead of a sedate Stockholm
suburb. She drove as if in a trance and found herself past the school. The pedestrian
path had ended up in another playground. Older children were outside on their
lunch recess. They started to yell, screaming at her that she was not allowed to drive
there. A lunch proctor moved to step between her and the exit to the street.
“What are you doing?” Ida found herself yelling precisely at the same moment the
proctor yelled the exact same words.
Ida kept driving, aiming for the road, and at the last moment, the lunch proctor leapt
out of the way. He banged her back window as she drove past. Then she was finally
out on the road.
She could now shift into a higher gear. She turned on the GPS as she drove away as
fast as she dared.
I have no idea where I am!
The screen came up and let her know she was in Enskede, a suburb to the south of
Stockholm.
She found herself yelling and swearing without thought.
She kept swearing…Damn it all! Fuck it all! What the fuck! Crazy assholes!...until
she’d been driving for quite a while, all of which seemed like an eternity. She simply
kept on until she reached a bus terminal, where a sign forbade all other vehicle
traffic.
“What the hell am I doing?” she heard herself say out loud.
To the left of the bus terminal, she could see the huge white ball of Globen,
Stockholm’s concert arena. It was covered in snow.
Oh! I know where I am now. Gullmarsplan.
She sucked in several deep breaths, as she checked in the rearview mirror. Nobody
chasing her.
She emptied everything from her bag onto the passenger seat: the box from Lobov,
her make-up case, Paul’s wallet…
“You’ve got to calm down!” she yelled at herself.
Her pulse was still racing.
Calm down, calm down. One thing at a time.
What is the most important thing right at this moment?
That they’re not behind me.
How did they know where to find me in the first place?
She turned and looked out the back window. No sign of the BMW.
What now?
It took her a moment to think of an answer.
Call Marina. I need shoes. I’m barefoot. Strange that I’m not freezing.
She programmed Marina’s address into the GPS.
She’s not far from here.
She was still parked in front of the bus terminal. An incoming accordion bus began
to honk at her.
I should call her first. But how?
She picked up the pink cell phone, which had fallen to the floor close to her feet.
Unlock. Shit.
She drew her finger across as the arrow indicated.
The phone had not been locked.
She tapped in Marina’s number and started to pull away from the bus terminal. As
the cell phone beeped, she ran a scenario through her brain. She’d give the box to
Marina, go to the police and they’d put her in jail. Miranda and her bodyguard would
find Marina, take the box from her and leave her with a bullet through her head…
No, that wouldn’t work.
“Marina, here.”
Ida began to explain. “Here’s the deal…”
She started to drive, weaving between cars as she drove through the Southern Link
Tunnel toward Hägersten and Aspudden, while she explained to Marina, as
succinctly and directly as she could, exactly what happened since they’d parted the
night before. Ida could sense Marina hanging onto every word she said.
“You have to believe me,” Ida said. “You do believe me, don’t you?”
“Of course I believe you!” Marina replied. “You realize what you have to do now,
right? You have to get out of Stockholm.”
“Why? Why do I have to leave Stockholm?”
“You’re kidding. You know why.”
Ida stared at the sign marked Midsommarkransen – Aspudden. She realized Marina
was absolutely right.
“So here’s what I’m going to do,” Marina said. “I’ll pack you two duffel bags with
clothes and other stuff you might need. I’ll be waiting right outside the door. You
stay in the car. See you in a few minutes.”
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” Ida couldn’t help a feeling of pain in her chest.
Marina sighed. “Ida, I’m your best friend.”
As Ida turned the cell phone off, she felt that her cheeks were wet again. At the same
time, emotions streamed through her: anger, shock, guilt, fear.
At Home with the Greatest Mysteries of nature
DN’s senior science reporter Karen Bojs visited Anatoly Lobov, this year’s winner of
the Nobel Prize in Physics, for the following exclusive interview. She met the humble
but intelligent, 89-year-old at his home in Moscow, where he enjoyed discussing the
origin of life more than revealing his private life.
The phone rings incessantly whenever someone is awarded the Nobel Prize. One
day, you are an unknown scientist and the next day famous throughout the world. At
Anatoly Lobov’s house, however, the silence is overwhelming – just the slight clink
of porcelain or the passing trolley bus headed for downtown Moscow on the street
below. No secretary, no official university bureaucrats.
We are in the parlor of Lobov’s apartment on Bardina Street, where Lobov also
conducts his research. He found out that he had won the Nobel Prize by watching
television yesterday evening. The Royal Academy of Sciences was unable to reach
him at his home during the day.
“I stopped using the telephone in 1972. The KGB was listening in, for starters. I
prefer not to talk to people if I am not there in person. If I want to contact someone, I
write a letter. I keep the door to my study closed.”
The man I am meeting is a fairly talkative, although extremely pale, 89-year-old. It is
hard to realize that this man is one of the most secretive stars of the scientific world.
He never gives interviews as a rule. He has no colleagues. He simply opens the door
to his own laboratory and accomplishes a string of research breakthroughs within
the field eventually termed nanotechnology.
The Canadian professor of physics, Sally Chang, was the first to joke that Lobov “is
the greatest mystery of nature in the world.” At times, rumors circulated that he’d
died, or his identity was stolen, or he’d cheated to get his results, or that he has a
whole stable of research assistants pumping out papers on his behalf, or even that
the Russian state apparatus was working under his name to snare a sole Russian
Nobel Prize winner for the purposes of propaganda. In that case, they would have
succeeded: Lobov is the first individual winner of the Nobel Prize in Physics in the
past 25 years. He does not need to share the entire sum of 8 million Swedish crowns
with any other person. One fact stands out among the myths: Lobov has used aliases
during his life’s journey in order to protect his research. For example, during his
youth he went by the name of Ilya Kovalenko.
“Don’t you think the rumors of my death are exaggerated just a bit?” Anatoly smiles.
“And where is my supposed huge staff of scientists? Are they behind the curtains?”
He is charming, that’s for sure. He’s not the humorless, stiff and wooden man
described by some of the few scientists in touch with him. Still, when I ask him
about his research in nanotechnology, or, more precisely, covalent binding within
five-sided symmetry, for which he received his Nobel Prize, his charm seems to
slightly dissipate.
“Nanotechnology has become much too great a field to keep in one area. As I
expected, it is spreading everywhere. Medicine is using nanoparticles in designing
medication. Industry is using it in materials research. Just the other day, I saw on
television archeologists using a sticky nano paste on badly weathered Roman
frescoes near Florence. Using the microscopic paint fragments that had been left, the
nano paste transformed the limestone into new paint in the original color. In just a
few days, the entire ceiling had been resurrected in its original condition with the
exact color of two thousand years ago. Nano is the level where we can now and build
reality itself. We are just at the beginning. Only our imagination can limit what we
may accomplish. Our imagination – and our nightmares.”
Lobov takes a sip of his linden blossom tea and a bite from his ambrosia cake, but
then wrinkles his nose. He mutters a word to himself, and gets up to take the vodka
bottle from its place in a china cabinet, which seems to be a family heirloom. There
is no way I can decline the offer.
“Everything is different at the nano level. Gold is blue, for example. Did you know
that?”
Lobov’s takes on a slight glow of excitement. We touch our glasses, but I’m the one
with a real glass. Lobov is drinking his vodka from a tin cup. I begin to realize now
why he is so talkative. It is not the Nobel Prize alone, but the interview. He
confirms– it’s rare for him to have any visitors at all.
When I ask him about the honor and the money he’s going to receive, not to mention
the trip to Stockholm and the Nobel ceremony, he shakes his head and smiles like a
Buddha.
When I ask about his private life, his family, he clams up. I sense an angry
melancholy and realize here is the man the other scientists described: the shy man –
the world’s greatest mystery in the form of a research scientist.
I ask him about this nickname.
“Nonsense. I’m not the world’s greatest mystery. Life itself is the world’s greatest
mystery.”
“What is life, then?” I ask, feeling foolish.
“That is a good question because it is so simple and direct. In spite of thousands of
years of research and philosophy, there is no scientific explanation of the word ‘life.’
All science can do is count the qualities constituting life. Life, for example, may be a
chemical system separate from those of skin, scales or cell walls. Or, perhaps, life
can transform energy by means of metabolism. Life can replicate itself. It can adapt.
And so on and so forth. Still, no exact definition for ‘life’. And do you know why?”
I shake my head. Lobov fills my glass without asking, and I take another small cake.
“There’s a problem with the word ‘life’ itself. It is an unfortunate word, a non-
scientific word. It has nothing to do with nature. ‘Life’ is a word we use to describe
nature.”
I ask him to clarify this further.
“Look at North Africa. See the straight lines between Egypt, Sudan and Tunisia? How
come these lines are so straight? The colonial powers drew them with a ruler and
had no sense of ethnic groups, geographic contours or anything else. Still, we say the
lines work to create a border. We have border guards and toll booths. We say, ‘Here
my country ends and yours begins’. The same lines were drawn for nature. Here is
the plant kingdom, here is the animal kingdom, here is the mineral kingdom. This is
living material and this is dead material. This bird is alive and this bird is dead.
Limits are practical, but they do not enlighten us about nature. The borders between
rocks, animals and plants is an invention we use as an organizational tool. Nature
does not differentiate between you, a beetle or this shot glass. All beings consist of
the 94 natural elements, mostly carbon. Right now you are eating one carbon
combination and drinking another one. Besides carbon, you are also ingesting a bit
of iron, manganese, calcium and a few other elements.”
“Yes, but I am alive,” I protest. “The cake is not.”
Lobov smiles contentedly and gets ready to continue his lecture. I realize this man
enjoys the opposition – perhaps typical for a Nobel Prize winner.
“What is living and what is dead – that’s difficult to say. Artemia salina are round
balls no bigger than peppercorns, but if they are exposed to a three percent saline
solution, they begin to develop into crabs. And a leaf recently taken from a head of
Swiss chard – is that leaf alive or not? The deeper you go into the material, the more
diffuse the borders. Look at a virus, for example. It has DNA but no metabolism.
Viruses resemble swaying heads searching for bodies. Are these swaying heads part
of life or not?”
Lobov begins to tell me about genetics. A human being shares 93 % of its genetic
makeup with a chimpanzee. We are also 65 % the same as a pine tree. The genetic
difference between two different bacteria is bigger than that between a Nobel Prize
winner and a red beet.
“Your great scientist, Carolus Linnaeus, did not have this prejudice. Even as he
classified the animal and plant kingdoms into a system, he also tried to classify the
mineral kingdom. He compared all three groups.”
“He was not successful with the mineral kingdom,” I interrupted. “It turned into his
greatest fiasco.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. He was correct, you know. What we call ‘life’ comes from
stones and rocks: carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, oxygen, sulfur and phosphorous are
the basic elements needed for life as we know it. When the chemical processes have
begun, the development is explosive and stubborn. Look at bacteria. Some live in the
middle of boiling water, others survive high radiation, while yet others are found in
pure sulfur. Life explodes from stones as soon as the distance from the sun is – as
you Swedes say it – lagom. Just right.”
I mention that Swedish microbiologists had been drilling deep into the granite
around the village of Äspo, outside Oskarshamn. They were searching for a stable
environment for the permanent storage of spent nuclear cores. They found two
hundred new kinds of bacteria living in and off the various rock deposits.
“Fascinating. It leads back to the answer to your question. ‘Life’ is just a condition. At
its heart, it is nothing more than ‘active minerals’. Just as water can be liquid or
frozen, minerals can be passive, like stones, or active, like life. The type of bacteria
you mention is the basis of life on our entire planet. They contributed a great deal of
chemical processes, such as creating an atmosphere and then sustaining it.”
Lobov points to my hands and tells me the gold in my wedding ring and the yttrium
in my cell phone screen were both created when a gigantic star exploded and sent
star dust into the universe, dust that would later be drawn together to create new
suns, new solar systems, and a new planet – Tellus.
“Bacteria are the recyclers here on earth. They turn minerals to life and then life
back to minerals. This has been the cycle for thousands of millions of years.”
He leans back in his chair and is silent for a moment.
“That is, up until today. Nanotechnology will allow human beings to control this
process.”
He stares into space while waiting for my reaction.
“We will witness things we cannot even imagine now,” he says at last. “Amazing
things, or the most horrible things you could ever imagine. Do you want a bear with
a lion’s head? Here you go. Do you want a speaking tree? Be my guest. Do you think
your cat needs to calm down before company shows up? Pet it three times on the
head with your special glove and it turns to stone. Pet it again and it comes back to
life.”
I mention surely it would take a long time before such things are possible.
“Yes, some time,” he nods. “But not as much as you think.”
With this, the world’s greatest mystery appears sorrowful. He picks up the vodka
bottle and puts it away.
I realize my time is up.
As we say goodbye in the shadow-filled hallway, tears fill his eyes.
“Tears are nothing more than sodium chloride and water,” he says, trying to laugh.
I hurry outside. It’s evening now. A few leaves whirl past on Bardina Street and I’m
struck by the thought that I am happy these leaves can’t talk to me. Although I know
this is against the principles of a journalist of science, I can’t help hoping that the
greatest mystery of nature will never be solved.
Source: Dagens Nyheter
15.
Ida shut off the engine directly in front of the aging apartment building, which had
three-story loft apartments.
She caught the headlines of the afternoon papers displayed from the windows of the
ground floor tobacco and magazine store. Aftonbladet screamed: EXTRA. Prize
winner’s mysterious DEATH at the Nobel Party. Expressen blared: NOBEL
TRAGEDY. Police suspect MURDER!
She turned on the radio with the automatic tuner, but could not find the news on
any station. Just then, she spied Marina coming out the front entrance. She was
carrying two duffle bags.
Before Marina had the chance to shut the door, Ida already had started the motor
and steered the car back onto the street.
Marina held up her cell phone. “I got a call from your cell phone! Of course, I didn’t
answer,”
Ida glanced at the number and saw it was Russian, but not Alma’s.
“That’s her…Miranda,” Ida said quietly, and began to tremble. “The people…who
were shooting at me. They got my cell phone. She knows we’re friends. They
threatened to find you if I went to the police.”
Silence reigned in the vehicle for a few moments.
Marina, for once, had no idea what to say.
“I have to call my grandmother,” Ida finally spoke. “I don’t know what to do and I’m
starting to fall apart. There has to be somewhere I can make a phone call in peace
and quiet.”
Ida glanced in the rearview mirror. Still no sign of the BMW.
“Drive that way to Vinterviken. Right behind those buildings,” Marina directed.
Ida made the turn and they drove beneath the highway and onto a snow-covered
narrow road, which sloped down toward Vinterviken’s beach. The parking lot was
empty, but it had been plowed. Ida parked behind a barracks that had been used to
house changing rooms during the summer.
“I can’t think clearly,” Ida said. “I am so tired and frightened. And I have a terrible
hangover, too. I’m so sorry I got you into all of this.”
She touched Marina’s the shoulder and willed herself not to cry. She cleared her
throat and picked up the pink cell phone. She thought for a long time.
What was that palindrome number again? There was a 7 at the beginning and at the
end, and some 4’s and 8’s in the middle and then…
Her finger shook as she tapped numbers on the cell phone until they seemed to
appear correct. Finally, she hit the call button.
Yes, she could hear the ring on the other end. Four rings. The rings stopped, as if
someone had picked up the call. No one spoke.
“Hello?” Ida said.
Silence, and then a deep breath, as if someone were hesitating. Then, finally, Alma’s
voice:
“Ida! What is going on? Are you alone?”
“I’m with my friend Marina. I want to let you know I’m considering going to the
police. Everything has gone straight to hell. I’ll hide this box and then go straight to
the police. I don’t feel safe anywhere! What is in this box anyway? People are after
me! They’re shooting at me…they’re trying to kill me!”
Ida could tell she was losing control of her own voice, as Alma interrupted her.
“Calm down, Ida. You say, people were shooting at you?”
“Yes!”
A moment of silence. Then Alma said, “Someone just used your phone to call me. I
believe it was Miranda.”
“Yes, she took it.”
A long pause as Alma was thinking.
“So, they’re in the game,” she said at last. “Now, please listen carefully…”
Ida’s eyes were fixed on a flock of gulls standing by the water’s edge, as she
interrupted her grandmother. “They could arrive any minute and start shooting
again! Just tell me what to do!”
“First tell me exactly what happened, as calmly as you can.”
Ida tried to explain what had happened that morning from the moment she awoke
until the moment Miranda and the bodyguard appeared at the townhouse. Alma
kept asking her specific questions. Ida could see that Marina constantly kept her
eyes on the rearview mirror.
“How did they find you?” asked Alma.
“I have no idea!”
“Hmmm,” Alma thought. “What are you wearing?”
“What?”
“Are you wearing the same clothes you wore yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Change them immediately! And take off all your jewelry and anything in your hair!”
“Why?”
Alma seemed impatient as she replied. “I wouldn’t know for sure, but I suspect
you’ve been bugged. Miranda must have planted a transmitter on you. How else
could she find you?”
Ida quickly inspected her ball gown and her underwear, but didn’t see anything
suspicious.
“I don’t think so, or they would have been able to follow me from the Nobel party
right away.”
“That’s true. What else? Anything else you’re wearing or carrying? Your shoes?”
Ida looked around the car. She saw her handbag, with the box and the letter. And
there was something else inside, wasn’t there? That pepper shaker.
You’ll always remember that a crazy Russian lady somewhere in the world will have
the saltshaker.
Miranda gave me this.
“I know what it was! I have something Miranda gave me last night! If there is a
transmitter, it’s in that!”
Ida unscrewed the lid and emptied all the pepper into her lap. She saw nothing more
than black pepper. She turned over the lid and found a tiny, square box the same
color as a coin. It had a crisscross pattern.
“I found it!” she told Alma. “In a pepper shaker Miranda gave me.”
“Get rid of it, but don’t throw it away. Put it in another car, for example, to draw
Miranda away.”
“Who is Miranda?”
“No time. You need to get as far away from that transmitter as you can.”
“But I don’t understand how they didn’t find me last night,” Ida was already starting
the motor of the car.
“Where exactly was the pepper shaker last night?”
Ida thought. It had to have been in her handbag all night. But…it was inside
something else as well…the box. Yes, it had been inside the box.
“I had it the entire time, but it was in the box Lobov gave me. This morning I took it
out.”
“What? Did I hear you correctly? You opened the box?”
“Well…yes.”
“Did you notice anything unusual? Did you feel anything?”
“Not really. What do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you later. But now I know why it didn’t transmit. The box is lined with lead.
The transmitter could not send its signal until you opened the box. Then they were
able to pick up the signal and drove to Enskede. Put it right back in the box this
second! Drive away now!”
Marina held up a shaking hand. “A car is coming down the road.”
They could see the roof of a dark blue sedan gliding behind a drift of snow. It was
just a few hundred meters away.
“I have to go,” Ida said. “Don’t call back. I’ll call you.”
She ended the call.
“Yes, it’s a BMW,” Marina said. “This is the only road. We won’t be able to get away
without them seeing us.”
“Run.”
They leapt out of the car. Marina held the two duffle bags and Ida had the handbag.
They had only one place to run: around the corner of the barracks, which hid them
from the view of the oncoming car.
“They’ll see our tracks in the snow,” Marina whispered. Marina was a few steps
ahead.
Ida felt the cold tear at her naked feet. Her evening gown kept her from running fast.
“Here, between the trees!”
They heard the BMW rev its engine while they scrambled over a snow-covered hill
and into a grove of trees. They headed deeper into the woods. They heard the slam
of car doors, sharp and clear, as they dove behind a granite boulder discarded by a
glacier during the last ice age. They were panting. Ida looked down at her feet. One
of them was bleeding.
“Did you bring shoes?” she gasped.
Miranda dug into one of the duffels and pulled out a pair of sweat socks and Adidas
sneakers. Ida pulled them on as fast as she could, as Marina peered over the granite
boulder.
“What do you see?” asked Ida.
“Definitely a BMW. A woman and a man. They’re next to our car and looking into the
windows. The woman has a cell phone. And the man…shit!”
Marina ducked back down.
“He might have spotted me. I think he saw our tracks in the snow.”
They waited a moment before Marina dared peek over again.
“The woman is still staring at her cell phone.”
“She’s trying to catch the transmission,” Ida said. “But now the pepper shaker’s back
in the box, so she can’t find us.”
They said nothing, but Marina looked sad. “We can’t do this…You…”
Ida looked at the ground as Marina observed her carefully.
“I understand. I’m so sorry, Marina. I never should have gotten you into this. Please
forgive me. If they shoot us…if they shoot you…”
Ida raised her eyes and they stared into each other’s faces. They were not crying, but
their jaws were clenched and their faces serious.
“I’ve had enough,” Ida said. “I’m going to go down to them and give them what they
want. These people are nuts! They’ll kill us right here in the snow! Let me go down
to them and then we can stop being afraid.”
Ida peered over the boulder. She saw Miranda and the bodyguard at the edge of the
trees.
It will take them at least one minute to reach them.
One minute lead time.
Miranda was staring unhappily at her cell phone. The bodyguard was pointing in
their direction. They were talking loudly in Russian.
Miranda suddenly looked up and her voice was filled with enthusiasm.
What? Did she pick up the signal even though the pepper shaker is back in the box?
Ida turned around.
Marina was standing up in plain view, holding the pepper shaker in her hand. She
held the handbag containing the box to Ida.
“What are you doing?”
“Hide,” Marina said. “They don’t know me. Hide, while I distract them.”
“I can’t let you do this!”
“But I can. Talk to you later! Over and out!”
Marina ran unbelievably fast, up over the hillcrest, into the trees and down the other
side. The sound of a subway rattled from that direction.
Ida pressed her body as close to the granite as possible, closing her eyes so hard, it
felt as if her head would explode.
16.
Ida heard Miranda call out to the bodyguard. She heard car doors slamming and
then the sound of an engine coming to life. She peeked out again and saw the BMW
roar back up the narrow street.
They caught the signal, Ida thought. They’re following it to the other side of the woods.
I hope Marina got rid of the transmitter! I hope she calls as soon as she’s safe!
The BMW was gone. The beach was silent.
Paul’s Volvo was abandoned. Ida stood up a few minutes later and made her way
back down the hill. Her feet hurt, in spite of the new socks and shoes, but it didn’t
take long to get back in the car, start the engine and then head up the narrow road
back to Hägerstensvägen.
A few moments later, after making a wrong turn in Gröndal, Ida made it to Hornstull
and crossed the Västerbron Bridge. She could see the sun’s rays sparkle in the water
of Riddarfjärden to the east. The bricks of City Hall also reflected the light, and along
the entire promenade, Swedish and Russian flags were flying at half-staff.
She batted away any thought of Lobov. She wondered when she should try to call
Marina.
What did Marina decide to do? Did she run into Örnsberg Subway Station, throw the
pepper shaker into a subway heading downtown while she took a subway train in the
opposite direction?
Ida smiled at the thought. Then exhaustion overcame her. She felt ready to pass out.
It took everything she had just to keep the car in the correct lane. She passed the
Eugenia exchange and drove past Haga Park and north toward E4.
I’m starving. I have to find something to eat.
Then I’ll deal with my other problems.
She started to list them in her mind:
A humiliating date rape.
Injuring a police officer.
Being wanted by the police.
A Russian woman has her bodyguard shoot at me.
She threatens to kill my friends if I go to the police.
I have a strange and dangerous fossil stone in my purse.
I have to change clothes.
Ida pulled into a rest stop with a gas station. She remembered Paul’s wallet and
eagerly opened it to find just a twenty-crown note, a ten-crown coin and two onecrown coins. That was all.
She swore. She went into the gas station and bought two bananas and a bar of Kex
chocolate. The purchase took all the money.
When she came out, she saw two men looking her car over. They were surprised by
her appearance.
“Hey, there, wild night last night?” one of them laughed. “A school dance?”
She saw what they saw: a car with a broken side mirror, barely hanging on like a
pitifully severed plastic ear on the right side of the door. A bullet hole in the body
close to the back wheel. A young woman in a disheveled evening gown.
She shivered as she walked past the men at the pump, and slid into the car. She
drove off without a word. The men stared after her for a long time.
Perhaps they’ll get suspicious and call the police.
Her head was throbbing. She ate the bananas and chocolate and tried to think
clearly.
This is not going to work for long. When Paul wakes up, he’s going to report his car
stolen.
And I have his wife’s phone. It’s turned on, in fact.
Not very smart.
Try to think clearly.
That fucking bastard. Why did he do that to me?
She exited the highway and found herself on one of the smaller streets in the
northern suburb of Sollentuna. She drove over a viaduct over the highway and into a
residential area. Behind the relative security of an electric power station, she parked
and then began a thorough search through the duffels Marina had brought.
She changed into a T-shirt, a thick woolen sweater and a pair of jeans, which she
barely managed to button.
A man walking two dachshunds passed the car.
Otherwise the street was empty.
One of the bags contained a money clip with five five-hundred-crown bills. There
was also a wallet with Marina’s ID as well and an older model cell phone with its
charger. Ida recognized it as Marina’s old one. Marina had taped a note to it: Works
perfectly. Put in a new sim card. Buy one!”
In the other bag, there were more clothes and a box. She opened the box.
Oh.
It looked like a mix of a car radio and a walkie-talkie.
A two-way radio?
Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. Marina was fond of that expression.
Not a bad idea, ham radios, Ida thought. Marina’s dad’s favorite hobby. Marina
learned it, too. Nobody uses ham radios any more – a dying hobby. Still.
Lasse also shared that hobby. Perhaps he’ll appreciate these.
At least he knows how they work.
Ida turned one on, but it just crackled at low volume.
Before I get rid of this cell phone, I do have to call Alma.
I need to get rid of this damned box.
Daniel Solander
Daniel Solander was born on February 19th, 1733, in Piteå, a town in the far north of
Sweden, and died in London on May 13th, 1782. He was the son of Magdalena
Bostadia and Carl Solander, a Lutheran pastor and Parliamentarian. Daniel Solander
never married.
At seventeen, Daniel Solander traveled to Uppsala and became one of Carl von
Linnaeus’s favorite disciples. Linnaeus suggested that Solander be named a
professor in Saint Petersburg, but instead, in 1763, Solander was awarded the post
of assistant librarian at the British Museum in London.
Solander was acquainted with the wealthy English merchant, Joseph Banks, who
secured a position for him on James Cook’s expedition on the HMS Endeavour.
Cook’s expedition was the first to explore and map New Zealand and Australia,
which were not yet well known. Botany Bay received its name from the botanical
discoveries Solander made when he landed in 1770. Solander undertook a journey
in 1772 to Iceland with Banks and Uno von Troil, who would later become an
archbishop.
From 1773 onwards, Solander worked as a conservator at the British Museum.
Later, he received an honorary doctorate from Oxford University. Daniel Solander is
buried in Brookwood Cemetery in Sussex, in a section reserved for Swedish
expatriates. He lies in Graves 121 and 122.
Solander is considered one of the most important natural historians of England.
Memorials have been made in his honor and places have been named after him all
over the world: England, Australia, Canada (Solander Island in British Columbia)
and New Zealand. In his hometown Piteå, Solander Gardens and Solander Park can
be visited today.
Daniel Solander is considered the first Swede to ever set foot in Australia.
Source: The Solander Society, Piteå
17.
Alma picked up right away. It almost seemed as if she’d been holding her breath
while waiting for the call.
Ida explained why she was using a different cell phone.
“What happened?”
Ida explained how they’d shaken Miranda off their trail.
“Your friend Marina is a smart one,” Alma said.
Ida agreed. She began to wonder what exactly her grandmother was feeling. Alma
had just lost a close friend, who loved her, but Ida could hear no trace of sorrow in
her voice.
She thought about Marina. What if Miranda had caught up to her? What if…
She explained everything: how she was now being sought by the police in a car that
was probably reported stolen. She was in a suburb north of Stockholm and she was
hungry and tired and she felt ill. She could hear the whining in her voice as she said,
“Alma, I just want to get rid of this box as soon as I can. I’m scared. Can’t you
understand? I’m scared to death! I can see the forest on the other side of the lake. I
think it’s Järvafältet. I think I can hide the box there and then I can go to the police. I
think I’ve done more than enough.”
“I’m sorry, Ida,” Alma said. “There’s more going on here than you could ever realize.
The box is not safe in the forest. You have to bring it to the hunting lodge.”
“Our hunting lodge? The one in Östersund?”
“Yes!”
Ida swallowed. “I don’t want these monsters after me or after my friends any longer.
I am sick and tired of all of this. You need to come and get this box yourself. I don’t
want to help you any more.”
Ida could hear her grandmother start to cry.
“This is so much more important than you can imagine,” Alma whispered between
sobs. “I can’t leave Moscow. I can’t get away. There’s a…some research I have to
complete here. If the stone is left in the forest, an animal could find it and then it will
be forever lost to us and we can never…I’m so sorry. There’s so much I wish I’d
already told you. You have to understand, Ida. The Maidenstone is hidden in that
box! And we desperately need the Maidenstone!”
What is she talking about?
“I don’t understand,” Ida said.
“We need the Maidenstone as well as the box it’s in,” Alma said slowly and clearly.
“We need it for Eva. Do you understand me? We need it for Eva.”
Ida fell silent. Her spine tingled as if the seat she was sitting in had suddenly been
charged with electricity.
“You…you…”
“Yes, you heard me. Eva, your mother. That cell phone can’t be secure. We’ll have to
hang up now. Turn it off as soon as we hang up and don’t turn it on again. Don’t call
anyone else. Find Lasse. He will help you get to the hunting lodge. The mechanism is
at the bottom. Remember this: the mechanism is at the bottom. Lasse will be able to
tell you more.”
“What about Eva? Can you tell me…”
“No, I don’t know where she is. But if we are ever going to be able to help her, we
need what is in that box. Promise me you will take it to Lasse. Don’t call this phone
again. I’m going to throw it away. Miranda might be able to locate me in Moscow
through it. I have another number. Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Yes.”
Alma quickly read off a Russian cell phone number and Ida wrote the numbers
down on the back of the sheet of paper Lobov had given her.
“Text before you call. Take care of that box as if it were your only child!”
Alma hung up.
Is this really happening to me of all people?
Ida suddenly slammed the phone against the steering wheel. She swore again and
again.
She stopped when she noticed a taxi driving past the power station. Quickly she
started the engine and drove back toward the main highway. As she drove through a
residential area, she kept checking the rearview mirror. The taxi was behind her.
She felt the crazy urge to flee, as if an armed thug was trying to shoot her; as if she
was in a huge, open field with nowhere to hide.
The taxi turned off and disappeared, but Ida’s fear remained.
And yes, she had not misheard. Alma had spoken quite clearly.
Ida could not shake the feeling of unreality. She felt tiny, lost and forlorn.
That name – the name Alma had not spoken aloud for years. The name Ida had not
heard since she was a young girl. The forbidden name. Alma had just spoken it aloud
as if it were commonplace and everyday, not a family secret.
Eva.
That was her name, of course.
Ida felt those damned tears stinging her eyes.
I never got to know that woman.
Eva, my mother.
18.
Ida had found some snacks in one of the duffel bags. As she drove back onto the
highway, she spent several minutes eating the grape sugar and bread and drinking a
bottle of Fanta.
When she drove over a bridge, she tossed the pink cell phone out the window and
over the railing.
For an instant, she felt in control of her situation.
Then her thoughts returned to her mother, Eva.
She had a few scenes in her mind, which must date to her earliest childhood: a shy,
thin woman with a face splotched in pink rolling a polka-dotted ball toward her. Ida
rolled the ball back and they rolled it back and forth again and again. Next scene: a
juice bottle had broken on the patio pavement. They both worked at washing the
juice away with a garden hose. Last scene: the woman crying, Alma standing beside
her, they’re in a dark room, were they at Lasse’s house?
That was all she remembered of her mother.
Everything else she knew had been told to her by other people.
Her mother, Eva.
Ida drove along the straight stretch of highway between Uppsala and Gävle, then the
winding highway past the paper mills of Hudiksvall. She concentrated as hard as she
could. It was just after four in the afternoon. Paul’s David Guetta CD was on autorepeat. It went through three cycles before she finally switched to the radio. She
listened to Nat King Cole and Robyn and then a duet between Bono from U2 and
Frank Sinatra. She kept glancing in the rearview mirror, but saw no blue police
lights. She kept thinking about Alma and Lasse.
It had gotten darker, but she could still see the forests of Norrland from the window.
Ragged spruce and plantations of pine trees, warning signs for moose, lingonberry
bushes beneath the snow. She turned her thoughts to summertime in order to make
herself feel better.
All the green leaves outside the town of Östersund. Ice-cold dips in the ponds. The
mosquito nets to cover them when they sunbathed naked, eating cloudberries.
Lasse’s cousins throwing sticks at kittens. Picking liters of lingonberries, while Lasse
smoked a pipe, lying on the grass. Grandma’s loom thudding in the kitchen as Ida lay
in bed upstairs trying to fall asleep. The scent of homemade soap. Saffron bread at
Christmas. Sour milk with raisins and dried peaches.
All of Lasse’s lectures on the seasons: the alders and the grouse; the horsetails
growing by the streams; the trout in the river. All the names in Latin, all memorized
and studied. The desire to understand it all, be part of it all.
Lasse himself. His large, square body, Icelandic sweaters, chin stubble, coffee breath,
clogs inside and outdoors. Security. He was the one who’d driven her to and from
school. He was the one keeping busy with his ham radio, repairing his car, his home
defense meetings – or his AA meetings – and with his calendar from WWF always
hanging on the door of the fridge.
He wasn’t her father. But he was a father to her nevertheless.
As she passed the Ånge exit, she noticed her gas gauge was hovering on the red. It
was also time for the news on the radio.
As she heard the announcer’s voice, she tensed.
“The police have called for a nationwide alert to locate the female student who
witnessed yesterday evening’s events. She had a violent confrontation with the
police and then left City Hall under suspicious circumstances. Annika Thorén, the
Chief of Investigation with the Stockholm police, has joined me here in the studio.
Hello, Annika. This woman, the twenty-four-year-old female student, was first just a
person of interest, but now she is a fugitive in a nationwide manhunt. How can you
explain the change?”
“The change in focus came after the results of the first forensic autopsy. We can’t
determine how the victim died, and therefore we must speak to this woman. We
must contact her immediately.”
“If I understand you correctly, you just mentioned a forensic autopsy. Does this
imply murder?”
“I can’t comment at the moment, but this event happened to an important dignitary
and therefore we raised the alert to the national level.”
“Why wasn’t this done immediately?”
“We will have to evaluate our initial investigation later for shortcomings, but for the
moment we are concentrating on our search for this individual.”
“Some witnesses have said that this woman fled City Hall by assaulting a police
officer, perhaps threatening the officer with a pistol. How could the police let her get
away?”
“I have no such information. If she had a weapon or was threatening an officer, she
would not have been able to exit the building.”
“So this is false information.”
“Yes, those are just rumors.”
“But how could she escape? She was under police observation, and then she was just
gone.”
“As I told you, we will examine our initial investigation later. I can’t comment now.
We are concentrating on our search.”
Ida felt numb as she stared out the front windshield.
What – they want me for murder? Murder?
The announcer ended his interview with the Chief of Investigation and turned to an
angry criminologist. The criminologist believed that it was an absolute scandal that
a potential killer ‘just waltzed away’ from a crime scene at one of the world’s events
with the highest level of security. The Swedish police, yet again, had made
themselves the laughingstock of the world.
Ida noticed the needle was hovering deep in the red. She turned off at the next gas
station and drove right up to the pump. She pulled the money clasp with the five
hundred crown bills and slid one of the bills into the machine and began to fill the
tank with lead-free 95 % octane. She peered into the station and saw a young girl,
flipping through a glossy magazine, at the cash register.
Speed cameras, Ida thought. Security cameras. They’re everywhere these days. They’ve
been registering me all through this trip. Soon it’s going to be evening and Paul will be
waking up. Though they did drug him, so he might not notice right away that his car is
gone.
She got back into the car and drove on, glancing now and then at her handbag and
the green box. She couldn’t resist the urge to spit on them.
She drove a long stretch through a forested area and began to notice that she could
hardly keep her eyes open.
Got to get something to eat and drink.
The road signs indicated she was approaching Brunflo, and as she reached the small
community, she found an innocuous parking spot in front of a hair salon across the
street from an open Shell station. Its yellow-green light illuminated the thin layer of
snow.
She got out of the car and climbed over a fence beside an apartment building,
crossed a parking lot and came to the rear of the gas station.
I just have to get something, anything, to eat.
She crouched over as she passed the gas pumps. Her eyes hovered for a moment on
the advertising posters for hot dogs and soda pop. Her stomach growled as she
headed for the entrance.
She caught sight of the newspaper headlines again. Tomorrow they’d be writing
even worse things – about her. She stared at the floor and tried to think of anything
but what happened last night. She was just about to step into the shop, when she
heard a voice behind her.
“Hello!”
A young voice. She ignored it.
“Hey, wait up! Please!”
Two teenage girls stood by a stack of firewood for sale. Both girls wore heavy makeup and down jackets. Their chins were buried deep inside the collars.
“Could you do us a really big favor?”
“What?”
“Get us a pack of cigarettes, please?”
One of the girls held out a fifty-crown bill, rolled up.
Ida just shook her head. Can’t risk it. “Sorry.”
She hurried into the shop and straight for the food aisle.
She found two meatball sandwiches, a half-liter bottle of Yoo-Hoo and four bananas.
She brought them to the cashier, adding two packages of candy to her purchases.
She kept her eyes lowered.
The man behind the counter was portly and middle-aged.
Is he staring at me?
She didn’t dare look straight at him. She noticed he was taking his time approaching
the cash register. Did he push an alarm button?
She looked up and out the window. The girls were still standing by the firewood.
She considered her options, and searched through her jeans pocket. She said,
“Marlboro Lights, please. Here.”
She handed over Marina’s wallet with Marina’s ID.
It was definitely five years old, but it would be good enough. He can check the name
and see I’m not THE FEMALE STUDENT on the headlines.
He studied her ID and then handed it back. “Thanks.”
His expression didn’t change.
He gave her a bag for her purchases, and she walked back outside to the girls. She
glanced over her shoulder. The man behind the counter was staring at her. He
seemed as if he were thinking about what to do. Then he picked up his cell phone.
Is he going to call the police?
She took a step back to trigger the automatic door again and then walked straight
for the taller of the two girls. She laughed out loud.
“It’ll be lots of fun!” she said. “Here you go!”
The girls stared as she handed them the packet of cigarettes.
“See you at Anders’ place tonight!” Ida said loudly, making sure the man heard every
word.
“Come on, Sara, let’s get out of here,” the shorter one said, and they turned and ran
off as fast as they could. Ida waved after them. Then she pulled a paper towel from
the gas pump stand nearest the door and pretended to wipe her hands thoroughly.
She walked back to the car, while watching the man behind the counter. He’d put
down his cell phone.
Slowly and calmly, she slid into the driver’s seat and drove back toward the
highway. Soon the small town was long behind her. After a while, the only light she
could see was from the car’s headlights, plowing through the darkness.
As soon as she was fully surrounded by the forest again, she turned off the highway
onto a logging road. She stopped the car, and, with the newspaper headlines still
weighing on her mind, she began to eat her meatball sandwiches and drink the YooHoo between bites.
She felt sweat pouring down from beneath her arms. Her heart pounded.
19.
As Ida’s stomach filled, her thoughts began to clear.
A murder suspect? Will this follow me for the rest of my life? This is absurd! What were
Lobov and my grandmother doing?
She leaned back and thought how easy it would be to just go to the police station in
Östersund and turn herself in. Tell them everything. Then she could lie down in a jail
cell and sleep, sleep, sleep.
And this Paul character. Did he actually rape me or what?
Ida noticed tears were starting to flow again, and she felt frightened.
She took out the box and stared at its lid. She ran her sleeve under her nose and then
just sat and stared at the box in her hands.
Is this box really connected to my mother?
She realized that she needed time to rest and to think. She needed peace and quiet.
A crackling noise.
What’s that?
Another crackle and then a clear voice, coming from somewhere in the car.
“SM2WOR from SM6NHP, come in! Sigurd Martin two Wilhelm Olof Rudolf from
Sigurd Martin six Niklas Helge Petter, come in!”
What in the world…
She looked around and began to rummage in the duffel bags and realized what this
was. The box with the radio.
The voice was on the receiver. She pulled the box out of the bag and raised the
volume. The call was repeated, and Ida recognized Marina’s voice – yes, it was
Marina! Thank God!
Ida looked over the radio until she saw a red button with the word SEND.
“Marina, is that really you?”
“This is SM6NHP, who has been riding subway line 13 all day. I assume I am talking
to SM2WOR. Come in.”
Marina had managed to get away!
“Follow my instructions for encrypted messaging. Over.”
“Understood. Over.”
A number of intricate directions followed. Ida typed in a number of codes into the
keypad and turned the controls. It was silent for a moment, but then a text entered
the display.
Staying with friends not on the grid. All fine. You?
Over.
Ida texted back:
Headed north. Have to lie low and figure out how
grandmother involved. Over.
A reply:
SM3FFS contacted me re you after a number of attempts.
Put in contact? Over.
Who in the world is SM3FFS? I don’t know…oh right. Lasse, of course. Marina has
contacted Lasse.
Reply: Yes. Put in contact. Over.
Understood. Wait a minute. Otherwise, contact me.
Green button. Over and out.
A crackle and Marina was gone.
Lasse! Yes, if I could ask Lasse about all of this, he would know!
She stared out the window of the car and then felt pressure from her bladder. Two
minutes had passed before she heard anything from the radio. She was just about to
call Marina again when the radio crackled loudly. She turned down the volume. A
man’s voice:
“SM3FFS to SM6NHP. Come in.”
It’s Lasse! How to let him know it’s really me?
“It’s I…as in idea. Come in.”
A short pause.
“Where are you? Over.”
A pause.
“Where are you? Come in.”
“On the way to…” She couldn’t think of what to say. “Over.”
“Give your position. Over.”
“About one hundred minutes from…”
What can I say that he will understand? I can’t say Östersund flat out, can I?
“Come in.”
“One hundred minutes to go. Over.”
“One hundred minutes from Högborgen? Over.”
“Correct. Högborgen. Over.”
“I will meet you there. Over and out.”
“Over and out.”
She sighed as she turned off the radio.
I can always count on Lasse. I’m not alone in this.
How smart of Marina to think of this!
How far to Östersund from here? Seventy-five miles more or less.
Ida got out of the car and walked towards the nearest pine trees. She pulled down
her jeans and panties and squatted. She could feel the heat on her legs from the
stream of pee. She thought about how silent it was in this forest. The only sound was
the stream of urine hissing as it hit the snow. She fished out a tissue from her
handbag to dry herself.
Then she heard a different kind of sound.
What can that be? She turned to look back at the car.
Two animals were standing by the left front tire.
Two wolves!
Another one stood by the fender. All three were motionless and stared at her. Their
breath steamed out from their jaws.
She froze for a few seconds, but thoughts bounced around inside her head:
Wolves? After all this? What am I supposed to do now?
She tried to yell, but the only sound coming from her throat was a gurgle.
She met the wolves’ yellow, intensive and aware eyes.
Extremely slowly, she began to pull up her panties and jeans as she stood up.
The wolves did not move. They kept watching her.
Will I be able to reach the car door? Not a chance.
I’ve only seen wolves in zoos before…and if they…nobody will ever find me
here…there’ll be nothing left…a pool of blood and some bones…
Another half a minute went by. She breathed with her mouth open, but she
remained absolutely still. She listened to the wind blowing through the tops of the
trees in the forest. She met the eyes of the wolves.
Then one of them, the one a bit larger than the others, began to move directly
toward her. She did not dare flinch. The wolf paced slowly around her, eyes on her
the entire time, and seemed to inhale her scent. The other two wolves began to
follow his lead. Ida felt as if she would collapse.
She was now encircled by the wolves. They were now just inches away from her,
looking at her and sniffing. The jaws of the largest wolf gaped and she couldn’t help
thinking he was laughing at her.
Then he simply turned away to lope off into the forest. His companions followed.
They were gone.
Ida stood paralyzed for another few minutes, shivering. Then she shook her body,
ran for the car door and threw herself inside the car, locking it behind her.
Don’t turn on the headlights! Maybe they’ll be back!
She peered through the trees, but there was no sign of them.
Were those really wolves?
She sat for a moment with her eyes closed, taking deep breaths. She was unable to
turn on the ignition.
Wolves? Really? Maybe I’m seeing things.
I really wasn’t asleep.
It can’t have been wolves. Am I losing my mind?
She looked down and caught sight of her handbag, and saw that the box had fallen
open. The fossil stone was visible. She closed the box immediately.
Finally, she started the engine and began to reverse the car back to the highway.
As the headlight beams fell across the snow between the trees, she thought she
could make out the tracks from three large four-footed animals.
20.
Ida couldn’t dismiss the wolves’ glowing eyes while she drove the last miles toward
Östersund, but as she neared town, the images of the wolves imprinted on her mind
dissolved to thoughts of Lasse.
How long has it been since we were last together? At least ten months. So typical of
him to call the huge parking garage in the center of the city Högberget – even
Djävulens Högberg, The Devil’s Mountain, just as many other people from Jämtland do.
They are always contrary, always against the people in high places, who make
decisions for everyone else. In the Nineties, the bigwigs decided that a parking garage
should be built in the middle of the city –and it was needed – but as soon as it was up,
the rumor spread: Anyone who parked there was a Traitor. So the parking garage was
pretty much empty all of the time. Typical! And then there was the Rödö Bridge, the
one out by Frösön. It was supposed to be a toll bridge. The only toll bridge in all of
Sweden for that matter. As soon as the city built the tollhouse and the gates, some local
person blew them up. The bridge wasn’t touched – it’s still in one piece and quite nice.
Then security cameras and cement barriers were put in, but a local bombed them to
pieces as well. Alma had mentioned Lasse had been brought in for questioning many
times, but there never was any proof. Still, many folks in the area were sure Lasse was
behind it all. Still, it could have been any other crusty old Jämtlänning.
Past seven in the evening, Ida finally turned onto Residensgränd and then into the
parking garage Djävulens Högberg. Lasse had led all the protests against this
structure. Now everybody just called it “Djävulns” for short.
The fact that Lasse had suggested they meet here meant he understood the
seriousness of her situation. Perhaps he’d understood the truth behind the
headlines. Perhaps it was simply the most secure building in town, since absolutely
nobody came here, especially at this time of night.
I wonder if there are security cameras around here. Probably not, or Lasse would have
known about it.
She drove slowly up the ramp to the highest level, which was completely empty. She
backed into a parking spot so she could have an overview of the entire area. Once
she’d turned off the motor, she waited, biting her nails. She realized she had to pee
again. No, no, don’t think of peeing – it brought back images of the wolves!
She kept waiting, and looked around in the car to pass the time. She noticed a black,
rectangular leather briefcase beneath the passenger seat. She pulled it out – it felt
flat and heavy. She unzipped the leather cover to find a matte silver iPad.
This must be that bastard’s – that rapist Paul’s.
The iPad looked expensive. She took a good long look at the screen. Perhaps it could
be useful?
She quickly stuffed it into one of her bags. Then she heard a car enter the parking
garage.
She sank down behind the steering wheel as she heard the car round one level after
another on its way up. She thought she ought to have parked on a lower level, where
there were other cars. What if this was the police?
But it was a red Volvo 745 – Lasse’s car.
Lasse hit the gas and spun the car until it stopped right next to hers. He jumped out,
already prepared with a few screwdrivers. Without saying a word, he bent down in
front of the fender, ran a finger over his mustache, and swore. She couldn’t help
smiling as she got out of the car. She could hear banging as she approached him, but
he straightened up and brushed past her to the other side of the car, and got to work
there, too. More banging. She let him do his thing – as Alma used to say, “There’s no
use trying to talk to Lasse when he’s working.”
Finally, he got up and strode straight to her, picking her up off her feet and giving
her a warm hug. Lasse was over six feet tall, and was still as strong as ever, although
he was now over sixty. He dropped her back down.
“Just to be on the safe side. Let’s get rid of these.”
She saw he was holding license plates.
“I always keep new ones on hand, just in case. Let’s get going.”
He gave her his car keys and she gave him hers. They drove out of the parking
garage, and through the town of Östersund. They took the Frösö Bridge, crossed the
island, and drove over the now completely toll-free Rödö Bridge. Ida couldn’t help
smiling as she noticed the remnants of the cement toll building.
The wind had picked up. A large sea bird, perched on one of the streetlights on the
bridge, had trouble keeping its balance. Twenty more birds were flocking together
beneath another streetlight. Suddenly, they seemed to swarm over the car she was
driving. They squawked and screeched as they flew over the car, and they kept on
following her for some time.
What’s up with those birds?
Her view of the road was disintegrating and it was hard to keep the car on the road.
The birds were driven away by the lashing snowfall. She kept as close as she could
behind the rear lights of the car in front of her. They were now driving through the
deep forest again, and Ida could judge how exhausted she was by the way her legs
and arms barely followed her directions.
A car on the road behind them turned off onto a side road. She did not dare look in
her rearview mirror to see where it went. At least Lasse is here with me.
So, go ahead and try to arrest me now, coppers! Nothing matters anymore!
Her childhood home looked the same as ever. She looked at its wooden veranda, its
spray fountain and its small post box in red. Lasse stopped near the gate by the post
box, opened its double doors, and drove Paul’s car inside. He closed the gate and
walked over to his own Volvo.
They drove away from her former home and reached Lasse’s house a few minutes
later.
She curled up on his sofa bed and started to dream right away.
Security guards stormed the tables at the Nobel banquet. A black line of them
appeared at the balustrades. Tumult. She saw Lobov, dressed in white, standing in the
middle of the great hall. He blinked like a strobe light before he caught fire. A bubbling,
crackling noise. Everyone started running outside, but Lobov started screaming as he
turned black. The great hall transformed into a cathedral filled with animals, who
clawed at the walls, at the baptismal font, at the lectern. Someone was yelling at her
from above:
“Get up!” the voice yelled. “Go on, get up, now!”
She realized this was Lasse whispering right into her ear. She realized he was
carrying her through the living room.
“They’re here,” Lasse said. He started to carry her up one flight of stairs, and then
another. “Keep as quiet as you can.”
He set her down on her feed and opened the door to the attic. He pointed to a
mattress.
Ida sank down onto it immediately. She closed her eyes and as she was falling asleep
again, she heard the doorbell ring.
She lay still and heard the voices: two calm and reasonable and one gruff. She
couldn’t tell what they were talking about. As she drifted off to sleep, she had one
more thought. She should have told Lasse about the wolves.
Although the attic was freezing cold, she was deeply asleep in no time.
Anahau Bay, New Zealand, October 27th, 1769
Once the bow of the longboat plowed into the sand and the servants were able to
pull it as far up on the beach as possible, everyone climbed out one by one: first the
three marines, then Spöring, Banks and Cook, and finally Solander.
Solander and Banks began to amble along the edge of the water.
“Let us discover what this place has to offer,” Banks said.
After a while they came upon a line of vegetation consisting of various types of grass
and tall flowers. They recognized many of them, but not all. A number of shells from
mussels and other sea creatures were scattered on the beach. Solander took his time
examining them, before he assigned preliminary names and passed them to the
servants to archive in a wooden box.
“What would Mr. Linnaeus say about this beach if he were with us now?” asked
Banks.
They chuckled together at the thought. They discussed the conditions favorable to
life on this island compared to the islands they’d already visited earlier that week.
Out in the bay, Endeavour was at anchor, sails tightly furled along her yardarms,
rolling slightly in the gentle swell. Against the sky, a flock of sea birds rose,
squawking loudly.
Along the beach, perhaps a dozen of the islands’ inhabitants were now coming
walking toward them, their necklaces of shark teeth and mother of pearl distinctly
visible, despite the distance. One man wore a vest of oyster shells extending all the
way down to his belly. Their faces were all the color of copper and were decorated
with dark and convoluted patterns of pricks. They carried well-sharpened wooden
spears and short stone clubs.
Solander looked up and down the beach, but saw no canoes along the shore.
The three marines brought their muskets to the ready.
“Steady,” said Cook.
The natives stopped about fifty feet away from them. They were singing hoarsely,
and they stamped their feet from left to right, while staring at the sky.
“Here!” Banks said loudly and held out his hand. Two glass beads and a comb rested
in his palm.
The singing stopped.
Finally, one of them, the man with the oyster shell vest, dared come closer to see
what Banks was holding. He gestured to two of the others, who began to run back
along the beach.
Solander stood absolutely still, his gaze wandering from the sunburned faces of
Cook and Banks, to the marines’ uniforms, Spöring’s drawing, the servants’ sample
containers and finally back to the black body paint on the inhabitants of the island.
No one spoke.
The waves of the sea softly broke on the sand and retreated, monotonously
repeating the same sound of water gliding across sand.
The two natives returned carrying breadfruit and kumara.
Banks nodded as he slowly walked toward them.
They exchanged the food for the glass beads and the comb. The natives closely
inspected the beads and the comb, their body language and facial expressions
transforming.
All ten native men now lined up to rub noses with Banks. Banks laughed and told
Solander, Cook and Spöring to follow his lead.
Solander did not hesitate to come closer and press his nose against theirs. The black
pattern on their faces was done with a dye that was sticky and smelled rancid.
Spöring commented on the odor.
Banks and Cook tried to make themselves understood. They pointed down the
beach and kept repeating, “Heppah? Heppah?”
After a while, the islanders nodded to show they had understood. “Heppah! Haere
mai! Haere mai!”
The man in the oyster shell vest started to walk, while gesturing ahead with his
wooden spear. “Heppah!”
After a few minutes of brisk walking, they reached a large cliff formation,
surrounded by low vegetation and a lagoon a number of meters deep. Around the
cliffs were fortifications made from thin tree trunks and rough willowy branches.
Within the fortifications were a number of small huts and, behind them, four raised
platforms. Several younger men leapt onto the platforms and, with laughter, cast
their spears into the sand below. They rolled their eyes as if mocking imaginary
enemies.
Banks nodded and gave some of his glass beads to the children sitting just inside the
huts.
Solander saw a stream flowing through the middle of the heppah, and piles of dried
fish and fern roots stored in a low hut.
“They appear to be well prepared for a siege,” Solander told Cook. “I’m impressed.”
Banks, Cook and the three marines began to measure the heppah, while Spöring
began to sketch a wooden statue that seemed to have religious significance.
A few of the female islanders, giggling and peeping at them, approached Solander
and Spöring. Then they indicated there was something they wanted to show them.
The women encouraged them to walk further behind some of the huts. They smiled
in reply and let themselves be led.
They entered an area of the heppah not visible from the entrance. A stone oven was
set beside another huge cliff. One of the women, swaying her hips and backside,
pointed to a grotto with a wooden door. She smiled.
Spöring and Solander laughed for a moment, wondering at the situation they found
themselves in. They climbed up to the grotto. They couldn’t help noticing that there
were entrails lying in the grass by the stone oven.
As they walked into the grotto, the women pushed them so hard they fell over.
“What’s this?” Spöring exclaimed.
They scrambled up and found that the wooden door was now closed and locked
from the outside. Solander pressed his shoulder against the door and found it firm. If
only he had a knife or a tool of some narrow tool, he could probably cut through the
lock made of twisted roots and sharp wooden pins.
They both began to beat against the door.
“Help! Help!” they yelled at the top of their voices.
No reaction from the other side. They peered through a gap in the wood: the women
were gone.
“Can the others even hear us?”
“I doubt it.”
As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they looked around the grotto. It was much
larger than they’d first thought. Along one of the rock walls, a vague, yellowish light
pulsed. A rock shelf jutted in front of it, forming a kind of stone altar. A raw scent in
the air was sharp, almost nausea-inducing.
Spöring yelled again for help and kicked at the door. Solander told him not to
bother. Cook and Banks would come looking for them soon enough.
He inspected the glow along the rocky surface of the grotto wall, walking closer
toward the remarkable shelf. It was a natural, smooth outcropping. As he touched
the surface, his fingers became damp. In the weak light, he saw the liquid was red.
He looked up at something unusual in the rock right above the shelf.
It was a stone – matte, dark gray. It was about the size of two fists held together.
Part of the surface had a diffuse pattern that seemed to be traces from leather or
bone while other areas were smooth and shone as if bathed in oil. As a whole, it
appeared to be petrified remains of an animal of some kind –and yet not quite.
Is it a work of human hands? A sculpture of some kind? No, definitely a petrification of
some kind, perhaps a fossil? Highly unusual, nevertheless. But there is something else
here.
Contained within the fossil were a number of blue gemstones. These glimmering
points were giving off the unusual slight rays of light.
He could not take his eyes from them.
Sapphires?
“Come and take a look at this, Spöring,” he said.
Spöring came over and they agreed they’d never seen anything like it.
“Just think what Linnaeus will make of this!” Spöring said.
Then they noticed other unusual details. On either side of the stone, something odd
was projected. Wingtips?
No, couldn’t be. Something seemed to be growing from the surface of the stone,
however. But what did it resemble? Fins? Wings? It appeared to be made from a
thin, almost sheer, plate of gold or silver.
Solander reached out a trembling hand, fingers spread, almost as if he were ready to
grab it if it started to fly away, although he was well aware it was stuck to the rock. It
seemed impossible to dislodge.
Spöring decided to explore the grotto further, while Solander remained by the rock
altar, staring at the sapphires on the stone. Time went by. Spöring must have gone
fairly far in.
Solander heard Spöring yell. “Solander! We must get out of here right away! There
are…things…on the ground back here!”
Spöring reappeared a moment later, walking as fast as he could. His face had
blanched
Solander heard something coming behind Spöring.
Spöring leapt forward and Solander stepped away from the altar.
The sound – heavy panting – could be heard clearly.
Solander saw a figure emerging from the darkness. Then another figure, and yet
another.
Spöring had run right to the wooden door. Solander yelled. The three figures kept
creeping forward. From the small crack in the wooden door, a ray of light hit their
faces.
Solander realized two of them had black ink patterns on their cheeks and foreheads,
but that was the only resemblance between them and the other inhabitants of the
island.
The first figure, perhaps female, had an eye the size of an apple. It bulged from its
eye socket and looked like it might tumble out over the lower lid at any moment.
Her nose had swollen quite large, and, from her body, huge bulges of flesh hung
toward her belly. The second figure, a man, had a face from which curtains of skin
hung to his neck. His eyes had disappeared behind the folds of loosely hanging skin,
but his deformed mouth could be seen. Solander was reminded of a strange cancer
he’d once seen at a hospice for the sick up in Piteå during his youth. Still, that
affliction did not compare to what he saw now.
The third islander had a nearly symmetric, beautiful face, but from his stomach
bulged a huge growth. It looked as if a kettledrum had been sewn to his waist and
his skin had grown to cover it.
The two male creatures held long stone clubs. All three kept creeping toward them.
Solander found himself pressing against the wooden door, not able to escape in any
direction.
“What are they doing? They seem to be…”
“Help! Help!” Spöring screamed directly through the gap in the wooden door.
Solander watched the female raise something to her mouth and take a big bite,
which she started to chew. As she waddled from one foot to the other, the ray of
light from the gap in the door fell onto the object, and Solander could make out what
it was…he turned his face away…then looked back…Oh Creator God! Oh my
Almighty God!
He had seen correctly. It was the lower arm of a human being.
Sinews dangled from the elbow. The bone jutted out like a thick, white stick, and
only remnants of the thin, smooth muscles of the wrist remained. The woman stared
at Solander while she chewed. Each of the other malformed islanders, he now
realized, also held a bit of human meat. The man with the drum-sized stomach was
chewing on a thigh, and the man with skin for a face was eating a calf muscle.
“Help!” Spöring yelled as loud as he could through the gap. “Somebody help us!”
There was no reaction from the outside world.
The only sound they could hear was the buzzing of flies outside. Solander found it
hard to stand.
“Help!” he heard Spöring scream. “I’m being…”
The three figures dropped their food and rushed for Spöring and Solander. Spöring
was pounding on the door as hard as he could, but turned to punch the woman.
Solander yelled. Two of the creatures pulled Spöring to the ground, and the way
they worked together made Solander believe they’d done this many times before.
Solander punched the man with skin for a face, but the weight of his punch was
dissipated in its many folds.
“They truly want to eat us?” Solander heard Spöring moan.
They were able to pin Spöring to the ground, where he fell with a moan. Solander
was amazed at how strong they were, while he kept trying to land a blow on the
third man, who easily dropped him to the ground.
Solander recognized the stench of the body over him as a mixture of excrement and
blood, as well as something sickeningly sweet beyond description. He could see the
pinprick pattern on the man’s face well. He turned his head to see the other two on
Spöring and notice their bloodshot eyes and their brown fingers closing around
Spöring’s throat.
“Heeeelp!”
“Oh, Lord, do not abandon me, give me strength…”
The creature above him held Solander down in spite of his kicking and screaming.
He held a hand over his lips and the female – having left Spöring – was ripping the
cloth of his trousers and then bent to bite his left leg with her tiny, pointed teeth. She
had bitten just above his knee and he felt the teeth enter his skin and then break off
as she closed her mouth – it burned as if a knife had been plunged into his leg – he
screamed while thinking: they are really going to eat me…they’re going to eat us
alive…The woman took another bite of his flesh and, as he screamed, he was amazed
he was able to think at all: they are human beings, just as I am, we are all nothing
more than human beings. He could not comprehend how he could still think as he
felt another set of teeth enter his other leg. He spotted one of the stone clubs in the
air just above his head. It was coming down and its edge was sharp and would hit
him in his forehead if he didn’t…
In panic, he twisted his head, neck and shoulders and the stone club glanced off his
right ear to hit the ground beside his head. The islander dropped the club, which
broke in two. Solander grabbed the shaft. He rolled over and jabbed the female with
his elbow.
The male creature grabbed the part of the shaft still attached to the sharpened rock.
Still, Solander had some room to maneuver, and he was able to stagger to his feet.
He grabbed Spöring’s hand and they headed deeper into the grotto.
“No!” Spöring gasped. “There are horrible sights in there.”
“We need to gain some time,” Solander replied. He could feel his heart pounding and
he wondered if there was another exit on the other side of the grotto.
He had to stop moving. His legs burned and he stared straight-ahead, fear blazing
from his eyes.
“Help!” he yelled as loud as he could, but the echo did not go far and there was no
sound of help on the way from the direction of the door.
“Pleeeeaaase! Heeeelp!”
The three creatures had gotten back into formation and were heading toward them.
They were standing in the center of the grotto. Solander glanced around and did not
know what to do. They were closing in on Spöring again, and Solander knew he
wouldn’t be able to fight for long with just one half of a wooden shaft.
His eyes caught sight of the remarkably glowing fossil, and in a second of decision,
he ran to the stone altar, the purpose of which he now understood fully – an altar for
human sacrifices – and he lifted the wooden shaft and slammed it down on the base
beneath the fossil. And then he hit it again and again.
The three creatures backed away, their eyes wide open and their faces twisted in
strange expressions.
“Ha ta!” They started to whisper. “Ta-bu!”
Solander, filled with rage, kept raining blows upon the base of the rock. A large bit
splintered off and he grabbed the unusual stone and tried to rip it from the rocky
wall, but it still did not budge. Solander began to beat the lower part of the fossil
with his stick as hard as he could, pausing only to see if the fossil began to loosen.
Finally, after a few more hard blows, to his great surprise, it gave way.
The three figures yelled at the ceiling of the grotto, stamping their feet and sticking
out their tongues. They made as much noise as they could by the wooden door and
as they screamed “Haere mai! Haere mai!” they began to chant.
Solander stood still with the fossil stone raised high in his hand. He studied their
movements, understanding they were trying to provoke a general attack. Blood ran
from their mouths. He was filled with an uncontrollable storm of emotion turning
him in a new direction. Spöring could feel it, too. He took Solander’s stick and,
almost as if by intuitive signal, they rushed toward the door, Solander holding the
stone above his head as if it were a torch and Spöring brandishing the stick as hard
as he could. The creatures shrank back from them with a strange, horrible wailing,
even as it appeared they were trying to convince each other to attack.
They reached the door and now Solander could hear noise on the other side, excited
voices.
He and Spöring yelled for help as loud as they could. Spöring banged on the door
with his stick.
They heard someone trying to undo the lock on the other side as fast as possible, but
this was not stopping the three malformed humans from leaping toward them.
Spöring lifted the stick to defend himself, but Solander stopped them by holding the
stone toward them.
Half the wooden door fell into the grotto and blinding light followed.
At the opening to the grotto, two marines from the Endeavor stood and peered in.
“My dear friends,” Banks said, “What has been going on?”
Solander and Spöring sprang out into the sunshine, shielding their eyes from the
brightness of the sun. They could not see a single islander. They looked down at the
wounds on their legs.
The three grotesque creatures stamped and screamed from the entrance to the
grotto.
“My Lord, what have they done to you?” asked Cook.
Solander looked out over the entire heppah.
“I believe it’s time to return to the Endeavour,” he said.
“What are those creatures?” asked Banks. “They look like…”
They all stared at the misshapen beings. The marines held their weapons ready to
fire.
“That’s an odd thing,” one of the marines said, with a nod to the fossil in Solander’s
hand.
Solander decided to pocket the fossil into his shirt. He noticed its mysterious glow
was not visible in the sunlight. He did not want to mention this was a unique find –
in a class all its own – to an underling.
The three misshapen humans were now leaving the grotto and lurching toward the
closest hut.
From the other direction, the leader, wearing his vest of oyster shells, was leading
his warriors. When he saw that the misshapen ones were on the loose, he began to
yell, and his warriors lined up.
“Ta-bu! Ta-bu!” The woman with the apple-sized eye pointed toward the grotto and
began to speak without pausing to take a breath.
Cook and Banks exchanged glances. The marines loaded their muskets.
The leader lifted his spear and stuck out his tongue as he headed toward them.
“The business with the tongue – that’s a warning signal,” Cook said. “They’re getting
ready to attack.”
The marines shot a warning blast into the air above the islanders’ heads. They
stopped.
“There’s too many,” Cook murmured to Banks.
The opposing sides stood and stared at each other for a moment.
“Herd those three back into the grotto,” Solander whispered to the marines. “Maybe
that will calm them down.”
“Do what Mr. Solander says,” Cook said quietly.
The marines menaced the misshapen islanders with their guns and were successful
at herding them back into the grotto. They reset the door as quickly as possible,
although they were not able to put it back in one piece or replace the system of
knots that worked as a lock.
The leader did not seem placated, and even more islanders were arriving from other
areas of the heppah. A low, hoarse song began among the back rows.
“What is the shortest route to the longboat?” asked Banks.
Cook pointed discreetly with his fist.
More silence. Solander found himself listening to the buzz of insects and watched
how Cook and Spöring kept staring at the man in the oyster shell vest. The man
stared back. High above the heppah, seabirds were sailing on rising air currents.
From where he stood, Solander could not determine which species they were.
The leader gave an almost invisible sign with one of his naked feet.
The islanders immediately sprang forward, rolling their eyes and jerking their
bodies, as they raised their spears.
“No! We want to be friends!” Banks called out, but his voice was drowned by musket
fire.
Three islanders fell to the ground at once.
The others paused, although they kept yelling and gesturing. Solander was standing
with his back to the cliff, waiting for the standoff to resolve, when he felt someone
coming up to him from behind. It was the woman with the apple-sized eye. She’d
managed to get out of the grotto again and was now reaching for his shirt with her
sharp fingernails.
He took a step backwards but she was swift. She managed to hit the fossil with all
her power and it fell between his feet onto the rock on which they were standing. He
couldn’t help exclaiming as he saw the fossil break into four parts.
“Haere mai! Ta-bu! Haere hi uta hei patupatu ahe!” the woman cried aloud.
Solander grabbed two of the fossil bits and the marines closest to him stooped
quickly and swept up the other two bits.
The native leader yelled a command and twenty more islanders rushed them. The
marines reloaded quickly and shot two of them in the legs. The others kept coming
and Cook attempted to beat them off with his spyglass. Three new shots fired –
three more islanders fell. The others had reached Banks and were beating him with
their clubs. One of the marines dropped his musket as he swung around to defend
Banks. Solander rushed up and grabbed it. He loaded it, and got on one knee, aimed
carefully and fired.
The leader in his oyster shell vest was hit. He fell into the grass, face-first, blood
pouring from his forehead.
As the islanders saw who had fallen, they stopped dead in their tracks.
“Retreat!” yelled Cook.
The marines formed a barrier around them and, bayonets out, cleared the way down
the middle of the heppah for Solander, Banks and Cook. Solander glanced to the side
and saw the two women who had lured them to the grotto, pressed against the wall
of a hut. They looked dumbfounded and dismayed.
When their company reached the other side of the fortifications, they discovered
that a large group of islanders had already gathered there as well. The servants who
had been waiting for them began to run ahead of them, and the marines ran behind
them all, their muskets loaded and ready on their shoulders.
They’d run for some distance and Solander glanced back to see over fifty fighters
were following them. Some new fighters were singing and getting ready to attack by
stomping their feet. Solander closed his hand tightly around the bits of the fossil
stone, and shivered as he thought of what he’d just endured in the grotto. His legs
hurt from the bites and he thought that as soon as he reached the ship, he’d have to
clean the dirt and saliva away. He heard Banks yell at them to hurry.
In the distance, they could see the masts of the Endeavour stand tall against the
deep blue sky. Solander could not tell while running if there was any activity on
deck.
They reached the longboat and threw themselves over its low sides. Then they saw
about twenty beached canoes nearby, all being loaded with stones and spears.
“We can’t row as fast as they can paddle,” Cook said.
They took their places in the middle of the longboat while the servants placed the
oars into their locks as fast as they could.
“We must do our best, men!” Banks yelled to the servants and marines. “Row as hard
as you can!”
The longboat was now a few feet from the beach and they could see more and more
canoes swarming from every part of the island. The islanders were singing and
yelling, and their paddling was extraordinarily effective. It wouldn’t be long before
one of the canoes would be close enough to rain spears on them.
“Fire!” commanded Cook.
The marines shot at the bow of the closest canoe and hit one of the islanders. The
noise made them paddle in another direction.
“Reload!”
The canoe had changed direction and was heading for them again. Stones were
thrown, but the longboat wasn’t hit. The marines were reloading as fast as they
could, but they weren’t fast enough. Behind this first canoe, ten more were coming
up fast. Each was filled with just as many men. Solander looked toward the beach
and saw islanders streaming out of the jungle and launching even more canoes. He
realized that there were many hundreds of them.
“Fire!” Banks yelled. The marines fired and then started to reload, flashing their
bayonets and blotters to scare the islanders on the canoes as much as possible.
This can’t end well, Solander thought. They’ll club us all to death before this is over
and our bodies will sink to the bottom of the sea, skulls crushed, eyes popped out.
He glanced up at the seabirds circling, not even beating their wings.
Three canoes were closing on the longboat and as a few of the muscled islanders
were raising their spears and getting ready to jump over their railing, Solander
closed his eyes.
KA- BOOM!
An enormous explosion filled the air. It was so powerful that Cook fell forward onto
the bottom of the boat. Two of the islanders’ canoes capsized.
Another large BOOM followed. The massive sound hit the beach like a wave.
Immediately wails of pain and confusion came from the islanders, and many
stopped paddling.
Solander looked at the men in the canoe twenty feet away from their longboat. Their
black-inked faces were all staring at the horizon.
He turned around and saw the Endeavour’s contours silhouetted against the sun.
All the gun ports on the port side were open and he could see a number of people on
deck: Hicks, Clerke and Monkhouse with the rest of the marines
From the mouths of the gun ports new tongues of fire flared. Three deafening
explosions burst onto the edge of the beach. A large canoe was also hit and the
explosion ripped five islanders into pieces.
“Good shot!” Cook yelled as the rowers picked up the pace.
All the other canoes had halted their approach or turned back toward the beach.
After a several minutes of hard rowing, the longboat reached the Endeavor’s
starboard side, where the rope ladder had already been lowered. One by one, they
climbed aboard. Solander was the first one up in spite of his aching legs. As soon as
the servants were on board, he ordered them to put the contents of the carriers and
wooden boxes onto the deck to dry in the sun.
“Anchors aweigh!” commanded Cook, as he looked through his spyglass toward the
blood-stained sand, where the islanders were singing, dancing and yelling even
while tending to their wounded and their dead.
On deck, Solander rested on a bolster while Monkhouse cleaned his leg wounds.
Monkhouse informed him that the wounds were deep, but he shouldn’t worry, as
they would soon be sailing out of danger, and the islanders had stopped launching
their canoes.
Monkhouse handed Solander a flask of rum, and Solander took a few long swigs.
Solander heard Cook talking to the officers who’d stayed on board. “If Solander
hadn’t managed to hit their chief, I have no idea what would have happened to us.”
As Solander heard the familiar sound of the anchor being raised and its cable being
winched by the aft-capstan, he glanced over the railing and watched the beach at
Anahau Bay disappear. A soft offshore wind filled the forward mizzen sail and drove
the ship forward at the speed of a few knots.
He waited for a while until the activity on the aft deck had subsided, and then asked
Monkhouse to leave him be.
Solander made sure that nobody saw him as he opened his shirt and pulled out the
two fossil stone fragments. He realized that he’d almost forgotten their existence.
Now that he was holding them, he felt that he no longer needed to worry about the
wounds on his legs. He thought he ought to write Linnaeus immediately and inform
him of this discovery. If he were in luck, he’d be able to send the letter via a depeshe
vessel, perhaps when they reached Java in New Holland. And later, of course, he
would send the stones themselves to Linnaeus, once the Endeavor reached
homeport.
Or…maybe he’d send one of the pieces to Linnaeus and keep the other one for
himself?
Yes, he decided. I will keep one of these stones – I can’t let this get away.
Both of the fossil pieces appeared undamaged, but they shimmered in a different
way so he had trouble recognizing them.
The growth from one of the surfaces was intact, but it no longer looked like a fin or a
wing, but rather a thick, fossilized feather. Four large sapphires were attached to the
growth. The stone seemed to be a diffuse part of the back of a body, but in the
sunlight it appeared different from how it had seemed in the grotto. The second
piece also no longer resembled itself. The sapphires on it were glowing in the sun,
and they framed what appeared to have been the fossilized animal’s strange
narrow…what? It wasn’t the back of a body really…and yet, what else could it be?
He set the two parts together. They made a strange crackling sound when they
touched, and they fit perfectly, so no chip was missing. They fell back apart as soon
as he stopped pressing them together.
He sat for a long time staring at the stones, but he felt as if he were shivering as if he
were about to have a fever.
What kind of thing is this?
At last, his hand moving as if it were made of lead, he touched the projection.
It was not as fragile as he’d thought, but instead hard, harder than the stone itself.
“Captain Cook?” he called out across the deck, while putting the two fossil stones
into one of his fine-woven excursion bags.
“Yes?”
“I must speak to the marines who were with us on the beach.”
By now, the Endeavor was sailing south and was leaving Anahau Bay behind.
The three marines reported to Solander, and he sent one of them away at once.
“You two need to hand back the geological finds, the two pieces of rock, which I
found in the heppah,” he said.
The men grinned but said nothing.
“I saw each of you take a part of the rock when it broke apart,” Solander said.
“I lost it when they was chasing us down the beach,” one of the men said.
“I don’t have mine, either,” the other one said.
“Where did it go?”
The man looked away. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to keep it. So I rid myself of it.”
“Tell me at once where you decided to leave it.”
The man said nothing.
“I will recommend you to Cook for a flogging.”
“It won’t make no difference. I don’t know where it is.”
The marine looked down the ship toward the aft, where Banks, Cook and Hicks were
deep in conversation.
“We lost them on the beach,” the first marine repeated. “During the scuffle.”
“It is an extremely important geological find. Its value to science is much greater
than the gemstones on it.”
“We don’t know where they are,” the first one insisted.
Solander stared them in the eyes. “I know you’re lying,” he said at last.
The soldiers said nothing.
The sun beat down on them.
“This journey is not over and I will find out the truth.”
“Makes no difference to us.”
They have the stones hidden below deck, Solander thought. They’ll want to sell them
when we reach a harbor, or even in London…just for the extra income. Cheeky
bastards!
They stood silently until Solander said at last, “You may go.”
The marines smiled at each other as they shrugged their shoulders and walked away
toward the railing, and then headed down the hatch to their hammocks.
Solander stood alone at the starboard forward deck and stared back at the horizon,
where a thin white line indicated the island’s beach and a green line indicated the
vegetation. The sky was a light blue cupola over everything.
He felt for the two fossil stones through the linen weave. His fingers found the one
with the small, sharp growth.
As he felt its hard edge, he felt a charge and immediately let go.
He pulled out the excursion bag and opened it to look at this first stone more closely.
He touched the growth again with his fingertips.
It…no, it could not be doing this. It was just not possible.
He slapped his own face and spit, saying out loud: “I am Daniel Carls Son Solander
from Öjebyn, Björklunda Parish, Piteå Old Town.”
Without a doubt, I am in my right mind.
Carefully, he touched the small, symmetrical end of the growth.
He felt along its hard edge. He blinked a few times, bit his tongue and rattled off his
name many times over. The shivering, as if from a fever, returned.
There was a slight, squirming motion inside the growth, and then another, stronger
one.
The little hard growth began to sway back and forth inside the embrace of
Solander’s hand.
21.
Ida found herself shivering. She sat up on the mattress. It was stained, ripped and
smelled slightly of mold. She walked toward the small attic door and opened it
without making a sound.
There was no noise from below. She sneaked down the stairs.
Lasse, his suspenders hanging down over his thighs, was sitting in the kitchen
listening to the radio. He nodded in greeting as she walked in.
“No need to be afraid. It was only the local police going around knocking on doors.”
He handed her a cup of coffee and a basket of sliced bread. Ida glimpsed the radio
sender on the desk in Lasse’s bedroom adjacent to the kitchen.
“The local police told me I was the neighbor of a girl wanted for murder. You know
what I told them?”
Ida shook her head.
“I said I didn’t give a flying fuck.”
He was tapping his fingers on the table.
“I hid the Volvo into the barn at your grandmother’s place, and then I drove around
with the tractor and erased all the tracks. There’s nothing to see now. The police left
a long time ago. Things are peaceful at the moment. It’s not surprising they found
Alma’s address so quickly. Nowadays it doesn’t take long to trace anybody. Here,
have a cheese sandwich.”
She sat down at the table and glanced out the window. In the east, she could see the
slight indication that dawn was coming.
“Well, there’s the small matter of the local police officers sitting in their patrol car at
your front gate. I took a little walk this morning and saw them.”
“Have you heard from Alma recently?” Ida asked, as she sipped her coffee.
“Not recently, no. At times she’d be here for a long while, but she’d come and go. I
assume she’s abroad right now.”
“Yes. In Moscow.”
“Moscow? Well, she told me last summer she was thinking of going back to Russia.
Some kind of archive was going to be opened there, so she said.”
“I talked to her yesterday.”
Lasse’s face brightened. “You did? What did she say?”
“We couldn’t finish the conversation. She was sorrowful about Lobov’s death. But
she gave me a list of things to do, and she told me not to call her again.”
“No, we shouldn’t call anyone right now,” Lasse said in agreement. “You have turned
off your phone, haven’t you?”
“I don’t have a phone any more. Mine was stolen. I threw another cell phone away.
My friend loaned me hers, but I did turn it off.”
“Good. Was that the same friend who figured out gave you the radio?”
“Yes. Her name is Marina.”
“Smart gal.”
Ida nodded.
“So, what happened down south in Stockholm?”
She sighed and stared at the floor for a while. A few words came to mind: the place
where God’s wrath never ceases.
“Can we talk about it later? I really can’t bear thinking about it now.”
“Sure,” Lasse said. “But I doubt very much you’re a killer.”
She looked up into his face and memories from City Hall swirled around in her
mind’s eye.
“It was so horrible…he just…”
“But you were there and met this Lobov person?”
“Yes, I was,” Ida said. “He knew Alma. When I called her later, all she managed to tell
me was to go to the hunting cabin. I really can’t even comprehend what is going on.
There was a guy who tried to kill me…”
“What?”
“Yes, he tried to shoot me.”
As Ida looked at Lasse’s face, she sensed he knew more about the situation than he
was letting on.
Lasse swiveled around in his chair to the dresser behind him. His huge fist dug into
the heavy top drawer until he fished up an envelope.
“As far as the hunting cabin goes, Alma left this here for you last summer.”
Lasse showed her the envelope. Five words were written on the outside:
IN CASE THINGS GO WRONG
He turned it over and a newly made silver key dropped out. He handed the key to
Ida.
“So I assume this key belongs…”
“…to the hunting cabin,” Ida finished.
They stared at each other.
“And I believe things have gone awfully wrong. You’ll probably need it.”
Ida nodded as she clutched the key tightly in one hand, while bringing her other
hand up to take another bite of the cheese sandwich. When she’d finished eating, she
opened her hand to look down at its shiny surface.
“I guess we’d better go there to find out what this is all about,” she said.
Lasse nodded. “Probably safer there than here. Still, we can’t even stay there long,
And there’s a few more things you ought to know…”
“Yes? What?”
He looked out the window. “It’s a long story.”
He cleared his throat and said, looking her straight in the eye, “No, we need to get
going. I’ll tell you once we get there, agreed?”
22.
Lasse had given Ida a small black sack to pack the lead-lined box and the letter from
Lobov.
She’d taken a quick shower changed into a clean T-shirt, sweatshirt and thick jacket
from the duffel bags Marina had given her. She left the dirty clothes behind. She
carried Mariana’s two duffle bags to the back door of Lasse’s house.
It was midday, but the sun was barely above the horizon. Rays of light shone
through the tree trunks standing on the glacial ridge.
Lasse had already driven the snowmobile to the back door. Ida secured the two
duffle bags and the black sack onto the passenger space behind the driver’s seat. The
vinyl Ockelbo logo was worn at the edges, letting the metal beneath it shine. Ida
heard the familiar sound of the gasoline sloshing in the aluminum tank.
“I’m sure there’ll be something to eat in the cabin,” Lasse said, glancing around.
“You’ll have to look and see what you can find. Otherwise, we’ll eat together later
this evening. Now you’ll have to head up there on your own.”
“You’re not coming with me?”
She shivered as Lasse looked back over his shoulder. “I ought to, but I have to stay
behind and make sure nobody is coming up on this road, since it’s the only way to
the cabin. We don’t want the police right on your tail and catching you in the forest
before you even get there. Let’s keep in touch on the radio as the day goes on – just
to be on the safe side.”
Ida contemplated her situation. If someone does come after me and I’m all on my
own?
Lasse seemed to read her thoughts. “This is the only way to reach the cabin. Nobody
knows that it’s up there.”
She nodded. He was right. Her grandmother’s hunting cabin was not on any maps of
the area as far as she knew.
Ida tested the throttle beside the steering rod. Her fears were not diminishing.
They can’t locate me here. Miranda got rid of the transmitter.
“Keep your eyes open during this first part, my little Ida,” Lasse said. “If you head
past the ridge, the local police won’t be able to hear you. Don’t forget to call me
when you get there.”
She nodded. She tried to remember when she’d last ridden a snowmobile…five or
six years?
She still felt frightened, but she was also determined.
When the motor had revved up, she shifted into gear and took off, waving slightly as
she went. Her arms and back were tense as she headed up the road and into the
forest of pine trees.
After she’d driven a few miles, the forest opened up at the Meadow, a name she and
her grandmother had given this open space. It was a glade at the foot of Öda
Mountain. A river, also called Öda, ran through the glade. A beaver family had
dammed this river a long time ago. By now their lodge had been occupied by many
generations. The dam was now covered in snow and silent. The dam had completely
covered the river from bank to bank, so that a small waterfall was now completely
dry and covered with brushwood and the occasional mountain birch that managed
to find a place to root. Below the dam, however, the river began to pick up speed
again, free of ice. She remembered how much she’d enjoyed swimming there during
her childhood. She realized just how much time had gone by since she was last here,
but she still had a clear picture of her grandmother taking off all her clothes and
getting into the water. Her big breasts floated back and forth with the current.
She had reached the cabin now, so she parked the snowmobile in front. A snow
shovel was leaning against the wall, so she shoveled a path to the landing. The sky
was already dark blue, as skies can be when the ground is covered in snow, and the
millions of snowflake-formed light reflections from the mountain and treetops
dazzle the air. There was no wind. She thought how deafening silence could be when
deep snow covers the entire landscape. Then she turned, as if she felt someone
observing her. She whirled around again, and peered into the trees, but saw nothing
but pine branches and snow.
It was very cold. The cabin must also be fairly chilly by now, too.
She walked around the corner of the cabin, and came to the woodpile beneath the
overhang of the roof. As her eyes fell on the top layer of wood, she stopped in
surprise. There were lots of bird nests, perhaps from willow titmice or bullfinches.
She’d never seen so many nests in one place. Perhaps they’re from more than one
season?
When was the last time that Grandma had been here?
Or does she just come here in the summertime?
She shook the loose snow from the wood basket and picked up ten logs to take into
the cabin, but stumbled on her way back so all the logs fell out. Against the snow,
they looked like a jumble of huge, burnt matches.
She bent over to pick up the first log when her attention was grabbed by something
odd. There was a large group of…insects? Packed together like brownish black small
leaves. She pulled off a mitten to pick one off.
The insects were butterflies.
She carefully separated the wings. It was one of the polyommatinae – a Swedish blue
butterfly. Or rather, many Swedish blue butterflies. Just the group on the log was
over thirty individuals. Absolutely still. Their wings stuck vertically over their
bodies.
As Ida examined the other logs, she saw that everyone was covered in Swedish
blues. She looked back at the woodpile.
What do these butterflies like about this woodpile? Warmth? Hardly. It must be twenty
degrees, well below freezing, at the most. Polyommatinae do not overwinter here in
Sweden, do they? And certainly not in these numbers.
She walked back to the woodpile and began lifting up different logs. Everywhere –
Swedish blues. None of them moved. She pressed one with her fingernail. It moved.
She tried a few more. They all seemed to be alive. She brushed a whole row off one
of the logs. They fluttered back into the woodpile and quickly hid in whatever crack
they could find.
She realized she ought to go inside now and let this mystery wait. She had to warm
up and have more time to think.
She made her way back to the front door and unlatched the hook. She walked into
the mudroom. The first thing she saw was grandfather Manfred’s old, orange
overalls. They were hanging on a hook as if they were a huge body emptied of flesh.
A few caps and scarves were tucked into the front pockets.
Grandfather Manfred. What did she remember of him anyway? All of her memories
were bound up with this pair of overalls. She remembered how once he sat in the
tool shed and drank pilsner. He said to her, “You say you don’t like ice cream? I don’t
believe you!” Then he took an ice cream bar with chocolate coating as if from
nowhere and gave it to her. In another memory, his overall-covered legs were
sticking out from the undercarriage of the old Volvo. He was whistling softly to
himself as he worked, but she was afraid that the Volvo would crush him. What else?
His balding head. His eyes. Certainly she should remember the funeral, but she
didn’t. She had no other images of him in her memories.
Ida walked into the tiny hallway with the bedroom was on one side and the kitchen
on the other. Vague memories stirred of when she was last here. The familiar scent –
old, sour. She wandered through the rooms.
The old loom was standing in the bedroom, an unfinished rug still in the warp. There
were some old magazines on the bed stand. Embroidered pictures were on the walls
painted in Swedish kurbits folk art. Memories flooded over her: her grandmother at
the loom when they lived at the farm.
Evening after evening, as she studied in her own bedroom, she could hear the thud
of the batten and the regular creak of the yarn coil. Why had the loom been moved?
Ida walked to a closet cabinet outside the bedroom where there were small
electrical boxes, as well as a box for various fuses and rolls of copper wire.
She wandered into the kitchen. The table by the window so small it only seated two.
A large rag rug on the floor. The cabinet fastened to the wall, also painted with
kurbits folk art. The wood-fired stove, which actually showed signs of use. A copper
coffee pot, some dirty cups in the sink, dish soap, dish brush.
She looked in the cupboard. There were some twice-baked rusks, rice and hard tack
– the usual. The expiration dates were still good.
She put her hand in her pocket and took out the small, silver key. She held it up in
the light.
So, where do you fit?
She walked through the rooms again, feeling along the floorboards, knocking on the
walls, lifting up the lid that was the seat on the kitchen bench. She climbed upstairs
to take a thorough look through the attic. No hidden doors, no keyholes.
Finally she sat down on the stool in front of the loom. She touched it lightly. She
thought through what she knew. Her grandmother had told her to come to the
hunting cabin, and here she was. What had been in her mind? Maybe this key didn’t fit
anything here after all, but something else back on the farm?
Perhaps it still would be best to go to the police?
No – Alma was old, but she wasn’t senile!
The boom on the loom did not shift as she jiggled it. It seemed stuck. She moved it
back and forth as she’d done when she was a child and her grandmother was just
beginning to show her how to weave. She glanced down, and, attached to the wall
next to the loom, she saw a box with a tiny mechanical arm. She remembered Alma
saying on the phone: The mechanism is at the bottom…
She gave the boom a hard shove and the lever moved. A bang echoed from inside the
kitchen.
23.
A trapdoor, Ida thought, entering the kitchen and staring at the hole in the floor. It
was about one square meter. The rag rug had fallen into it. She could barely make
out a stairway leading down into the darkness below.
Hard to find and yet so simple.
She kicked the rag rug aside as she began to climb down the steps. At the bottom,
she found a room not much bigger than a root cellar. A naked bulb hung from a
plastic extension cord attached to the ceiling. Cobwebs covered it. There were
shelves along the walls filled with jars, cans and plastic buckets. What are these?
Conserves? Paint?
Why did they never show me this room before?
Everything from the past few days, the horror of the events in City Hall, faded. The
Russian Miranda, Lobov, and the lead-lined box…it all dissipated as she took in this
new world just below the surface of her childhood. Her excitement rose as she
looked around.
One of the basement walls had no shelf. A hunting jacket hung there on a hook and a
moose rifle leaned against the wall. A plastic bag on the floor. She kicked at it half-
heartedly, and a hunting radio and an old telescopic rifle sight fell out. Idly she
pulled the hunting jacket off the hook and found an opening behind it, a round metal
door, waist-high, about as large as the opening to a well. On it were the words ASEA
Atom 1960, and below the words, a keyhole.
She stared, trying to comprehend what all this meant.
A dull creak came from the kitchen above. She kept absolutely still a few moments,
waiting for someone to call her name from upstairs. It remained quiet. She slowly
brought the key to the keyhole. It fit.
She turned the key.
The metal door creaked open, and, after a moment of hesitation, Ida decided to
climb through.
The space beyond was completely dark. She fumbled at the wall inside to locate a
light switch and found a wall panel with a number of them. There was another
metal door across this room.
She turned on more lights but didn’t notice a red handle low down on the wall until
she hit it with her leg.
There came a low hum and then a clanging sound as the ceiling opened to reveal the
clear sky above. Snow shifted into the room. Ida was astonished to realize this room
extended beyond the kitchen, beyond the house, itself. Ida stared up at the sky for a
while before she noticed a low ramp, large enough for a small vehicle.
She dared herself to walk up the ramp, which led to the side of the cabin. The
woodpile had been mechanically shifted aside, and revealed a cement staircase with
two driving ramps on each side. She stared, not able to move.
All the while, the cold air in front of her face was filled with whirling Swedish blue
butterflies.
24.
Ida finally turned around back into the basement. She struggled to force the red
handle back into place, and, when she succeeded, the humming recommenced as the
ceiling closed back over her. Quiet returned.
She looked at the gray metal door across the room. It was slightly ajar. Thoughts of
her grandmother came again along with memories of all that had happened since
that early telephone call woke her in her own dorm room. She had already endured
so much. Should she continue along this path? What would she be doing now if she’d
not taken that call?
Perhaps studying for that final next week. Or maybe she’d be working out at that
new gym at Norrtull – the one she had a coupon for.
She sighed and decided to go through the metal door.
A rusty metal staircase let down. Fluorescent lights came on automatically. A button,
lit yellow from within, blinked off and on. She pushed it and the metal door shut
behind her.
This room was larger still, with furniture, and she had to sit down and take it all in.
What in the world?
The walls were paneled in pine. There was a huge oil portrait of the German
philosopher Goethe. Two plush sofas, a recliner and a kitchen nook, including a large
table.
Posters, drawings and photographs almost became wallpaper plastered over the
paneling, while stacks of books in many of the world’s languages were piled on the
floor.
Ida saw her grandmother’s touch in this room. A hope chest with kurbits decoration
that she remembered from her childhood but hadn’t seen in years. Tea light holders.
A long, embroidered table runner along the surface of the kitchen table, where there
was also a napkin holder woven of birch bark. An uneven number of chairs.
Reindeer hides on the wall. Various wooden carvings.
And: another door.
She swallowed hard. She could scarcely believe what she was seeing.
She was seated here in a comfortable armchair. She closed her eyes to think.
How? How?
How had her grandparents earned their living all those years ago? Not just through
currant bushes, honey and Swedish crafts, oh no, not at all. She realized she had never
known.
Who had built this underground space?
She rooted around in her memory for some explanation of what she was seeing, but
found just fragments. Her grandmother had often had a slip behind her snowmobile
when she drove up here, that was true. She remembered one time seeing a huge pile
of granite just into the forest. There were tracks of a tractor. She remembered her
grandmother remarking that this pile was temporary and there would not be any
more. Ida hadn’t understood and she didn’t think any more about it.
Finally, Ida stood up from the chair and walked over to one of the bulletin boards.
There were many photographs as well as an assortment of drawings pinned to it.
A chill swept over her.
Ida, Age 5.
Her grandmother’s handwriting, elegant and clear, on the corner of a sheet of paper.
Ida pulled off the layer of pinned photos from this sheet and found a crude drawing
of an apartment building with black chimneys. On the roof, a horse stood next to a
green car. A happy sun shone over the scene. Happy Father’s Day, Grandpa!
She could not even remember drawing it. She removed more sheets of paper, notes
and drawings until she came to the bottom layer. It looked like nothing had ever
been taken away. This bottom layer was nothing but papers with incomprehensible
formulas and addresses of people she had never known.
She walked over to one of the piles of books. She turned some over to find several
photo albums. They were difficult to flip through as the pages stuck together. She
carefully pulled each page open.
First came a series of faded construction photos. Perhaps they showed the
construction of this actual building she was in now? Trucks in the middle of the
forest. Men standing in front of a pile of lumber. Grandfather was one of them, but
she didn’t recognize the others. Or…maybe that was Lasse’s brother? As a young
man? No, hardly, not with those ears.
There was an inscription on one of the trucks: Frösö Excavation and Machine Inc.
Another picture showed Grandpa shoveling cement into a cement mixer. It looked
like any other photo of building a summer cabin during the Sixties, if it wasn’t for
the strange hole gaping behind Grandpa.
The next picture showed Grandpa bent over a microscope. There was a
Schwarzwalder Kirschtorte cake in the background. A birthday candle had burnt
down almost to the cream.
More pictures, of Grandma and Grandpa, almost always dressed in overalls, hard at
work. Grandpa with an almost child-like appearance. Grandmother in her sullen,
almost angry, attitude. Her gray eyes were intent.
Ida gasped. There she was, herself, in one of the pictures. She seemed to be between
one and two years old in a high chair with its built in tray. She was outdoors, in front
of the hunting cabin. She looked thin and was wearing a brown dress with a knit
caftan and a thin cap with the usual Dalecarlian flower pattern. She had no hair yet,
but she smiled widely with ice cream smeared all over her face. Her best friend, her
stuffed puppy Woofie, seemed brand new with both eyes still on his face and his
leather ears unchewed. He also was covered in ice cream. Was that Manfred, Lasse
and Alma in the background? If so, who took the picture?
She bit her lip and tried to think back to the first time she remembered going to the
hunting cabin. Wasn’t it when she was school age? Before then, she would have
spent her time closer to the main house. Perhaps picking mushrooms with her
grandmother in the forest. Or going swimming. During the day, she was usually with
Lasse and Ann-Marie. During that time, her grandparents must have been up here
working. Or were they resting at home? They hadn’t been all that young, not even
back then.
But if they were actually working up here past the Meadow, what would they be
working on?
She had difficulty trying to connect those memory fragments. She felt a little bereft,
as if something had been stolen from her. She cried out in frustration from not
remembering any more.
She picked up the next photo album. Her graduation. Not that long ago. What a
haircut! And those earrings! How did this photo get here?
She pushed those silly thoughts aside and turned the page. Another graduation
photo –it looked just like her.
Ida felt her stomach churn. Her eighteen-year-old self has tired eyes and a weak
smile. She sits on her bed. Her dress is light green and sleeveless, and she holds a
bouquet of lilies-of-the-valley in her hands. They seem alive and fresh. Her skin is
pale and full of sores; her fingers are narrow and her face expressionless. In spite of
the dress looking as if it’s made of silk, she seems to shrink from its touch as if the
silk is on fire.
And yet…each curve of the face, each angle of the cheekbones, the sweep of the
eyebrows. The delicate nostrils, the deep ellipses of the eyes, the intense dark gray
irises around the large pupils.
Ida could not stop staring. This was a picture of herself, but not of herself. Another
person.
She sat on the floor and started to whisper, “Eva…Mamma…”
Swedish River Pearl Mussels
The Swedish river pearl mussel is a protected, fresh water species. It belongs to the
class of bivalves (bivalvia). The pearl mussel has its widest distribution in Northern
Europe, where it lives in running, clear water with a low pH content. It dwells in
sand, gravel or pebbles on the riverbed. The mussel has a brown or black kidney-
formed shape and a thick shell, the inside of which can shimmer in various colors.
The river mussel has existed in great numbers for 80 million years, but in the past
century it has had a population crash and is now endangered and on the verge of
extinction. Larger populations are found now only in parts of Northwestern Russia,
Northeastern Scandinavia and Canada.
The river pearl mussel is one of the classes of spineless creatures that can live to an
advanced age. More than one hundred years is not uncommon, and the oldest
mussel ever found was 296 years old.
This mussel was valued in earlier periods because of its pearls. These are formed
when a foreign particle washes into the mussel when it breathes in and eats. If the
mussel cannot shed the particle, it covers the foreign irritation with a layer of
mother-of-pearl from the mantle in the mussel’s shell. Fishing for pearls is now
against the law in Sweden.
The river pearl mussel has an unusual parasitic reproductive process. The mussels
become sexually mature at 18 to 20 years of age. The males then discharge their
sperm into the water, which is then breathed in through the female’s gills and
continues on to the egg, which is then fertilized. The females then release millions of
fertilized eggs in the form of small larvae, so-called glochidia larvae. These larvae
are approximately 0.7 millimeters long and look like miniature mussels with open
shells. Most of these larvae die relatively swiftly, but some are drawn into the gills of
fish, such as salmon, trout or char. The larvae then close their shells to attach firmly
to the gills. They remain for about a year sucking nutrition from the blood
circulation of the fish. Once they have finished growing, they let go and fall to the
river bottom. If the area is clean and covered in sand or gravel, they have a chance to
survive.
Only one larva of every 100 million manages to attach to the riverbed as a fullgrown mussel.
The Swedish river pearl mussel was classified by Carolus Linneaus in the year 1758,
where it received the Latin name Margaritifera margaritifera.
Source: Fishes and Marine Animals by Ulf Göransson, 2003
25.
Ida was hungry. She’d been going through the photo albums for fifteen minutes or
so, and her stomach began to growl.
She went to the kitchen nook in the basement and found another package of rusks
and a packet of blueberry soup that she whisked into some hot water heated on the
stove. There had been a lime green iPod next to a music system on one of the
shelves. Grandma, you never met a technology you didn’t like, Ida smiled to herself.
She went through the song lists: Schubert, Vysotsky, Karl Gerhard, Ulla Sjöblom,
Evert Taube, Chopin, Bulat Ikudzyava, Henryk Górecki, Shostakovich, Fred
Åkerström, Zbugbiew Preisner, Chatyaturian, and Jussi Björling.
Yeah, I’ll just turn on the radio instead.
She tuned into P4 and at once Beyoncé’s familiar voice filled the kitchen. The beat
pulsed. Ida set her lunch on a steel plate. The blueberry soup and the rusks filled and
warmed the empty hole in her stomach.
Ida decided to gather all the photographs from the wall into one pile. Crumbs from
the rusks fell onto the miscellaneous newspaper clippings and other documents,
including handwritten letters and Christmas greetings. She went back to the book
stacks and once again noted of the technical books in many different languages.
There was a packet with nothing but close-ups of mussels. There were also folders
of investigative protocols from various Swedish government agencies, all dating
from the Sixties. Even the mug she was drinking from had the slogan: “MEN: No
shirt, no beer. WOMEN: No shirt, free beer”
Whose old fart humor was this?
She continued digging through binders and folders. Most of them were requesting
permission for this or that. Some of the files were in English or Russian or German.
She gave up the urge to sort through all this information. She sat back down in the
armchair and decided to think.
Well, Russian makes sense – Alma often talked about Russia and Poland.
Maybe Grandma was a spy for the Soviet Union? This bunker was where she worked.
Grandpa was her assistant. No – that was absurd.
There was a row of binders on an especially splendid shelf. They were all marked
River Pearl Mussels.
Mussels?
She went to this shelf and pulled down one of the binders. Inside there were just old
maps and notes that were difficult to read.
Hmm. Lobov asked me about mussels. And his letter – I’ll have to read it as soon as I
have the chance.
The other binders on that shelf were all marked DANIEL SOLANDER and numbered
1 through 8. They were dated from 1768 to 1778.
When Ida opened them, she could see that these were old documents that had been
stenciled and were written in a combination of Latin, Old Swedish and some French.
A yellowed slip of paper fell to the floor. It was a magazine article clipped from
Esquire. The headline read: Nurse sues Sinatra Estate – wants part of Inheritance.
Ida furrowed her brows. What did that old American crooner have to do with all this?
Why did Alma save this clipping?
Ida stuffed it back into one of the binders.
A little bit of this, a little bit of that. And yet…
Her thoughts were broken by the short alarm buzz from the stove, which she’d
forgotten to turn off.
She coughed, and tried to understand how all these books and papers fit together,
without being able to come to any kind of conclusion.
So I just keep looking? Keep on looking until some kind of clue appears? How can I find
what Grandma sent me here for? What could it be?
Her restless eyes took in that other door and she went to it to find a small changing
room, with clothes hanging from hooks, and a showerhead in the ceiling. There was
a cardboard box with a number of unpacked white laboratory gowns. The invoice
was still in the box: 768 crowns for ten. Bought from the mail order catalogue Jula. A
facemask and hood dangled from a large hook. There were bags of air filters for
facemasks. The bags had stiffened and the rubber was deteriorating. A souvenir
poster was taped to the door. It had probably been Grandpa’s as well: The City of
Westminster. Please adjust your dress before leaving.
She walked into yet another larger room. There was a row of long, plain tables, on
which were computers, books, and various technical apparatuses.
She recognized electrolytic capacitor and distillation machines as well as a simple
confocal microscope from her time in the Karolinska laboratories. Much of the
machinery was out of date, while other pieces seemed brand new or unused. She
could not figure out what they’d be used for here.
Except for one – a coffee heater that connected to a computer via a USB. She’d seen
one of these in Marina’s technical gadgetry catalogues. She smiled.
Another large portrait was on one of the walls, a man in old-fashioned clothes
standing absolutely straight. Again, it was the German poet and philosopher Goethe.
Why Goethe again? Alma never mentioned him. Was he one of her special favorites
somehow?
She peered at the portrait more closely. A tiny Post-It note was stuck on the left side
of the frame. She had to lean close to see what was on it.
Read ALL of Goethe’s letters. Her grandmother’s unique handwriting. Next to the
portrait was a glass cabinet where mineral specimens were arranged in
compartments: first a large clump and then a small bowl with, presumably, the same
mineral in powder form – one mineral to each Her gaze was drawn to a brown stone
that looked like a cluster of grapes. It had a waxy shine. A handwritten label, in thick
ink from a fountain pen, said: Pechbl. 1863 (Gryss Mine). In the compartments
beside it: small, black, shiny stones; bright yellow stones with green undersides;
corset-like small crystals; silver shimmering clumps; rust-red round pebbles and
light green small spiny balls. Their labels read: monazite, gadolinite, ortite, zircon,
euxenite, samarskite, yttrotantalite.
Wasn’t Alma’s original degree in geology?
The top shelf was lined with a row of old books in leather binding. The thickest one
had a gold title imprinted along the spine: SOLVE ET COAGULA.
Ida read the words over and over again. She couldn’t figure out what they meant.
Familiar, though. Maybe from chemistry?
Coagula must be Latin for coagulate, stiffen, harden. Solve might be the opposite: to
dissolve.
Thickening and dissolving. What would that be about?
She saw another framed picture on another wall: a photograph of a river pearl
mussel. Margaritifera margaritifera.
What’s up with all these river pearl mussels?
This is weird and crazy.
Ida turned from the cabinet to go farther into the room.
She found a large table with at least a dozen pin boards covered with butterfly
specimens. Next to them were microscopes where sections of wings remained on
slides. Beside the microscopes were pupae, larvae and tiny, egg-like balls.
She picked up one of the pin boards. At first, she assumed that they held different
species, but then she realized some were pinned upside down. All of them were
Swedish blues, but with a variance in the nuances of color. The outer edge of the
front wings and all the edges of the back wings were dark blue. The undersides of
the wings were a light, grayish blue with small, black dots circled in white. These
dots were clustered together and looked like staring spider eyes. On the backsides of
the back wings, there were one or more orange dots. The dots were the focus of the
microscope studies.
A bookcase stood nearby. But instead of books about butterflies, these volumes had
titles like Micro and nano manipulations for biomedical applications or Recent
developments in gold nanotechnology or Blue as gold – The Secrets of Nano-string
materials.
Nanotechnology. She remembered the man sitting next to her at the Nobel
Festivities. He had been discussing nanotechnology, but she couldn’t remember just
what he’d said.
She opened one of the books and began to skim through it.
A movement.
She lifted her eyes from the book to glance around. No sound. Nothing moving.
My imagination working overtime.
Over there.
The pin boards.
The butterflies.
Ida saw one of the wings move. It trembled.
She looked up to see if there was ventilation from the ceiling. The dust had settled
on the ductwork. No air current.
She stepped closer to that pin board.
One of the butterflies, no, two, no three – they were moving! One made a weak
attempt to beat its wings; the second one’s wispy antennae drooped to the pin board
as if dying; the third brought its left and right back legs together while its head
turned and it moved its tiny proboscis as if searching for something.
Ida took a step back and then ran to the door. She leaned against it for a moment,
feeling nauseous.
I must have been seeing things, I must be mistaken here!
She turned around to leave this place, climb up to the kitchen, find her snowmobile
and head back to Lasse’s farm. Stepping away from the doorway, she caught sight of
something green on the desk closest to the door.
She stopped and stared.
Doesn’t that look like…
Where’s the bag with Lobov’s box? Where did I leave it?
She moved to the desk.
This box had a short, Russian inscription. Otherwise, it was identical to the box
Lobov had given her.
She reached for it, opened it.
It was empty.
She looked up to see a sign on the wall.
A huge yellow sign with a black propeller-like image.
HAZARDOUS! RADIOACTIVE! KEEP OUT!
Beneath it another Post-It note with the familiar handwriting: Use protective
clothing. You are now receiving harmful doses.
She leapt backwards and ran for the door.
What the hell has been going on?
I want to get the hell out of here!
26.
Ida stormed into the upstairs kitchen and saw the bag with Lobov’s box and the
letter on the floor. She ran a drink of water from the tap. She felt she wanted to
make herself invisible. She hugged her stomach and thought: Why in the hell would
Alma send me to this place?
She heard a man’s voice overhead. The voice was shouting. Ida stood still, not
knowing whether to reply or to hide.
“Hello? Anybody here?”
Blood pounding in her ears kept her from recognizing the voice. Ida couldn’t decide
what to do. She held her hands over her ears and tried to stop breathing.
“I thought for sure something had happened to you! What’s wrong?” Lasse’s voice!
She opened her eyes. Lasse, wearing a fur coat and boots, was staring into her face.
His own was red from the cold wind.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d arrived? That was our agreement!”
“This place is horrible! Dangerous!” Ida choked out.
Lasse shook his head and looked around. “Come with me. We must not go back
there. Wasn’t it locked?”
“Yes, it was.”
“I can’t believe you’re here. I just thought Alma wanted you to hide here at the cabin,
not find your way to the holy of holies. I haven’t even been here for many years.”
Lasse swore. Then he took Ida by the shoulders.
“Ida, there’s a lot going on down by the farm. The police must have found the Volvo
you drove up here in Alma’s barn. A helicopter circled over my farm at least twice. I
kept tuned in to their frequency and heard they were patrolling all the highways. We
have to get going. They’re probably on their way right now. We’ll probably never
come back here again.”
“Wait a minute,” Ida interrupted. “You knew about all this? You knew what was
underneath the cabin? The laboratory? The weird butterflies?”
“Can’t talk now,” Lasse said. “We don’t have time to discuss this.”
Lasse went to the table with the butterflies.
Lasse pointed. “There’re some trash bags over there. Double them up and make a
row here, and then do the same upstairs. While you’re doing that, I’ll get the most
important stuff.”
Ida quickly started to double bag the black garbage bags. She saw Lasse first slide in
the binders marked SOLANDER and then the notebooks and maps and then some
books, including SOLVE ET COAGULA and a folder marked River Pearl Mussels and
another marked J. W. von Goethe’s Letters. He then threw in a number of hard disks.
The whole time he was sighing and frowning as he tried to decide what was most
important.
He snapped off the radio, now playing Superstition by Stevie Wonder and grabbed
the bag from the floor. Ida saw light blue powder on the strap. I must tell Lasse
about the box and the fossil stone, Ida thought. Once we’re safe.
Lasse had managed to fill four garbage bags with folders, binders and books.
“Can we really take all this stuff with us?” asked Ida.
Lasse didn’t reply as he pressed more documents into the bag. Finally, he went over
toward the duffle bags by the sink. He drank some water from his cupped hand.
“We’ll make two trips,” he said. “On the snowmobiles. We’re going to Norregärde.”
Lasse came to her and patted her shoulder.
“It’ll all be just fine. You’ll see. The folks up north will help us out. I’ll tell you more
about what’s going on while we go.”
27.
Lasse and Ida hurried up the stairs with as many bags as they could carry per trip
until everything was upstairs in the kitchen.
“Carry these to the snowmobiles while I lock down this place,” Lasse said.
Lasse headed back down the trapdoor stairs as Ida started to take the bags to the
snowmobiles. She could hear him banging around in the underground rooms. At
last, she had packed all the bags onto the snowmobiles and Lasse was reappearing
at the top of the trap door. He smiled.
“It was Alma’s idea to have a secure bunker,” he said. “I’m not sure how secure it
really is, but perhaps they’ll never even find this place.”
“But won’t they follow our tracks in the snow? And I even accidentally opened roof
once. The roof powered by electricity….”
“Don’t worry about it. They’ll never find the actual laboratory.”
Lasse closed the trapdoor and rearranged the rag rug.
Both of them went to push the loom back into position. Lasse bent over and
unscrewed the handle down by the floor. He dropped it into his pocket before they
left the cabin.
It was snowing outside and small white grains landed silently on the thin layer over
the thicker, loose snow. The wind blew sharp and cold onto their faces as they
started their snowmobiles and drove off beneath the pine trees. Ida watched Lasse
keep an eye on the sky for helicopters. He looked back and gave her a thumbs-up.
They’d been driving for about fifteen minutes when they reached the sloping ridge
of a mountain. Once over its edge, they found themselves in thicker woods. Ida could
make out a fallen hunting tower far away. Half hidden beneath a pine, covered by a
white tarp, Ida glimpsed a gleam of red--the Volvo 745 a.
They shifted the bags into the car until the backseat was full.
Without a word, Lasse gestured that they should hide the snowmobiles beneath a
thicket of juniper bushes. He covered them with the white tarp and some spruce
branches. Ida guessed he’d planned ahead and got them ready some time earlier.
Finally, he sifted freshly fallen snow over the branches.
They left the hunting tower behind and drove onto an almost invisible forest road,
and then a lumber road and finally they reached a highway. Lasse drove with one
hand on the wheel as he turned the radio knob with the other.
“Can you start explaining all this now?” Ida asked, her voice more hostile than she’d
intended.
“Not yet! Put that on!”
He was pointed to the glove compartment. Ida opened it. Inside was a black wig. She
stared at its curly locks. Lasse gestured to the rearview mirror and Ida saw a police
car coming up behind them, but Lasse was already turning onto a forest road. Ida
twisted around to look out the back window. The police car slowed near the turn-off
and then stopped. It paused a few moments and then drove off again.
“Damn it!” Lasse swore.
“But it’s going away, isn’t it? That’s got to be good,” Ida said.
“Probably some rookies, some cadets from Timrå that have called in more
experienced officers.”
Lasse hit the gas. He had trouble controlling the car on the bumpy road. He took two
tight turns onto even smaller roads. Each time, the back end fishtailed.
Ida felt nauseous. She felt like throwing up any second. She swallowed down the
sour taste of bile that came up into her throat.
Lasse began to slow down. He seemed more secure, as if he’d outrun the police. At
last, he stopped the car.
“Well, that took a good while, didn’t it? Now they’ll need their helicopters to find us.”
Ida opened the passenger door to lean out and vomit a dark blue mess onto the
blinding white snow. She noticed that some drops of vomit spattered the wig. Lasse
didn’t say anything. He kept fiddling with the radio.
Ida cleared her throat. Lasse handed her a bottle of mineral water. She swished
some water in her mouth and then spat onto the snow.
She slammed the passenger door back shut, to show she was ready to go.
Lasse was talking into his radio. It was much larger than the one Marina had given
her. Lasse did not use his real name and a kind of voice changer seemed to have
been added.
“A fresh encryption for Rakel? Voice group 379 SITS. And helicopter if you have it.”
“379 SITSGEM. Understood. Sending text. Want Norway, too?”
“Sure, if you have it. Over.”
“Understood. No more talk until evening. Over.”
Lasse ended the radio signal and picked up his cell phone. Ida still wanted to ask
him about what she’d found at the cabin, but she knew it would do no good right
now.
Soon he turned over the ignition and began to drive slowly again.
“I know you’re upset about what you found at the cabin,” he began. “Perhaps I
should have said something before you drove there. But I wanted to give you time to
think--figure out some things for yourself, whatever happened.”
He was interrupted by the radio.
“Car 1212 here. Reached the location. Nobody here, but I see fresh car tracks.
Request the make of the car.”
“Ha!” Lasse exclaimed. “That’s the police, you see. They call their communication
system Rakel. What a joke.” He knocked his knuckles on the dashboard. “Can you
guess how fast we broke their encryption?”
He waved his hand dismissively.
“Many cars registered to Lars Höglund. One has not been spotted in the area. 1989
Volvo 745, license plate BVC469. Over.”
“Red?”
“Yes, red. Over.”
“We saw a red Volvo as we were coming over here. It was on highway…highway
Z614. Should we pursue?”
“No, stay and stake out the address. We’ll send another car. Over.”
“Understood. Over and out.”
Lasse sighed and swore again, as he followed deep wheel tracks from a lumber truck
down a recently plowed road.
“You mean…you’re hacking into the code for the police radio?” Ida heard her voice
squeak.
“Oh, yeah. Easy enough,” he replied.
“How?”
“People have friends. Some of them are even police officers. Let’s just go on a little
drive, now, and make sure we shook them off. Eventually we will have to get back on
the highway at Tjär Pass. I bet there’ll be someone waiting for us there. We
definitely need to get out of Jämtland Province now.”
Lasse glanced over at her and nodded in all seriousness. He was going very slowly,
not more than twenty miles an hour. Branches as well as scatterings of sawdust and
twigs were sprinkled along the sides of the road like streusel from a coffee cake.
“Yes, well, about the hunting cabin…”
He took a deep breath as he shifted into a higher gear. “This is what was…”
“No, wait,” Ida said. “Let me ask the questions. Did you always know that laboratory
was there?”
Lasse was thoughtful, as he replied, “Of course, my dear Ida. I helped build it.”
28.
Lasse kept the tires inside the tracks made by the heavy lumber trucks that must
have passed by not long before.
“Where should I begin? Your grandparents, Alma and Manfred, knew what they
were doing when they built that laboratory. I can tell you that. Still, I don’t know why
they did it. You don’t question people who have helped you the way they helped me.
Perhaps they even saved my life. Did you know that? I landed up in a heap of trouble
when I was a teenager. I drank and got into fights. You probably wouldn’t have
guessed that, would you?”
Lasse stuck a chocolate bar into his mouth. He was keeping one ear to the radio.
Ida tried to think if she’d ever seen Lasse drunk. No, not once. But she did remember
he went to AA meetings at times.
Ida felt afraid of the question she wanted to ask.
“I started to play the horses, too,” Lasse said. His voice changed. “I was drunk every
weekend, pretty much, by the time I was seventeen. Ann-Marie and I got married
early, too. Then we found we couldn’t have kids. Well, that’s the way things went.
She took off eventually, even though I had sobered up.”
They kept on driving through the endless pine forest, although the road was barely
passable.
“When Alma and Manfred moved here from London, they literally lifted me up out of
the gutter. They were my mother’s neighbors, after all. They knew I’d been to juvie,
and they saw I had a lot of problems. I was sent back to jail, although my real crime
was being a drunk. When I came out, I found they’d paid off all my gambling debts. I
was so surprised when I found out what they’d done. I felt completely free! I started
to work for them, of course, and I sobered up. Working for Alma was a great thing
for me. We were off the grid, building that lab of theirs right in the middle of the
forest. I knew the lab was because Alma demanded it. She’d told Manfred she’d have
to have her own lab out here – that was one of the conditions for leaving London.
They’d already started building this place when I was fifteen, but I didn’t know
about it then. Later on, though, when I was older, I was responsible for the electrical
system and the plumbing. I kept it going.”
They kept silent for a while. The snowfall was increasing in intensity, and the radio
crackled and buzzed. Ida realized she was having trouble taking in what Lasse was
telling her, and yet the other question was still in her head, the one she was afraid to
ask. A voice broke through the radio:
“SMT4312Y to STR2929. Over.”
The voice was distorted.
“STR2929. Come in. Over.”
“What the hell is going on over there? A helicopter left Östersund fifteen minutes
ago!”
“Understood. Increase back up after 18:00. Sending co-ordinates encrypted.”
“What the fuck! Over.”
“What the hell? Over.”
“Asshole. We’re on the way. Over and out.”
“Well, well, well,” Lasse said. “That’s not good.”
Ida took a deep breath, wondering whether or not she should even ask. Finally, she
coughed and managed to put the words together.
“What…do you know about…my mother?”
He nodded to show he’d heard, but he said nothing as they drove onward. She tried
to catch his eye, but he kept staring straight through the windshield.
The smattering noise of a helicopter right over the car.
“Hell!” Lasse swore and drove immediately off the road under the thick branches of
the pine trees. He turned off the engine.
Ida could clearly hear the sound of the helicopter.
Lasse hunkered down behind the wheel and Ida wondered why he did that--it
wouldn’t do any good. The top of the car was still as red as ever.
She felt her stomach clench; her chest tightened; her arms were tense –the solution
seemed obvious. She just opened the car door and left.
The weather was changing and evening was falling.
She plowed back through the snow and began to climb a snowdrift. She threw away
the wig. She heard Lasse behind her, swearing to himself and trying to get her
attention without yelling. She was already back on the highway. She heard the
helicopter coming closer. She lifted her arm although she didn’t see it yet.
I’ll just turn myself in. No more worry about any of that stuff in the black bags. I don’t
have the energy for this.
She saw the helicopter at last. It was circling about a half a kilometer away just
above the tops of the pine trees. She began to wave both arms and shout.
The helicopter flew past, but veered as if to turn around.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Lasse coming up from behind.
Then she fell over when Lasse’s heavy body knocked her to the ground.
“You fucking idiot!” he yelled at her. She yelled right back.
He picked her up around the waist and half-carried her over to the ditch at the side
of the road. She felt something hot between her teeth, and heard Lasse roar. She
realized she’d bitten his hand.
He threw her over the ditch and into the snow. He jumped over, himself, and then
began to pull her into the snow in the forest.
The helicopter was coming close now. It had its lights on. The beams shone like
stilettos right down at the crystallized landscape.
Lasse threw himself on top of her with his hand over her mouth. She was buried in
the snow. She wanted to scream. Rape, murder, I have to breathe!
In time, she found herself sitting up. Her head hurt as if she’d had a migraine.
Then she remembered: The helicopter!
Had she fainted?
She tried to stand, but found herself empty of strength. She was up to her waist in
the snow. She sensed Lasse nearby, but couldn’t move her legs. She couldn’t stand
back up.
She fell forward into the snow. Her head was spinning. Her entire body was sinking
into the drift.
She couldn’t see. The pain in her head changed into a rush of wellbeing. The last
thing she heard was the helicopter disappearing over the trees.
29.
Ida could keep her eyes open for only a few moments at a time.
Things were upside down. The trees were glittering close to the sky. The snow was
falling up past her face.
She was being carried.
The car door was being opened on the wrong side.
She’s put inside. All is black again.
A picture in her dream: grandmother.
Her own dear Alma, coming to a squat beside her and placing a comforting, cool
hand on her forehead. In the background, pink wallpaper. A Table of the Elements
hanging beside an Einstein poster: the one where he’s sticking out his tongue. Three
crystal dolphins high up on the shelf of a bookcase. Next to it, the huge desk
grandfather had built. The jar of screws, the tools, the tiny globe – her child
bedroom back home on the farm. She’s sick with fever. Grandmother’s hand, strong
and capable. A hand used to work.
Yet in the middle of her desk she sees the Russian iron box.
Open, looking like a music box.
“I have something sad to tell you,” her grandmother was saying. “You know, the
princess. Your mother. She was sick and she…she doesn’t exist any longer. She has
disappeared.”
“But, Grandma.”
Her voice is her own adult voice, not the voice of a four-year-old, a four-year-old
reaching for a lock of her grandmother’s hair.
“I have to know what you’re doing, Grandma.”
“What I’m doing? I make dinner, I mop the floor!”
“No, what are you doing in the hunting cabin?”
Grandmother Alma in the dream doesn’t understand her question. Instead, she
stands up and begins to yell, slapping her hands against her head. She starts to cry
and hides her eyes behind her hands. Then she begins to yell again:
“It’s running out of me! It’s running out of me!”
She begins to jerk the same way Lobov did. A gesture, trying to keep her balance. Ida
sees her eyes.
Tears are not what run down her cheeks. Grandmother is screaming and holding her
hands in front of her.
As she opens her fingers wide, frightened, her fingernails twitch. Silver begins to
flow from them, and also from her eyes. Grandmother’s entire hand begins to melt.
She screams that she is dissolving, that it is all flowing out of her; she herself is
flowing out from her body.
“I’m dissolving!”
30.
When Ida woke, she was covered by a blanket and found herself lying down in the
back seat of Lasse’s car. He was in the front seat, pouring a steaming drink into a cup
from a thermos.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
She didn’t reply, remembering what happened.
She stared at him. As she sat up, she realized he looked downcast. He had a paper
towel wound around his hand.
“What the hell did you do that for?” he asked.
Ida wondered whether he meant the bite or the running away. She found tears
running down her cheeks, although she did not feel sad, just ill. There was a buzz
from the radio, but she couldn’t make out any words.
“All right, Ida, let me tell you what’s going on,” Lasse sighed. “I know you’ve had a
bad time, to say the least, for the past few days. It must have been almost more than
you could bear…and, yes, you’ll be free to go to the police whenever you want.”
Ida said nothing.
“Still, there’s something I want you to think about doing before you go to the police.”
Lasse was serious. He kept his eyes moving through the windshield across the
landscape. It was pitch black outside and extremely quiet.
“You must talk to Alma first, before you make up your mind.”
Now Lasse turned back to look at her.
“Alma can tell you about your mother. She can explain everything to you. It’s very
complicated. There’s much about Eva that you don’t know.”
Ida replied, “I’ve realized that. I only know that they told me she was dead. She was a
wreck and she committed suicide, and we don’t talk about such things up north.”
Long minutes of silence.
“Or is that all wrong? Was she even sick?”
“Yes, she was sick, very sick. But there’s a great deal more than that,” Lasse said.
“For instance, she wasn’t sick all the time. When she was pregnant with you, for
instance, she was not.”
Ida stared at him. “How was that possible?”
“I don’t know.” Lasse scratched his moustache. “Eva and I got along well for a while.
I tried to make her laugh. Get her out of her head. Later, when she was better and
pregnant with you, she’d come over to our house at times. Still, Alma never wanted
to talk about her illness, even what she had. And Manfred did whatever Alma said.
He had a dog-like loyalty to her. You know, Alma would keep her away from other
people. There would be long periods of time when nobody saw Eva at all. Eva was
Eva, and she was sick, and Alma and Manfred took care of her at home.
Eva and I would talk about everything on heaven and earth, but never what was
wrong with her. One time, it seemed as if Eva knew and was trying to decide
whether or not to tell me. But in the end, she didn’t. And then she left us.” Lasse
looked away.
“Only Alma knows the true story. I believe it’s got something to do with their
laboratory. It’s really absurd, actually. An advanced, underground research
laboratory in the middle of the forest. But all of it – the butterflies, the radioactivity –
it all has to do with Eva somehow.”
He looked away again. “I’m sure of it.”
He was in low gear. The landscape was dark, lit only by a lighter reflection of snow,
and there was little variation – only an open glade or a white-covered crossing.
“The princess,” Ida said, surprised her voice was steady. “The princess who
disappeared, the one you always talked about. Was that my mother?”
Lasse cleared his throat. He turned on the high beams.
“That really wasn’t my idea. You chattered a lot about a princess. You drew pictures
of her. I realized that’s how Alma and Manfred talked about her to you. It was really
none of my business. Yes, there was a princess who disappeared and that princess
was really your mother. When you were older, you forgot about the princess. Every
once in a while, you’d ask where she was buried, and I never knew what to say. I’d
tell you to ask your Grandpa.”
“I don’t understand. Was she mentally ill?”
“No, no, not that, even if she couldn’t help becoming a little odd after the upbringing
she had. Eva was fragile from the time she was a baby. The doctors diagnosed
extreme eczema as well as a blood disorder. She would get small blood clots. Her
skin always carried weeping sores. Sometimes her skin would slough off and would
bleed profusely, just as someone with burns. Then, for a while, she’d be better.
Cortisone never helped. Nobody could say what it was, but I always felt that Alma
and Manfred knew, or believed they knew, what was behind it. Your grandparents
were…frightened. They never wanted the doctors to look too closely at her, as if
they might discover something they shouldn’t. That’s what it felt like to me. Eva was
a shy girl, and who could blame her, due to her illness. But one time, when she was
nine or ten, they had to send her to intensive care after all. She was in bad shape.
That was a terrible year. She never attended school on a regular basis. Just imagine
if you had painful burns that itched and bled and hurt like the dickens whenever you
touched them. She had many of those sores on her face. She kept away from other
people, or, perhaps, she was kept at home. Manfred taught her to read and write.
She was very intelligent, just like Alma, and she learned quickly. I remember her
telling me about the Pythagorean theorem when she was seven! But, surprisingly,
Eva was basically a happy person, you know, just like you. You resemble her very
much, actually. Your alertness and reclusiveness come from Manfred.”
Ida had to smile. Marina would say the same: You’re a happy thing, Ida Nordlund.
“Go on,” Ida said.
“Well, then, Alma worked day and night at the hunting cabin, actually much too
hard. She went overboard. And, of course, Eva had a tough time when she was a
teenager. I believe Manfred tried to find some activities for her to do. Painting
classes, the Girl Scouts…just so she could have some friends. But nothing worked.
And at a certain point, Eva realized she’d have to…”
Lasse slowed down, as if he’d seen a deer on the side of the road. There wasn’t
anything there, just drifts of snow and new ditches.
“She’d have to…” Eva prompted.
“She’d have to grow up. Be a woman. And she revolted against her parents at the
same time. To be honest, Alma had always been much too strict with her. At any
rate, when she was seventeen, eighteen…she started to run away from home. She’d
head to Östersund on the weekends. She went to bars and drank and carried on.
This went on for a while. I don’t need to tell you what I thought of it then…but now
I’ve come to a different idea. It was a healthy sign to want to do something on her
own and not let her condition determine her future. When she reached twenty, you
couldn’t call it running away any more. Still, she had always had something naïve
and other-worldly about her…she wasn’t as independent as she wanted to be…she
seemed cut loose from her moorings…we did try to protect her. And then, well, she
got pregnant.”
Ida closed her eyes for a moment and listened to her heartbeat. All she could focus
on was her heartbeat until she could open her eyes and peer out into the darkness.
“They fought,” Lasse continued. “Eva told me that Alma wanted her to have an
abortion, but Eva wanted her child. She never told anyone who the father was. I
don’t even know if she told Alma. It could have been any guy in Östersund. Eva’s
condition changed as her stomach grew. One day, all her sores, all that eczema, it
was all gone. Eva began to bike around, sometimes for miles at a time. She also
found a friend in Stockholm, and she went there a few times. I’ve never seen anyone
that healthy, and I told her so. We’d both cry in relief. We were all so happy that
things had changed for the better for Eva.”
“I had no idea you were so…close…to them.”
“Well, I didn’t think anything of it at the time. It’s only now, much later, that I realize
how important I must have been to Eva. I became a go-between, you might say. Eva
would stay at my place after she’d gone off on one of her journeys. And I went to the
hospital, too, when it was time for you to be born. All three of us were there waiting,
and, yes, it went smoothly and safely. You were small and you were well formed. She
was so happy! And then…”
Lasse took a deep breath.
“Then, all the eczema and disease returned. She was so anemic by the time you were
a few weeks old, she became weak and couldn’t nurse you. She stayed in bed. Alma
had to take over your care. And you…you weren’t well, either.”
“Me? I’ve always been told I was healthy as a horse.”
“That’s true enough, with some modification. The thing is, they shut me out for a
while. Manfred just told me that they needed peace and quiet. I never saw Alma. I
didn’t see you for an entire year after that. They cut me off completely.”
“Fucking idiots,” Ida said, without knowing why.
Lasse pulled to a stop at the edge of the road. The never-ending winter darkness
surrounded them.
“Sorry, forgive me. I promised them I wouldn’t tell you anything.”
“I don’t mean you. I mean them.”
“They wanted to protect you.”
“Well, no need to protect me anymore! It’s about time I found all this out! So, what
happened after that?”
“Then came that evening in May. You weren’t more than three years old. Things had
begun building to a head a few days before. Eva had just come to my place after
skipping out for a while, leaving you with Manfred and Alma. She was lying on my
floor, crying, back at my place, like she usually was after one of her jaunts, and she
looked young, really young. She was screaming hysterically about the hunting cabin.
I know she’d gone there, to the laboratory, but it seemed she’d found out something
she hadn’t known before. I don’t know what, Ida, I really don’t. I never did
understand what Alma did in that laboratory of hers. Eva was about to tell me
something important, I think, and she hinted that Alma had infected her with
something, or at least that’s what Eva believed. But, before she could, Manfred came
rushing through the door with Alma right behind him. She was carrying you in her
arms. That’s when the shit hit the fan for real. You see, Alma and Eva had always
argued and I’d always try to calm them down. I tried to reason with all of them,
which had worked before. I don’t want to keep it from you, and it is not anything
Alma herself is proud of, believe me. And I played my part in the trouble, I see now.
But this time…Eva exploded as if changed into a different person. She screamed and
yelled and threw things at Manfred and me. I started yelling, too. Alma was trying to
ask Eva’s forgiveness. She still held you in her arms and you had started to wail
nonstop. I don’t remember how it all ended; eventually, everybody just went home.
My house felt silent as a grave. In the middle of the night, Manfred called and said
Eva had run away again. He was really upset. I ran over there, wearing nothing but
my robe, and we had a cup of tea…and when I went back to my place, my SAAB was
gone. Eva had taken it. Finally, somebody found it at Värta Harbor in Stockholm five
days later. The princess was gone.”
Ida fought back tears that had come either from anger or sadness. It didn’t matter
which. A thin layer of snow was collecting on the windshield.
“Alma told me that everything now is connected to Eva,” Ida said. “This must mean
she’s still alive. Do you know where Eva is now?”
“I have no idea. Ida, I’m telling the truth here. On my honor. Perhaps Alma knows.
Manfred was in contact with Eva later on. I’m sure about that.”
“Grandfather was in touch with her?”
“Yes, he told me he’d talked on the phone with her. He was already very ill when he
told me this. I don’t know if I…well, he was feeling terrible and on a great deal of
morphine. You see what I mean. Still, I’m absolutely sure he meant what he said. He
told me he’d talked to Eva on the phone a few years after she’d left. He was not
worried about her health. He was more unhappy that they were not in contact now
and that she would not come home for a long, long time, if ever. I tried to ask him
where she was, but he didn’t make any sense. He said she was in Paradise. He’d
promised not to tell anyone where that was. He also said that Eva had written many
letters to you, Ida, letters that she did not dare send. Manfred promised that they did
exist and she’d promised to send them to me after he’d died. I never received any.
Perhaps Alma intercepted them, somehow, but I can’t see how. She’d have to have
been hovering around my post box every single day. No, I don’t really believe these
letters exist.”
“Are you absolutely sure?”
“I’ve never seen any.”
Lasse stopped talking, as if there was nothing more to say. He seemed exhausted
and had no words left. Nevertheless, Ida had learned more about her background in
the past fifteen minutes than she’d heard her entire life.
She sighed. There was nothing else to do.
At last, she said, “Let’s just go on and just drive.”
Lasse started the car and they drove in silence.
“How do you feel?” Lasse asked, after they’d rounded a few curves.
“Lasse, I just don’t know. Just drive. You said we had to get out of Jämtland.”
“After everything that’s happened, we have no choice. And I know where we can find
help, too.”
“And then? When we’re out of Jämtland?”
“Again, not much choice. The police are looking for you. There’s only one thing we
can do.”
“And that is?”
“Talk to Alma. On someone else’s phone.”
“I have a phone. We just need a pre-paid card.”
“We can arrange that.” Lasse was quiet a minute before stating, “You need some
peace and quiet to talk to her.”
“There’s another alternative.”
“Which is?”
“Go meet her in person.”
“How?”
“We go all the way.” Her mouth was saying the words as if she were deciding what
to do as she said them. “All the way to Moscow.”
31.
Ida glanced at the dashboard clock and saw it was just past six thirty. They’d gotten
off the lumber road and were now on a narrower but plowed road that went
straight through the pine wood forest. They drove slowly with lights off.
“We won’t be able to use this car much more,” Lasse said. “Certainly not on the
highway.”
“Didn’t you change its plates?”
“Well, I only have so many sets in stock!” Lasse smiled.
They passed some deserted sheds and turned east. This part of the road was sanded,
although there was still not much to see. Lasse pulled the car over and stopped.
“Wait,” he said. They said nothing as they waited. Lasse kept looking at his watch.
“Now.”
Lasse got out of the car and began to unload the bags, letting in some bitterly cold
air. Lasse then opened the back door for her and she climbed out, pulling the zipper
on her jacket all the way up to her chin.
She could barely make out something dark among the trees. Is that a cabin?
Lasse had just gotten out the last baggage when Ida was startled by two figures
emerging from the darkness. Ski masks covered their faces. Two men. When they
removed their masks so she could see their faces, she judged one man to be just
about fifty, while the other was barely thirty.
Nobody said a word. The older man looked Ida up and down.
“Jo,” he said, inhaling the word as people did up north.
“Jo,” Lasse replied in the same fashion.
Ida had never heard Lasse speak in that way of greeting, the custom up here. She
could not tell how well the men knew Lasse.
“So,” the younger one said with a grin, “You need a ride.”
“That’s right. A short jaunt to shake them off.”
“We can do that.”
They remained still and Ida could hear the sound of the wind moving through the
trees. It’s so different up here. Not like Stockholm at all.
“What’s in those bags?” the older man asked.
“Ah… that’s the girl. She’s moving…been in Stockholm much too long, that girl. That’s
her stuff, so we had to take it with us, even with everything else going on.”
“We understand,” the younger man said. He pulled out a flask, took a drink.
“Stockholm, that place has nothing but trouble. You got to watch out down there.”
They all laughed softly.
“Just up to Svartmoen, across the border. We can keep in contact by radio.”
“Sure, we can get you part of the way, but we’ll have to drop you off before the
border.”
Lasse parked his Volvo underneath one of the pine trees and covered it with another
white tarp. Then they all started to store the bags in the trunk of a black RAM hidden
between the trunks of the trees.
“Lasse, you bastard,” the older one said grinning. “What the hell have you gotten
yourself into this time?”
“Nothing,” Lasse grinned back. “Just heard on the radio that the police were poking
around my place.”
“We heard that a helicopter was out looking for you,” the older one said.
“Nah, that was for the annual wolf hunt,” the younger one said.
“Shh!” the older one furrowed his brows as he frowned at the younger man.
Ida had already climbed into the van and was pressed against the door. The seats
were sticky with spills on the plastic covering. Pinecones were scattered on the floor
as well as a bouncy ball and a gum wrapper – Can that really be Hello Kitty?
She saw they had a copy of the evening tabloid Aftonbladet. How old was that paper?
Did they know who she was? Or suspect…?
They drove off. The younger man was at the wheel. He kept choosing small forest
roads. Then he braked without warning.
“Hey, take it easy,” the older man growled.
Ida saw a tiny hare, in its white winter coat, running ahead on the road, lit up by the
headlights.
“Stupid thing,” the younger man said, but he moved ahead slowly so that the hare
could evade the light and regain its senses enough to jump off the road to disappear
in the woods.
“Norway working?”
“Jo,” Lasse said.
Ida hadn’t heard anything in Norwegian on the radio.
“What have you gotten yourself into this time?” the older man repeated himself.
“The police are really searching hard for you.”
“You rob a bank or what?” grinned the younger man.
Lasse glanced at Ida and his expression revealed some relief.
“A delivery went wrong,” he said. “And we can’t go the whole way on snowmobiles
in the middle of the night.”
He nodded his head slightly toward Ida.
“Jo,” Lasse said. “Then he called and said there’d be a change of plans.”
“I see.”
“And all of a sudden there was an incredible amount of traffic on the highway.”
“A real hornet’s nest,” the older man agreed.
“You’re a real son-of-a-bitch, aren’t you, Lasse,” the younger man chuckled for a
while, in a friendly way.
They really seem to respect Lasse, Ida thought.
“Who’s the girl?”
“Sister’s daughter. She’s not a problem. She knows what we’re up to and she’ll even
be getting her hunting license soon.”
The younger man turned to stare at Ida. He had blue, narrowly set eyes.
“Well, well, well,” he said.
She looked back. Was she supposed to say something? She felt Lasse’s elbow in her
side.
“Yes, I know how to shoot – if you need any advice.”
The men laughed heartily in the front seat. Lasse’s elbow poked her side again.
“Or did you think I would only be good for making you coffee,” she added.
They stopped laughing and Ida glanced at Lasse. He nodded back.
“Jo,” the younger man said, and decided to turn on the radio.
Sports commentary on the hockey series as well as the women’s biathlon
somewhere in Germany.
Ida felt exhausted. She pulled off her mittens and rolled them into her knitted hat.
She used them as a pillow against the window. Outside there was nothing but
endless forest. The roads they used were completely deserted. Sometimes they’d
take a left. Sometimes they’d take a right. Sometimes they’d stop at a crossing and
seem to check their direction. Whenever they reached a paved section of road, they
sped up, but before long they’d be back to gravel roads. Ida remembered how often
she’d been on these roads when she was younger, in her teenage years – her pals
Jigga and Lena and Rafsen – how they’d drink moonshine and cheap wine and how
the boys would just roll down the windows to pee without stopping the car.
The sports broadcast was over. Ida listened to the familiar sound of its sign-off
music. She was drifting into sleep when Lasse said that they’d arrived.
Lasse pushed open the door and got out. The two men sat in the front seat without
moving.
Lasse walked over to their window and thanked them for their help. They
exchanged some phrases Ida didn’t catch, and she understood the men were going
to leave them here.
Lasse and she lifted all the bags from the trunk.
They stood in an industrial area of some kind.
As the car seemed ready to drive off, the younger man rolled down his window
again.
“Hey! I thought you might want something to chew on!”
He was holding out a bag of candy.
Ida took it. “Thanks,” she said. “Oh. By the way, could I have your old newspaper?”
She couldn’t believe she’d dared to ask for it.
He handed the issue of Aftonbladet through the window. She grabbed it tightly so it
wouldn’t blow away.
“Thanks, that’s nice of you.”
The car revved up, turned and drove off through the gates.
Well, that wasn’t too bad. Maybe they didn’t have a clue who she really was.
As the car turned back onto the road, its headlights flashed across a deserted
concrete building. Its windows, along the single story, were covered. More
dilapidated buildings stood nearby. The car bounced over some ancient railroad
tracks. Ida could see yellow warning signs on posts. The backlights glowed red for a
moment and then the rear light was gone.
“Let’s hurry it up,” Lasse said.
He had already started to carry the bags over to the building’s loading dock.
Ida was freezing, but lifted some bags, too.
The wooden door had a padlock. Ida was not surprised to see Lasse had a key.
32.
Ida was still freezing once they were inside the door. She could see the hallway and
the door to a changing room. The paint was peeling from the walls. The building
smelled like mold.
Lasse got up on a stool below a light fixture. Ida heard a click and then the room was
lit in yellow light. As Lasse walked through the building, turning on lights as he
went, Ida looked around.
There was a workbench in one corner. A rolled-up fire hose was underneath it.
There were wooden boxes, a radiator, divergent plumbing pipes, and partially open
cabinet drawers. It was all old. Clipped to the wall was a plastic folder with a waterdamaged sheet of paper inside.
Rules: Workers may not visit other work areas without permission of supervisor.
Workers may not assist other workers. Garbage, straw, paper and junk from the
work rooms must be placed in closed containers in specific areas.
Signed on October 23rd, 1951 by Bertil Sundholm.
“Well, Ida, are you going to make some coffee now?”
Ida turned around and caught Lasse’s smile.
“What should I have said?”
“Don’t worry. You did good. I think the younger guy was even flirting with you.”
Lasse gestured at the candy bag and newspaper.
The newspaper! She’d almost forgotten about it.
Ida followed Lasse from the hallway into one of the rooms, where he was already
poking around in the cupboards. She could see tin cans of food on the shelves. There
was an enameled sink filled with water, but the water had turned to ice.
Lasse had found a camping cooker and was already screwing it together. He found a
hammer and chipped the ice with it until he had enough to boil.
“We won’t be here all that long. We’re going to have some food and before you know
it, we’ll be off. Are you cold?”
Ida saw that he had set a rifle down on the counter. It looked shorter than she would
have expected. Ida looked beyond Lasse to see an entire cupboard with the sawed
off rifles. More than a dozen.
“Here,” Lasse said. He handed her one.
Lasse gestured to the underside of the barrel. It bore a swastika.
“We get them from Norway. Leftovers from the war. Bullets, too. They’d made a
hundred thousand of these things. Now untraceable.”
“Why would we need them?”
Lasse had a can of sausages, which he opened. He dumped the sausages into the now
boiling water.
“I’m in charge of the bullets in my district…all the way up to Ramundberget. We’re in
what you could call one of my distribution centers.”
“So you hunt?”
He nodded. “The other hunters will help me out now. There’s always someone
around to help. There’s always someone on the road.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Are you serious?”
“Of course.”
“Really? Here in Norrland? But that just happens in boring old Swedish action films.”
He smiled, took a deep breath: “Jo.”
“Cut it out. That sounds ridiculous.”
Although he was still smiling, Lasse’s tone changed. “It’s the wolves,” he said in all
seriousness. “I don’t shoot them myself, but I help others who do. You know how
people are up here. They hate wolves.”
Ida thought about it for a while, and then put the weapon down on the counter.
“I ran into some wolves just outside of Brunflo as I was driving up here,” she said.
“They could have easily killed me.”
Lasse handed her a cup of coffee. “Oh, my.”
“They were just a few feet away. I could smell them.”
“Just a few feet away?”
“Yes, and there was something…odd…about them.”
Lasse nodded. “Tell me.”
Ida picked the newspaper back from the floor where she’d dropped it.
The first page had a huge copy of her passport photo. The main headline read: IS
SHE THE KILLER? followed by Brutal Death: Säpo’s Latest Clues and what must
have been a leak from the investigation Never Saw Anything Like This. Read the
entire story: Pages 6, 7, 8, 9…
Ida flipped to the middle section. There was an expensive graphic there: a sketch of
the entire City Hall. The colonnades, the Golden Hall, the table arrangement in the
Blue Hall where the royal family’s seats were circled, the kitchen and the back
hallways, where all the television cameras were located and the servants’ hallways.
Also shown was a series of arrows and times where Lobov and the ‘twenty-four year
old suspect’ had moved during the evening. Not everything was true. Someone had
testified that she’d been arguing with Lobov before the festivities. The next page
showed how the royal family had been evacuated; the king himself had been outside
smoking at the time Lobov was killed and for half an hour, nobody knew where he’d
been. Before Lobov was identified, there’d been rumors that the king had been the
victim of a terrorist bomb.
An attack on our democracy ran the title to another story. The security setup was
decried as insufficient.
Ida turned the page. Victim invited killer to home.
She felt ill. Acid new murder weapon.
A fuzzy picture taken in the dark on a cell phone. It had been enlarged as much as
possible, but only filled a quarter page.
Never saw such a death. Ida could not make out what it was supposed to show. She
recognized the floor where Lobov had fallen. There was a red circle drawn to help
the reader. According to ‘a source’, Lobov was the victim of ‘extremely brutal
violence.’ His face ‘was barely intact’.
The articles continued on the next few pages. A session with Paul had been leaked.
‘She poisoned me’.
Further down: Shots fired near middle school – connected to killer.
Ida let the paper fall to the floor. She felt nauseous and angry. That disgusting pig
Paul. In spite of what he did to me, he went to the police and tried to make it all my
fault. And I’m sure people saw me kissing him at the after party.
She felt frozen in place. Lasse waited a moment to say something to her.
Finally, he picked the newspaper from the floor.
“Maybe this will make you feel better,” he said, reading further. “ ‘According to the
police, suspicion has been directed toward Russia. Roger Alexanderson,
criminologist and author: Similarities exist between this death and the 2006 murder
of the ex-spy Alexander Litvinenko who was poisoned in London. Drops of Polonium
210 were found in food from a sushi bar. Although there are differences between
the deaths, the unorthodox and sophisticated murder techniques make one think
automatically of a secret service. This was an extremely fast-acting, acidic substance
of indeterminate origin. We have begun to exchange information with the CIA and
we will see what turns up in the next few days.’ And here: ‘A number of sources in
Moscow say that there was no sign of any threat to Lobov, who was a relatively
unknown person in his homeland and was not a critic of the system.’ And here:
‘Russian mobster, pseudonym Denisov, tells us he is not surprised. Just go to
Moscow and you will see you can buy anything you want at the Joseph Market. Any
chemical at all, right in the open, too.’”
Ida waved his words away and he stopped reading. How long do I have to be in
hiding? I’m a refugee in my own country and I haven’t done a thing! It would be so
much easier if I could just turn myself in.
But how else will I find out the truth about my mother Eva?
Ida stared at the wall.
Lasse handed her a warm sausage on a hot dog bun.
What will be will be.
“Can you tell me what happened back in City Hall? Perhaps you’ll feel better if you
could talk about it?”
“Well, it’s hard. Lobov handed me a letter and this box. Then he…no, really, Lasse,
it’s too horrible to think about.”
“A letter?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still have it?”
She rummaged through the bags and found the small bag with the letter and the box.
“Here you go.”
She handed it to him.
Lasse opened the letter. “But there’s nothing on this!”
“Invisible ink. Put it near a source of heat.”
“I see.” Lasse held the letter close to a light bulb. Ten seconds later, old-fashioned
writing began to appear.
“Amazing,” Lasse said. “It’s dated 1777!”
“Supposedly it is to Linnaeus from one of his followers.”
Lasse took a deep breath. “From Daniel Solander? Oh, Lord! How in the hell did
Lobov find this?”
“He stole it from the library in the Karolinska Institute. He said he hadn’t seen it
before—everyone just thought it was a cover for the real letter. People were always
searching for lost letters in that library.”
Lasse tried to skim through the text. He was clearly more excited by the minute.
“It’s in Old Swedish, but if it…oh!...look here! This is amazing!”
He began to read aloud: “The beach was covered in huge mussel shells. Some of
them appeared to be, according to our estimation, more than one hundred years old.
We also found many fire pits as well as names and dates carved into a half dozen
misshapen Gorr pines. Deep in Lapp country, people came to this place near
Ounasjoki River, to find the expensive pearls.”
Lasse was starting to dance from excitement.
“Let me jump over some of this…Beside Ounasjoki River, a half day’s journey
upstream from the Gorr pines, Nature showed us a strange place especially suitable
for the cultivation of these Objects as well as their Origin, as our German friend
confided in us. In situ, next to a spring hiding a giant’s kettle beneath the moss,
where just slight beams of the Almighty’s light touch, we have fertilized a dozen
Margaritifera M. May now this Wrath of God, which otherwise never awakens,
slowly grow in the darkness.”
Lasse was smiling widely. “Do you get it? This is absolutely fantastic! Alma is going
to be thrilled!”
Ida was paying close attention. God’s wrath that never awakens. Didn’t Lobov whisper
those very words to her at the Nobel Party? The image of Lobov’s bloody face came to
her and she shivered.
“Why would Alma be happy about this? I don’t understand any of it.”
A sound, high-pitched, above them. Lasse grabbed his weapon and motioned to Ida
to be quiet.
Lasse walked through all the rooms. When he returned, his face was calm again.
“Must have been an owl.”
They were silent. Ida noticed Lasse was checking his watch. She looked at her
weapon from the corner of her eye.
Then Lasse said, “I’ll have to explain about the mussels later. It’s complicated. Still,
this letter contains wonderful news for us. Let’s clean up. It’s just about time to
leave.”
He started to pack up the cooking stove. Once everything was put away, he took six
rifles from the cabinet.
He saw she was staring at them.
“Don’t think I go hunting for fun,” he said. “My team hunts only wolves, and the
others kill them for a reason. Still, I understand what you must be thinking. And you
have to tell me about the wolves you met. Alma would be very interested, too.”
Ida was filled with heated emotion. “Do you lead all the hunters? What are you really
up to? Why do you care so much about hunting wolves?”
Lasse smiled briefly. “I’m not the leader.”
“What are you, then?”
He shook his head. “Why don’t you tell me about the wolves at Brunflo?”
Ida remembered the car, pissing in the forest, and the eyes of the wolves.
“They surrounded me. All of a sudden, they ran away.”
“They surrounded you?” Lasse repeated. “When wolves surround another animal,
they intend to kill it.”
“I don’t really think so,” Ida said. “But I was really stressed out then, and I tried to
forget it. It’s a spooky memory. Those wolves were strange, and, even then, I didn’t
think it was normal behavior. I can’t picture wolves doing that, not even in a zoo.”
Lasse watched her closely. “I wonder why they did. What made them act like that?”
They heard a vehicle crunching the snow outside. Lasse peeked out through a gap in
the boarded up window and nodded to Ida.
“Behave now. Remember, if anyone asks, you hate wolves with a passion. We’re
going on a long drive north. We’ll be on the road all night. They don’t know yet how
far we have to go, but we need their help. Just play along. This may seem the long
way around, but we’ll have a better chance of reaching Alma this way. Let me do all
the talking. Where did you put the wig, by the way?”
He left the building and walked over to the vehicle.
Ida looked through the gap and saw a Toyota pickup. There were another two men
in ski masks. They were shaking hands with Lasse, but kept their masks on.
Lasse started to load the bags into the back.
What kind of men are these guys? Ida thought. Normal Swedish guys who pick their
kids up from daycare and watch Idol on TV with their wives every Friday night. And
once the family is asleep, they get out their guns and hunt wolves.
Lasse returned. “Just wait here. I need to discuss things with them for a minute. But
we’ll be out of here by ten at the latest.”
While she waited, she picked up the newspaper again. She paged to the more
speculative articles and found several archival black and white pictures: a collage of
distorted bodies in the background and a picture of Agent Scully from The X-Files.
They’d interviewed a man from the Society for Paranormal Phenomena—the man
sported an incredibly long beard—who worked in a discussion thread from the
website Flashback, which was described in the article as a ‘controversial gossip
website open to all ideas.’ People were discussing a possible conspiracy.
Ida was aware of this website and had often gone to it, herself, to read about the
shenanigans of famous people not covered in the regular papers.
The spokesperson for the Society for Paranormal Phenomena expounded that
Lobov’s death was “not unusual at all. About ten people a year die in Scandinavia in
a similar way, but the authorities try to keep a lid on it. Nobody knows why people
spontaneously combust, although most of them are overweight and it seems that
there is a total breakdown at the cellular level…”
She heard the tramp of Lasse’s boots. “Time to go! This is my niece from Stockholm.
She’s one of us.”
Ida looked up and saw the men in ski masks behind Lasse.
“Yes,” Lasse smiled. “These two are father and son. Just so you know. We usually
keep our faces covered, even from one another. We can avoid problems with the
police if we can’t identify each other.”
The men turned and walked out, and Lasse followed them, carrying the last of the
rifles. Ida was about to lift her duffel bags when she heard a slight fluttering sound,
as if an insect had been trapped beneath it. She turned one over and saw a butterfly
on the cloth, a Swedish blue. She shivered as it took flight in the cold room. It circled
her head and she could hear its wings beating before it disappeared.
Lasse was back. He’d turned off the light. Where did the butterfly go?
She felt a brushing on her left ear. She turned her head. It had balanced itself on her
shoulder. She waved it away reflexively as Lasse called for her to hurry along.
She looked down at the floor but saw nothing in the darkness but the light from the
headlights coming through the door. She picked up her bags and hurried out. As she
reached the doorway, where Lasse was standing with the boom, she felt the brush of
its wings on the back of her neck.
They both watched the butterfly as Lasse shooed it off and it flew up into the night
sky to disappear. “How can it stand the cold?” asked Ida.
“I have no idea,” Lasse replied. “Alma has always been interested in butterflies.”
“Why?” asked Ida.
“They’re very useful.”
Ida was going to ask why again, but Lasse interrupted.
“I know,” he said. “It doesn’t make any sense. There’s a great deal I’ve got to explain.
This will be a long drive and I can’t tell you anything until we’re alone. It’s more
complicated than you can imagine.”
33.
The son opened the door to the back seat and motioned to Ida to get in. Just as she
was climbing in, she felt Lasse’s hand on her shoulder. She could smell the coffee on
his breath as he whispered, “I promise, on my honor, I’m not a hunter like they are,
but remember to play along. You know how folks think up here.”
Ida sat down. What do you mean, how folks think?
Ida felt she didn’t want to think about wolves at all, and certainly not the Nobel
party, either. She just wanted to lean back and think about nothing at all.
They drove away from the industrial area and were soon back in the middle of the
pine forest. The father was driving. The truck was heated. Ida could see a sawed-off
rifle wedged between the front seats above the cassette holder and behind the hand
brake. The barrel pointed straight at her. She touched Lasse’s arm and gestured at it.
Lasse said at once, “I don’t want to sound picky, but could you have your gun aiming
another way?”
The son grunted. “Sorry. We’re tired. We’ve been out since yesterday.”
He shifted the rifle until the barrel pointed toward the floor of the passenger side.
Then he handed them a flask.
“I’m fine,” Lasse said.
The son looked at Ida. “You want to celebrate with me?”
“What are you celebrating?” Lasse asked.
“Oh, let me tell you! I…”
“No. We don’t need to go into that just yet,” the father said. “I want to know more
about these folks first. I usually don’t pick up friends of friends.”
“I’m the Group Leader for North Jämtland,” Lasse said. “Lilleman.”
The son turned to stare at him. Through the eyeholes in the ski mask, his bloodshot
blue eyes were clearly visible. He also had a pointed nose. “You’re Lilleman?”
Lasse nodded.
The son poked his father with his elbow. “What the fuck! Lilleman!”
The father said, “How do we know you’re who you say you are?”
His tone was frosty as he added, “Any proof?”
“Well…” Lasse said.
“Your call number?”
“SM3FFS.”
The father picked up his cell phone from beneath the car’s stereo system and
handed it to his son. It was snowing again, so the father drove cautiously as the son
skimmed through the cell phone list. He found something interesting and showed it
to his father, who slowed down a bit to glance at the display.
“Well, well, well!” the father said and his voice had changed. Hearty and friendly.
“It’s…it’s really an honor, simply an honor!” the son said. “Here!”
He unscrewed his flask and held it out. Ida took it. She knew Lasse was watching her
as she took two huge mouthfuls.
Of course, moonshine, what else.
“Keep it if you want,” the son said. “I have another one.”
“Oh, I’m fine,” Ida said. “I had enough.”
“So, what is it you’re celebrating?” asked Lasse.
“Wait. What were you doing here without a car?” the father replied.
“We had one,” Lasse said.
“And?”
“The guy driving it had to leave us. Emergency at home. Wife went into labor. We
chose to stay up here. We have a cabin out by Rätansbyn and thought we could take
the snowmobiles later. Our vacation through Christmas.”
“Vacation!” the son said. “Why not go to the Canary Islands?”
“Yes, well, we prefer to go fishing,” Lasse said. He paused and added, “Not to
mention hunting.”
There was a moment of silence before the two men in the front seat burst into
laughter.
“Well, congratulations to you, too! Cheers!” The son smiled and held out his second
flask to Lasse. “Yes, we’re celebrating.” He changed the subject. “I really have to
admire guys like you, Lilleman. I got to let you know that I really admire you!”
Lasse smiled and nodded. The son went on.
“We found a den of four by Forsliden. I can tell you it’s all cleaned up now. We got
the last one today. I’ve been awake for the last twenty-four hours. We tracked him
for six hours. Then, there he was, right in front of us.”
“My son was the one who got him,” the father said with pride.
“The only good thing about wolves,” the son went on, “is that they’re so curious. We
realized he’d circled around and was following us. Maybe he thought we were after
moose. So when the wind changed, we separated and my dad went over the lake,
while I stayed behind. Two shots. Sank the body in the lake.”
“That’s enough,” the father said.
“But…”
“I said, that’s enough.”
“But what the hell, I’m talking to Lilleman!”
A pause.
“So,” the son looked at Ida through the rearview mirror. “You say you’re from
Stockholm?”
“I lived in Stockholm for a while,” Ida said.
“You have wolves there?”
Everyone laughed.
“Not so many,” Ida said.
“Hey, did you hear about that Stig guy down in Stockholm? The guy from Värmland?
Near Torsby? Last summer? He had lots of sheep. The fucking wolf on his land took
out thirteen. So he waited in the pasture for that devil to come back and then shot
him right then and there. He called the police and turned himself in. And it’s crazy,
they gave him six months in jail! And for what? He was only defending his own
property against a wolf attack. His wife is furious! People up here are so hopping
mad they can’t control themselves! It’s war! So what do you people in faggotStockholm say about that?”
He drank another swig. “I’d never let my girls stand at the bus stop by themselves.”
“We don’t let the dogs off leash, either,” the father added.
“She knows all that,” Lasse says. “She’s not someone you need to convince.”
Ida was struck by how calmly Lasse lied. His voice was sincere. In the silence that
followed, Ida wondered just how much she really knew about wolves and hunting.
Not much at all. Obviously, these guys had an intricate network up here. Advanced
radio communication. Well-organized. Probably a group of normal Swedish men:
farmers, forest owners, small businessmen, fathers of small children. A symbolic
revolt against the higher-ups in Stockholm, not to mention the Environmental
Protection Agency…
Wolves. Who can think about wolves now? Not me at any rate. Ida sighed. She was
extremely tired. The purring of the engine was putting her to sleep. Everything else:
Lobov, Russian Miranda, the box. Have to think of something else. It’s all too much.
“So, you ever shoot a wolf?” the son was asking her.
She was not expecting that question. “What?”
“Of course, she has,” Lasse said. “Two, in fact. But these days, we use poison.”
“Why’s that?” the father asked, and his curiosity was obvious.
“These days, the police by us have metal detectors and ballistics and shit like that.
They send every ball of fur down to the wildlife pathologist. It’s getting harder and
harder to shoot them down without leaving a trace, even with the weapons we
have.”
“Jesus Christ. Why do they bother?”
“They put more time into hunting for a man who’s killed a wolf than someone who’s
killed a man.”
“So, what kind of poison do you use?”
“Warfarin. It’s the strongest one there is.”
“And you leave the carrion well prepared, of course.”
“Of course.”
The conversation faded away. They drove for quite some time without talking. Ida
was reassured that Lasse would back her up if need be.
“What made you want to join up with us?” the son asked her. “I mean, you don’t see
women on the hunt that often.”
“Well…” Ida glanced at Lasse. He didn’t chime in, so she began to speak. “I found my
little dachshund all torn up. Only her spine and tail were left. The tail looked like a
leftover piece of string. I realized what wolves can do.” She paused dramatically. “I
still need to learn more about hunting, but I will never forget the sight of my dear
Mimmi’s remains.”
She could see Lasse nod from where he was sitting. He seemed content with her
story.
“Sad to hear,” the son said. “Sad story. Yes, letting your dog loose in the forest these
days is like letting it loose on the highway. People down in Stockholm just don’t get
it. What do they know about life up here? I bed they’ve never seen a sheep stagger
about with its insides ripped open so the wolf could get at eat the fetus!”
The son’s voice was full of rage. He twisted around to look Ida in the eye.
“You know, I honor and revere people who take matters in their own hands!”
He looked away again. “You know, we actually managed to rid Sweden of wolves in
the Sixties.”
“That’s right,” his father said.
“Those fucking Norwegians let them back in our country again!”
Lasse began to laugh and the men in the front seat laughed, too. The son then went
into a long spiel about how wolves had been brought back into Sweden more than
once. Ida listened with only half an ear as she looked out the ice-covered window.
In the Seventies, wolves were reintroduced into Sweden by lumber companies and
Norwegians working with the European Union and the World Wildlife Fund. Those
who said the wolves entered via Finland had no idea what they were talking about.
“No wolf would get past the Sami people,” the father added. “They’re great hunters.”
Someone had hired some unemployed Finns to chase Russian wolves to Sweden and
Norway. The Norwegians probably just wanted to polish their tarnished image,
pretending to be protectors of the environment by helping some endangered
species, even while being busy destroying the planet with their oilrigs and salmon
farms. The lumber companies wanted wolves to bring down the moose population
that destroyed their seedlings and ate up their saplings.
Lasse began to add his own conspiracy stories to the mix. Ida’s head felt heavy. She
kept staring at the snow and the darkness outside. The conversation was shifting to
hunting methods. Dynamiting the wolf dens in the spring, blinding them with green
lasers, hitting them with vehicles…
She closed her eyes.
Why can’t they just stop talking? All I want is to get out of Sweden.
She was finally nodding off when she felt the truck slowing. The men were talking
and they were still on a side road in the forest. The truck stopped.
The son was the first person to get out, followed by Lasse.
“What’s going on?” she asked sleepily.
“Go and see for yourself,” the father replied. “Maybe it’s just a lynx up there. It
certainly would be a good day for hunting if it turned out to be a wolf.”
Ida got out of the truck. She could see a carcass on the road lit up in the car’s high
beam.
Lasse and the son were walking toward it.
Ida thought it might be a deer.
The son lifted his rifle. Lasse held a huge flashlight. They moved cautiously and
turned to look back at her when they heard her approach, but they did nothing to
stop her.
“What the fuck?” the son said.
Lasse told him to be quiet for a moment, and then shone the flashlight out and
around through the tree trunks. They could see nothing in the forest. No hidden
animals whose eyes would reflect the light.
They walked up to the animal’s body. Ida saw it wasn’t a deer – it was a wolf. Its
intestines were ripped out and something had gnawed on its spine, but now a thick
layer of snow covered its fur. Farther down the road, the remnants of a radio collar
glinted. Lasse said it had been around its neck.
“Check it out. Another wolf. They are much too curious,” the son gloated.
Lasse let his flashlight sweep over the other side of the road. No sign of life there,
either.
“No matter where we go, there are dead wolves!” the son exulted, his joking tone
returning.
He waved up the truck to come closer.
“This wasn’t any of us, though. It’s our area, sure, but there aren’t any tire tracks
along here.”
“How do you guys get rid of the wolves around here?” Lasse asked. “Rat poison or
glass shards?”
The father got out of the car. “No. Doesn’t look like this wolf was hit by a car, either,
that’s for sure.”
“Why’s it in the middle of the road?” asked Ida.
They all looked around.
“You’re right, this isn’t normal,” the father said. “Wolves hide when they’re dying.
They find a bush to hide under. They never lie down in the middle of the road like
this one did.”
“Could someone have used a laser?” asked the son. He squatted down, took off his
mittens, and lifted the wolf’s head to one side. He used a thumb to open the eyelid on
one side and then the other.
“Lilleman, what do you think? Was this done by a laser?”
“Do you have a trap nearby?” asked Lasse.
“Yes, we do.”
“But he still won’t lie down in the middle of the road,” the father said.
“Right.”
“Can I borrow your flashlight a minute?”
Lasse handed it to the father, who aimed it into the branches of the trees. He walked
along the road, swinging the flashlight to each side. In the meantime, the son poked
at the wolf’s injuries with the tip of his rifle barrel.
He bent down again. “What the hell? Take a look at this. What’s this? Some kind of
fungus?”
He lifted the edge of what had been the back leg muscle.
“Look here. On this side it’s soft as rubber, but on this side it’s hard as rock. It’s like
it’s turned to stone.”
Lasse took a step back.
“Drop it!” he barked.
“Shit! This stuff sticks!”
“Don’t touch the wolf!”
The son tried to wipe his hand off in the snow.
The father returned. “Let’s get going.”
“What’s wrong?” his son asked.
“Hide your gun.”
“Why?”
His father looked around. “I don’t like it. Something’s not right here.”
He looked back up in the trees. “Perhaps there’s a hidden camera.”
He kicked the snow. “Fucking police always thinking up a new trick. Maybe they put
out a dead wolf and are taking pictures of us right now. One of us has a rifle and they
can see it in the pictures. If we don’t report the wolf tomorrow, they’ll come and
arrest us. They’ll be sure we’re in the network. We have to leave now.”
“Fu-u-c-k,” the son said. He drank a swig from his flask.
They both began to stride along the side of the road, looking for the camera.
“Stop it,” Lasse said. “This is not how they work.”
He moved toward the truck and waited until he’d gotten their attention. “For one
thing, I don’t think there’s a camera here. Second, we’ve had the high beams on the
whole time. There’s no other source of light on this whole road. They can’t identify
the truck because the high beam would blind the lens – the license plate would be
illegible.”
“Our back plates, though?”
“They always aim the cameras at the front plates.”
The father and son exchanged looks.
“Go and get back in the truck. I’ll clean this up.”
They did as he said. Lasse pulled thick leather gloves from his pocket. He had
another pair he gave to Ida.
“Whatever you do,” he said, “don’t touch this wolf with your bare hands. Alma
taught me never to touch an animal like this. Do you understand?”
Ida nodded as they went back to the wolf. She tried not to look at its mouth or empty
eye sockets.
“You take the back legs. We’ll toss it into the ditch.”
Ida took a strong grip on the back legs. She turned her head away so she would not
have to look at the intestines falling from its stomach and dragging behind as they
carried the carcass to the edge of the road. Still, she did spot what the son had talked
about earlier. The fur on the edge of its leg was – not frozen, but petrified. A fungal
cement almost.
“What is that stuff?”
Lasse glanced up. “Later. I’ll tell you later…” They swung the wolf’s body together for
momentum to heave it up and over the heap of snow and into the ditch behind.
“It was just a yearling,” Lasse said.
He took his flashlight back out and circled the light across the road. He found the
radio device from the wolf’s collar and squatted down to take a better look at it. He
tapped it with a glove-covered finger.
“What’s that?”
“The Environmental Agency radio transmitter. They put these collars on all the
wolves, lynxes and bears they can to track them. Ida, when you take off those gloves,
make sure you don’t touch them on their outer side. Don’t touch any place with your
bare hand.”
Ida nodded.
Lasse got up and shone his light on the snow bank. There were tracks of paws in the
snow.
“A fox?” she asked.
Lasse nodded. He squatted down again.
Ida saw that there were many smaller tracks as well. Three toes and as big as a
child’s hand. Long talons. Must be birds of some kind.
“What kind of birds would have been eating the body?” she asked.
Lasse sighed and bit his lower lip. He looked extremely worried.
“This is much worse than I thought.”
“What are you talking about?”
Lasse looked up into the dark night and whispered. “This is not really about wolves,
Ida. This is something else entirely. Alma was afraid this might happen.”
“What?” Ida also looked up at the sky. “If the wolves aren’t the problem, what is?”
“Listen closely. We are going back to the truck and we will throw away these gloves
without those two noticing. Pull them off and then drop them before you open the
door. Don’t touch the flask or anything else they may have touched.”
“Sure.”
Lasse wriggled his fingers out of the inside of the gloves. When they neared the
truck, he flipped them off in an arc over the snowdrift. Ida followed his lead.
They were just going to climb in when the father got out with a roll of duct tape,
which he used to cover the license plates. They watched him work and then they all
looked around into the forest.
“What about the wolf?” Ida asked. “It’s just going to lie out there?”
“The wolf?” Lasse asked, as if his mind was elsewhere. “Well, there won’t be much
left of it tomorrow.”
He gave Ida a long look, as he opened the door on his side.
“There won’t be much left of the fox that ate it, either.”
34.
Mikael Mattson stared through the peephole in his front door. He was just about to
open the door to bring out the hastily tied garbage bag filled with empty frozen food
cartons, but then he heard his neighbor across the hall step out.
He locked his door and swore. The garbage bag was leaking. The liquid must be from
all the lingonberries in that awful over-peppered beef dinner.
I’m not up to seeing anybody.
He caught sight of himself in his mirror. He stared at the gray hair over his ears and
his bald pate. He’d stopped smoking, so at least his skin was slightly rosier than it
had been for years.
Don’t look at the eyes…
He walked into his kitchen and sat down. His coffee cup was on the table. Winter
sunlight came into the room from the window covered in grime from pollution. The
snow was piled into heaps on the sides of the road. Bus 515 was on its way into
town. It rattled the windows and his dried-out pansies shook in their pots. The thaw
during the past week had allowed many piles of dog shit to resurface. Now the
temperatures had dropped and the piles were frozen. Maybe we’ll even have a white
Christmas this year, he thought.
He opened the newspaper, Aftonbladet. It was yesterday’s edition, which he’d pulled
out of a garbage can the night before. He started by ripping out the movie page,
crumpling it into a ball and throwing it forcefully down to the floor. All those
children’s films, season after season. No one cares that a child has died! They just can’t
make enough millions, can they?
Mikael Mattson was letting his mind run wild. Look at that old Nazi Ingvar Kamprad,
making millions who can’t even bother to pay his share of taxes from his wonderful
IKEA. Moved it all to a tax haven. Keeps his accounts secret in Lichtenstein while they
use child labor in Malaysia and sneak horsemeat into the meatballs! All while
plagiarizing ugly, fat Danish designers.
He took a deep breath.
I’m back in this state again. All my thoughts uncontrolled…and it’s not even breakfast
time.
He leaned over and turned on the radio set on the wide window shelf. He sighed
deeply. All these thoughts! Fuck this! I shouldn’t allow them to go on like this, they’re
evil, like a wasp in a shoe…they won’t give me a moment’s peace and they all take me
to the same place.
He smeared some butter on a slice of Wasa crisp bread. He took a slice of cheese,
glancing at the extra-aged sticker. He stuffed the slice directly into his mouth and
chewed. It had a mild taste. Thrifty bastards, I bet they didn’t age it as long as they
should have. They probably don’t have enough refrigerators. Then they deliberately
put the wrong sticker on it to mislead us, I really ought to give them a piece of my
mind…
He forced his mind to stop. Back up, calm down. Take another breath.
He slowly scraped up another slice and put it on his hardtack. Cheese tastes good,
really good. It is wonderful to be able to eat some cheese for breakfast.
Even better with a glass of wine.
No, no, no, wine for breakfast! I’m staying on the wagon, staying away from panic.
They’re not going to find me running up and down the street screaming my head off
and calling the police. I’m staying sober and I’m keeping healthy and all of that panic
and fear will be kept in check.
He tore off another advertisement from the paper, watching a sparrow flutter down
on the outside windowsill. The radio was reporting a news story about preschool
saving money by no longer serving milk. He was just going to turn off the radio again
– no preschools, nothing about kids – when the news turned to a science segment on
hormone changes in frogs.
He kept flipping through the newspaper, astounded at a four-page coverage of the
battle on who would be the Christmas host on television. All the ‘experts’ were
discussing if a beloved sports star would make a good host. Then there were two
pages of discussion on who would make the best host for the most popular Swedish
summer program Allsång på Skansen. The present host was not going to continue. A
feminist writer noted there were one hundred and one female singers who would
make perfectly good hosts for the show, especially since it had had only male stars
in all the years it had been broadcast: Bosse Larsson, Kjell Lönnå, Lasse Berghagen,
Anders Lundin, and now that skinny little Måns Zelmerlow. In a box to the side: “The
summer’s most popular show, sent live from Skansen in Stockholm. Skansen is the
world’s first open-air park, founded under national romantic ideals, and offering a
zoo of Swedish wild animals, buildings from the past, and carousels and pony rides
for the kids.”
What a nightmarish, fucking awful place, Skansen! Mattson thought. Psychologically
distressed animals, from the bears to the rabbits. Those poor gray seals with only eight
cubic meters to swim around in, I bet they die by the year and are replaced without
anyone noticing. All zoos are like that—the pure torture of training sessions and
feedings on a schedule day after day – look at the cute little bear cub! All those moldy
old school houses and soldier’s cabins! Teenagers stuck in louse-riddled costumes and
playacting for the tourists for a bit of summer spare change. And this god-awful
Allsång på Skansen on top of it! Thousands of people every week during the whole
summer making a pilgrimage to the top of the mountain to hum boring old songs
while the cameras pan over the crowds and the sunset beyond the ferries crossing
between the Old Town and Djurgården!
Oh! I’m doing it again. Stop it, stop it, stop it…He closed his eyes and took a deep
breath.
The radio blared on: “Biphenyl, which is present in a number of plastics, including
baby bottles, seems to be behind the rising number of hermaphroditic frogs in the
waters of Scania. At the same time, studies have shown that the penis size in boys
born in Scania has shrunk over the past twenty years. The distance between the
penis and the anal opening has also diminished. Scientists are attempting to see if
there is a connection.”
Mikael smiled. The women will win in the end. Soon at Skansen all the men, dicks stuck
in their own assholes, will be singing children’s summer songs in falsetto. They’ll be
fenced in next to an authentic rotting wooden structure from Hälsingland, and there’ll
be a sign in front of them: Don’t feed the Hermaphrodites!
Mattson threw the paper away. He peered out the window at the people walking
past on the street below.
Rebecka, he thought. If only you would be walking down there, too, in your red rain
suit, and so proud of your new winter boots. What would you like for Christmas,
Rebecka? Could you write a wish list for me?
He blocked out those thoughts at once. His throat was tight and he closed his eyes
for a long time before he forced himself to look outside once more. The sidewalks
were almost empty. He saw some old men smoking beneath the tobacco shop’s sign.
Someone was trying to parallel park a Ford Combi between two heaps of snow.
On the other side of the street, a hunchbacked man walked past. His hat with
earflaps – yes, I recognize that man! Damned old disgusting Lönncrona, who lives
down the street in a fin-de-siècle building! What were the literary critics saying in
Dagens Nyheter? ‘Secures his place as one of the most impressive literary talents of his
generation?’
What opportunists! What despots! All their reviews and all saying the same thing!
That Lönncrona and his tiny square glasses – the critics loved his latest work Det
opaka minnet; loftet om en hemkomst – The unpacked memory, the promise of
returning home. Same old polyphony and present tense based cut-up poetry in collage
form. Nothing much to it except for Lönncrona showing off his artistic turns of phrase
and how politically radical it is to chop apart a mass of words. ‘My style and my
language is a sabotage of the authoritative structures of society,’ as Lönncrona said in
an interview in the literary magazine 10-tal.
Jesus Christ! What puerile parody! It’s the most conservative stance you can take these
days! Risk free, disgustingly coquette, ridiculous stink of 1968!
Mikael began to swear as he dug through a pile of magazines. He found his
membership newsletter from the Writers’ Union. What a boring design, too, he
thought. Who’s the artistic director? He flipped to the last page where all the grants
and prizes were listed.
Oh, yes, there he was.
“Edvard Lönncrona was awarded the Writers’ Fund two-year grant of 160,000
crowns tax-free.”
Further down: “The Swedish Academy has decided to award the Liedman Grant of
100,000 crowns to Edvard Lönncrona.”
Damned crazy. 260,000 crowns in all – tax-free! How long could you live on that? Jesus
Christ, all he had to do was write another, or maybe even two, stupid poetry books just
like all the other ones! He’d be applauded by all the critics who, themselves, wrote the
same kind of poetry, and this would lead to more such books and more such prizes and
on and on…
He leaned back in his chair and groaned out loud.
I can’t believe such cowardly writing could be so remunerative! I wish someone would
line up and shoot all those damned critics once and for all!
And that old fart Lönncrona, how does he live? A one-room apartment with a kitchen
nook. Has no children, of course. Probably pays three thousand a month in rent. If he
kept eating Ramen noodles and the price went up six crowns a bag, he’d probably live
off that money for two and a half years!
Unpacked memory? Yeah, more like unpacked bullshit.
Mikael got up from the table and went to the sink. He rinsed out four coffee cups
that had accumulated on the counter, and then paused, staring into space. That old
Lönncrona has no idea he’s the neighbor of a real writer, who can…or at least
could…write a real book with a real story!
Those were the days, the nineties, when people were busy telling real stories. Now it’s
just a bunch of debut short stories and language experiments and revelatory
autobiography and memoirs – all of them ruining the great novel. And now all these
historical novels about famous people recently dead…as if that isn’t a cheat! The dead
deprived of a chance to rest in peace, while no critic even bothers to point out that the
victim’s entire life’s story has been stolen! Well, things were different in the nineties,
when he’d made his debut.
And I was somebody back then. I got prizes – though not in the hundreds of thousands
– nowhere near that much.
Mikael mentally ran through his entire career as a writer. His writing teacher,
jealous, but still praising his work, when he was enrolled in writing classes. Then his
short story in Ordfront Magazine’s inaugural issue, its other contents barely
readable, and that before he was even twenty-five years old! The contract for his
first book, which arrived the same day he decided to become a critic for the evening
paper. The book hadn’t sold well, and the newspaper column was a terrible gig, with
boring assignments and impossible deadlines, with his boss grabbing all the
interesting books that came down the pike. Then working as a jury member
choosing prizes for literary magazines, before landing a place at the prestigious
creative writing department at the University of Gothenburg, where his professor
went on and on about the prizes he’d won back in the day. And everyone had to read
everyone else’s work and comment about it, and everyone had to be fair and
democratic and on and on for two whole years. Mikael had begun to call himself a
writer and his second novel, Dåren – The Fool, received very good reviews and was
even translated into Danish, Finnish and and Polish.
The third book had come and gone unnoticed, and then his name was in free-fall
although he had received a grant of 50,000 crowns from the Swedish Academy. For
a season, he was pulled in to be a commentator on a literary program on Swedish
radio. He had been just about to resign that position and start a new book – he’d had
a fantastic new idea – when it happened…
Rebecka!
No, I shouldn’t think about it!
He found his eyes focused on the pile of newspapers and magazines. He’d been
staring at them without seeing them, but now found himself reading a headline over
and over again, until he took in its meaning.
ERIK, 34: I DANCED WITH THE NOBEL KILLER!
EXCLUSIVE: THE SECRET DEATH LETTER
Further down the page:
LOBOV’S LAST HOUR
What’s all this? Lobov’s last hour? The name seems familiar, but why?
A photo of a man in silhouette. A picture of a blurred letter.
He picked up the paper and began to read. The thirty-four year old man, anonymous,
had met the woman now sought in the Nobel murder case. He’d gone to an after-
party with her. They’d gone to his place together, but in the morning, she was gone.
“She didn’t seem like a killer. She seemed confused and distressed. We were really
drunk and now I feel I was taken advantage of.”
According to unnamed sources, the murdered Nobel Prize winner, Anatoly Lobov,
had visited the Karolinska Institute in Solna and looked through some historically
valuable scientific letters. During the ensuing festivities, Lobov had given the female
suspect a letter he’d found in the archive, a letter previously unknown to scientists,
according to the witness. “She was drunk out of her mind and could hardly stand up.
She was jabbering about a letter she’d gotten from Lobov, supposedly from one of
Linnaeus’ disciples. I had the impression Lobov had stolen it from the archive. She
was acting strange all evening and talked about lots of odd things. Quite frankly, she
was wasted.”
Wait a minute. A letter from one of Linnaeus’ disciples? Lobov, the victim at the Nobel
party? What a disgusting spectacle.
Mikael reread the article carefully.
Lobov, Lobov…the name is familiar. And a letter from one of Linnaeus’ disciples.
Could it be?
He leapt up and ran to his living room. New ideas were spinning in his head, and he
felt as if he were racing through a narrow tunnel and almost to the exit.
For a moment, his own living room seemed strange. All the piles of magazines and
newspapers. Books heaped on one side of his sofa bed. The bulletin boards on the
wall, the black file cabinets.
He strode over to his big desk. Coffee mugs with long-dried liquid. Snuff tobacco
spills. He pulled out all the drawers.
Where is it?
He looked through his two smaller desks, throwing reference works on flowers and
old maps to the floor. His copies of Iter Lapponica and Iter Dalecarlium, both
antiques, describing Linnaeus’ travels.
Oh my Lord, this old project, the one I spent so much time on, the one I’d almost
forgotten, all these books, folders, papers, files…
But where the hell is it?
He stood up and looked around.
Take it easy, and think, one thought at a time.
He felt the constricting tunnel opening up. His breathing slowed. It’s on a shelf in the
hall…a blue folder. Yes.
He went to the hallway and bent down to look at the bottom shelf. He found a slim,
blue folder with a yellowed sticker: Possible leads in the Soviet Union.
Inside he found four sheets of A4 paper. The second sheet had a list of men’s names.
He began to read:
“Ilya Boris Kovalenko, born in 1923 in Ekaterinaburg. Studied geology in Kiev and
then in Saint Petersburg and Moscow. Worked in various capacities at a number of
Russian institutes and research centers. Specialized in geology and then
nanotechnology.”
His finger traced down the page:
Here, he thought, here it is!
“After WWII, Kovalenko used a number of aliases, including Anatoly Vladimirovitch
Svedov and Anatoly Vladimirovitch Lobov.”
Lobov! There he is!
A letter at the Karolinska Institute from one of Linnaeus’ disciples. It has to be that
letter Lobov wanted to see! Right? I have to check it out immediately!
He jogged over to his computer and logged in. Quickly he found the number of the
library at the Karolinska Institute and punched it into his cell phone. “Library at
Karolinska Institute, Margareta Laurin here, how can I help you?”
I have to be smart about this.
“Hello. I happened to be reading about this Nobel Prize winner Lobov. He was
visiting you the other day looking at the letter from Daniel Solander, written in Rio
de Janeiro on December first, 1768.”
If it’s true, she’ll fall into my trap.
“Yes, that’s right,” the librarian said. “He was in our special books room. What a
horrible story.”
It was Solander’s letter! He was on the right track!
“Then what is this other letter they mentioned in the paper?”
“I wouldn’t know. I think they made it up. We have only one letter from Solander in
our archives. Everyone on the staff knows about it. Nobody’s ever mentioned it was
stolen, so we immediately checked. Of course, it’s still here. But what happened to
poor Lobov is absolutely horrific.”
Mikael tried to keep chatting with the librarian a bit more, asking questions from
different angles, but it was obvious she had no more information. Finally, he ended
the call.
The only letter from Daniel Solander to Linnaeus still in existence.
And then Kovalenko, alias Lobov.
Fuck this!
He’d yelled out loud. He felt as if something had stirred within him, as if a thick tree
trunk had suddenly straightened and was able to reach out for the sun.
He went back to his computer. There was a website, Flashback, where all sorts of
people commented on newspaper articles. So who was Erik, 34 really?
He found two long discussion threads. One of them had a comment posted just a few
minutes ago.
“According to my source,” the commentator, probably a police officer, had written,
“Erik, 34 has the last name Elmer.”
Elmer? What an idiotic name!
He scrolled through all the suggestions of first names: Roger, Conny, Jacob, Paul,
Bernt…He decided to switch to another site: birthday.se. He found Roger and Conny
Elmer were both residents of Southern Sweden, a Sture Elmer was living too far
north and a Bernt in the city of Norrköping.
Paul, on the other hand, was close at hand. In Enskede, a suburb of Stockholm. He
found Paul’s telephone number in ten seconds.
So easy to track down people these days!
He noticed he was trembling as he fished his cell phone from his jeans.
A man replied after two rings.
“Hello, my name is Mikael Mattson, and I was wondering if we could talk for a bit.”
“Why’s that? If it has to do with the Nobel thing, I must be paid. And right now, I’m a
little busy, so you need to call me back in about a half an hour.”
“Wait! I’m not a journalist! It’s important!”
“Call me in half an hour.” Paul hung up.
Mikael stood still for a second, holding his cell phone, and wondering what to do.
All right. He said call back in half an hour.
Mikael turned around and saw the door.
The door to her room.
He could not explain why he wanted to open it now, after all this time.
It no longer seemed so threatening.
A chance, finally a chance, for me and for you, Rebecka.
He had one last moment of hesitation, and then felt his heart open and his emotions
start to shift within him, after being frozen so long.
He pushed the file drawer back shut. The rug it stood on had scrunched up, but he
stepped over it and pushed the door open.
He gazed down at the oak flooring at first, unable to look up right away. He’d laid
this floor himself. He saw a thick layer of dust on it.
His view traveled along the floor until he saw the corner of her rug, a white rag rug
from IKEA. Of course.
He stepped inside the room. It had IKEA furniture that he’d glued and screwed
together. That damned Kamprad, he ought to be ashamed of himself, destroying so
many Swedish homes with this cheap particleboard and these cheap pillows!
He stopped his rant before it took off. How long has it been since I’ve entered this
room? A half-year? Longer? Why have I hung on to all of this, really?
Why don’t I just throw it all out and make this room my bedroom?
His foot hit something and he almost didn’t dare look down. He understood that he
already knew what it was, just by the touch. Her red rocking moose.
That toy.
She’d loved it so much.
His eyes widened. He dashed over to her desk.
There were her Hello Kitty stickers. Her activity books with princesses on the
covers. Her markers. Her necklace from nursery school. Her drawings, her dress-up
clothes – he had trouble breathing.
I never should have entered this room!
Her Pet Shop animals. Her combs, her hair bands, her stuffed frog, her pop-top
collection, and her top drawer with the pictures of her mother, and her puppy
postcards, and her tiny animals, and her magnifying glass.
He ran from the room. The door slammed against the file cabinet.
“Fuuuuuuck!” He screamed as he ran into the living room. His leg struck the corner
of a piece of furniture.
He squatted down and hugged his knees. He saw his reflection in the glass over the
face of his watch.
His eyes.
Her eyes.
They can’t be my eyes any longer!
He slid down full-length on the floor. He thought of Rebecka’s mother, who had
always wanted to ‘talk about our grief’.
No, I don’t want to talk about it! I never want to talk about it! I never want to find
closure, whatever that is! I don’t want treatment for grief, I want to live in it, because
then I have you, Rebecka, I still have you inside me, a part of me! Those damned
therapists want to drag you out of me and then you wouldn’t be part of me any longer,
and I will have lost you.
And I would be tempted to write, like other authors do. Maybe compose a beautiful
sonnet collection, though who writes sonnets any longer. It would be ridiculous and it
would win a prize of some sort, just because nobody writes them.
Or maybe I’ll write some damned memoir: “My Grief”. I’ll sell my memories of my
daughter to the highest bidder, just like all the other psychopathic authors out there.
I’ll be given long interviews on television and maybe they’ll even ask me to be the
Summer Host of P1’s popular radio show. I’ll be ‘showing support for others in my
situation by describing what I’ve been through’.
It’s all so disgusting, all of it!
Rebecka, as long as I don’t speak of you, I have you with me. I will always remember
you and never let you disappear. Even if you start packing your Minnie Mouse
backpack and tell me that it’s time to leave. I’ll fight it! I’ll bring out your unwashed
pajama set and breathe in your scent…or pick up your shoes…or play with your
toys…or at the very worst…
He looked at his reflection on his watch face.
These eyes.
Don’t you remember, Rebecka, I always said you had my eyes?
The same gray-green color, the same, slightly oval, form.
And now, now you don’t have my eyes any longer. I have yours.
If I look at them like this, your eyes are what I see.
An ill, dying child. A dead child caught in a grown man’s eyes. An ugly, mostly bald
man. A dead child crying to leave.
Mikael lay on the floor for some time.
I promise you, Rebecka, I will keep you with me, always, in your room and inside
myself. You will always be on Råsundavägen 50, a street where bus 515 heads into
downtown Stockholm every ten minutes, thundering so loud the windows shake –
remember how we talked about the shaking windows every night when I put you to
bed?
He stood up and walked to his desk. He pulled open one specific drawer.
There she was, so to speak. A golden blonde lock of hair, in a test tube, sealed
against the world. He had collected many test tubes over the years with many locks
of hair. He’d even put some in a safety box at the bank.
Mikael walked back into the kitchen as he wiped tears from his cheeks. I swear, I’m
going to keep on living, I will live, remember I made a promise to you, Rebecka, when
they turned off the respirator at the children’s hospital and your mother fell into my
arms?
He thought about her mother again. They had not embraced for many years. He had
felt how heavy she was, how wrong it was to hold her in that hospital room. I will
live, he had thought, it is easy enough, I will find a meaning in this, I will go on living.
And I’m going to start writing again – that old project I’d started on Solander.
He grabbed up that newspaper article and read and reread that sentence: ‘She said
she’d been given a stolen letter written by one of Linnaeus’ disciples.”
He felt his body coming back to life on a wave of strength and passion.
Now, now after all leads had petered out more than two years ago, now something is
starting to fall into place!
He pulled out his cell phone. Twenty-four minutes had gone by.
He redialed Paul Elmer.
“Yes?,” came the voice from the other end.
It sounded calm.
“Oh, yes, hello again, it’s me. I called you about half an hour ago,” Mikael said.
“That’s right. What was it you wanted?”
“I was wondering…if we could meet and talk about what you went through the other
night.”
“Are you another one of those journalists?”
“No, not at all.”
“What are you then?”
“I’m, uh, I am a writer. Though that’s not important. Can we meet?”
Paul appeared to be thinking about it. Then he said, “Why don’t we just speak on the
phone?”
“I’d prefer not to.”
“So, what’s this all about?”
“As I said, I’d like to talk to you about it in person. I promise, I won’t sell our
conversation to some tabloid. There’s something more important going on here. You
must have felt this yourself. This is much bigger than even a murder.”
Paul was silent again. “Eh…what do you mean, much bigger?”
Mikael thought Paul sounded nervous. What’s really going on with him?
“I have information about this, more than all those other people,” Mikael told Paul.
“I think we really should meet up. We have much to talk about, believe me.”
Finally, Paul agreed, but he still sounded very nervous: “Where, then?”
35.
As Ida and Lasse climbed into the back seat of the truck, the father and son were
both drinking from their flasks.
“Lilleman,” the son said, his gaze darting in all directions, “Thanks for taking care of
that mess back there, and, I want you to understand I really respect you, so don’t
take this the wrong way. Two things. First, a wolf never would lie down to die in the
middle of a road, no matter how much poison he’d had. Someone must have put him
there on purpose, right?”
Lasse said nothing.
“And two, going on and on about brights…what if there were cameras on both sides
of the road? Then they’d get a picture of our back plates! So, what are we supposed
to say when the police give us a call? Can you please tell us?”
Ida glanced at Lasse. He did not reply immediately, but when he started to speak, the
deep bass of his calm voice resonated.
“Nobody’s going to call you. They don’t make traps like that.”
“What do you know?”
“You looked around. Did you see any cameras?”
The son said nothing.
“And, even if they’d try and set a trap,” Lasse said, “they wouldn’t underestimate
you. They know you’re both professionals. They know you understand wolves. That
they don’t just lie down in the middle of a road.”
Lasse spoke more rapidly. “And do you think animal pathology in Uppsala has all
kinds of wolf carcasses packed in the freezer? It’d be crazy to just dump one in the
middle of a highway far from anywhere. Think logically, gentlemen, and let’s all just
calm down.”
“But they put some weird stuff on it,” the son said. “That fungus stuff. They must
have tampered with it.”
“Believe me, they just don’t.”
Silence returned. The father was already much more calm, and, after a while, he
muttered something along the lines of hastily misplaced suspicions. “We would have
heard rumors if they were using some scheme like this. You’re right, Lilleman.”
“You really should be happy,” Ida said. “I mean, it’s a dead wolf!”
The son grinned, and, eventually his father did the same. He started the engine and
shifted the pickup into gear.
“You’re absolutely right, girl!”
“And we didn’t even have to do it ourselves!”
They started to laugh. The father picked up his cell phone and texted a message. The
truck did not swerve while he did it. He read the coordinates from his GPS and then
sent the text.
They drove on until they reached a larger road, still without road signs, and the
father shifted into higher gear.
The son switched on music and started to sing along with AC/DC’s Back in Black.
Another song came next, something by Glasvegas. The son drummed on the
dashboard over the glove compartment. A few minutes later, he stopped.
Ida started to hear the young man breathing more loudly in a strange way. She
glanced over at Lasse, who’d also noticed.
Lasse leaned forward.
The young man was now struggling for breath.
Before Lasse could speak, the father barked, “What’s the matter?”
“I don’t know! It hurts like hell! Fuck!”
“Where?”
“It just hurts! Everywhere!”
The father took one hand from the wheel and switched on the roof light. The son
had pulled off his gloves.
“What the hell!”
“What is it?”
“Owww!”
The father hit the brakes.
The young man was holding his hands up before his eyes. Blood had started to seep
from his thumbs. “What the fuck is this?”
“What did you do to yourself?”
“Nothing! Oww, it hurts like hell!”
The father peered at his son’s hands. “Is it frostbite? How long has it hurt? Are you
cold?”
The son started to cry, which then turned into a scream. He screamed again. He
grabbed his flask and sucked it down in one go. He started to shake, and pulled off
his ski mask. Sweat was running down his face to drip from his chin, along with the
liquor, and drop down onto his hands.
“This looks bad!” the father loudly groaned. Ida was looking to Lasse, who appeared
to reach a decision.
“We must get him to a hospital right away,” he said, soothing Ida with a gesture.
“Hand me your cell phone and I’ll call for the nearest one.”
The father threw his phone to Lasse. He then got out a bottle of water to offer it to
his son who was pressed against the door.
The father started driving again, as fast as he could, while Lasse spoke on the phone.
“Here’s the deal,” Lasse said, after he hung up. “Vilhelmina is the nearest hospital,
but Storuman is the one with emergency care.”
“How far? We have to get to the highway, and then it’s, what, twelve miles?”
The son wept and beat the window with his fists. “Help me! Help!”
“It could just be a bad case of frost bite,” Lasse soothed loudly. “It can sneak up on
you.”
Lasse slid open the back window to the truck bed and shuffled through their bags
until he found a small, green cloth one. He dragged it in, and from it he pulled out a
kit containing test tubes and syringes.
“We always carry Xylocain with us, just in case someone gets shot by accident,” he
said. He prepared an injection.
“Give it to me now!”
“Pull over for a minute?” Lasse asked.
The father pulled over and Lasse leaned forward between the seats. The son held his
hands toward Lasse. Ida saw that their color had shifted a healthy pink to white and
that that pale color shift had already crept past the hands and was reaching the
wrists.
“In a few minutes, the pain will ease,” Lasse, said, as he injected the medicine right
into the hands in different spots. “You won’t have to wait long.”
The father hit the gas and they were back on the road. His son wept and moaned for
a while, and then quieted down.
They reached the E45 highway. It had just been plowed and seemed deserted. They
passed the sign for Vitberget. The father sped along past snow-covered fields until
Norrheden, where they were swallowed up in forest again. They passed Skavsjöby
and Vinlindsberg. Every once in a while, a lone timber truck thundered past in the
opposite direction.
Ida’s eyelids felt heavy, in spite of the urgency of their situation.
“Damn it!”
The father’s exclamation startled Ida awake.
A few meters ahead of them, two circling blue lights showed from a car parked on
the side of the road.
“Off with your ski mask!” Lasse hissed at the father.
The son was staring straight ahead, not saying a word.
Lasse kicked the son’s rifle under the front seat. He said to Ida, “Pretend you’re
asleep.”
They slowed down. They were not far from Storuman, and the road was empty in
both directions. The father pulled over.
Ida realized that their truck was filled with the odor of strong liquor, even as the
father rolled down the window.
“We have an emergency,” the father said as the policeman approached. “We’ve
already called ahead to the hospital. He has frostbite.”
“Calm down,” said the officer. He was a young man, and must have recently been on
vacation, as he had a slight tan. “Let me see your driver’s license. Turn off your
engine. Hello, back there. Are you sleeping?”
“Hello,” Lasse replied. “Seriously, we are in a hurry.”
Ida kept her eyes shut. The officer’s flashlight swept over her.
“Please wake up the girl. I have to see her sitting upright.”
“But she’s fast asleep!”
“Please do what I say.”
The officer looked at the license and then at the father.
“Please wait a moment. I’ll be right back.” He walked back to his car, slid into the
front seat, and pulled out his communication radio. He’d left the front door open and
held the driver’s license. There were no other cars on the road.
“I just thought of something,” Lasse said.
“What?”
“Is the duct tape still on your plates?”
The father began to curse as he realized they hadn’t removed the tape. He twisted
around to stare angrily at Lasse. The whites of his eyes looked yellow.
“You’re supposed to be the expert on all this. Why didn’t you remind me?”
Lasse did not reply.
The father hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. “What are we going to
do now?”
The policeman was walking back to the Toyota. The four of them were sitting as
straight as possible. Ida could hear Lasse’s breathing. She felt a wave of relief surge
through her body.
Finally – finally – it’s all over now!
We can turn ourselves in!
Ida saw herself stepping out of the truck, hands behind her neck, and then…
“What are we going to do?” the father asked again.
“This,” the son said.
He pulled his rifle from under the seat, leapt out the door while unlocking the safety,
aimed and fired off two shots straight into the officer.
Time stood still. The son froze next to the truck, still holding the rifle in his bleeding
hands. He wavered and steadied himself with one hand on the roof.
Ida stared straight ahead. The policeman had fallen face first into the snow. Did he
move a muscle?
“You fucking idiot!” Lasse bellowed. He jumped out and ran to the policeman. He
squatted beside him.
Like a movie, Ida thought.
The son stood unmoving. A bit of smoke wafted from the barrel of his rifle. His
father did not budge.
Lasse walked back to them. He told the son to empty his rifle and let the bullets fall
to the ground.
“He’s badly injured,” Lasse said.
“But not dead?” the father asked hopefully.
“Not yet.”
Lasse went around to the front of the truck and pulled off the silver tape from the
plates. Then he walked around and took the tape off the back plates.
Then he opened the driver’s door and grabbed the father by the jacket to pull him
out.
“Your son, right?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Your son is sick,” Lasse stated.
“Jo.”
“And out of his mind with that. He shot a police officer while not in his right mind.”
“Jo.”
“You must take charge now. You are his father.”
The father seemed to be dazed.
“You, not us, you. You have to take care of this,” Lasse repeated.
The father said nothing.
Lasse looked back and forth between the father and the son. They seemed hollow
shells with no idea what to do. Ida noticed a small tear running down the father’s
cheek.
“Here’s what you’re going to do,” Lasse said. He climbed up into the driver’s seat.
“You are going to carry the officer to the back seat of the police car. Then you will
drive the police car to Storuman hospital. You have only half a mile to go. You’ll be
there in no time. Do you hear me?”
No answer.
“You have to go now! You have no time to lose! Someone else could show up any
moment!” Lasse’s voice was hard. Then he said, more gently, “Perhaps they’ll go
easy on you. After all, you’re trying to save his life now. You’re showing good will. Do
you understand what I’m telling you?”
“And…you two?”
“We didn’t do anything. It was your son who shot the officer. You’ll have to deal with
that yourselves.”
He started the truck. “The network will make sure your truck gets home. I promise!”
Lasse threw the pickup into reverse, and then hit the gas so it slid onto the road,
tires spinning. The vehicle gained traction, and Lasse shifted into higher gear.
Ida twisted to look back. She saw the blue revolving lights and the two standing
figures in the beam from the police car’s headlights.
Two figures standing. One on the ground.
36.
“Well, what would you have me do!” Lasse yelled back at Ida. They were well over
the speed limit and had sped through a number of hole-in-the-wall villages. A road
sign pointed to Röresälven. “Fucking amateurs! Complete idiots! We didn’t do
anything wrong and this was our only chance!
Ida kept silent while Lasse continued to swear for a while. No reason to interrupt his
rant.
They got back on the highway ten minutes later.
“Try not to think about it…it was…well, try not to think about it. We have other
problems, after all.”
Ida had shut her eyes and was humming. She suddenly hit the car door in sheer
frustration before she realized she was crying.
“Whatever we do,” Lasse said, “We have to remember not to sit where that young
man was. Touch nothing in the passenger seat. Don’t touch the door handle either.
Don’t pick up his flask. You hear me?”
She nodded. “What did he have? It wasn’t frostbite. It was almost corrosive.”
“Yes, corrosive, as well as much more.”
They kept on for another half an hour along empty mountain roads. Lasse muttered
to himself about how much gas was left in the tank. They reached a crossroads and
Lasse stopped. He turned on his GPS and took a look at the time. His eyes were
bloodshot and his skin pale as chalk.
“Where are we going?” asked Ida.
Lasse was studying the map on the GPS.
“Well, let’s see. Have you ever been to Kukkola?”
“Never have.”
“Do you know where it is?”
“Not really.”
“By Övertorneå, on the other side of the border with Finland.”
She stared at him. “Finland?”
“We have to get to Alma, and the best way is via Finland, of course. We also have to
make a stop by…” Lasse pointed to Ida’s baggage. “Ounasjoki River. Don’t you
remember what I read aloud from the secret letter?”
We’re really going to be crossing the border. This is serious. We are leaving Sweden on
our way to Moscow.
37.
Lasse kept on at top speed. Ida tried to stay awake, but she wasn’t always successful,
and her thoughts darted in every direction. She stared out the window for a long
time, glancing forward at Lasse now and then, but he seemed lost in concentration,
gripping the steering wheel with both hands.
Her eyelids kept falling shut, but once she noticed Lasse had slowed and taken one
hand from the wheel. He fumbled with his first aid kit, took a white pill and then
washed it down with some water from his water bottle.
“Here,” he said, as he handed back another pill. “It’s to calm you down.”
“Why do I need that?”
“You’ve had too much to deal with. Let your mind rest.”
She reached for the pill and swallowed it.
The next time she looked up, he was driving slower. Lasse had a paper spread over
his knees.
“What’s that?” she asked, trying to shake herself awake.
“An old map,” Lasse replied. “I’ve kept it with my hunting gear for years. We won’t
be safe on the big roads much longer. I’m trying to find another way.”
They were still on the highway, but Ida couldn’t tell if it was the same one or a
different one. She had no idea how long they’d been on the road.
“What time is it?” she asked.
“Pretty late,” he replied. He pulled over and stopped by a dilapidated bus shed.
Lasse kept studying the map, which was falling apart at the folds. It had numerous
notations in pencil and pen.
“And you know what?” He said.
“What?”
“We have another slight problem.”
He tapped the glass over the gas gauge. “See this?”
Ida saw that the gauge was as far into empty as a gauge could go, and the symbol of
a gas pump was lit up.
“Where are we?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” He turned the map, peering closely. “There’s a
gas station near here. But we passed it ten minutes ago. And it looked like it’d been
shut down for at least, oh, ten years or so.”
“Have you seen any police?”
“Not a one. Just a snow plow.” He tapped the surface of the map with his fingertip. “I
have to come up with an alternative plan.”
Ida leaned over his shoulder to peer at a map so worn parts of it had fallen away.
She saw abbreviations and codes, but did not understand what they meant.
“Do you see this? MFC 50? I think we might have an alternative.”
Ida saw a scribbled notation by the olive green on the upper half of the map.
“You see that mast up ahead?”
Lasse was pointing straight through the windshield. Ida saw the blinking red lights
of a mast tower far ahead. Dawn was coming, which made it easier to make out.
“Yes, I see it.”
Lasse showed her a black dot in the middle of the olive green. “That’s the mast.”
“Right.”
“Guide me to MCF 50, O.K.?”
She took the map, cleared her throat, and said, “Just a few more meters and turn
left.”
She eyed the date on the bottom right corner: 1967. “This map is pretty darn old.”
“Yes, indeed, that’s why it’s so useful.” Lasse glanced back at her. They’d turned off
the highway and were heading up another road. “There are still a number of
installations here from the days of the cold war. They won’t show up on the GPS,
though they might appear in a satellite photo. They’re not secret, just abandoned.”
They reached a flat stretch of road.
“Up ahead to the left,” Ida said.
“You know,” Lasse, said, “The military has lost a lot since the late sixties. You’re
much too young to remember. We had a strong defense up here, an army ready to
fight the Soviets in case of invasion--to the last man, if that’s what was needed.”
Lasse glanced at the gas gauge. “You’ve got to hand it to the Japanese. Toyota is up to
its old tricks. Showing empty long before the gas really runs out. We probably had a
fifth of a tank still to go back there.”
Lasse stretched. Ida thought he must have been a young man in 1967.
“Try to imagine how life was,” Lasse continued. “Every man was in the draft. We had
our own fighter planes, even better than those the Americans made. We had a huge
weapons manufacturing base. The Social Democrats kept telling the world Sweden
was neutral and peace loving, but we raised our glasses to the generals while we
took saunas together. Olof Palme was on a first name basis with a number of
dictators. Those were the days!”
“Up here, another left.”
“And what do we have today? No draft. What do you think we’ll do when the
Russians invade now? Are we going to frighten them with our cool apps on our cell
phones? Just like the children’s song The Bear is sleeping. You don’t want to wake the
bear. Certainly not a Russian bear.”
“To the left again. There should be a narrow road here…”
Ida thought about what Lasse had said. “I had no idea you were such a hawk.”
“Well, look where we are now. We have one thousand pieces of cannon fodder in
Afghanistan and for what? Living targets? And what kind of defense do we have?
Nothing more than a little PR! If anybody wants to invade Sweden now, all you’d
need to do is shoot the single guard in Haparanda. However, if you decide to invade
at night or on the weekend, you won’t even have to bother with that.” A small grin
appeared on his face. “Well, thank God for the Finns, is all I can say. The Finns know
what’s up. They keep their defense up, ready for action. After the Winter War, they
have a bit more experience, you could say, in contrast to us.”
She snorted to show her indifference.
She glanced over at the empty passenger seat. Nothing was there. No stains. The
flask was gone. She looked away quickly, as if her own hand had been injured.
They drove slowly along an unplowed timber road. Lasse almost plunged the truck
into a ditch as he maneuvered past a tree trunk that had fallen across the road.
Another few centimeters of snow and we wouldn’t be able to get through here, Ida
thought.
Lasse stopped the pickup in front of a barrier boom posted with a sign. Most of the
words were covered in snow, but she could see: PROTECTED AREA. Beyond the
boom, Ida saw a gray bunker with a corrugated tin roof.
“Come with me,” Lasse said.
Lasse picked up his flashlight and got out.
Ida got out, too, and followed him. Together, they shoved the boom out of the way.
The building had a sign: MOTOR VEHICLE CENTER 50.
“What are we doing here?” Ida asked. “Do you think we’ll find some gas?”
Lasse didn’t answer. He walked over to the locked door and tried to find a gap to
look in. He then trudged all the way around the building. Ida looked around. There
were clumps of brushwood around the entire building, some as tall as she was.
Lasse was now coming back.
“Wait here,” he said.
He headed back toward the truck. He kicked up at the base of the boom, and then
lifted it completely out of the way. Then he got into the pickup, turned on the engine,
hit the gas and drove through the snowdrifts to the back of the building.
Ida started back to where he’d parked. She saw he’d lifted its hood and was
connecting jumper cables from the car to a transformer on the side of the building.
A rumbling sound could be heard, and then a sound as if an electric motor was
coming to life. Then a screech from the earth itself, and then a buzzing sound. The
back wheel of the car began to spin in the snow.
“Well, Hell’s Bells,” Lasse said, with a great deal of calm.
The noise continued as if from a mechanism driven by hydraulics or pneumatics.
Something began to shift in the snow beneath the truck. Ida realized that Lasse had
put it on top of a large metal lid, which was now moving aside. One of the back
wheels fell into the opening, but the rest of the vehicle did not move. The opening
widened and revealed a concrete ramp.
Lasse began to walk down the ramp, flashing a light beam ahead of him.
Ida heard him mumble, “Let’s hope for a lot of snow tonight.”
He yelled up to her, “Get out the baggage!”
Ida turned back to the truck and began to lift out the big bags and drag them to the
lip of the opening. She made four trips. She heard slamming and shuffling. She was
freezing and her stomach growled from hunger.
Then she heard a metal creak and a thud as if a car door had been opened and shut.
She heard the sound of a motor chug to life, and then steady puttering, as if from a
tractor.
A blue-gray cloud of smoke rose out of the opening and then up rolled – what the
hell was that?
It looked like a car chassis on huge caterpillar treads. All painted in white
camouflage.
Lasse opened the door. “They call this a snow cat. Let’s load up.”
The wind was picking up. Ida felt its cold freeze the inside of her nose and chill her
exposed wrists. Snow began to swirl around her.
They packed all the baggage onto four of the seats. Lasse had also found a few small
plastic gasoline containers.
“We probably won’t make it to Finland until tomorrow,” Lasse said. “First, we’ve got
to find a different vehicle. I have a friend farther north. We’re going to go east until
we reach Malå. Then we’ll turn north at highway 95.”
Lasse pointed to the seat behind him. “Stretch out. I’ll wake you later and then we’ll
change places.”
“How can I sleep in this loud thing?” she asked at the top of her voice over the roar
of the engine.
“Try.”
“Seriously. We’re seriously going to Finland! How come you assume I want to go?
Really?”
“Haven’t we already agreed we had to go to Moscow?”
“I really don’t want to go. All I want is…”
“Just rest,” Lasse said. He drove the snow cat straight into the forest and down a
slope. The chassis shook and jerked. She kicked the door, curled up on the seat and
felt warmth coming from beneath it. Her eyes closed and at last she fell into a deep
sleep.
Upper East Side, Manhattan, April 12th, 1962
William Stephenson was leaning on a brick building on the corner of First Avenue
and East 52nd Street, keeping an eye on a large alleyway. He glanced up at the clock
face over the drugstore. Twenty-five minutes past ten o’clock.
A figure came walking toward him. She was in the middle of a crowd on the
sidewalk across the street and was wearing a trench coat, sunglasses and a wide-
brimmed hat. As she started through the crosswalk, she cast a glowing cigarette butt
into the road.
She stretched out her hand to him. “Hello, Mr. Stephenson.”
Her handshake was determined, almost hard, and her voice was hoarse but melodic.
“You’re, early, Gee-Gee,” he said.
“How nice that you want to accompany me today,” she replied. “These days I walk
wherever I go. We can go in any direction you choose.”
“Sure. Why don’t we head over to Lexington Avenue? If you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I like Lexington Avenue. I want you to know, however, that Georg is in
Paris. I needed some company, and I hope you don’t mind that I gave you a call.”
“Not at all.”
She straightened her cloth hat. Stephenson noticed her pink lipstick.
“We can talk about old times, and just wander through town.”
They crossed First Avenue and turned west on 51st Street.
Gee-Gee looked up at the sky between the skyscrapers.
“I hope we get some rain,” she said. “I always enjoy rain. Can you imagine why?”
Stevenson shook his head.
“Because fewer people are out.”
They walked along the sidewalk, passing a man selling pretzels and soda pop from a
food cart. The aroma of hot pretzels followed them for a while.
He glanced at her as she walked. Her carriage was straight but she moved gracefully,
effectively and relatively quickly. She’d already lit another cigarette and she
crumpled the empty Kent package and tossed it into a wastebasket when they
reached the next street crossing. They passed Second and Third Avenues and
reached Lexington Avenue.
“I have no idea where you’re leading me,” she said.
He laughed, “The main thing is that we’re moving.”
Her tone changed. “You know, I still have those pills you gave me just before the
war, when I came to New York. Remember the ship?”
“The M/S Drottningholm.”
“That’s right. You told me that, if needed, all I had to do was put them under my
tongue.”
“Right.”
“In case I was arrested by the Gestapo.” She seemed to shake off a memory, and then
laughed.
“Cyanide pills. You kept them under the tongue. Chewed if you needed them,
swallowed if you didn’t.”
“That’s right, if I just swallowed them…”
“They’d go through the system without harming you. But if you chewed them, you’d
be dead in a minute.”
“Oh, dear Lord! I can’t believe I dared! I would never do that today.”
He grinned. “I’ve told you many times, you have the gratitude of both the American
and British governments for your assistance. I was in charge of the entire espionage
network, and, quite honestly, Gee-Gee, you were invaluable with what you gave us
on Swedish noble families sympathetic with the Nazis.”
She didn’t say anything.
“We knew whose companies must be kept from selling to the Nazis, thanks to you.”
“It was so little.”
“It meant a great deal to us.”
“Oh, I did nothing at all. I just kept my ears open at cocktail parties in Stockholm and
on the Atlantic crossings. But keep the promise you made back then. Tell nobody
about my assistance.”
“I’ll keep my promise, but do one thing for me, will you? Throw away those pills.
They don’t make the best souvenirs.”
“Probably not.”
A large bearded man stepped in front of them. He held out a fountain pen and a copy
of the New York Herald. “Excuse me, may I have your autograph?”
“No, you may not,” she said calmly, and kept right on walking.
The man began to follow them. Stephenson turned around.
“Please, leave Miss Garbo alone. She never signs autographs.”
“Follow me,” she said in a low voice, and picked up her pace, ducking into
Bloomington’s.
The bearded man stayed outside, and the security guards took no notice of them, as
they stepped onto the escalators. Stephenson noticed the matching pink on her
fingernails as she put her hand on the rubber handrail. She wore a signet ring
without a monogram on her left hand. They went up several floors.
She pulled down the brim of her hat to cover her face a little more before she took
off her sunglasses.
“There’s a small cafeteria by the flower department,” she said. “We can have a
drink.”
“Sure,” he said, as he looked into her blue eyes. Mascara was thick on her eyelashes,
and a fine web of laugh lines radiated from the corners of her eyes. Gray locks of
hair partially covered her ears.
“A table by the window,” he said to the hostess “And two Apple Martinis, please”.
“Oh, no,” his companion broke in. “The table behind the screen, please.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, once they sat down. They were cut off from the rest of the room.
The walls were covered by thick velvet drapes. “You want to be alone, of course.”
“No, I don’t mind people. I just want to be left alone. There’s a difference.”
She lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. She tossed the match into the ashtray.
The drinks came and they raised their glasses to the Allied Forces.
“What do you think?” she asked. “Was I wrong to accept Hitler’s invitations?”
Stephenson smiled.
She continued. “You know, they never dared body search me. I could have easily
hidden a pistol inside a gown. Once I got close enough to Hitler, I could have – bang!”
“Well, I’m sure you could have pulled it off, but then what would have happened to
you?”
“In the bigger picture, it would not have mattered.”
“Perhaps, Gee-Gee, perhaps.”
They’d finished their drinks and risen from the table, but as they began to walk
away, a family came toward them.
The mother of the family, her hair in a towering beehive, said, “I can’t believe it! We
just saw Camille the other night! You’re so good in it, Miss Garbo! Would you mind if
my husband took a snapshot of us with you?”
“I would mind,” she said, and pressed past them. She whipped on her sunglasses and
motioned Stephenson to follow her. They veered quickly into the flower
department. She headed straight to an older man who stood next to a cold case with
roses on display.
“We need the employee elevator, Mr. Rawls,” she whispered.
The man wordlessly opened a swinging door behind the cash register and they
walked through a staff room to the back, where the elevator was located.
“Thank you so much, Mr. Rawls,” she said. She turned to Stephenson. “He’s helped
me get away many times, you see.”
“I understand.”
The elevator went down directly to the ground floor, and they left Bloomingdale’s at
the Fourth Avenue and East 60th Street exit.
“We can go to Central Park,” she said. “I enjoy looking at real flowers in bloom…and
the children playing.”
“If you don’t mind, I’d like to escort you to a particular place on Lexington Avenue
first,” Stephenson said.
“What could that be?”
As they turned onto Lexington Avenue, Stephenson said, “When I agreed to meet
you, I had to clear it first with my commanding officer, since we’d worked together
during the war.”
“That’s understandable.”
“My C.O. told me to arrange a little surprise for you. In gratitude for everything
you’ve done.”
Miss Garbo appeared surprised, but pleased, and she smiled. “I don’t understand.”
They stopped before a gallery window with two colorful lithographs on display.
“Look here.”
“Oh, it’s Jawlensky,” she said. “I do appreciate the way Jawlensky does his faces.”
“I thought you might like them.”
They stood, appreciating the art for a moment. “It’s not a coincidence that we’ve
stopped here,” Stephenson said. “There are more Jawlenskys inside this gallery.
We’ve arranged for you to have carte blanche. Pick out whatever you would like. On
us. We thought you’d prefer to choose what you liked yourself.”
She seemed both taken aback and delighted at the same time.
“You mean it, Mr. Stephenson?”
“Absolutely. Let’s go inside.”
There were no other people inside the gallery.
The walls were white and hung with a display of new Jawlensky lithographs.
A young assistant in a suit and narrow tie stepped out from a back room.
“Excuse me,” Miss Garbo said. “Would you please give me the names of the two
pieces in the window?”
“The Girl with the Green Face and Blue Head.”
Stephenson swept a gesture to all the lithographs. “You can have as many as you
would like.”
“I usually go to Parke-Bernet,” she said. “I’ve never been to this gallery before.”
“We’ve opened fairly recently,” the assistant said. “The owner is in Europe at the
moment. I would be happy to help you with anything you wish.”
“What’s this?” Miss Garbo pointed to a group of pedestals, on which small statuettes
and open jewelry boxes in various sizes had been placed.
“These are from a Scandinavian collection,” the young man said.
She took a closer look at one pedestal with an old-fashioned box. It contained an
arm ring in gold and also a large, black stone with sapphires.
“Scandinavian, you said?”
“Yes.”
“I’m from Scandinavia, as it happens. But this stone…it has the appearance of a
fossil?”
She took a closer look at the intricate lines on the matte surface. It seemed to
shimmer.
“Or is this a health stone? I love yin-yang. I have a Tibetan incense burner at home.”
Stephenson looked over her shoulder at the object.
“I do appreciate Jawlensky,” she said. “But my bookshelves are so dull. These objets
d’art would decorate them nicely. This unusual stone is extraordinarily beautiful. It
makes me think of warm springs and Chinese massage with hot rocks.”
“You like it? It’s yours. Really, Gee-Gee, whatever you’d like.”
“You’re so kind.” She turned to the assistant. “What kind of stone is this exactly? Is it
a work of art? Is it a real fossil?”
The assistant took a close look. “I’m sorry. I have no idea what it could be. I would
have to ask the owner. Perhaps you could return next week?”
“I would like to know now.”
Stephenson whispered into the assistant’s ear. “Didn’t anyone tell you? This is a
special order from Mr. Charles.”
The young man adjusted his tie. His face beamed. “Of course, I understand. I’ll phone
the owner immediately, long distance!”
The assistant disappeared into the back room.
“You are much too generous. I really don’t deserve all this.”
“Don’t be silly.”
Miss Garbo smiled. “So, if you don’t mind, I will take the two lithographs in the
window display, and these jewels, or whatever they are, in this box.”
“You have good taste.”
Two men in long, black coats made their way into the gallery and started to browse
the art on the walls.
Stephenson tracked them with his gaze while the assistant contacted his owner. He
could hear Miss Garbo humming to herself, a tune he recognized as the melody to
Bringing up Father.
“Well, now,” the assistant said as he returned. “The gallery owner sends you his best
wishes from Europe. He’s informed me that all the jewels on display are from the
same collection. An antique dealer in Sweden. A small town called Malmo.”
“Malmö, yes I know that place.”
“The owner of the collection had passed away. We purchased the entire lot and
shipped it here. That’s all we know about it.”
The man handed Miss Garbo an information sheet on the Jawlensky collection.
“Fine. I’ll buy the lot. All of it. Could you wrap it up for me?”
The assistant stared at her. “Wouldn’t you prefer to have them shipped them to
you?”
“I will be taking them with me right now, thank you. The Parke-Bernet Gallery lets
me do this all the time.”
“I’m sorry we’re not the Parke-Bernet,” the assistant replied nervously. “It will take
me a while to pack them properly.”
“I’m sure you could do them up right now,” Stephenson advised.
“I will be rearranging my furniture tomorrow. I want these things there. So I will
take them right away.”
The assistant stared at them. Miss Garbo was still wearing her sunglasses.
“Please do what the lady says,” Stephenson said. He picked up a fountain pen and
wrote clearly on his business card: THIS IS MISS GARBO.
He handed the card to the assistant while saying in a low voice, “Didn’t Mr. Charles
give you clear instructions?”
The assistant looked at the name on the card.
“Who could this be?” he said aloud, then tittered. “Of course, I will wrap them
immediately.”
The two men in the black coats departed. They had not spoken a word. Stephenson
watched them cross the street and turn west on the other side of 60th Street.
The lithographs were packaged. Then the assistant rolled the stone and the
armband in pink fluffy cotton and packed them into cardboard boxes. When he was
finished, Stevenson said, “Thanks. We appreciate it.”
They started for the door.
“Wait,” the assistant said. “Don’t you want your receipt?”
“We don’t need it,” Stevenson said. “Send it to Mr. Charles.”
They crossed the street. Stephenson carried her purchases.
She lit a cigarette. “Such wonderful presents. Thank your C.O. from me.”
She shoved her hands into the pockets of her trench coat. They walked along in
silence for some time.
They’d reached Fifth Avenue and turned south, reaching Saint Thomas Church. She
said, “I’d like to go inside just for a moment. It’s so beautiful.”
They walked inside the church. Stephenson cradled Miss Garbo’s packages closer as
they walked up the aisle, looking up at the arches and the stained glass windows. As
they stopped to look at a painting in one of the side window displays, she pulled a
side flask from one of her pockets and took a sip. She saw he noticed.
“It’s a Swedish drink. Glögg. It’s usually made with red wine, but I prefer white.”
She handed him the flask and he maneuvered the packages to take two sips. The
drink was sweet and unexpectedly strong. He took three more.
“Well, are we done here?” she asked.
They walked back out into the harsh sunlight.
They had fallen into a smooth rhythm, walking together. Stephenson saw the two
men in dark coats moving in the same direction on the sidewalk across the street.
After a moment, he looked again, but they were gone.
They turned to follow Fifth Avenue past 59th Street, with the Plaza Hotel on their
left, and waited for a long time for the light to turn green. Then they were able to
step into the greenery of Central Park. Miss Garbo was starting to sing to herself as
they made their way toward the Pond. A crowd of boys were sailing their wooden
ships in the knee-deep water.
She stepped up the slope to a flowerbed with pink tulips and bent to pick some.
“Gee-Gee, you can’t just pick the flowers,” Stephenson said.
“Of course, I can pick them,” she replied, and coughed.
She picked an armful while Stephenson anxiously peered around to see if a guard
was in sight.
Finally, she had enough, and they began to walk again, pausing only to buy two hot
dogs and two cups of coffee. They found a bench where two paths crossed, near the
sycamores facing Central Park West.
The two men in black coats suddenly stepped in front of them.
“Give us that stuff.”
Stephenson registered the narrow face of the taller man and that he was holding a
knife.
They set their packages down on the gravel in front of them.
“Good, very good,” the tall man said. “Now, keep quiet.”
The second man bent over to pick up the packages. Stephenson immediately kicked
him in the face and knocked the arm of the first man so the knife went flying.
Then he jumped to his feet and socked the knife man on the jaw to send him
tumbling down.
Both men scrambled to their feet and ran so fast their coattails flapped in the wind
behind them.
“Look here, they got one,” Miss Garbo said.
One of the lithographs was missing.
“Such a shame. They made a wonderful pair.”
She got up from the bench, and he could see tears in her eyes.
“Idiots. They’ve been following us. We ought to call the police.”
“Don’t bother.”
He touched her shoulder. “At least let me walk you home, Gee-Gee.”
“You don’t have to.”
“It would be safer. I don’t want those two to try again.”
She calmed a bit, and they began to walk. “We can’t call the police, you know,” she
said. “Then all this will be in the papers. All the papers. All over the world.”
A tear ran from the corner of her eye and she brushed it away.
They crossed a lawn and found themselves back on Fifth Avenue.
“What a pity that the day had to end like this,” Miss Garbo said as they headed south.
Stephenson nodded, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure the men were not
in sight.
“You certainly haven’t forgotten any fighting moves,” she added. She lowered her
voice. “I don’t want to think of how many people you killed in the war.”
Stephenson didn’t answer.
“It really does not matter that they got away with the print,” she said. “It would have
just stared at me, like all the other faces. It truly does not matter at all.”
They walked past the Lombardy Hotel.
“Good Lord, we must have gone sixty blocks today!” It seemed now as if her words
were forced.
“Maybe,” he said, but he still glanced back occasionally.
No sign of the two men.
As they reached First Avenue, he felt her touch on his arm.
“Mr. Stephenson, you’re bleeding,” she said.
He looked down at his coat sleeve. A large bloodstain had seeped through the fabric
on his upper arm.
“Come upstairs and I’ll clean it for you. This is not good for the glands.”
“The glands?”
“Inside your body. You have to keep your glands in balance. Yin-yang, you know?”
He decided not to reply. He had become painfully aware of the wound, a throbbing
feeling in his shoulder and a sticky wetness in his shirt all the way down to his wrist.
They’d come to East 52nd Street.
“Let me bandage your wound. It’s the least I can do.”
“Like you said earlier, I’ll be fine. No reason to fuss.”
“It could be deep. I hate asking people up to my apartment, but for you, I’ll make an
exception. You were very brave, taking care of those two thugs.”
She entered her apartment building and the doorman nodded at her.
Stephenson noticed that the telephone button panel showed only the letter G.
As they waited in the vestibule by the elevators, Stephenson noticed that Miss Garbo
avoided looking into the black-rimmed mirror. She waited patiently, saying nothing.
When they arrived on the fifth floor, she led the way to a nondescript door and
unlocked it.
They entered a bare hallway with two exits.
“I know I have a supply of bandages somewhere,” she said.
She showed him into a completely empty room. No furniture, no art, just cool, light
pink walls. They walked into the next room, which had a collection of Ming vases
and gold-covered chairs. A number of portraits hung on the walls, and on one,
Stephenson noticed the signature Renoir.
“Don’t you get any ideas. There’s nothing romantic about this. I never invite people
in as a rule.” She poured herself a drink.
She disappeared behind another door, and returned with a medical kit.
“Take off your shirt and jacket.”
He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeve as she unrolled a bit of medical tape.
She then turned on the television as she headed away. “I know I have some gauze
here somewhere.”
Through the open bedroom door he glimpsed a number of closets
The television had on a quiz show.
He glanced down at his shoulder and found a fairly deep knife wound, a narrow, redtinged cut from which blood still oozed.
When Miss Garbo did not come back right away, he decided to follow her.
She was on her knees in front of a closet, digging through a cardboard box. He could
see a number of dazzling evening gowns hanging inside.
“How beautiful!” he said.
“All gifts. I’ve never worn them. Not once,” she replied very quickly.
Their eyes met. “Why not?” he asked.
“Why should I? Who would want to see me in an evening gown these days?”
“Many people.”
“Oh no, oh no, and these days…you know…I’m nothing but one big wrinkle! Oh, here
it is.”
She pulled out a roll of gauze, stood up, and led him back. Now, from this side, he
could see shelves holding only a few scattered leather-bound volumes. On one shelf,
he saw the latest number of Vogue.
“Sit,” she commanded. “Let me clean this.”
After she washed the wound, she held the gauze pad to the wound and then secured
it with the medical tape.
“Ask your wife to re-do this when you get home.”
“Sure.”
She took a sip of her drink, lit a cigarette.
“So that’s the bookshelf,” he said. “The one for your new decorations.”
“Yes, that’s it.” She walked into the hallway and returned with her packages. “Yes,
everything else is here. I love this stone. It is so beautiful.”
She pulled out the gray stone with its strange surface mosaic.
“It will be very nice to have it here. I can admire it, while it glitters in the sun.
Perhaps I will try to find out more about it. It does seem to be an ancient stone,
perhaps, as I’ve said, a Chinese massage stone.”
She set it on one of the upper bookshelves.
They stood for a while and looked over the Delacorte Fountain in the East River
through huge windows that faced Roosevelt Island.
“Excuse me asking,” he said. “But what are you going to do with all those gowns if
you’re not going to wear them?”
She snorted. “Burn them all up. Did I tell you that I’ve burned so much from the
past? All my contracts, promotional photos, manuscripts – the whole lot from
Metro-Goldwyn-Meyer Studios! I got rid of it all – except for that!”
He looked where she was pointing and saw the Oscar.
“They never gave me one for my work!” She said. “So I got an honorary Oscar in my
old age. It was a disgrace for everyone involved!”
Stephenson unrolled his sleeve and put his jacket back on.
“But they’re fantastic gowns, all the same,” he said. “Don’t burn them.”
She sat down in one of the golden chairs. She lit a new Kent.
“I don’t know about that, Mr. Stephenson,” she said.
She kicked off her shoes.
“Maybe they’ll be given away. Once I’m dead.”
She gestured at the walls. “All of this will probably go to charity.”
Stephenson decided it was time to leave. He headed for the hall.
She stopped speaking. “Wait a minute…” She exclaimed, then,
“What’s going on?”
He stepped back into the sitting room.
“How did that happen?” She pointed at the Oscar.
It had fallen to the Persian carpet on the floor.
She stared at the statue.
Stephenson picked it up, and carefully placed it back on the shelf.
Their eyes met.
“That Oscar has never moved in the past seven years,” she said. “Why now? How
could it have just fallen over like that?”
The room darkened as a cloud passed over the sun.
“Almost as if…” she said, looking at him, then around the room.
“As if…it moved by itself.”
He replied, “Perhaps you jostled it when you set the stone beside it.”
At first she did not answer. Then she said, “One more strange thing…like so many
strange things that have happened in my life.”
She took a deep breath, and she looked so pale, Stephenson wondered if he should
call her a doctor. But then she smiled at him and he put the thought out of his mind.
She got up and walked to the bookshelf to stroke the strange, patterned stone. Then
she repositioned the Oscar back into its exact place.
“Yes, they can stand right there together, and I can enjoy looking at them gleam until
it’s time for me to go….”
She sighed deeply. “Well, it’s time for me to be home. But since I’m already home…”
Stephenson looked closely at her. Her eyelids were heavy, almost hiding her eyes,
and her mascara had smudged. “I understand,” he said. “Thank you for taking care of
me.”
“It was nothing.”
She followed him into the hallway. “Thank you for the walk. It was good for my
lungs. And thank you again for the fine presents.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“Say hello to your C.O. from me and give him my thanks.”
“I will. And as far as those two thugs are concerned…”
“Forget about them. And forget about my Oscar’s little…adventure. All right? Now I
have to take a nap. This has been a lot for one day.”
Stephenson put on his overcoat. “A nap? It’s not even five in the evening.”
“That’s how I am. I put in earplugs and hope for the best…I don’t take pills any more.
If I lie down now, I might be able to get a few hours’ sleep before my housekeeper
Clara comes in the morning.”
He opened the front door.
“Arrivederci,” she said softly.
“Good-bye, Miss G,” he replied.
As she pulled the door shut, Stephenson could hear her mutter to herself, “And no
rain for me today, either!”
38.
Now and then, Ida would jolt awake. Lasse would stop the snow cat to look around
with his night goggles, or empty another container of fuel into the vehicle, or to take
a piss. Sometimes the snow cat would thump down through a dip to jostle her
awake. Each time, she had to muffle the urge to flee.
Let Lasse take care of it. I’m safe for now and I need to rest.
The snow cat had come to a stop again. She looked up and saw that Lasse was
flipping through a road guide while studying another sheet of paper.
Was that the letter she’d gotten from Lobov?
She couldn’t keep her eyes open, and the sound of Lasse’s swearing drifted over her
as she fell back asleep. However, his swearing had a tinge of happiness to it.
The next time, as she woke, she saw lights outside. They were driving past a
billboard spotlighting Olympic champions Anja Parson and Pernilla Wiberg eating
yoghurt. They wore their Olympic medals and propped behind them, Ida saw their
slalom skies and poles. They smiled widely and Ida turned away.
The snow cat was climbing an incline so steep it seemed like a ski slope. How slowly
were they going, anyway? Ten, fifteen miles an hour?
Then they were going down and she could tell her entire body felt tenderized as if
by a meat pounder. She was wondering if it was midmorning or midafternoon. Her
stomach growled.
She could no longer tell if she were slept or just dozing. It seemed like a living dream
with Lasse driving on and on.
Then she was dreaming. Ida watched her grandmother, Alma, decorate a Christmas
tree, winding garlands around and around and adjusting the placement of plaster
angels. Alma smiled and snapped her fingers, and the plaster angels came to life and
started to fly around the treetop, their blue robes shimmering in the light of the
candles. Presents, wrapped in red and gold, blue and silver paper, made a patterned
mosaic on the floor, all lit by candlelight.
“Ida,” Alma was whispering to her. “You need to wear protective clothing. Put some
on or you will die.”
“I’m already protected.”
“No, Ida, you are not. Only Eva is. Put this on, or you will die of radioactive
poisoning. Can’t you see the radiation?”
Ida realized the angels were glowing. The glow increased slowly by degrees, and she
started to scream right into Alma’s face. Alma opened the front of her red Santa suit
to display a sticky, red plastic and metallic sticker: ASEA Atomic and Radioactive.
Ida sat up, screaming, and woke from her dream.
Lasse was grabbing her arm, and she shook him off.
He then pointed ahead through the windshield.
“We have our usual problem,” he said, as her head cleared.
She saw a large wooden house near a plowed road with streetlights.
“We’ve driven eastward quite far. I decided to let you sleep.”
Ida could read extreme exhaustion on his face.
“So, this snow cat drinks gasoline faster than I imagined. Here’s my plan. I’ll drive to
that house and try to buy some gasoline. Since they’re so far out in the woods, they
must keep some on hand. Or they might send us to someone who has extra.”
She nodded.
“Did you bring money?” Lasse asked.
She pointed at one of the duffel bags, and he soon found two five hundred crown
bills.
“It’s important that you stay hidden under this blanket. They must not see you.”
She nodded and pulled the blanket up over her body. He stepped on the gas and they
rolled down into the driveway. Lasse turned off the engine.
“Remember, keep still. No matter what happens.”
As Lasse got out of the snow cat, Ida sneaked a peek at the house just a few yards off.
Then she whipped the blanket over her head.
She heard Lasse’s determined knocking at the door. Then low voices. The door shut
and everything was silent. A long time passed without a sound. Then she heard the
door open again, and footsteps crunching in the snow. Lasse climbed into the snow
cat and started to shove some things into a storage space.
“Damn party. Sami people. They’d been hunting. They’ll let me buy some gasoline,
but they have to go somewhere to get it. They’re drunk and insisted I get something
to eat. I’ll make sure to get some for you, too. Just keep still for now.”
She heard someone from the house calling to him. He got back out of the snow cat
and closed the driver’s door. Ida underwent a new round of waiting. Finally, she
made a gap in the blanket just for a moment. Through the gap, she could look right
at the front of the house.
A middle-aged man in the Sami dress of a dark blue jacket decorated with red and
yellow embroidery and a stand-up collar with silver thread stood by the door. His
head was topped with the traditional Sami hat, too, with the same blue background
and red and yellow embroidery, and red tuft on top. He held a sandwich, a typical
Sami thin bread wrap. He alternated bites with a puff from his cigarette.
When he finished his cigarette, he threw the butt into the snow and pulled out a
flask. He took several gulps.
The door opened and another man came out. For a second, she could peer right
through into the house. She saw reindeer antlers on the wall, a small television in
the corner, a dinner table covered with a white tablecloth and a candelabrum, and
women and children sitting around the table. But she couldn’t see Lasse.
Then the door shut, and the two men began to exchange drinks from the flask. They
talked as they passed the flask back and forth, but they were speaking the Sami
language and she couldn’t understand a word they said.
Lasse was gone so long, she fell asleep again.
She woke up when she shifted in her sleep and banged her head on the door.
She lay still for a while under the blanket, and when she didn’t hear anything, she
peeked out.
Lasse and the Sami men were standing around something on the ground, something
at least three feet long and covered in plastic. There was a kerosene lamp on the
ground shining on the bundle. A thick, black hose ran from it to the back of the
house.
She couldn’t make out many details. She could tell that the talk between the two
men and Lasse was heating up. One of the Sami men squatted down to take a closer
look at whatever was under the plastic. As he reached to touch it, Lasse struck his
shoulder enough so that he fell backwards into the snow. She had a small glimpse of
what it was. A white bird wing. White feathers.
A seagull? Or a larger sea bird?
She heard more angry talk, as if the others wanted to start a fight with Lasse, but
Lasse, himself, spoke loudly and earnestly. They simmered down as Lasse kept
talking and exchanged nervous glances. They were no longer angry – they seemed
afraid.
Lasse went around to the back of the house and returned with a metal tub. He set it
at a distance from the house then came to the snow cat, where Ida could see three
gas containers. He took one and carried it to the metal tub where he poured in some
gasoline. Then he put on a pair of the one of the Sami men’s gloves. He picked up the
plastic and what it contained and dumped it into the tub. He tossed the gloves in as
well. Finally he took a lighter out of his pocket and lit a crumpled piece of
newspaper.
“There we have it!” he exclaimed as he tossed the flaming newspaper into the tub. A
plume of fire shot straight into the air. When the flame flickered down a little, Lasse
poured on more gasoline. The fire flamed hot.
Lasse said something more to the men. They’d backed away from the metal tub.
Then Lasse walked over to the snow cat and lifted in the gas container before
climbing inside and starting the engine.
Out of the corner of his mouth, he muttered, “Keep still, they’re still watching me.”
The snow cat picked up a little speed. Lasse drove it uphill, between the tree trunks,
and it leaned one way and then the other, before it straightened up. They kept on for
a long time before Ida dared to take off the blanket. She sat up.
“Look at the seat next to you,” Lasse said.
She saw a paper bag.
“Oh, my!” she gasped when she opened it.
39.
Ida almost drooled. In the paper bag were slices of reindeer meat, moose meat
patties, seared mountain trout, fresh thin bread, and two small containers of jam,
one each of cloudberry and lingonberry.
She immediately bit into the bread. Butter had melted on its warm surface.
“Here’s some cranberry juice,” Lasse said, tossing a plastic bottle with red liquid
back to her. She pulled the cork and found ice-cold cranberry juice.
She let the drink run down her throat. She looked up at him and saw he was eating a
large slice of reindeer meat.
“We were in luck. They had a lot of gasoline they could sell. And they didn’t mind
selling us all this food, either. And coffee! I gave them the entire thousand crowns.
Hope you don’t mind.”
She nodded. “What was that thing you burned up?”
He sighed. “Nothing important.”
“I saw all the precautions you took.”
“Try not to think about it right now.”
“It was a bird, wasn’t it? A large sea bird. How did it get so far inland? What’s going
on?”
Just the sound of the rattling snow cat making its way through an empty, flat
landscape. Nothing to see but trees and snow.
“Why don’t you want to tell me?”
Lasse kept his mouth firmly shut.
The engine kept roaring and Lasse kept staring straight ahead through the
windshield. They were moving through an ocean of white.
After a while, Ida said, “I think I have the right to know.”
He glanced back. “For your own good, don’t ask me about it.”
She looked into his eyes. What’s the matter with him? He almost seems – afraid!
He kept clearing his throat as if to speak, but nothing came out.
She had to talk. She decided now was the time to press. It seemed he was finally
going to speak, when she jumped in ahead of him.
“Do you think I’m too stupid to figure out what’s going on?” She yelled. “That was a
bird. You burned up a bird. It looked just like the one that was eating the dead wolf.
Am I right? I remember how that young man’s hands started bleeding. I watched you
burn up the gloves.”
Lasse took a deep breath. Then he let it out with a sigh. He gripped the oddly small
steering wheel of the large snow cat.
“If you knew the truth about those birds, you would be grateful that I’m not telling
you.”
Ida tried to put all the threads of her thoughts together. Lasse continued on,
muttering to himself. Finally, he turned back to her and said, “You have to
understand, Ida. Those aren’t normal birds. They’re something completely different.
Alma can tell you more. Just wait until we get to her.”
She met his gaze in the rearview mirror. “Why can’t you?”
“Because I don’t understand it myself.”
“Is this all connected to Alma’s laboratory? Her experiments?”
“Please don’t ask me anything else. You will have to ask Alma to get the truth.”
They were approaching a large hill of snow like a long snowdrift. Ida tried to put the
strange birds from her mind. She realized she could smell herself. She’d worn the
same clothes for the past forty-eight hours.
“I will tell you one thing, though,” Lasse said. “That letter Lobov gave you does help.
It’s already on the way.”
“So where to now?”
“I told you already. Ounasjoki River. In Finland. The river pearl mussels!”
Those damned mussels.
“What’s so important about them?”
He smiled, but she could see a trace of worry in his eyes.
“Come on, again? You won’t tell me anything again?”
“I just want to protect you. The less you know, the safer you are.”
She decided to change the subject. “What time is it?”
“Almost ten thirty in the morning.”
“It’s so dark!”
“We’re pretty far north now. Much further north than Jämtland.”
KA-BOOM! KA-BOOM!
The snow cat went straight up in the air and then straight down a snow bank to land
with a jolt.
“What are you doing?”
Ida found the snow cat now purring along a narrow, flat surface. Lasse changed
gears.
“Highway 95,” Lasse said, checking his GPS.
A wisp of snow curled across the smooth ice on the asphalt.
“We head north for exactly one and three quarter miles and we will reach my old
friend Dolly’s funkis house on the left side of the road.”
40.
Ida peered out the window. Diffuse daylight was coming in over the tops of the black
pine trees as Lasse slowed the snow cat onto the shoulder of the road by a dark
green plastic mailbox. A snow drift was across a small road leading deeper into the
forest, but the snow cat easily swayed up and over the drift on its way to the forest
road.
Before long, Ida could see, between tall pines, a flat-roof two-story house, covered in
asbestos cement sheeting. She looked around. There was a carport shielding a
cream white Volvo Amazon without doors. A water pump, covered in snow, stuck up
in the middle of the yard. There was no light in any of the windows. Faint smoke
wafted from the chimney.
Lasse parked the snow cat beside the carport.
“Who is Dolly?” Ida asked.
“She’s an old girlfriend. She’s probably not home right now, but we can wait inside.
She’ll be able to help us. I trust her.”
They climbed out. Lasse walked back up the road to check that no vehicles had
followed them. A few minutes later, he returned and went to the front door. It was
unlocked.
“She’s not far.”
They went inside the warm house. The hallway was covered in pine paneling.
“She doesn’t keep the door locked?”
“It’s the countryside. Hello? Anybody home?”
No reply.
Rag rugs on the floor, embroidered pictures and woven wall hangings on the walls.
Home Sweet Home hung over the entrance to the funkis kitchen. East or West Home
is Best.
In the living room there were two more. The embroidery used an old-fashioned
script, but the wording was not at all traditional. Tax free shopping – So Much to
Declare! and Sho-Len – No flash, fuck da aina, area turns red.
Ida puzzled over that last one.
“Dolly is an artist,” Lasse said, as he headed into the kitchen.
Ida stood by one of the brown leather sofas. She caught sight of a tall case pendulum
clock in the corner. She listened to Lasse in the kitchen: the sound of pots, the faucet
running water, the clink of glass, the whoosh of a plastic soda pop bottle being
opened.
He came back with a tray holding four sandwiches, a bag of BBQ chips and two
glasses with a brown liquid inside.
“We call this a Piteå Bellini. You take cola for the peach juice and moonshine for the
champagne.”
He wasn’t smiling.
Ida looked out the window. Lasse set the tray on the coffee table, handed her a
drink, and took a drink for himself. They drank in silence.
“How long can we stay here?” Ida asked at last.
“I don’t know. An hour or two at least. Then we’ll have to see. The embers are still
glowing in the fireplace. When darkness falls, if she hasn’t returned, we’ll head back
out on the snow cat, though I don’t know how far it will get us.”
Ida kept staring out the large picture window. The sun was sinking down behind the
hilltop trees. Meanwhile, Lasse prowled from window to window throughout the
ground floor. When he returned, he turned off the table lamp, so the house was
completely dark.
“I see no signs of anyone following us. Not yet…but I don’t want to stay here
overnight. It’s too hard to keep an eye on the highway from here. But we must sort
through some of these bags.”
Lasse stuffed the last bite of a ham sandwich into his mouth. “Wait here.”
He left the house and returned with two of the black plastic bags.
“You go through this one. I’ll go through that.”
He set them on the floor.
“What should I be looking for?”
“The file folder marked River Pearl Mussels.”
“Mussels again!” she exclaimed. “Why?”
“Just find it.”
“But there are four of these bags!”
“We have to start somewhere.”
Lasse began to pull the contents of his black bag onto the floor. “I know I tossed it
into one of these.”
Ida pulled out binders, folders, books, a few wooden articles, parts of a microscope,
two small paintings that either Alma or Manfred had painted and a small bird
figurine in blue glass.
“Why’s all this important?” she asked.
“Some of this could be of great importance, but I don’t know which. It might not
even seem important at first glance. Did you find the Mussels Folder?”
Ida began to sort the contents into piles. Loose paper, DVDs and hard disks in the
first pile, meaningless garbage in the second and other potentially valuable objects
into a third. She found maps of Russian cities.
A laminated color picture of an atom fell from her hands. Bohr’s Atomic Model 1913
was printed in elegant typography in the corner. Next to the imprint, Alma had
scrawled: von Laue to Bohr?
Bohr? Didn’t that Japanese scientist mention Bohr at the Nobel dinner?
What a lot of garbage here!
She found three file folders.
Lasse looked at her expectantly.
She shook her head. “Nothing about mussels.”
The thinnest folder had an inscription:
For Ida – if we have passed away.
She felt her heart leap in her chest. She opened it to see a number of handwritten
letters. The writing was neat and clear. She skimmed the first sheet. Her own name.
Now let me tell you more about your grandfather, Alma. She realized the letters had
been written by her grandfather Manfred.
“What’s that?” asked Lasse.
“Nothing about mussels,” she said, closing the folder. “We don’t need this right now.”
I’ll read it myself later, when I have some peace and quiet.
They’d dug through the plastic bags until they were almost empty.
Lasse got to his feet and looked out the window. “I’ll get the other two bags. Can you
repack these as neatly as you can? Dolly shouldn’t come home to this mess.”
“I can come home to any mess I want!” came a rough female voice from the front
door.
Dolly came into the room carrying a rifle. She wore a red shawl over a black
crocheted dress, and she smiled as she broke open the rifle and put it on a side table.
Lasse went to greet her, and Dolly slung one arm around him as she looked over to
Ida.
“You must be little Ida. I’ve only seen you in photos. Sorry about the rifle. I usually
don’t get visitors driving snow cats.”
“We’re sorry we couldn’t call before we got here.”
Lasse explained their situation as succinctly as he could. Dolly nodded to show she
understood, while she walked to the window.
“I didn’t see anyone around, but we should probably keep the lights off anyway,” she
said.
She looked Lasse in the eye. “You haven’t changed a bit. Just like you to show up
unannounced.”
Dolly headed for the kitchen and Lasse followed her. Ida sat where she was, the
folder on her lap. She heard Dolly say “Lilleman.”
Then a sound much like that of a kiss.
Dolly was out puttering in the kitchen as Lasse had brought in the other two bags.
“This must be yours,” Lasse said to Ida, and handed her an iPad. “Does it work? We
might need it.”
He checked the window again, while Ida stared at the iPad. Of course, that slime ball -- he was so disgusting – what he did to me – what was his name. Paul?
She touched the power button and the iPad came to life.
Well, it has power. Let’s see what I can find. She found an unprotected network
named Dollynet and chose it. Nice to know, just in case.
She was in the process of shutting it down again, when she accidently opened a file
with a medical company logo. She clicked on it and photographs began to appear.
She couldn’t help looking at them.
Picture after picture. Disfigured human bodies with strange swellings and twisted
hands. Some people were staring at the camera with accusing, angry eyes. Others
seemed to be simply crying. Their tone of skin made Ida think they were from India,
yet other looked more South American. What is this disgusting stuff?
There were hundreds of the photographs.
That Paul. He said he was a doctor. No, no more of this.
“You need a decent home-cooked meal,” Dolly announced. She handed Ida a mug
with steaming soup. On a plate were more sandwiches and slices of smoked meat.
She put it all down on the floor by Ida.
Dolly then started to hang blankets over the windows.
“We need some light in here,” she said.
Lasse looked exhausted, but was he still rooted through the third plastic bag with
one hand while eating a sandwich with the other.
“Here it is!” he called out. “The river mussel file!”
He opened it as he turned to Ida. “You see, there’s a fragment of text in this folder.
It’s part of a letter written by Linnaeus himself. Take a look.”
“From Linnaeus?”
He showed her a copy of a letter written in elegant, old-fashioned handwriting. Then
he took up the letter she’d gotten from Lobov.
“This letter has been missing for hundreds of years. Finally the two are together
again!”
He smiled.
He laid the two letters on the floor next to each other. “There was a dialogue
between these two letters and now we can understand it.”
“What do they say?”
A heavy thud came from outside the window.
Lasse quickly sprang to his feet, knocking over his plate of food. “What’s out there?”
41.
“Blow out the candle!” Lasse whispered. He folded the letter and stuck it
back in the folder, while Dolly blew out the light. Lasse stared out into
the darkness where the snow cat was parked.
“Not a car,” he murmured.
A loud crash.
“Sounds like breaking glass,” Ida whispered.
Lasse and Dolly glanced at each other and crept into the hallway.
“Hide, Ida! Away from the window!” Lasse commanded in a whisper.
Dolly picked up her rifle. Nobody moved. They waited.
Another loud crash.
“What the hell!” Dolly still kept her voice to a whisper.
“It can’t be the police. They don’t smash stuff for no reason. At the most,
they’d kick in the door.”
Dolly peered out the kitchen window.
“Strange,” she said. “Nothing back here, either.”
A third loud crash.
Lasse carefully opened the door. Ida stood far behind, trying to peer
around him. Lasse decided to go outside with Dolly close behind.
“Wait here,” Lasse ordered Ida.
Ida pulled the front door to as quietly as she could, with just a slight gap.
It was quiet and dark in the yard. Dolly clicked on a small flashlight and
swept the beam across her yard. They could see a myriad of tiny tracks
in the snow. The beam fell on the snow cat. Its windshield was broken.
Lasse stood absolutely still. A whining sound came from overhead. Ida
thought it sounded like a swallow’s call from the air, but duller, and then
there was a loud, metallic bang, and a screech like that of a frightened,
thrashing newborn.
“Watch out!” Lasse yelled as he ducked.
Ida stepped out onto the front porch.
Something came flying rapidly through the air, about ten meters above
the pine trees at the edge of the clearing—a bird which whirled about in
the air and then pulled in its wings, screeching horribly as it dove right
at the snow cat’s tin roof. Another bang.
“Get inside!” yelled Lasse. They all ran back into the house.
“What the fuck kind of bird is that?” Dolly exclaimed. “Shut the door!”
They watched the bird swoop up again and then back, seeming to
prepare for another attack. Gray speckles shown among its white
feathers. It seemed to be some kind of sea gull.
Lasse had not shut the door. He stood in the opening, hugging his rifle,
and watched the bird. “It’s after something in the snow cat.”
Ida looked out over the yard at the hundreds of bird tracks covering the
snow. She could hear the screeching of the bird above her.
“What’s it want?” Lasse asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Did we leave something in the cat? I took out all the bags.”
He looked at Ida, as she shook her head. “Really, I don’t know.”
“I’ll go look. That bird will hack the snow cat to pieces.”
Lasse turned to Dolly. “Take this.”
He pulled down a curtain rod from over the kitchen window, jerking off
the curtains.
“Follow me and if you have to, whack that bird as hard as you can.
Watch out for the beak. It will be much sharper than average. Also, it has
claws, and they’re not normal, either!”
They put on the heaviest hats and gloves Dolly could find, and started to
run toward the snow cat.
“You keep back!” Lasse yelled to Ida.
But in that instant, Ida realized: it must be the stone. The box from
Lobov with the fossil stone inside.
Where was the box?
“Hi! Wait!” she called after them.
She saw about ten huge white birds diving from the treetops toward the
snow cat. Lasse and Dolly seemed to slip as Ida started to scream –
everything seemed unreal, as if it were a movie, not happening in reality
– a movie with no enjoyment or laughter – she began to scream as
loudly as she could.
“Help!” Dolly yelled, too, and dropped the curtain rod. The birds dove
down. Dolly did not stop screaming.
“Get in here!” snarled Lasse, and he and Dolly leaped into the snow cat.
The birds were hacking at the windows and the roof. Their shimmering,
bobbin-shaped bodies flew up, circled again and dove. The snow cat’s
chasse creaked and another window shattered.
Ida was still at the front door watching Lasse, who was gesturing to her.
Dolly’s mouth was open in a silent scream.
What does he want me to do?
She looked down. Dolly’s rifle was on the floor. She picked it up. She
cocked it, like she’d seen people do in the movies, and then poked the
barrel through the door. Lasse nodded as he watched what she was
doing. The birds kept dive-bombing the snow cat. Their long claws
ripped under flapping wings. Ida fumbled awkwardly at the rifle, and
saw Lasse gesturing.
Yes, the safety, she pulled it back and heard a click. She aimed – now
what do I do, put the butt to my shoulder, right? – and fired right into the
flock of birds above the roof of the snow cat.
A muffled bang right beside her ear. She was deafened for a moment,
but found herself already running forward through the snow as the
birds retreated back into the tops of the trees, still screeching their
metallic cries into the darkness.
“It’s the box,” she yelled. She could hear her own voice and realized her
momentary deafness was gone. “Is it inside? Hurry and look for it!”
Dolly and Lasse jumped out. Lasse grabbed away the rifle and fired two
shots into the air, while Ida scrambled into the snow cat and began to
rummage around on the floor.
Under a Wasa crisp wrapper was the green box.
It was empty.
The fossil stone – where was it? The Maidenstone!
She felt around with her hands and found it below the glove
compartment wedged under the edge of the rubber mat.
Yes! She curled her fingers around it and pulled it out. She stuffed it into
the box and closed the lid. A loud bang resonated right beside her. She
looked up to see Dolly already retreating into the house, while Lasse
pointed the rifle barrel at the flapping wings of the strange sea gulls.
“I’ve got it!” she yelled.
“Get back to the house!”
Together they ran back toward the safety of the house. Lasse wheeled
around for a moment to let off another blast at the birds.
“God damn it to hell!” he said as they leaped up the stairs. “I never
thought they could attack like that!”
Ida was stumbling across the threshold when she heard a screech near
her ear. A quick movement at her side. She saw a tiny sea gull with
shimmering, multicolored wings and beak dig its claws into her hand.
She dropped the box that then skittered into the house, kicked by the
movement of her leg. The bird was gone.
Lasse slammed the door shut behind her.
“What the fuck is the matter with those horrible things?” Dolly burst out
as she looked through the kitchen window. “Will they attack my house
next?”
Ida looked down on her right hand to see a smear of blood from her
thumb to her wrist.
“What’s wrong?” Lasse asked. “Did that bird get you?”
Ida nodded slowly and Lasse swore. He spit and swore again. Then he
grabbed her shoulder.
“We’ve got to disinfect this immediately. Dolly, do you have anything? If
disinfectant will even work against this…”
The telephone rang.
They stared at each other. The phone rang again.
“It’s probably Petteri,” Dolly said.
“Who’s that?”
“My neighbor. He probably heard the shots.”
Another ring.
“Well, answer it!” Lasse commanded.
She lifted the receiver of her red Cobra telephone on the hallway table.
“Hi…yes, hello! No, no trouble, my friend.” She laughed slightly. “I just
thought it was a wolf, but…just some grouse. I’m fine, there’s no trouble
here…sure…yes, of course…thanks…bye now.”
She hung up.
“Yes. My neighbor. Petteri likes to stick his nose into other people’s
business. He is my closest neighbor, and he means well. After all, his
place is pretty far from mine. Still, he might drop in later just to double
check. Wouldn’t surprise me. So you two had better get out of here as
soon as you can.”
Lasse sighed as he looked out the window.
“We really need sleep,” he said. Lasse nodded toward Ida, and Dolly
nodded back.
“And, in addition,” he said, taking up Ida’s hand, “This could mean big
trouble.”
All three of them looked more closely at the small wound on Ida’s hand.
It was a gash about an inch long. The color on the edge of the wound
was still a healthy pink. Ida didn’t feel any pain from it.
“Those obviously weren’t normal seagulls,” Lasse said to her. “Do you
remember the dead wolf in the forest and what I told you about it?”
Dolly and Ida went into the bathroom and Dolly began to clean the gash.
“Soap and water won’t be enough,” Lasse called out. “Use something
with alcohol if you have it.”
Dolly opened her medicine cabinet.
Lasse said to Ida through clenched jaws. “What exactly is in that box of
yours?”
“Go see for yourself,” Ida said. “It fell in the hallway.”
Dolly began to wipe the gash with a cotton ball soaked in disinfectant.
Dolly’s hands felt strong and comforting as she lifted Ida’s wrist and
held it to the light.
Lasse came to the bathroom door. He was holding the box in his hand
and he stared at her. A dark look.
42.
It was two in the afternoon as Mikael walked into the lower level
shopping area from Klarabergsgatan and then through the entire lower
level of Åhléns department store. All these vulgar Christmas shoppers, he
thought. They have no sense of responsibility to the environment! He
stepped to one of the elevators leading to Mäster Samuelsgatan and
took it to the fourth floor. There was a small café there, and he went
inside. Almost all the tables were empty. He looked up at the clock on
the wall. Exactly two p.m.
Near the closed terrace, a well-groomed man sat by himself at one of the
tables.
Mikael approached him slowly. The man looked up. Their eyes met just
a bit too long and then they both said, at the same time, “So you are…?”
Mikael hung up his jacket and then they shook hands.
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” he asked.
Paul said, almost at a whisper, “Yes, a macchiato would be fine.”
They sat in silence for a while, stirring their cups of coffee.
“So, what do you want from me?” Paul asked at last.
Mikael thought Paul seemed a little anxious, perhaps a little afraid.
“It’s a long story,” Mikael said slowly. “It will take me a while to explain.
But let me tell you right now, this is much bigger than what was written
up in the newspapers.”
Paul nodded. “So, how much do you know?”
Mikael felt they weren’t communicating. “What do you mean?”
“You said you knew more than what was in the papers.”
“Yes, but most importantly, what can you tell me about that letter.”
“Letter?”
“The one mentioned in the paper.”
Paul looked relieved. “Is that all?”
“Well, that’s where I’d like to start.”
Paul let out a long, slow breath.
“What did you think I wanted to know?” Mikael asked.
Paul said nothing. He took a sip of coffee, and now he had a small grin on
his face. Mikael felt the atmosphere lighten.
He took a good long look at the man opposite him at the table. Paul’s
hair had an absolutely straight part and he wore a white shirt with a
Navy blue jacket. Yet another one of those metrosexuals, Mikael thought.
Good God, they look so foolish. As if they were all going to masquerades as
fashion-forward mannequins in pants too tight and jackets too short. A
dandy from the past.
“You said you were a writer,” Paul said.
“Yes, I’m not a journalist.”
“You’re not a cop?”
“Oh, God, no!” Mikael laughed.
“A real writer, then.”
“You got it.”
“Not one of those crime authors.”
“I hate mystery novels.”
“Me, too. They’re absolutely ridiculous.”
Paul put on an American accent. “A young woman found murdered.
Inspector Fatbelly Idiot is drawn into a nest of lies and revenge! An evil
crime, completely ridiculous and completely unnecessary, has been
committed!”
Mikael laughed out loud. “Oh, you got it, pal! I can’t believe people read
that crap! All those tattoos, cryptic poetry citations, Scrabble tiles, gumwrappers, or whatever the hell the killers leave on their victims! The
same plot, over and over. God save me!”
“I’ll drink to that! Cheers!”
They lifted their coffee mugs.
“They ought to be taken out and shot, the whole lot of them. I’m serious.
Then they’ll see what real blood looks like.”
Paul wasn’t smiling as he said this. Mikael stared at him for a second,
trying to figure out if he was being ironic or not.
Mikael decided to pull out three books from the plastic bag he’d brought
with him.
“Just to prove I’m not an undercover policeman, I thought I’d bring
these. Here. Take a look. I wrote them.”
Mikael opened one to the back cover showing his photograph. It was the
stupid one where he was looking into space.
“See? You can tell it’s me, right?”
Paul studied the picture. “Yep, that’s you.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret about writers. Only nutcases write books. And
a nutcase wouldn’t be accepted at the Police Academy, right?”
They laughed together.
“O.K., I believe you--for now. You do seem a little strange for a cop,
actually, and not fit enough.”
Mikael slipped the books back into his bag. “So, how about that letter?
Can we get started?”
Paul shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about it. I don’t
know what kind of letter it was. I didn’t see it.”
“You didn’t? But maybe you remember what that girl said about it?”
“Well, for one thing…she was…ah, drunk. She was so shit-faced she
didn’t make much sense. I have no idea if she…uh…took drugs, too,
right? But I do remember she mentioned it was from the Eighteenth
Century, I believe. She kept using that Jesus word…disciple…weird,
right?”
“Do you know anything more about it, like when it was written? The
actual date?”
“No, not at all.”
“Anything about what was in the letter?”
“No, she said nothing about that. I don’t think she’d even read it herself.
She didn’t seem to know what was in it…just that it was a secret.”
They could hear talking from a table nearby. Paul looked around and
then lowered his voice.
He leaned closer to Mikael. “And there’s something else, something I
didn’t tell the cops. She had something else. Like an old-fashioned box.”
Mikael stared at him. “A box?”
“Yep. Green.”
Mikael cleared his throat, his thoughts spinning. A box? “How big was
it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. About this big,” Paul gestured with his hands. “It
looked really old. She had this purse, you know, and the box was shoved
inside. I don’t remember much more. I was pretty drunk myself, if you
want the truth.”
“Anything else about this box?”
“No, not really.”
“Did you have a chance to hold it?”
“No, but I held her bag. It was pretty damn heavy.”
A whirring thought snapped into place. “It was heavy?”
“Yeah. A little strange how heavy it was.”
Could Lobov have had one of…Mikael took a deep breath. Yes, both a
letter and also…and he gave it to the girl, but why, why?
Paul continued, “I remember joking about it. You got a gold brick in
there or what?”
“Hmm,” Mikael said, as he sipped the last of his coffee. “And then she left
your apartment, just like that.”
“My townhouse. Yeah, just like that.”
Paul looked aside before he leaned forward, “Fucking cunt. Should be
shot, you know, like all those other prostitutes.”
Mikael didn’t say anything for a long moment, as he tried to think. “So,
what did she do to you that was wrong?”
“Nothing really. Just stole something from me.” Paul sneered.
“What was it?”
“Well.”
Silence.
“And you don’t know where she is?”
Paul kept silent. Mikael thought Paul seemed to grin to himself.
“Hey,” Paul said at last. “Can we get to the point here? How much am I
going to get? I like cash, just so you know. And why are you so
interested in that damn letter anyway?”
“Eh, well, the money part we’ll get to. But…I’ve been looking for a letter
like this for years. It’s part of the book I was working on.”
“Oh, how nice.”
Mikael did not miss the sarcasm this time. “Anyway, I was going crazy,
not being able to finish it. I ran into a writer’s block.”
Mikael looked down at the table. “My daughter died two years ago. I
haven’t been able to write since. I want to finish this book for her. If I
find this letter, I can get moving again; it means a great deal to me.”
“How touching.”
Paul looked at his watch. “So tell me about this letter.”
“I don’t know if there’s enough time for details, but one thing I can tell
you is that it was written to Carl Linnaeus.”
“I already figured that much out.”
Paul didn’t say anything else. Mikael tried another tack. “So what did she
steal from you?”
“Not much,” Paul said. He pulled out his cell phone and tapped a few
times. “Not much, besides my car, that is.”
“Your car? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Yes, indeed.” Paul looked at his cell phone. “A-ha!”
He looked back at Mikael. “Well, what do you know!”
Paul seemed suddenly antsy as if he were trying to keep himself under
control. He looked away, clearing his voice.
“So, you got a message?” Mikael prompted.
“Not exactly. But…” Paul looked at Mikael. “I was just trying to find out
where my car is…but false alarm. I got to go.”
Paul stood up.
“Let me understand you. You can locate your car? Will that lead us to the
girl?”
Paul smiled stiffly. “Perhaps. With some hard work.”
“If you’re going to her, take me with you!” Mikael said as quickly as he
could.
“Why in the hell would I want to do that?” Paul asked. They stared at
each other.
“Because…I’ll pay you.”
“How much?”
“How much do you want?”
Mikael followed Paul to the elevator. Then they made their way to the
exit at Klarabergsgatan. The enormous Christmas decorations
illuminated the entire street.
“That wasn’t about the car,” Paul said. “I don’t give a fuck about the car. I
just want my iPad back.”
“Your iPad?”
“Yeah, it was in the car when she took off. I forgot it when I went into
the Nobel Gala. I have to get it back. So…eh…here’s the deal. I can trace
my iPad but only through Wi-Fi. Not through the net, unfortunately.
She’ll have to open it and connect to a Wi-Fi network…and then I’ll be
able to pin down exactly where it is. Up until now, she hasn’t been crazy
enough to use it, not once.”
They stepped around a group of middle-aged ladies going Christmas
shopping.
Mikael thought aloud, “I imagine the police would like to know about all
that.”
“Of course they would. But I don’t want the police involved. I just want
to get it back.”
“Can’t you lock it from remote or shut it down?”
“Yes, but I don’t want to do that.”
Paul hesitated. Then he spoke so rapidly he almost seemed drunk.
“I don’t even know if she has it. Maybe she’s lost it, or tossed it, or sold it
to a friend. The police called me yesterday. They’d found my car near
Östersund, but the car was empty. No iPad. Nothing else, either. So I
know she took it with her. The moment I shut it down, she can’t use it at
all, and then she’ll throw it away for sure. I’ll never get it back. I must get
it back.”
I wonder what’s so important, Mikael thought.
“So you’re just waiting…”
“Until she goes on-line, right. She will simply…”
There was a ping on his cell phone. Paul stared at his screen. “Fucking
unbelievable!”
His face lit up and he seemed energized.
“So? You got a signal from your iPad?”
Paul still looked happy. “Eh…”
“She used it?”
Paul was typing in commands.
“Great! This changes everything!” he muttered.
Mikael also felt the same sensation, almost happiness, as he saw the
glow in Paul’s eyes. Paul stared at the screen and then at his expensive
watch.
“So you know where it is!” Mikael exclaimed.
“Yes, I do.”
“Where?”
“Sorry, got to run.” Paul slid his cell phone back into his pocket and
looked around.
“So you’re going to her now?”
Paul just grinned in reply.
“At least tell me! Where is she? If not, take me with you!”
Paul looked right into his eyes, “You’re not kidding, are you?”
“No. I want to come with you!”
Paul snorted. “Forget it!”
He turned and strode quickly away toward the entrance to the subway
station at the corner of Drottninggatan and Klarabergsgatan. People
were crowding together there around the entrance.
Was Paul really taking off, just like that?
Mikael ran to keep up. “Wait for me!”
Paul looked back from the subway escalator. His grin was malicious.
Mikael reached the escalator. “Excuse me, excuse me,” he said as he
pushed his way ahead, past all the people with their bags of Christmas
gifts.
When he got to the bottom of the escalator beside Åhléns Department
Store, streams of people were passing by in every direction, into and out
of the turnstiles, up to Sergel Square, and into the department store.
Where had Paul gone? Where?
He swiveled his head in all directions, turning to look in increasing
frustration. He swore.
Paul was nowhere to be seen.
43.
No Paul anywhere.
Mikael had searched all the subway platforms in Central Station, but
couldn’t locate him. He tried Paul’s cell phone a number of times, but
nobody answered.
For an hour, he wandered randomly around Klarabergsgatan and the
southern part of Sveavägen, and then through the Christmas Market
stands on Sergel Square and eventually down all the streets of
Hötorgscity.
No glimpse of Paul.
Damn it, how did I let him get away?
Please forgive me, Rebecka.
He had gotten as far as the Carl Milles statue of Orpheus near the blue
façade of the Concert Hall. He could feel the tears he was holding back,
tears that felt like pearls of ice in the corners of his eyes.
How had I ever been so clumsy as to let Paul get away like that! Maybe I
should try his house in Enskede. Maybe he’s already on his way! If only I…
His tears brimmed over his lids and streaked his cheeks. He couldn’t
think any longer. He put his hands over his eyes.
My only chance and I blew it! I wasn’t fast enough! What the hell can I do
now? Rebecka, forgive me!
He stood still. The fruit sellers were calling from their stands. He could
smell the roasted almonds. His tears dropped onto the slick
cobblestones.
A sound – there.
A signal – from his pocket.
He pulled out his cell phone. Unknown number.
He wondered if he should even bother to answer, but then he pressed
the green button.
“Mikael here.”
“Yeah, it’s me.” A man’s voice.
“Who?”
“Who do you think? Paul!”
Mikael quickly wiped his runny nose with his glove. “Right. Hello, Paul.”
“Hey, sorry about that. I’ve rethought my position. I have just one
question for you.”
“What?”
“Do you have a driver’s license?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Good. That’s really good. I don’t. My wallet’s disappeared. I’m sure that
bitch took it. Oh, and, do you have a car?”
“Yes, a Saab.”
“Great.” Paul paused, seemed to be thinking. “So, well, then, very good.
So, can we get going right away? Yeah, like I said, sorry I took off like
that. I know I behaved badly.”
Mikael felt eager and happy all at once. “So, we’re leaving right away?”
“Right.”
“This very minute?”
“Yeah, pretty much. Meet me at Norrtull. An hour or so, say, quarter to
five? By the Thai snack shack there. Can you make it by then?”
Mikael took a quick look at the clock over the Kungsgatan McDonald’s.
“Yeah, I believe so.”
“You got to pack, you know. Bring warm clothes and stuff.”
“So where are we going?”
Mikael felt his stomach warm as they spoke.
Unbelievable how quickly things changed!
Now, Rebecka, now I’ll show you everything I’ve ever dreamed of. Show
you and the whole world, too!
Paul gave a slight laugh. “I’ve already given you a clue!”
“You have?”
“Norrtull! We’re going north! Quarter to five, now!”
Paul hung up.
44.
Ida, Lasse and Dolly were sitting together in the dark kitchen. They’d
been trying to text Alma at her new cell phone number, but kept getting
notification that the messages could not be delivered.
Dolly was looking out the window again. “I can’t see any birds now.”
“There’s no danger anymore,” Lasse said. “The stone had fallen out of
the box and was exposed. That’s why they attacked.”
Lasse still breathed a little heavily from exertion. He picked up the box
from the table and opened the lid for half a second so Dolly could see in.
The stone shimmered vaguely and its growths were shining silver and
dark red for a moment. Ida thought its outer surface looked rougher; the
lines and the leathery part had disappeared and the dark granite part
was even darker than what she remembered, yet still amorphous. The
sapphires had not changed.
She shivered as she looked at them.
Lasse closed the lid.
“What is that? It looks awfully strange,” Dolly said.
“This box has an inner lining of lead, which keeps the radiation from
leaking.”
Lasse turned to Ida. “So, Lobov actually gave this to you before he died?”
Ida nodded and looked directly into Lasse’s eyes. She had never seen
that expression in his face before: wonder mixed with eagerness,
fear and a kind of angst-filled shyness.
“I can’t believe he brought it to Stockholm!” Lasse murmured.
“But what is it?” asked Ida.
“How to begin?” Lasse said. “We have to get going as soon as we can.
And yet we must have some sleep. Dolly, do you have any uppers?”
“No speed, if that’s what you want, no, but I do have some Red Bull.”
Ida opened the refrigerator door.
“Shut the door! No light!” Lasse turned to Ida. “Let me take another look
at your hand.”
Ida showed her hand to him, thumb out. The edges of the wound were
now shifting color to slightly bluish violet, with a white band near the
thumbnail.
“It doesn’t hurt,” she said.
“What’s wrong?” Dolly asked. “I cleaned it very thoroughly.”
Lasse didn’t reply. He just sighed deeply and closed his eyes for a few
minutes. Ida heard him mutter ‘damn’ a few times under his breath. He
was clenching his jaw, but when he looked at Ida, he tried to smile.
“It’s fine. It will heal,” he said.
He looked away quickly, out the window and toward the road.
“Dolly, I suggest we use your car. How much gas do you have? Have you
called your contact? And do you know anything about doctors on the
other side of the border who can treat Ida’s hand?” Lasse smiled quickly
at Ida.
“Haparanda Clinic should be the best one outside Sweden,” Dolly said. “I
checked. It’s open at seven a.m.”
Ida glanced at the kitchen clock. It was now 10.30 at night.
“My contact is named Mikkola. He talks only through texting, and that
can take a while. I have about twenty liters of gas in the car,” Dolly said.
Lasse got up and started to pace in the kitchen.
“If only I weren’t so exhausted…”
He picked up the box and handed it to Ida. “Take this. I don’t dare…It’s
yours, after all. Keep it safe with you; perhaps even conceal it inside
your underwear.”
Lasse seemed to think of something. “Did you have the box with you
when you met the wolves by Brunflo?”
She tried to remember. “I don’t remember. Probably.”
He was staring at her and she felt it was time to demand an answer.
“Isn’t it time you explained all this to me?”
“I’m sorry,” Lasse said. He took a deep breath. “I never thought I would
ever see that stone in my lifetime. Looking at it is--how shall I put it?
Like someone once said, it’s like looking into the Face of God and the
Devil at the same time.”
He stared down at the surface of the kitchen table. Ida felt he was unable
to say much more. Dolly looked at her, looked at the box again, and then
pushed back in her chair, away from where it sat on the table.
“Those birds wanted that stone,” Lasse finally continued. “It’s
radioactive somehow. Those strange birds were drawn to it, and let me
tell you, I have never seen seagulls with claws before, and such long
ones, to boot. However, when these seagulls do die and their bodies
decompose, then they’re really strange.”
“But how could they possibly damage a snow cat like that? Their beaks
were like steel!”
“Yes, unusual and unusually strong, as well. They’re drawn to
transmitters, like the transmitter on the wolf. Remember, other animals
are collared with transmitters, too. Wolverines and bears. It’s probably
the transmission frequency the seagulls can sense. Because the National
Nature Conservatory follows the wolves most closely, there are more
transmitters on them, at least in the province of Jämtland.”
Lasse was looking around at the walls as he spoke.
“Transmitters? What kind of transmitters are you talking about?” asked
Dolly.
“The Conservatory researches wolves by putting on collars with radio
transmitters. They can then follow their movements. These birds seem
to attack the transmitters, and that’s why they sometimes kill wolves.
That’s why I’ve been so interested in wolves the past few years.”
“What has made these birds so strange?”
“I don’t know much. They look like regular seagulls, don’t they, except
for the claws. But they are stronger, more dangerous and more
aggressive. They also have something in their saliva, or whatever you
would call that in a bird, and when it reacts with wolf flesh, something
odd happens. After a few days, the flesh changes in a dangerous way.”
“So that’s what that guy got on his hand,” Ida said. “It looked like a flesheating fungus and it seemed to hurt so badly.”
“That’s right.”
Lasse nodded as he finally met her eyes. “Ida, let me tell you the rest of
the story.”
“I want to know where these awful birds came from,” She demanded.
“They are…” Lasse began. “They are a kind of mutation. A genetically
altered seagull species. Some scientists have rearranged their genetic
makeup, and not just that, they’ve changed their entire, hmm,
constitution. It’s an experiment gone haywire, of course. Now we have
birds, like Hitchcock’s birds, attacking people. But there’s more. Many
animals have attacked people over the years, that’s natural. Wolves, for
instance. No, I worry more about the DNA in these birds. What happens
to that DNA when their bodies break down? And how far those changes
might spread? It might go far…I hardly dare think about it.”
“Dangerous DNA?”
“Not just DNA. Changes in cellular structure if Alma is to be believed.”
He lifted the box from the table and pressed it into Ida’s hands. “You
must take responsibility for this. I don’t dare.”
“Is it dangerous? Radioactive?”
“The radioactivity won’t matter as long as the box stays shut with the
stone inside.”
He pondered awhile. “So, as I thought. The stone protected you from the
wolves. The radiation repulsed them.”
“But it made the birds attack.”
“Yes, the birds became aggressive but it was just the opposite for the
wolves. But aside from all that, this stone must have intrinsic value. On
the black market can you imagine how much it might fetch?”
Ida shook her head. Dolly snorted.
“It’s unique, maybe invaluable, maybe ten million…and I’m talking about
dollars here, not Swedish crowns.” Lasse said as he started to walk into
the hallway.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” Dolly said.
“Yeah, well, maybe it’s worth even more than that,” Lasse admitted. “I
really don’t know. But a great deal, that’s for sure.”
Lasse began to haul all the bags to the front door.
“But what is this stone made of?” Dolly asked.
Lasse began to breathe a little more heavily from the effort. “Help me.
We’ve got to get going. Dolly, you’re going to have to drive. Let’s let Ida
sleep. I’ll try to stay awake as much as I can. Let’s take your rifle with all
the ammunition you have.”
45.
The taxi took Mikael home to Solna.
Mikael dragged out his old duffel bag and stuffed in long underwear,
woolen mittens, two pairs of jeans, three sets of underwear, and a few
dingy sweaters.
How much money do I have in my account? Mikael wondered. What the
hell. Let Paul pay for the gas for a while.
He hurried into his home office and pulled out the mahogany box. Then
he picked up the leather-bound book, with its frayed leather binding,
still in its protective plastic cover. Thank God, something was finally
going to happen! He felt tears in his eyes again. Finally! Finally!
He went out, locking both the upper and lower locks of his door, then
rushed down the stairs and out the front door to the parking spot where
his Saab was waiting.
The Thai food stand looked shabby. Mikael sat behind the wheel and
stared at the hand-written signs stuck up in the window. Extra spicy
dishes. Includes water chestnuts. Piri-piri strong.
Should we bring some food with us? Oh, no need, I’m sure there’re
restaurants and fast food places on the way, no matter where.
Norrtull, right.
Mikael glanced along the street by Norra Station. Heavy traffic flowed in
both directions.
Five minutes to five. He started to drum his fingers on his jeans.
What if he doesn’t show up? What if he were just, oh, lying, he seemed a
little strange, especially all those comments about shooting people.
A taxi stopped beyond the Thai place and Paul stepped out, wearing a
leather jacket and carrying a large, black briefcase. He was looking in
the other direction, but then turned and saw Mikael. He walked over
and opened the passenger door.
“Sorry. Traffic.”
He threw his briefcase onto the back seat.
“How’re you doing?”
“So-so.”
Mikael pulled out his road atlas from beneath his seat and handed it to
Paul.
“So, we’re leaving Stockholm at Norrtull,” Mikael said, as he turned on
his signal and eased into traffic. “I surmise we’re heading north. Right?”
Paul didn’t speak, but pointed at the overhead traffic sign proclaiming
E4 Uppsala.
46.
Paul began to page through the road atlas after Mikael had been driving
for a while on E-4.
“So, why not just tell me where she is?” Mikael said.
Paul coughed. Then he said, “Get one thing straight. I didn’t get a signal
from her. I got it from my iPad. Like I said before, she might have sold it,
or given it to someone else. Maybe she even threw it away. Who knows?
We might not actually find her this way. Understand? Maybe some fence
has it.”
“Of course, I understand, but I’m ready to take the risk. I have no other
leads to that letter.”
“Fine. Then we both know what we want. Could be we’ll run into some
danger, especially if we’re dealing with a criminal, and if we demand it
back. Yeah, you know what they’re like. But cash solves most problems.”
“Right. But what about her? I mean, if she killed that Lobov guy...”
“You know what?” Paul looked over at him. “She wouldn’t hurt a fly. No
way she murdered anybody; I can swear to that. She acted like nothing
more than a scared rabbit.”
Paul looked back out the window, thinking. Finally, he said, “I’m just
glad my iPad’s still in Sweden. Once it’s left the country, it would be
harder to get back.”
“Where did the signal come from?”
“It lasted some time, so somebody must have used a Wi-Fi connection. A
private network right in the middle of nowhere. That’s why we need a
car. No trains or busses up there.”
“You want to elaborate?” Mikael asked after Paul paused again.
Paul nodded. “Sure, hang on. At first I checked for a plane, but there are
only two flights, both booked up, and SAS said there were over thirty
people on stand-by. Then I checked for trains, but the last train north
pulled out at four. So that leaves a car. Glad you have one, really. You
don’t have to pay me for my time on the ride up. We’ll take turns
driving.”
“Sure,” Mikael said. They were in stop-and-go rush hour traffic now.
“But you still haven’t told me where we’re going.”
Paul sighed. “You know we’re going to Norrland. You already guessed.
But I don’t want to tell you exactly where until I’m sure you won’t write,
blog, twitter or anything else about me or this trip. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“And not a peep to the cops. We have to be in absolute agreement about
that.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’re definitely not a cop?”
Mikael looked over at Paul. “Don’t you trust me at all? Go Google me if
you must. You might find an author interview or something like that.”
“I already did. It’s been a while since your last book, though. What if
you’ve turned into a journalist since then?”
“Not a chance. And if I had, you would’ve seen that, too, when you
researched my name.”
Paul said nothing as they passed over a bridge. Ice hung from the railing.
“Tell me why you’re so interested in that letter.” he asked a few minutes
later. “What’s the big deal?”
“All right,” Mikael said, thinking, maybe I should tell him everything. To
win a few minutes for thought, he asked, “And what do you do for a
living?”
“I’m a doctor, if you have to know. But we aren’t talking about me.
You’re the focus here. Why the interest in that chick? And why do you
want her letter? You said you wanted to write about it. So you need
information about her, not about me. Right?”
Mikael nodded. “But it’ll take time to tell the whole story.” He thought
again about how much he should relate, but knew Paul would demand
checkable facts.
“We’ve got all the time in the world,” Paul said. “We’ll be on the road for
hours.”
Mikael glanced down at the atlas in Paul’s lap. “I could guess...”
“Guess as much as you want. But I want more answers.”
Mikael sighed. “You’ll probably consider this pretty boring.”
“If it’s so boring, you wouldn’t want to write about it. It’s your fucking
job not to be boring. You’re supposed to work at being interesting!”
“O.K. Sure, sure.” Mikael gave a small laugh, as he thought I might as well
take it from the top and tell him as much as I can, but still hold something
back for myself. “But you have to keep it to yourself.”
Paul gave a small smile. “Of course. Like a confessional. Nothing to the
media, nothing to the police. We’ll both keep our mouths shut. Works
for me.”
“It’s about Carl von Linnaeus.”
“I already figured that out. God created the world, and Linnaeus put it in
order. King of the flowers.”
“Yeah, you’re a doctor; you know all about Linnaeus and the Systema
Naturae, where flora and fauna are put into species and genus, blah,
blah, blah. We don’t realize any more how big a deal that was. He was a
superstar of his age. He was the greatest botanist in the world, of this or
any age. Darwin read him. Even Hitler.”
“Hitler?”
“Well, it’s not something we Swedes trumpet to the skies. Linnaeus also
tried to develop long, complicated theories about sorting human beings
into different races. Natives from North America were ‘simple, eager,
warrior-like’ and Africans were ‘phlegmatic, sloppy and slow’. Asians
were ‘melancholy, stiff, serious, greedy’. And, of course, he put the
Europeans on the top: ‘muscular, quick and inventive’.”
“So he paved the way for colonial mass murder,” Paul said.
“Well…”
They passed the traffic junction Häggvik. A long distance truck had jackknifed there.
“I had no idea,” Paul said. “So Linnaeus wanted us to get rid of all the
inferior races, did he?”
“Not really. Linnaeus probably wanted everyone to live in peace. But
sure, he wrote about monstrous races of people, some of which were
entirely mythological, such as Antarctic giants and Alpine dwarves.
Some like the Chinese and Hottentots were not high on his list.
Nevertheless, he attracted many disciples, you know…”
“Yes, our own Jesus of natural science.”
“You’re right, he was not exactly modest. Anyway, he started the world’s
first huge science project using all these followers. Perhaps as a way to
immortalize himself. Who knows? Anyway, he sent twenty of his best
students on trips all over the world. Their duty was to document and
catalogue all the flora and fauna they encountered throughout the whole
world. When you think about it, it’s actually amazing what these guys
accomplished in such a short time. Of course, they were all young men
wanting to make a name for themselves, too, and they had a sense of
adventure. The Natural Sciences Academy gave them some money for
new clothes before they left, but then they were on their own. They
headed out into the unknown with only a letter from the king and
recommendations from Linnaeus and the Academy.”
“Real self-important Swedes.”
Mikael laughed. “You’re right about that! Remember, Sweden was the
third largest nation in Europe at the time with borders that included all
of Finland, much of the Baltic, and parts of Northern Germany. The
Baltic Sea was our very own Swedish ocean, our Mare Nostrum! So we
had a great deal of self-confidence in those days. The disciples hitched
rides with British and Dutch vessels. A few of them became stranded in
the middle of the South Seas, and a few died, of course. But most of them
came home with huge collections of plants, seeds, cuttings, insects,
animals, soil samples, pretty much the Devil and his mother, all told.
Everything was to be written up and analyzed, all in the name of
science.”
“Slow down a minute. Something’s going on up ahead.” Paul interrupted.
There was a narrowing stretch of road marked with orange traffic cones
to facilitate a traffic check for the police. An officer with a yellow,
reflective vest waved them to come through.
“Anything we have to worry about?” Paul asked.
“No, I wasn’t speeding.”
“So you say. Check out that chick. I bet that’s quite a rack she has under
the uniform.”
A policewoman at the side of the road was waving them through.
“Anyway,” Mikael said as they crept along single-file. “Linnaeus’s
followers weren’t supposed to be extravagant. They had to live frugally,
both materially and spiritually. They were not to go into debt. They
were supposed to be honest, protect the reputation of scientists, and
never get involved in local politics.”
“Yeah, not much has changed since then,” Paul said, keeping his eye on
the police officers as they passed. “Same old boring Swede, don’t stick
out too much, moderation in all things, and so on and so on.”
“Exactly. People all over the world kill each other all the time, but we
Swedes must stay above it. We don’t boast about ourselves, we don’t
stick out and we are content to just eat our pancakes with jam.”
Mikael stopped talking and rolled down the window. They’d come to the
officer who was checking all vehicles. Pay attention, he thought.
“Good evening,” Mikael said as he handed over his driver’s license.
“Hello, hello!” Paul called from the passenger’s seat as if he were at a
cocktail party.
“Hello,” the policewoman said without smiling. She held out a
Breathalyzer. “Blow in.”
Mikael blew into the small pipette. No risk here. Not at all.
The officer waited a moment and then checked the result. “Clear. You
can go.”
“Thanks…yes, right.”
Mikael took back his license and rolled up the window. He pressed
down on the accelerator, shifted gears, and they swung back onto the
highway.
“That one back there, she was fine! Mostly, those police girls look like
Neanderthals. Wonder why she was so short with us?”
Mikael smiled as he followed a minivan down the highway. He shifted
into higher gear. “Yeah, she was all right. Anyway, getting back, all those
disciples, they sent all this stuff back home to Linnaeus. Letters, of
course, but also plants and fossils and dried frogs and God knows what.
All of them. All these guys, all those years.”
“Yeah, so?”
“All except one. One guy didn’t do what he was supposed to, even
though he was Linnaeus’s star student. He was even supposed to get
married to Linnaeus’s daughter Lisa Stina.”
“What a dude.”
“And that guy, his name was…” Mikael paused for effect. “Daniel
Solander.”
“A-ha!” Paul was opening a package of candy, Ahlgrens bilar. “By the
way, have you ever fucked a policewoman? I mean, for real, with the
uniform and handcuffs and everything?”
47.
Ida lay on the back seat. They’d been driving for a long time on an
unlighted country road. Lasse had told her to keep low as they went
through the small village of Töre with its single grocery store. Still, Ida
lifted her head a little as they passed by the village church. The clock
tower showed a quarter past one in the morning. Once past the village,
darkness returned. The only light on the road came from their high
beams cutting though a slight fog.
Dolly’s car was a Volvo 945 GL Combi, and all their bags filled the trunk.
Ida closed her eyes for a moment. She smelled the odor of the bags
mixed with the scent of the pine air freshener dangling from the
rearview mirror, along with her own underarm sweat.
I would love a shower, she thought.
“I think she’s asleep now,” Lasse whispered from the passenger seat.
Ida kept her eyes closed and tried not to move. The two in the front
seats said nothing at all for a long time. All Ida could hear was the hum
of the motor. She tried to keep breathing regularly and with her mouth
open.
“That wound of hers,” Lasse said at last. His voice sounded odd. “I really
don’t know…”
“What are you talking about?”
“It can turn ugly, really ugly.” Lasse lowered his voice even more. “Well,
we will get her to a doctor.”
“Do you know someone really reliable who doesn’t work at a clinic?”
Ida fingered the bandage over her wound. Her thumb seemed to throb,
but with no pain. She felt the urge to yell at the two up front: Why aren’t
you talking to ME?
She kept still, felt tears in her eyes. In a moment, the pretense of sleep
changed to reality. Her eyes wouldn’t open. The last thing she heard
before she drifted off was a new whisper from Dolly.
“I haven’t reached Mikkola yet. But remember, it’s still the middle of the
night.”
48.
Mikael felt full of energy. The traffic was flowing smoothly, although the
highway had narrowed to just two lanes at this point. E4 wound its way
north between endless walls of spruce and pine. He was behind a TIRtruck. Paul was scrolling through his iPad.
“Fucking apps,” Paul said. “Bet Chinese Communists designed them.
That’s why they’re free. Otherwise, they should be better.”
They had passed Uppsala hours ago. Paul had decided to share his
collection of sexual conquests by profession. He liked librarians the best,
since they were ‘grateful’. Even some nurses were ‘grateful’. Teachers
were also ‘grateful’, as well as economists and lawyers, although the
latter were not always as ‘grateful’ as he’d prefer.
Then Paul tuned in to the hockey game on the radio. Two whole hours of
hockey. Mikael could hardly imagine anything more childish. Still, he
kept his mouth shut until the match was over.
They’d made a pit stop at Tönnebro. Mikael filled the tank, and they
grabbed some fast food and bags of candy at the OKQ8 gas station. Then
they kept heading north through Hudiksvall.
Darkness had fallen. Black lakes, glimpsed through the pines,
shimmered in the moonshine. There was much less traffic. It was
already past eight in the evening.
“So, how long should we drive tonight?” Mikael asked.
“As far as we can, all right? Do you want to switch?”
“I got up at 3.30 a.m. Still, I don’t think I’ll fall asleep at the wheel. But I
wish I knew where we were going.”
Paul muttered under his breath. “Well,” he said. “Then tell me why
you’re so obsessed with all this Linnaeus stuff. I believe what you’ve
said so far, but what’s he got to do with you? Convince me. I’m not
suspicious any more. I got it that you like the history of natural sciences.
Yet you haven’t asked me a single question, not even my favorite hockey
team. If you were a journalist, you’d be terrible at it.”
Mikael kept switching on his high beams, depending on oncoming
traffic. He considered what Paul had just said.
“So you want to hear more of my story?”
“Yeah, you were talking about one of Linnaeus’s ass-lickers--I mean--
students.”
“Daniel Solander. Right. I do believe that Linnaeus was Solander’s father.
In 1732, during his last visit to Lapland, Linnaeus had lived at the manor
house of the local priest in Piteå. He left eight months before Daniel was
born. Doesn’t matter, really. Solander was the most faithful of all his
students, so Linnaeus sent him to London.”
“What for? To collect dried-up Englishmen and their African slaves and
preserve them in formaldehyde?”
“Ha, ha, no. He was supposed to guard Linnaeus’s name and reputation.
Linnaeus didn’t want Solander to risk his life, but just immerse himself
in his research. It was a good plan. Solander was sort of the Peter
Englund of his time. You know, Englund, our Permanent Secretary of the
Swedish Academy. Jovial, socially competent, hard-working, concerned
with details, and also just a little bit rural, with the common sense of a
farmer. He had incredible intelligence and a great capacity for hard
work. But, and here’s where the story gets interesting, Solander did not
spend all his time in London. He got an opportunity, a unique chance, to
join Captain James Cook on the Endeavor in 1768. Can you imagine? A
round-the-world voyage, Cook’s first major long journey, which lasted
from 1768 to 1770.”
“Well, that is something.”
“This journey was a great success. They discovered the eastern side of
Australia and one of the islands of New Zealand. They found fourteen
hundred different species completely unknown to Western science,
including the platypus, which made a great impression. At the time,
Solander was called the ‘Father of Pacific Ocean Botany’.”
“So, natural science guy from Piteå heads off with Captain Cook, Hero of
the Southern Seas.”
“No, Cook wasn’t proclaimed a hero, certainly not at that time. Another
man, Joseph Banks, got all the credit. He sponsored the trip and he
claimed all the specimens. Banks ended up getting all the credit, even
though he was a true amateur compared to Solander, who is practically
forgotten today.”
“Why’s that?”
“Simple. He never published his discoveries. That’s what you have to do
– publish your work. If he’d done that, he might have become as big a
name as Linnaeus himself.”
“But he didn’t.”
“Yes, and here’s where my interest comes in. But you can’t tell a soul.”
“We do have a deal.”
“Good.” Mikael increased his speed slightly to pass a few cars.
“Historians speculate why Solander wrote nothing down. None of their
theories makes sense. One thought that he had a stroke and died in
1782. This is true, but he did have ten whole years to publish something
before his stroke. Nobody ever found even the beginnings of a book
manuscript. Another explanation is that he grew lazy with age. He only
went to glitzy events in London after his New Zealand trip. This also
seems strange to me. Solander was hard working and he left a cartothek
and a large archive, but they weren’t complete. At any rate, here’s where
things get really interesting. A riddle, if you would. There was another
great gap in the artifacts he left behind. Every single educated person in
those days kept—“ Mikael made a dramatic pause. “—A diary.”
He paused to let his words sink in.
“Think about it. It was a natural part of everyone’s life. If you were
educated, you kept a diary. All the other disciples kept one. They also
wrote an incredible number of letters, filled with descriptions of all
their adventures, to their teacher Linnaeus. But the beloved disciple,
Solander, guess how many letters we have from him?”
“No idea. None at all?”
“Just one single letter. The Endeavor was anchored at Rio de Janeiro
during the fall of 1768, waiting for permission to resupply fresh water.
Solander wrote something along the lines of ‘Hello Father Genius, how
are you? I am fine. Bye for now.’ It’s at the library of the Karolinska
Institute. After Rio – not one single letter. Not a line!”
“At the Karolinska Institute?” Paul asked.
“Yes, I know. The Russian visited the Karolinska Institute the day he
died. Everything indicates he wanted to see that one letter with his own
eyes.”
“But isn’t there’s another letter that that girl…”
“Obviously,” Mikael said. “Since the Institute never raised the alarm that
theirs was stolen, she must have a second letter. Now can’t you see why
I’m so eager to see it?”
Silence resumed. Damn it all, Mikael thought. Now he must tell me where
we’re going!
“All right. Your turn. So where is she? Exactly! No more messing
around.”
Paul squirmed. “Well…”
He seemed to think again. “As I said, it’s not that easy. We don’t know if
she’s there. We only know the iPad sent a signal, today, when we were
by the department store…” He looked at his cell phone. “The iPad was
exactly fifty-three kilometers northwest of Skellefteå, between Jörn and
Arvidsjaur. The signal came from a private residence for about forty-five
minutes. It’s been quiet ever since. Could be it’s already been taken from
there, but I don’t think so. I think it’s still there, at that house. That’s
where we’re headed.”
Arvidsjaur, that’s so far north! Mikael thought.
More silence as Mikael drove on. The moisture thrown up from the
trucks froze on his windshield. He had to sporadically use the
windshield wipers so he could see.
“So, what’s all this have to do with you? Really.” Paul asked. “You still
haven’t told me the reason you’re interested in all this. I’ve told you the
magic word Skellefteå so now you’ve got to tell me what you’re up to.”
Mikael smiled. “O.K. Here’s the thing. I won’t talk about your iPad and
you’ll never mention what I’m going to tell you now.”
“Come on, we already had a deal!” Paul was getting irritated.
“Well, here’s the thing. If you were traveling with James Cook through
the South Seas and seeing all these fantastic new species, and you were
one of Linnaeus’s disciples, you would most certainly be writing a diary.
Wouldn’t you?”
“Makes sense.” Paul nodded.
“Yes,” Mikael said. “Yes, you would. Listen up. I was married once. My
wife’s family had a summer place on Lov Island, not far from Piteå. We
were there every summer with our daughter Rebecka…”
Mikael cleared his throat. Damn it all, why did I have to bring up her
name in the company of this sleaze ball?
“And?”
“Summer. Three years ago. There was a flea market at the local history
society’s farm. I like those flea markets. I know what to do, too. I go early
and look around a half hour before it opens – I talk my way in. This time
I saw a few dusty boxes beneath one of the tables. Books and old papers.
I had no idea what they were, but I like those kinds of things. ‘How much
do you want for both boxes?’ I asked the man behind the table. He said
the boxes came from an estate sale. Someone had cleared them from an
attic. ‘Hundred crowns,’ he said.”
Mikael slapped his hand on the dashboard. “’Deal,’ I said. I took them
home and began to sift through my find…”
He paused. “You probably see where I’m going with this.”
Paul was stuffing a handful of candy raspberries into his mouth. When
he’d finished chewing, he said, “The missing Solander stuff.”
Mikael nodded. “Some of it, at any rate. Much of it is still missing. It’s like
a jigsaw puzzle. First and foremost, I want to understand what
happened in New Zealand. Something strange. Something beyond the
ordinary. A big gap, but odd details.”
“And they are?”
Mikael paused, driving along silently for a moment. Do I really have to
tell him?
“You can’t leave me hanging,” Paul prompted.
Mikael sighed. “I could tell that there were missing parts. Somebody
must have taken sections of his archive already. On one of the sheets,
however, which was used as a cover, someone had written
Correspondence Linnaeus – Goethe. Dated two years before Goethe died.
Underneath was written Lapis Virgo. Sensational, in and of itself, as
proof that Linnaeus and Goethe wrote to each other.”
“But the letters weren’t there.”
“No they weren’t. But still!”
“And this, how do you say it, lapis…?”
“Lapis virgo. It means the Maidenstone.”
“So what’s a Maidenstone?”
“I have no idea. There’s much that’s really strange about this stop in
New Zealand. Near a beach named Anahuac Bay they visited a grotto.
What is written about that visit is, of course, imperialistic and
unpleasant. Solander writes about the behavior of the native
inhabitants. And there are other odd passages in his diary. I think it has
to do with this Maidenstone. Solander and Banks had brought a Swedish
artist with them, a man named Spöring. His job was to sketch everything
they encountered. Spöring died of dysentery on the voyage home.
Solander, also, had nearly died a number of times, and was even given
the last rites. But he recovered. He had a high fever with hallucinations
for an entire month when they were in Java. He survived that as well.
Anyway…”
Dear Lord, I can’t shut up! When was the last time I spoke to anyone about
this? Shouldn’t I keep some of this to myself?
“Spöring’s original drawings from Anahau Bay are gone, but Solander
sketched some of them, himself. They were among the papers I found in
that box. Sick stuff, let me tell you. They’d seen something…bizarre.
Spöring was trying to capture that in his drawings.”
“And so was Goethe on this trip, too?”
“Oh, no, of course not. Goethe and Solander didn’t know each other as
far as I know. Goethe was barely beyond adolescence when Solander
was out with James Cook. Still, it seems that Goethe, in later years, found
out about the Maidenstone, though how he heard about it is beyond me,
and he wrote to Linnaeus about it.”
“I don’t get it,” Paul said.
“Yes, well, what Solander describes in his diary about this grotto visit is
difficult to comprehend. He uses euphemisms. It’s obvious that he was
frightened by what he saw. His odd word usage concerns this lapis virgo,
but I’m not sure how. This lapis Virgo reminded Solander of something
Linnaeus had said about a geological find in a grotto on a small island,
the Blue Maiden. You know that island? It’s near Öland. People used to
think witches celebrated their Sabbath there. I once looked around
there, but I found nothing strange. Anyway, he has this unforgettable
statement: Lapis Virgo does not belong to God’s Kingdom. And perhaps
this might explain why they were all so afraid.”
“I really don’t get it. What was there to be afraid of?”
“When I read Solander, I get the feeling the stone gave him something
like vertigo. He wanted to let Linnaeus know the power of the stone, and
yet… not really.”
Paul thought about this a moment. “How do you know the papers you
found were authentic?”
“They’re authentic. I checked out the estate they came from. An old
eighteenth century house outside of Piteå, where Solander’s mother
lived out the last years of her life. This makes sense. Solander never
returned to Sweden, not that we know of at any rate, so he must have
sent some papers to her. Everything else had been willed to the British
Museum.”
“This is almost like Antiques Roadshow! So why’d he give his old mom all
those old papers?”
“Strange, isn’t it? Still, perhaps his mother’s house in Norrbotten was the
best place to hide them? She kept her mouth shut. Even a Swiss bank
can’t keep a secret for two hundred and thirty years!”
They grinned. Then had nothing more to say. They drove until they
reached Sundsvall.
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Mikael continued after a while. “If Spöring
and Solander found something in that grotto which threatened
Linnaeus’s Systema Naturae. It might cast doubt on all of Linnaeus’s
life’s work. At least, I have the feeling that’s what Solander thought. He
was afraid, that much is clear from what he wrote down. Linnaeus
hovered like a hawk over his discoveries, and he was a man filled with
vanity and pride. He had a nervous breakdown when a tiny, yellow
toadflax, linaria vulgaris, had a flower that didn’t fit into his system of
reproduction. Linnaeus believed that God had created all species at the
beginning of time, so when he discovered something that didn’t fit in, he
lost it. He called that poor yellow flower ‘the monster from Roslagen’. At
first he thought someone was mocking him by gluing together two
different flowers. Something about the stamen and pistils not being of
the same species. He said at the time, ‘It’s as if a cow gave birth to a calf
with a wolf’s head.’ We know now it was a normal mutation, but how
could he know that? If he’d thought more about it, or been just a bit
smarter, he might have postulated the theory of evolution before
Darwin. Instead, he blamed God to solve his problem instead of taking
the odd flower as a new starting point. I believe that Solander and
Spöring found something in New Zealand much worse than this toadflax
flower. Something that blaming God could not solve. That would be the
Lapis Virgo, the Maidenstone. It seemed to have scared the shit out of
them. And once Goethe found out about it…I can hardly imagine the
headaches that caused.”
“So what is this Maidenstone? It’s a rock, right?”
Mikael took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. A box in her purse, as
heavy as a gold brick.
“Honestly, I don’t know,” he said. “I have no idea what it really is.”
49.
Mikael rested his voice until Örnsköldsvik. By then, it was ten in the
evening. They pulled into a rest stop north of town, got out of the car
and walked beyond a picnic table before unzipping their flies to relieve
themselves. The night was calm with no wind. It was cold – Mikael
guessed, a few degrees below freezing – and it was pitch black in the
spruce forest.
An empty lumber truck rattled the highway as it drove past.
“I hate driving behind trucks,” Paul said randomly, then, “So, if I
understand this, you found some old stuff at a flea market and now
you’ve built a massive theory about Carl von Linnaeus and Solander.”
“And Goethe.”
“Yeah, and the old poet Goethe,” Paul said with a great deal of sarcasm.
“One thing is missing, though.” Paul zipped up and they exchanged
glances. “That is, you have to get me to believe you.”
Mikael shook off and zipped up. “So, you think I’m lying.”
“No, in a way, I do believe you. You’ve got too much education to be a
cop. And you’re too egotistical to be a journalist. But why should I
believe your theory? Where’s the proof?”
“Proof?”
“You’ve only got this letter that chick is running around with. Right?”
They kept staring at each other.
“Nothing more concrete than that,” Paul said, accusingly.
“So you think,” Mikael said. They’d reached the car, and Mikael opened
the back seat to pull out his duffel bag.
“That’s easy enough.” He pulled out the book from a plastic bag. “Take a
look. Here’s your proof.”
He opened the bag to reveal its contents. Paul took a good look.
“What’s that?”
Mikael kept his eyes on Paul as he slowly brought out the worn, leatherbound book.
“A little sensation. Daniel Solander’s travel diary from the New Zealand
expedition. Written in 1769. The original diary in his handwriting.”
50.
Paul had gotten behind the wheel.
They went on for an hour without a word.
The radio was on. Station P4 played Roy Orbison, Factory and the
Rolling Stones, while they munched the rest of the candy until there was
nothing left at the bottom of the bags.
Paul drove at just over the speed limit. The road was fairly dry, although
some drifts of snow covered it in patches. They’d already passed Umeå.
Mikael glanced at the clock – ten past eleven – and then closed his eyes.
He felt sleep creeping up on him.
He’d just started to drift off as Paul picked up speed. He was holding the
steering wheel with one hand with the iPhone in his other. He tapped it
with his thumb.
“We’re getting close!” Paul said, in an excited voice. He handed his
iPhone to Mikael. “Look, a hybrid picture from Google Maps. The point
in the middle there is the roof of the house.”
Mikael took a look at the greyish hybrid picture. A lone house with a
shed stood in the middle of a number of fields surrounded by tundra.
“That’s where the signal came from,” Paul said. “I just hope my iPad’s
still there! Keep your fingers crossed! It’s not so far – check it out!” He
gestured toward a highway sign. “Only forty kilometers until we reach
Skellefteå! Then northwest on highway 95. Just an hour and a half and
we’ll be there.”
Mikael stared at the roof of the house. “What kind of a place is it? I hope
it’s not a Hell’s Angels hideout.”
“Can’t tell, but I don’t think so. I checked the website hitta.se and the
owner is named Dolly Sjöberg. She doesn’t sound like a big Harley-
Davidson fan to me.” His grin was a mixture of relief and excitement. “I
bet we can get all this done before morning. And then it’s just…”
The tires screeched. Mikael was thrown against the side of the door with
his seatbelt like a band of steel across his shoulders. Paul had taken a
hard left. Mikael saw a huge animal in the middle of the road. A moose.
The car was spinning across the lane into the oncoming lane, losing all
traction. The moose seemed to huff and then walked away.
The engine had stopped. The Saab stood in the middle of the roadway.
The moose had ambled away.
“What the fuck!” Paul yelled.
Paul looked over at Mikael, whose face was bright red.
Paul then started the motor and slowly drove back into the right lane.
From a distance, they could see faint light from a streetlight. Paul drove
at a crawl until they reached a small intersection over which shone a
streetlight. Paul pulled into the country road leading into the forest.
“What the hell! Fucking moose! Where’d it go?” Paul kept yelling.
“It’s gone now, at any rate.”
They both swore for a while, taking deep breaths. Several cars passed.
Paul was trembling.
“What a hell of a scare! We could’ve been smashed if we’d hit it. Or if a
truck was coming from the other direction.” Paul was stammering.
Mikael’s pulse was pounding, too. “Why the hell were you going so fast?”
Paul didn’t reply. He put his hands over his face for a moment, but then
he said, “O.K. I’m sorry, already. I’m too eager to get there, that’s all. But
the car’s O.K., that’s the main thing.” He took a deep breath. “All right,
let’s get moving.”
Paul looked at his GPS map and then exclaimed, “But, goddamit, my
reflexes were sharp, weren’t they! You have to admit, I was quick! Great
reflexes! Something I’ve always had!”
Sure, sure, Mikael thought. Now you want praise to the skies right after
you almost got us killed.
Paul started the motor and looked in the rearview mirror. “I promise, I’ll
be more careful from now on.”
They pulled onto the highway, and Paul grimaced as he tried to shift
gears.
“What the hell is going on now?” He turned the wheel slightly and
downshifted and then tried to shift up again. “Don’t you feel it?
Something’s off.”
Paul tried to speed up, but then he had to slow down again and pull onto
the shoulder.
“I can’t steer the damn thing! There’s something wrong with the
suspension or the steering column. Too much stress from veering to the
side like that.” Paul hit the steering wheel with his palm. He glanced at
his iPhone. “Damn it! Damn it all!”
“But…” Mikael started.
“Sorry,” Paul said.
“You can’t drive it?”
“No. Not drivable.”
51.
Finally, after trying six different times, Mikael reached a towing service.
The driver, Jan, worked for a firm called Skellefteå Towers.
“You had some luck reaching me,” he said. “I was just about to end my
shift. But I’ll come get you. Where are you located?” His Norrland dialect
was thick.
Forty minutes later, Mikael and Paul were still waiting in the car, not
speaking to each other. It was just after midnight.
Insurance, garage, what a mess! Mikael thought. Fucking idiot, driving so
fast!
“Where’s that damn tow-truck driver?” Paul complained. “Call him
again!”
“Don’t worry. He said he’d get here as soon as he could. The most
important thing now is to figure out what to do next.”
“Well, that’s easy,” Paul said. “We get to Skellefteå, rent a car and go on
to this Dolly Sjöberg’s place. There we see what the situation is and
figure out how to get back to Stockholm. We don’t have any time to
waste.”
“So we’re just going to abandon my Saab in Skellefteå?”
“Sure. We can get it later.”
“And who will pay for all the damage?”
“Your insurance company, of course.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Well, let’s cross that bridge later.”
You were the driver, Mikael thought. Then again, would I have reacted
any better?
Finally, the tow truck arrived.
It was bright red with shining yellow lights on the roof.
They had to sit crowded together in the front. Jan laughed almost nonstop as he raised and lowered the volume on his radio. Finally, they
came to the edge of town.
“Boys, you sure did the right thing. A moose is a moose, and it’ll make
mincemeat out of you if you hit it. Oh, a rental car agency? Maybe at the
OKQ8 out by Klemensnäs. So you want me to drive you there? They
have a garage, too, but I imagine it’s closed right now. What time is it
anyway? Maybe the store is open.”
“Good, then we can rent a car immediately,” Paul said. “We’ve got to get
back on the road right away.”
The tow truck drove past a few streets and some roundabouts and
finally Mikael could see the gas station sign.
Jan pulled up into their driveway.
“Perfect. Now I hope they have a Fiat or something.”
A Toyota came out from behind the gas station. As Jan drove closer to
the entrance, they could see that all the lights were off inside the
building.
“Now, boys, you’ve really had a spate of bad luck!” Jan laughed heartily.
“He’s already gone. A Norwegian owns this gas station. Look, it closes at
one in the morning. I bet he was eager to get home. It looks like he left a
little too early. Who can blame him? Sorry, you’re going to have to wait
until tomorrow morning. They open at six a.m.”
“What a fucking boondocks! You can’t shut up before closing time!
Aren’t there any 24-hour gas stations?”
“Yes there are, but they don’t rent cars in the middle of the night,” Jan
said.
Paul gave Jan a sly smile. “You don’t happen to have a car we could rent?
Off the books? We really need to get where we’re going. I can pay you
well.”
“Sorry,” Jan laughed again. “The tow truck service doesn’t do rental cars!
And I actually have to get home to the missis, if you get what I mean,
she’s waiting…No, I can do one nice thing for you, though. There’s a bed
and breakfast in the center of town. It’s cheap and it’s clean, and all you
have to do tomorrow morning is take a taxi back to this Q8.”
“I guess…”
“And I’ll have to unload your Saab here in the parking lot. Hope that’s
agreeable.”
“That’s fine,” Mikael said.
“And here’s your bill. Credit cards are fine.”
Mikael sighed and took out his wallet. “Sure, of course. How much is it?”
52.
Mikael read the sign: Gruvan Bed and Breakfast.
He could smell the scent of soap as they walked up the front steps. After
making a phone call, a drowsy woman unlocked the door and handed
them a key to Room 12.
Jesus, was it just this morning I met this Paul guy outside Åhléns
Department Store? Mikael was walking up the stairs, his duffel bag
holding the diary and his clothes banging against his calf. Did we leave
Stockholm today? It seems like a week ago. So unreal. My head feels like it
will explode from exhaustion.
The room was clean. The beds were made up. They had a view of a
green plastic garbage container outside the window.
“Why don’t we just take a taxi to this Dolly?” Mikael asked.
Paul pulled the curtains closed. He lowered his voice.
“Too risky. A single house alone in the middle of the countryside, in the
middle of the night, and no way to get away again? No, no. And we don’t
want a taxi driver knowing where we went, either. He might tip off the
police, wondering about a strange trip in the middle of the night.”
Mikael nodded. Good thinking. Paul wasn’t a total idiot. Just a bit
disturbing.
“And,” Mikael said. “We can use the sleep.”
Paul sat on the bed. “Yeah, I know. We’ll get going again in the morning.”
Paul checked his iPhone. “No new signal. It’s probably still at the house.
Let’s go from that after a good night’s sleep.”
53.
A little light from a row of streetlights. Then darkness again, and silence.
Ida realized that the car was not moving. She looked out the window
and found that the car was parked in the middle of a grove of trees. She
could hear Lasse’s snoring in front. Dolly had her eyes closed as she sat
in the front seat with the rifle across her knees. The only point of light
shone from a cell phone tower far in the distance.
“What?” Lasse snorted awake. He nudged Dolly in the side. “Hey, you
were supposed to keep watch.”
Dolly shook herself awake and apologized.
Lasse muttered to himself. Dolly and Ida waited until his irritation was
over.
“How long until we reach Haparanda?” he finally asked.
“About forty kilometers.”
“And it’s…ten minutes to six. Have you heard from your contact?”
Dolly pulled out her cell phone. “Let me check the message. Here, he
says we should meet him outside IKEA at opening time.”
Lasse nodded. “So Haparanda has an IKEA?”
“Yep. A real tourist magnet.”
“Good. How much can we trust him?”
“Depends on how much you pay him.”
Lasse turned to Ida. “Let me see your thumb.”
Ida pulled the bandage half open and let Lasse take a look. She didn’t
want to see it herself.
Lasse’s eyes inadvertently widened and he took in a quick breath. He
tried to push the bandage in place again, but Ida pulled back her hand
and decided to face her fear.
The wound on her thumb seemed to bubble up with a pink layer of
slime swelling up and now running down her wrist.
Lasse swallowed. “Do you still have the ID Marina gave you?”
“Yes.”
“Right. We must get to the clinic. Even if it’s before it opens, someone
has to be there. Let’s go now and wait. The minute someone shows up,
you go in and register.”
“Listen, if there’s something I should know about this, please tell me!”
Ida said. “Did that seagull’s DNA get in it?”
Lasse shrugged his shoulders and cursed. He didn’t meet her eye. “Don’t
worry. We’ll figure it out. But you already know, this isn’t a normal
injury.”
Dolly started the car and they moved out of the grove and onto a lumber
road. A few minutes later, they made their way onto the highway. Fog
lay over the darkness of the road. In the rest of Sweden the sun would rise
soon – but not here. It will stay dark here until just before lunchtime.
Will this injury affect me like the young man in the Toyota? Lasse doesn’t
want to tell me because he doesn’t want to scare me.
“So this guy is good at smuggling people over the border?” Lasse asked.
Dolly reassured him.
So they were going across the border. How long would this trip take after
that?
We’re really leaving Sweden.
Ida watched as the hills gave way to flat land. They were heading
toward the coast, to Haparanda, and it wouldn’t be long now.
Institute for Theoretical Physics, Copenhagen
September 29th, 1943
Niels and Harald Bohr were sitting at their large, two-man desk, one on
either side. Niels had his unlit pipe in his hand and Harald had pulled
loose the knot of his tie.
Three opened boxes stood on the light-colored surface of the desk
covered in heavy leather. A doctor’s bag stood next to them.
Niels picked up a medal with the text ALFR. NOBEL and MAX VON LAUE
engraved on it.
“We’ll have to decide about this as soon as we can,” he said.
“When did it arrive?”
“Three days ago. Direct from Berlin. The Nazis are confiscating gold as
fast as they can. Sending gold out of the country is now treason. If Max’s
name hadn’t been on it…”
Niels reflexively glanced through the window, down to the light traffic
moving on Blegdamsvägen.
“It’s pure gold. If the Germans came now and found this, it would be
dangerous for Max, and for us.”
“I suggest we bury in in Carlsberg Garden.”
Niels thought a moment. “But what if someone catches us? And then
digs it back up?”
“Perhaps someone at the lab should melt it down,” Niels said calmly.
Harald had to agree. “But what about these?”
They picked up a pearl collar and some heavy cameos carved with Greek
mythological figures.
“No idea,” Niels said. “His inheritance? Or maybe they belong to his
wife.”
“And what about this?”
Harald picked up a dark gray stone. Sapphires were set into it, and a
shimmering pattern was inscribed on its hard, dark surface. He
examined it closely. “What an odd piece. Is it a work of art?”
“No, some kind of geological find. I find it interesting. Max’s wife said it
was radioactive.”
Harald drummed his fingers on the desk. “Why would it be radioactive?”
“I have no idea. I let Assistant Hammer do a preliminary examination. I
need to look at the results; I have the report here somewhere…”
Niels shifted the stack of papers on his desk, while Harald kept studying
the dark gray rock structure and its unusually clear sapphires. “Do you
know what kind of a stone this is?”
“Just a minute, let me look at the report,” Niels said, as he kept going
through the piles of paper. “Oh, here it is.” He began to skim through the
text.
“Did Max send a letter along with this?” Harald asked as Niels read.
Harald began to dig through the boxes without finding anything other
than packing material. Niels, meanwhile, had a furrow in his brow.
“It’s strange,” Niels said. “It is a unique kind of metal element, which,
according to him…”
He looked at Harald. “I have to study this more closely.”
Harald lifted the box the stone had come in. He weighed it in his hand.
“The box seems to be lead-lined.”
Their eyes met.
“You won’t have time to re-read that report,” Harald said, looking at the
clock on the wall. Almost four in the afternoon.
“And why not?”
“Gyth will be here soon.”
“That’s right.”
Niels sighed, and reluctantly replaced the report on the pile on his desk.
He put the stone, the medal and the jewelry back into their containers,
and then stowed them all in the doctor’s bag. He stood up from his chair
and got his coat from the coatrack.
“I almost forgot about Gyth.”
They said goodbye to the secretary and then went through the short
hallway to the door.
“I wonder what Gyth wants now.”
Outside the wind blew hard and clouds covered the sky.
They crossed the open square fronting the Institute and stepped onto
Irmingersgatan. They walked along for a while until they reached
Ryesgatan.
“We’re supposed to meet him in the hotel bar.”
They stopped by a newsstand and Harald bought a paper that they took
turns glancing through.
“Now it’s exactly four,” Harald said. Their legs felt slightly shaky as they
stepped inside the hotel. They headed to the bar, which was warm and
smelled of soap and sherry. There was no waitress. At a table close to
the wall, two men rose and came forward.
“Good day,” Gyth said. He shook hands. He had a bald head, and his
expression was one of determination. “Good of you to come. This is a
colleague from Stockholm, Captain Nyberg.”
The other man was broad-shouldered and tall. Gyth set a bank note
down on the bar and led them through the bar and out the back
entrance. A car drove up. Gyth moved to it and opened the back door.
Niels slid in behind the driver, Gyth next, and the others got in after
them.
“Meklenborgsgatan 45,” Gyth told the driver.
Quiet traffic, and little of it. The strong wind sent papers and still green
leaves rolling along the streets. They sat, saying nothing, just listening to
the even purr of the engine. At the large intersection of Amalienburg
Castle and the Botanic Gardens, German military vehicles were on
patrol, but they were not stopped. They reached the Amager District.
Outside a pawnshop, a group of yelling German soldiers beat a group of
young men in caps and simple cotton clothes.
“Look away,” Gyth said.
They kept on through the old-fashioned district, still silent, until they
reached the address.
Gyth looked up and down the street before he opened the car door for
Niels and Harald. The four men moved single file into a new office
building. They took an elevator and stopped two floors from the top.
Remaining quiet. They followed Gyth through the building to a fire
escape in the back, where they climbed up two more floors. Nyberg
opened a metal door and they found themselves on the roof of the
building.
They followed Gyth across the roof and up a small spiral staircase
leading to yet another roof, the one belonging to a building behind the
first. Gyth opened a door in that building and they stepped into another
elevator. Gyth smiled and nodded at Niels, as if to ask him to overlook
the necessity of this roundabout journey. They rode the elevator
straight down to the ground floor, and left the building. They were now
on Donaugatan. A black car drove up immediately, and they slid into the
black leather seats. Gyth did not give an address, but the Packard took
off without it.
They passed Nørrebro Park and, a few moments later, Bispebjerg
Cemetery. The taxi kept on north for some time without slowing until
they reached the narrower, quieter, tree-lined streets. They finally
stopped on Mylius Erichsenallé in front of the brick house at number 26.
“Be my guest,” Gyth said, as they left the car. They walked up the narrow
stone steps.
A man in a white coat and wearing glasses received them and
immediately shut the door behind them. He introduced himself as
Winkel. He asked Nyberg to go on into a room farther along with drawn
curtains. A large, over-stuffed armchair was placed in the middle of the
room.
“Sorry about the detour, but we had to be absolutely careful,” Gyth said.
“And, unfortunately, we are running out of time.”
Niels and Harald stood still as Nyberg threw himself into the armchair
and leaned back, mouth open. At the same time, Winkel wheeled in a
cart with a display of instruments and tools, most made of white metal.
He chose a narrow, chisel-like instrument and a small rubber hammer.
In a practiced move, he set the chisel on a lower molar in Nyberg’s open
mouth. He quickly struck the top of the chisel with the hammer a few
times. Then Winkel replaced those tools with a small, shiny pair of
tweezers. He worked those into the molar.
“Almost got it,” he said.
He pulled a tiny piece of metal foil from Nyberg’s tooth. Gyth opened a
small envelope and Winkel dropped the foil in.
“On to the next step,” Gyth said, motioning them to follow to a basement
door. As they walked down the stairs, Niels saw armed guards watching
both at the basement door and the front door as well.
The room they entered had typewriters and other office equipment,
even a microscope on a table in the corner. Gyth handed Niels a key ring.
“This came from London yesterday. Look at key number 213. It’s
specifically for you.”
Niels inspected the key. It didn’t look much different from the others,
except for being slightly thicker. Gyth handed the key on to Winkel, who
used a miniature awl to tap into a hole in the thick end of the key. Then
he led them to the microscope.
Winkel shook out a small, black square, no more than two millimeters
long, onto a clear slide. Next to it Gyth set the foil packet, manipulating
it with impossibly small tweezers. Inside the metal foil was yet another
black square.
Winkel put on a linen facemask and handed another one to Gyth.
“Whatever you do now, don’t sneeze,” he said.
Niels nodded.
Gyth and Winkel, carefully and steadily, placed the first square directly under the
microscope lens. After focusing in, they pinned the square with an almost invisible
nail onto the paper surface. Gyth asked Niels to look into the microscope.
Niels looked down through the black eyepiece to see fragments of an English text:
The
of
Physics
25th
1945
Dear Bohr I heard
way, you
country
not
considered
the
you
be
is
a
to
should
delighted
myself
again
can
scientist
world
more
both
I
to
would
university
Niels looked up at Gyth.
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand this.”
“Of course. There are missing words. It’s ultra-microfilm. Wait just a moment.”
Gyth and Winkel both bent over the microscope again and both held tweezers.
They swore, and started over.
Niels could hear the tick of the clock on the wall.
He could tell that the two men were trying to transpose the second small square
directly over the first.
Minutes ticked by.
Nyberg stood in a corner, looking out into space.
Finally, Winkel said, “We’ve got it.”
He stepped away from the microscope and took a deep breath.
Niels walked back to again put his eye to the eyepiece.
The University of Liverpool, Physics
Laboratories, 25th September 1943
Dear Mr. Bohr, I have heard in a roundabout
way that you have considered coming to this
country if the opportunity should appear. I need
not tell you how delighted I, myself, would
be to see you again; and I can say to you,
there is no scientist in the world who would be
more acceptable to both our university and the
general public. One factor which may
influence your decision is that you would
work freely in scientific matters. Indeed, I
have in mind a particular problem in which
your assistance would be of the greatest help.
You will, I hope, appreciate that I cannot be
specific in my reference to this work, but I am
sure it will pique your interest. I trust you will
understand the purpose of this letter. With my
best wishes for the future and my deepest regards to
Mrs. Bohr.
Yours sincerely,
James Chadwick
Niels could feel Gyth, Winkel and Nyberg watch him. Harald also observed him
closely.
“You certainly understand,” Gyth began. “Professor Chadwick is only an
intermediary. You probably understand who is behind this?”
“Of course. Mr. Churchill,” Niels replied and paused. “I assume.”
Winkel nodded.
“Yes, he would like you to come to England. And you will be given all the resources
you need for your research. He is glad to offer you this chance, and I have the feeling
you know the particular problem he’s referencing.”
Niels exchanged looks with Harald. “Of course. Nuclear physics. The atomic bomb.”
“We don’t know how far Hitler’s atomic program has come, so we must hurry. We
must keep one step ahead. You could be the heart of the English program.”
“I am aware of that.”
“So, have you thought of what might be your reply?” asked Gyth.
Niels asked for more time to compose his thoughts.
After a long while, he said slowly, “This is not the first time I have been asked this,
but my beliefs have not changed. I am needed here. In Denmark. I must help the
resistance here. It would look very bad if I fled the country. I would jeopardize many
of my friends. Many other Danish Jews would be terribly afraid if they heard I’d
fled.”
Niels and Harald looked at each other, while the others considered his reply.
“I understand,” Gyth said at last. “We respect your decision.”
“Would you like us to formulate a reply?” Nyberg asked.
“That would be fine.”
“Should we send it right away?”
“That would be good.”
“I’m leaving for Stockholm this evening, so I can take it with me,” Nyberg said.
Winkel sat down at the typewriter and nodded to Niels for his dictation.
“Dear Mr. Chadwick,” Niels began. “First of all, thank you for your warm invitation
and generous offer. Present conditions in Denmark preclude me from…”
“Car outside!” called one of the guards. “Be ready!”
Everyone leapt to the inner wall and Gyth, Winkel and Nyberg slid their weapons
from their holsters, taking off the safety.
They could hear the purr of a car motor as it slowed to a stop outside on the street
followed by the sound of voices near the entrance, almost directly above the spot
where Niels stood. The front door opened, and they could hear footsteps on the
floor above them.
As the sounds neared the basement door, one of the guards called, “All clear!”
Two armed men preceded a neat-looking man with well-combed hair, black suit and
dotted tie as they came down the stairs.
“Mr. Lindström,” Niels said, and held out his hand. “Good to see you.”
Mr. Lindström nodded at everyone else in the room. Apparently he knew them all.
“Mr. Bohr,” Mr. Lindström said. “Today we at the Swedish Embassy received some
distressing information that we had to bring to you immediately.”
“What is it?”
“The Germans have decided on a mass arrest of all the Jews in Copenhagen. Tonight.
They will also take over your institute and transport you and your family to an
unknown place. I am sure you understand what I mean.”
“The camps?”
Mr. Lindström nodded.
“Tonight?”
“We have warned you before,” Mr. Lindström said. “This is now the moment. Your
last chance. There is no time to lose.”
Niels glanced at Harald.
“What about our sons?”
“We will tell you more when we can.”
“And where is Margarethe?”
“I have both Margarethe and Ole in my car outside,” Mr. Lindström said. “We
stopped at the Institute on the way here and she was able to gather a few things for
you, the things she thought were most necessary. You will not be able to go back. We
have reason to believe the Germans already have it under watch in order to arrest
you.”
Gyth began to question Lindström about details as they all started up the stairs
together.
“We’ll drive you to Frederiksberg immediately,” Lindström explained. “The driver
will give you more information in the car. This applies to you and Ole as well,” he
added for Harald’s benefit.
Winkel opened the door for the guards to slip out and walk a few paces down the
street. They gave the all clear, and everyone then headed to a waiting Oldsmobile.
Niels slid in and hugged Margarethe, who was already inside. He looked down at the
little black bag by her purse on the floor.
“You took everything on my desk?” he asked.
“Everything I could fit,” she replied.
He hoped she’d included Hammer’s report.
She said, “You’ll have to check, yourself, later on, but I did the best I could on such
short notice.”
He nodded as the car started. Harald and Ole were jammed in the back seat beside
them.
They all said nothing as the car drove toward Fredriksberg.
Niels checked all the slight traffic they met at each crossroad. He ducked at the sight
of a German military convoy in the distance.
“Don’t worry,” the driver soothed on his way around a corner. “They didn’t notice
us.”
Onward they went. Niels sat quietly, holding Margarethe’s hand, and amazed that
the beauty of the autumn leaves could distract his thoughts as they whirled to the
ground in the wind.
The driver pulled to a stop when they were nearing Fredriksberg. He parked behind
some bushes near a small park. He turned around and said, “Follow Sødre Fasansvej
until you reach Sydhamnen and the individual garden plots. You will have come to
Musikbyen. Find Tudsemindevägen 568. Remember the house number, five-sixeight.”
Niels peered out the back window, but there were no German patrols in sight near
the park fountain and paths.
He repeated the house number to himself.
“What will happen to our boys?” he said, glancing at Margarethe.
“We know we must get your whole family out of the country,” the driver replied.
“Otherwise, the Germans will use them as hostages. We on the Swedish side will
help you in any way we can. I guarantee it. We will probably bring your sons over
tomorrow night on another boat. After all, Mr. Bohr, you are the most important and
we must get you out. There’s no time to lose. Good luck.” He reached back to shake
their hands. “Oh, one more thing,” he looked at Harald and Ole. “We’ll drop you off a
few blocks away, making it less noticeable. Tudsesmindevägen 568. Don’t forget.”
Niels hugged his brother and patted Ole’s shoulder. Then he and Margarethe
stepped out of the car and began to walk down Sødre Fasansvej. They soon passed
Søndermarken.
They chatted quietly about general things: the season, summer vacation, the
weather. A German tank drove past them. Niels adjusted his hat to block his face.
Once the tank was out of sight, Niels asked quickly, “Did you pick up the papers to
the left of this bag?”
“I think so.”
The Western Cemetery was visible in the distance when they turned onto a street
and could see the tall oak trees of Valby Park.
They went east on Toftegård Boulevard. The road narrowed with less and less
traffic. They passed a drunk pissing onto the plaster wall of a closed shop. Farther
along, a puff of wind brought the tang of the sea to their nostrils. They could see
seagulls just a few blocks away, spiraling on updrafts high above the roofs of the
Sydhamn harbor complex. They came to a long, narrow street lined with cottages,
and, as they walked along it, they saw that the cross street was Tudsemindevägen.
Margarethe asked nervously, “Do you remember the house number?”
“It’s 568.”
The artfully crafted cottages, with pine trees and juniper bushes between them,
thinned out the farther they walked. Many did not even have house numbers, but
when they reached ones in the five hundred range, they spotted a small brown
house with the number 568.
The wind had picked up and night was falling. They looked around carefully before
walking up to the front door and knocking. Nils glanced at his watch. It was six thirty
in the evening.
Harald and Ole were already inside.
“I was starting to get worried. You were taking so long,” Harald complained.
A man introduced himself as Lang. “I’m in charge here. A patrol of four Germans
passed by an hour ago, and I heard shots. The Germans have already killed many
local fishermen today, so I beg you, be very, very careful right now.”
The others in the cottage introduced themselves: Mr. Heiberg, Mr. Goldstein and Mr.
and Mrs. Buchtal.
A minute later, a knock at the door came from the four-person Schottländer family,
and a moment after that, a Mr. Klein joined their group.
Niels couldn’t help glancing at the black bag Margarethe had brought. I can’t risk
checking its contents here.
Half an hour later, Lang offered them herring, potato soup and bread. After that,
they simply waited, staring at the harbor from the front window. Their ears strained
to hear any unusual sound. Eventually, one of the men began to talk politics. Niels
turned to Margarethe, thinking to close his eyes for a moment.
“It’s almost time to go,” Lang announced. Abruptly the political discussion stopped.
Lang brought them one by one to the window to point out the exact route they
would take.
“In fifteen minutes you will leave in single file. We will all crawl over to the beach.
Mark well, crawl!”
Niels started to hum mindlessly to himself.
“I don’t have to tell you--silence is absolutely necessary.”
They arranged themselves in small groups and waited.
“Did you get Max’s medal?” Niels whispered to Margarethe.
She quickly opened the black bag and he saw the three jewelry boxes.”
“And the papers on the desk?”
She nodded.
“One of them was a report from Hammer.”
“I didn’t know that. I just grabbed what I could in the time I had.”
Niels and Harald’s eyes met and Niels nodded.
Lang came to their group and nodded toward the door.
One by one, with a few second intervals, Lang released them from the cottage.
Niels crawled right behind Margarethe. At first, the ground was dirt covered with
pine needles as well as pinecones, which hurt his kneecaps when he came down on
them. Then the ground became an uneven surface of dry, golden brown sand.
Thickets of sand grass grew along the low hills between them and the beach. Then
they were on the flat, cold surface of the beach itself. The sand beneath Niels’ hands
grew colder and darker, and he could soon see the edge of the water from where he
was crawling. Two flat, oval shapes bobbed at a short distance on the low swells.
He realized the beach was absolutely flat. They’d be visible from far off, even
crawling so low down. Fifteen people on their hands and knees at ten thirty at night!
And in our possession we have that report from Hammer!
As he kept on, he felt himself shaking. He hoped Margarethe didn’t notice.
They came to the edge of the water and then right on into it. When the cold water
rose too high, they were forced to wade. Soon, the water came up to their chests.
The sky above them was bluish black with a few clouds. Only two isolated gas lamps
shone among the shadows of masts and water cisterns that made up the dock. The
waves smelled of salt and rotting seaweed. They finally came to the two vague
shapes, rowboats, and a man in a cap and woolen sweater helped Niels and
Margarethe into one. The Buchtal couple was already huddled in it. Ole and Harald
came next.
Both rowboats were soon full and dangerously low in the water Niels thought. The
boats began to move with slow, but deep strokes of the oars. The man in the woolen
sweater rowed theirs while one of the young men in the Schottländer family rowed
the other. Niels could see no other vessels in the harbor, but as they slowly pulled
farther from the beach, for a second he mistook an unlit beacon at the Lygne dock
with the bridge of a German patrol boat. He twitched, and Margarethe put a
steadying hand on his shoulder.
The two rowboats moved south at a pace Niels estimated as at most four knots. To
the north, a few lights could be seen near Dragør. To the west, only dark beaches.
“No Germans,” the man in the woolen sweater whispered “… at least so far”. He kept
looking over his shoulder, forward, as he rowed without letup. Niels noticed the
pistol stuck in the waistband of his pants. “I watched them kill six good men today.
First they shot the boat apart and then the men as they tried to swim ashore.”
Niels kept holding Margarethe’s hand. They huddled close for warmth as the water
dripped off their clothes. The rowboat rose and fell in the small chop while the
water, itself, had an aluminum sheen. The clouds over the moon had shifted. It was
already waning, but there was still too much light. Harald and Ole were on the
middle thwart staring at the floorboards and shivering under a shared blanket. Ole
kept swearing to himself, muttering, “Damn…damn…damn.”
Now, several hundred meters from land, the sea grew rougher.
“There it is,” the man whispered. Far away, across the dark water, they could see a
larger vessel drifting.
After several more minutes, they got a better view. It was a fishing boat, with a
round stern, two masts and its name picked out in large black-and-white letters. As
they got nearer still, Niels could read the name in the moonlight: Ophelia.
On the aft deck, a short, bent man stood silhouetted against the moonlit night sky. A
beard covered his lower face and the visor of his hat shaded the rest. He inspected
them closely as the man in the woolen sweater whispered: “Lot 213?”
“Two-one-three. Sixteen forty-five.”
“Right.”
The captain cast down the rope ladder. The smooth bottom step of mahogany fell
into the water and when it was lifted into the rowboat, it shone as the water ran
through the rope’s four holes. Niels helped Margarethe to it and then followed her
up.
The deck of the ship was slippery, but a silver-colored mat had been placed near the
ladder. Their footprints left black outlines.
Once everyone was on deck, the captain counted them. And he started counting
again. Over and above the fishy scent, Niels smelled alcohol on the captain’s breath.
“Here are four people not paid for,” he said at last.
“Everyone has already paid,” the man in the woolen sweater denied.
The captain shook his head.
“We paid, we paid,” many of the passengers protested at once. Niels saw that both
the Schottländer family and Heiberg quickly showed handwritten receipts.
“Have we?” Niels whispered to Margarethe.
“I thought Lindström did,” she replied.
They looked at Harald, who shrugged.
Niels looked at the man who had rowed their boat, but he said nothing.
Then he stepped in front of the captain. “There must have been a misunderstanding.
The Swedish Embassy paid for the four of us.”
“No, they haven’t,” the Captain said. He seemed to have his ear cocked to the east,
listening for a sound over the water. “Pay right now or get in the rowboats back to
Denmark.”
Niels looked down at the bobbing rowboats bumping against the hull of the cutter,
and then away in the direction of Copenhagen. He could see nothing there. Spray
stung his face from the easterly wind.
“Hurry up and pay!” demanded Goldstein.
‘We have no money!” Margarethe said.
Everyone stared at them.
The man in the woolen sweater shrugged helplessly, speaking directly to the
captain. “Can’t you make an exception? This man is an extremely important
person…to all of us. He must reach the Allies as soon as possible.”
“We’re all important people!” Heiberg said sharply.
Harald swore and silent tears glistened on Margarethe’s cheeks.
“No exceptions. Eight thousand each. We have to go. Now. Will you pay or not?”
Niels and Margarethe looked helplessly at each other. Strings of her black hair had
come loose, and her eyes were hidden by her bangs.
“Wait a moment,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear.
She opened the black bag with a snap. The captain gazed into it.
Niels whispered into her ear: “Not the gold medal. That belongs to Max.”
She was fumbling among the jewelry boxes.
“What do you have in there?” the captain asked, and looked more closely.
“Come on, hurry up!” the others were grumbling.
The captain pulled out and opened a box. In it was the gray stone studded with the
sapphires. He gazed at it for a long moment, studying the jewels and the thin lines
etching the granite. “This is nice. I’ll take this.”
Niels quickly snatched up another box. “Look! There’s jewelry here, too! Worth
much more!”
He held up the pearl necklace.
“No. I like this one. If I get this, you’ll get your rides to Sweden. Otherwise, back to
Denmark. What do you say?”
The Captain pulled out a silver flask and took a long swig.
Niels could not reply. He felt everyone staring at him. He glanced back toward land.
“We have no choice,” Margarethe whispered to him.
Harald agreed. “We have no choice, Niels.”
They all nodded at the captain, who laughed a loud guffaw and pitched the stone
into a woven basket in his pilothouse. Niels could see the glitter of gold watches and
all kinds of jewelry in it.
“Under deck, all of you,” the captain ordered.
They called a hasty goodbye to the man in the woolen sweater, who was already
down in his rowboat tying the second rowboat to his stern. Then he began to row
back toward the land.
The captain started the engine, which immediately chugged to life. The cutter left
Dragør behind them as they headed east.
Niels saw that Margarethe’s face had broken into a sweat, and he moved toward her,
but the captain yelled to them to join the others below decks. “If the Germans find
you here…”
They climbed slowly down. The fish storage area was pitch dark and very cold. Niels
realized they were standing on a huge block of ice.
That stone, that strange stone, Niels thought. If only I had had a chance to read the
report.
“Huddle close together; you’ll be warmer,” the captain yelled down as he closed the
hatch above their heads.
They fumbled around in the darkness until they found some wooden fish crates,
which they sat down on.
Harald groaned, “What a stench!”
They could tell the cutter had picked up speed and begun to roll in the swell, which
seemed to get rougher and rougher. Then the motion of the boat smoothed out.
Niels thought they’d probably changed course to head straight east. They sat staring
into the darkness. Someone was crying; someone else rattled off prayers. Niels
promised Margarethe that he would never let go of her hand, no matter what
happened that night. He did his best to keep his sopping shoes above the surface of
ice. He could hear the bow waves splash over the droning of the engine, the gurgle
of water flowing under the hull and the vibration from the propeller directly
underneath. He closed his eyes and pictured the white crests of the bow wave
drawn like white chalk lines away from the cutter until they met the waves of the
sea, at right angles, until they finally petered out. After twenty minutes, the motor
stopped.
They strained their ears to hear what was going on above deck.
The hatch was moved aside. In the moonlight, Niels could see his companions’ faces.
They were all pale with chattering teeth and dark, wide-open pupils.
“I thought I heard a patrol boat,” the captain called softly down to them. “We’ll lie
low and drift for a while. Damned shame the moon came out.”
Everyone sat completely still. They listened to the water lap against both sides of the
boat, a bubbly, almost cheerful sound that reminded Niels of the stream flowing in
the middle of Copenhagen through the stone-paved gutter along Bredgatan.
Soon they all heard the sound of an engine coming up to the cutter.
Niels held Margarethe close and asked aloud how Harald and Ole were doing. They
muttered a reply. One of the others in the hold stood up. Another person wrapped
his arms around himself. Niels could hear their breaths quickening.
The pulsing sound of the other vessel grew louder until it pulsed right next to them.
More noise close by.
The Captain whispered as loud as he could: “Damn it! Germans! Keep absolutely
quiet!”
Niels plastered his body against the hull. His heart could not stop pounding.
Now he could hear how the boats had lined up, their motors idling.
Then voices on deck: Danish words, then German, then back to Danish.
“Sure! Hahaha! The Devil knows I have hundreds of Jews on board! Hundreds! What
else? And lots of fish as well, not to mention all the ice!”
“Where are you headed?”
“Bornholm.”
“I want to see what you’ve got in your hold.”
“Of course, of course. Here, first have a quick one on me.”
The German soldier’s footsteps stopped for a moment. Laughter above on deck. It
appeared everyone was enjoying the captain’s flask.
Niels had decided to force his body as close to any hatch as he could with
Margarethe right beside him. He noticed a foredeck hatch above Harald’s head with
a centimeter-wide gap at one end. He wedged his fingers in, ready to push it aside at
a moment’s notice.
“What the hell!” someone yelled on deck. Niels pushed the hatch to one side and
looked out just in time to see the captain raise his revolver. A glimpse of red fire
thrown against two figures right in front of him. A German marine screamed for just
a second before falling through the aft deck hatch. The captain had already whirled
around and fired two more shots into the patrol boat. One German grabbed his chest
and blood spurted from the other’s head. The cutter’s motor kicked into full ahead,
and the captain yelled as loud as he could as they sped away. Then he cast
something over his shoulder as hard as he could. Niels saw it land on the patrol
boat’s prow.
BOOM!
The blast was so violent it punched Niels backwards. A cascade of water rose into
the air as a simultaneous fire-yellow light flared across the surface of the water.
People below deck cried out and Niels yelled down to them.
“A grenade! The Germans are sinking! Don’t worry! It’s the Germans, not us!”
Niels climbed below again and saw the German’s body on the ice. His eyes were
wide open. A broken lantern lay beside him. Where his throat had been were only
gaping strips of flesh with blood flowing out.
Niels went back on deck even though Margarethe wanted him to stay with her. He
stepped into the pilothouse where the captain stood at the wheel. Far behind them,
the flaming patrol boat was sinking.
“Need help?” Niels asked huskily.
The Captain shook his head, but Niels saw how the man wept silently, and his hands
were blue-white from the chill.
Niels waited. He looked out to sea. The wind was now from the northeast and the air
seemed rawer. Their course was straight east. Niels couldn’t help noticing the
pattern of shifting parallelograms as the wake of the boat spread over the choppy
sea and disappeared.
“If we have some real luck, the alarm won’t go out for an hour or so,” the captain
said after a while. “Look that way. Can you see Sandholm?”
Niels looked to the north, where a thin, black line on the horizon indicated a shore.
“In just twenty more minutes, we’ll be closer to Sweden than Denmark. “
Niels kept an eye on the Captain even while the salt water whipped his face. The
captain held a steady course, the wheel firmly in his grip. The pistol on the console
before him glittered in the moonlight.
Niels whispered down to those below that they would soon be in Swedish waters.
“Wait. We’ve got the Devil’s luck!” the captain said, jerking his thumb aft ward.
Two vessels had appeared about a half a nautical mile behind them.
“The Devil take them!” cursed the Captain.
Niels stared at the two patrol boats as they rose heavily and then fell steeply back
into the waves, only to rise again, water rushing past their bows. On the fore deck of
the nearest, a marine was signaling with a flashlight.
“They’re faster than us,” the Captain snarled. “Hand me my gun so I can reload.”
Niels handed him the revolver. He stared ahead again as their own bow rose and fell.
The Captain kept glancing back.
“One gun is not enough. Do any of your friends below have any?”
“I don’t think so,” Niels replied. He saw the captain grimace a smile, but Niels still
asked those below decks. Mr. Schottländer had a large knife, but that was it. The
captain snorted. As one, the people below decided that, under the circumstances,
they might as well leave the hold and climb on deck.
“They’ll overhaul us in just a few minutes, my friends,” the Captain said. “What do
you want to do next?”
He found another bottle of vodka, which he opened at once and poured into his
flask. “Will you all just jump in the water and try to swim to shore?”
Everyone ignored his sarcasm and kept silent. Niels stared back, watching the two
German vessels churn the water into foam. New waves formed in front of their own
cutter, broke against the bow and, darkening, passed below the keel. The distance
between the two boats and theirs was shrinking steadily.
“Would you like to use this? I mean, you are such an extremely important person,
after all.” The captain held out the revolver with a sneering smile.
Niels weighed the revolver in his hand, glancing at Harald and Margarethe.
The German patrol was now just a few hundred yards away.
Niels headed toward the fore deck to see the burning red edge on the horizon and he
paced, keeping his eyes on the east. He kicked at a heap of lashed down creels. He
could now make out the Swedish coastline as a long bank of shadows with a few
glittering points of light.
Out of thin air a fourth vessel appeared straight ahead. It moved easily through the
lifting waves as its bow lifted and sank with a soft little corkscrew.
Niels ran back to the captain and he raised his glass.
“Aaah,” he breathed out. “The Swedish Coast Guard.”
He took another gulp. “Now we have a chance.”
All their eyes were glued on the Swedish vessel as it veered past them on the
starboard side and then circled behind both them and the two German patrol boats
now closing in on their cutter.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Look behind you, boys!” the Captain yelled and waved his pistol at the
Germans.
The two German ships lost speed, turned starboard, and let the Swedish Coast Guard
vessel pass by. Then they slowly circled away and began to head back west toward
Denmark.
“Go to Hell!” the Captain howled. “Devils! May the devil take his own! My friends,
we’ve had our share of good luck this night!”
The Swedish ship came alongside the cutter. A commander, standing on the bridge,
waved in greeting. Niels hugged Margarethe closely and felt her shiver. He, too, was
colder than he’d ever been in his life. He could barely feel his feet or his face.
The two ships kept pace with each other as the waves became calmer the closer they
got to shore. Dawn was breaking in a metal gray color. The water before them had a
swath of absolutely still surface.
“What’s the time?”
“Three thirty in the morning.”
Soon they were able to see the docks of a harbor. The Swedish commander let the
cutter precede him. The Captain announced, “This is Sweden. This is Limhamn
harbor. Not more than a half an hour from here is Malmö.”
The harbor was almost deserted at this hour. A few small boats were anchored.
The captain eased the starboard side of the cutter close to the low-lying dock and
tied up. The Coast Guard vessel came behind them and moored at the same dock.
As soon as his cutter was secured, the captain let down the gangplank. Niels and
Margarethe walked down first with the others straggling after. They stood close
together on the wet cement surface recently washed by rain. Two members of the
Schottländer family began to vomit, while Mr. Heiberg sank down in a faint. Ole
wanted a drink of water and a blanket. Niels noticed the blood on his palms where
his fingernails had been digging in.
Two people rode up on bicycles with platforms. They had brought a stretcher, and
carefully laid Mr. Heiberg onto it. Then they passed out shawls and blankets.
The Coast Guard commander came to Niels. “Please follow us. We have to check
your passports.”
Four Swedish soldiers had been talking to their captain. “That German is in my hold.
Dead.” The captain had been loud enough for everyone to hear. Two Swedish
soldiers then climbed aboard to check the hold.
Then they yelled back, “We’ll take care of him.”
The Captain waved a bottle of clear liquid and a bundle of Danish crown notes in
their direction.
“Let us go,” the Swedish Commander said, and Niels realized there would be no time
to thank the captain now. Uniformed soldiers surrounded them and brought them to
a small, dilapidated bus.
The bus followed a narrow harbor street up toward a highway. Niels looked back to
see the captain surrounded by soldiers, himself.
The bus did not go far. At the top of the hill, they were unloaded and brought into a
schoolhouse to process their identification cards. Niels told the commander that he
needed to contact a government official from the Swedish government or, at least, a
professor from the university in Lund. He also requested a way to take the train to
Stockholm as soon as possible. But he also wanted to talk to the Danish captain
who’d brought them over, a man who now appeared to be under arrest.
As they waited in line to show their papers, Niels looked out the window toward the
harbor. “We didn’t have a chance to show the captain our gratitude.”
Margarethe nodded in agreement. Niels could see streaks of dried saltwater on her
face and how gingerly she walked in her thoroughly soaked boots.
The policeman beckoned them forward to the desk.
As Margarethe looked through the black bag for her passport, she found a folder,
which she handed to Niels.
“Here’s what I found on your desk,” she said.
Niels leafed through the papers and found a smaller folder with the word Report
and underneath it: Hammer.
Here it was after all! The report on that stone!
“Thank you, Margarethe, my dear! How wonderful that this was among the papers
you brought. This contains information that might have the greatest importance.”
“Oh,” she said. She brought out the empty box that had held the stone. “The captain
should have taken this as well.”
Niels hefted the heavy, lead-lined box. He felt the weight, knew why there was lead
beneath the silk.
He looked back toward the harbor, where he could still see the cutter’s two masts
against the sky like two upright fingers. The waters of Östersund appeared as a
moving black field, with whitecaps glimmering in the moonlight, speeding in until
they reached and were broken on the dark beaches of Sweden.
“Yes, Margarethe,” he replied. “Absolutely. He should have taken the box as well to
keep that stone.”
54.
Dolly passed a roll of cookies around the car.
“I forgot to think of breakfast,” she apologized.
They ate the cookies.
“You know where the stone is,” Lasse said to Ida.
“Yes,” Ida replied.
Lasse stared straight ahead. “I never wanted to talk about this at all, but you really
ought to know. About the stone. I never thought I’d actually see one with my own
eyes. It still seems unreal to me. I’d seen only an old charcoal drawing of one. Alma
has told me about them, but I didn’t believe they really existed.”
Lasse took three cookies and stuffed them all into his mouth at once. He crunched
them, swallowed, and took a deep breath.
“Ten million dollars is way too little for what it is worth. People don’t seem to buy
them, anyway – they kill for them. And what the hell is the thing anyway? A gray
stone with an odd feather-like extension. Perhaps a piece of art? You’d have trouble
selling it to a geologist. But even a person like that would happily write you a huge
check with one hand and then shoot you in the head with the other so you couldn’t
tell anyone you had it.”
They were now driving through a small community named Sangis. People had
advent candelabras in their windows. Ida pressed on her thumb with her other
hand, and asked Lasse to continue his story.
“That stone was first called the Linnaeus stone in the eighteenth century. Carl
Linnaeus was given one, and he kept it a long time. I imagine one of his disciples
gave it to him, most likely Daniel Solander. Linnaeus gave it the name Lapis Virgo or
the Maidenstone. There’s evidence that he actually disliked this stone – it did not fit
his schematic of life on earth, his sorting of everything into flora, fauna or mineral.
Lapis Virgo could not be classified. At the end of his life, Linnaeus secretly gifted the
stone to Count Gustaf von Paykull, who had a collection of Sweden’s natural
phenomena. Count von Paykull’s donation of his entire collection it formed the basis
of the museum we now call the Natural History Museum of Stockholm. Transporting
all the material to the new museum was a huge undertaking. Stuffed kangaroos and
parrots, snakes, calves with two heads, a number of boxes with unusual minerals; all
this turned into a long parade from Uppsala to Stockholm. People were terrified and
believed it was magic – they’d never seen a donkey with stripes, that is, a zebra,
before in their lives. At any rate, the Lapis Virgo never made it to Stockholm.
Somewhere along the line, it was stolen, and it vanished. Somehow, it got to Lobov,
and he’s had it for a long time. Nobody else knew, except for Alma, perhaps. She did
hint once that he might possess it. It had been in Russia for over a century until
Lobov brought it out and gave it to you.”
Ida wanted to ask a question, but she didn’t know how to form the words. The city of
Haparanda was now looming before them in the gray dawn light with the Torneå
River winding its way through the valley. The original bell tower rose over the
entire community with the church, a mix of church and industrial plant with a
corrugated tin roof, stood beside it. At the very bottom of the valley, the Bay opened
into the Baltic Sea.
Lasse turned in his seat to look at Ida. “.”
A sign warned that the E4 highway now came to an end.
Ida asked, “How did Alma know Lobov?”
“Ask Alma. I don’t know. Lobov had many aliases over the years. He met Alma
during the war. Alma never wants to talk about those years--it’s always been a
sensitive topic for her. That’s all I know.”
A new road sign pointed to the center of the city, and, as they drove, more signs
popped up: Library, School, Clinic.
Lasse looked at his watch. Then at Dolly and Ida. Then suddenly his eyes squeezed
shut and he began to weep so hard his body shook. Ida didn’t know what to say.
“I am afraid,” he said at last. “I’m afraid of how serious that wound will turn out to
be.”
He leaned over the seat and took her hand.
“Nothing must happen to you. That damned bird!”
Dolly patted Lasse’s shoulder.
“It doesn’t hurt,” Ida said uncertainly.
“Demand a broad spectrum antibiotic,” Lasse said. “That might give you a fighting
chance. Amoxicillin, for example.”
Ida repeated the name of the antibiotic under her breath.
“Keep your head down. Ask for a prescription and then leave as soon as you can.
We’ll wait for you in the car.”
Ida glanced at the clock and saw it was six thirty in the morning. Dolly was pulling
into the parking lot.
When she turned off the ignition, they sat silently together in the car for a few
minutes.
Lasse bent his head as if to pray.
“One more thing about the stone,” Lasse said at last. “This is only one of four.”
He looked her in the eye. “Three more are still out there.”
55.
Ida waited silently in the car until a short woman with glasses, pudgy under a fake
fur coat, walked toward the entrance. She took out a chain with a key card on it.
“So,” Lasse said. “Off with you now. Try not to catch anyone’s attention.”
Dolly smoothed Ida’s hair a bit and nodded. Ida got out of the car and walked toward
the woman.
“Excuse me, please, I have a cut in my hand that needs to me looked at.”
The woman looked at her and said in her singsong dialect, “We open in fifteen
minutes. Come back then.”
“Please, it hurts so much.”
Ida held out her thumb and the woman glanced at it. Then she nodded and swiped
her card. The electric doors opened and they stepped inside. On the right wall was a
sign for Urgent Care. On the left, one for Maternity Care. The clinic was larger than
Ida had imagined. The nurse switched on all the lights.
“So,” the nurse said. “How long have you had that? It looks infected.” She went
behind a glass wall and put on a white overcoat.
“A day or two…”
The woman took off her boots and slipped into white clogs. She looked at a wall
schedule and said, “We have Doctor Magnus Käll, who could probably work you in
before his first patient. In about twenty minutes.”
“That’s awfully kind of you.”
“Go on and sit down in the waiting room.”
Ida walked into the empty waiting room. A slightly withered collection of Christmas
plants stood on one table and a heap of children’s books on a shorter one.
The nurse was on the phone. Ida saw her glance over to where Ida was sitting, but
when the nurse saw her watching, she turned away with a smile.
The nurse hung up and said to Ida, “Magnus is running late. Would you like some
coffee?”
Ida glanced out the window to see the Volvo with its lights off and in the darkness
she could not make out Lasse and Dolly.
“Tea if you have it, please,” Ida replied.
The nurse soon came to her with a plastic mug and a yellow tea bag.
“Your name please?” the nurse asked.
Ida thought quickly. “Marina. Marina Selo.”
“And your identity number?”
Ida rattled off the number. She hoped it sounded natural, as if she hadn’t recently
memorized it.
Ida saw a man come into the building. He sported a ponytail, white doctor’s coat and
a round belly. He looked sleepy. The nurse, who had her name badge now in place--
Margot--excused herself and walked back to the reception area. She said something
to the doctor, but Ida couldn’t hear what she said.
“It’ll be your turn soon,” the nurse said over her shoulder to Ida. “Magnus will be
ready in a moment. Just stay seated, please.”
Ida looked out again. The parking lot was still the same.
But there was something in the way the nurse spoke.
Something in the way she said, “Just stay seated, please.”
She watched the nurse and the doctor interact. They were gesturing and whispering.
“We’ll be ready for you soon,” the nurse said again, smiling to Ida.
Her smile was unusually wide.
The nurse was nervous.
Ida asked, “Excuse me. I need to use the bathroom.”
Nurse Margot pointed down the hallway.
“It’s right there, but…”
“Thanks,” Ida got up and went through the doors into the hallway.
She found the bathrooms, but passed them by, turning a corner and beginning to
run.
There was another hallway, and some examination rooms where the lights were still
off. Through one of their windows, she could see a police car driving silently up to
the entrance of the clinic.
Damn! They’re on to me!
She heard someone call her fake name.
A double glass door in front of her. She pushed it open.
A ramp beyond the exit. Two elderly people were walking up the ramp. Ida looked
aside as she rushed past them.
Another police car, coming into the parking lot from the other direction.
She ran out into the cold and dark. She ran across a snow-covered parking lot
between two low buildings. The clinic, behind her now, blocked her view of Dolly’s
Volvo. She came up to some larger business buildings, built in the seventies, and
stumbled through the snow as she rounded the corner of one to see a loading dock
with an open door.
She didn’t hesitate a moment, just ran up the steel stairs, took a deep breath, and
then strode calmly into the loading area.
It was a large, dry warehouse space with two young men in a discussion. She saw
that wine and beer cases were on the pallets being stacked. She pushed between
two of the stacks and crouched down. A stack of Lapin Kulta boxes was on her right
and another, decorated in red and green, was on her left. The red and green boxes
proclaimed Enjoy our glögg this Christmas!
Ida couldn’t hear what the two men were talking about.
Another sound, the roar of a motor.
A forklift was moving through the warehouse and it turned into the aisle where Ida
was hiding. Ida stared at the two forks sweeping close to the floor and up straight
into the eyes of the young man in the driver’s seat.
The young man opened his mouth to say something…
“Hello! Did a young woman run in here?”
The young man jumped down and walked back to the entrance. Ida was blocked in.
She could see the bluish beam of a police car sweep circles through the building. She
pressed her body to the wall behind her.
“What’s going on?” the driver of the forklift asked.
The other men came up to the entrance, too.
“A young woman. Looks a bit ragged. Someone saw her running this way.”
“Nope, haven’t seen anyone!” this was the driver.
A moment later, the sound of a patrol car driving off.
The three young men walked back in.
“Wonder what that was about?”
“No fucking idea.”
“Whatever.”
They went on into the employee rest area. Ida did not move.
How am I going to sneak out of here?
What if the police are right around the corner?
“Hey, you.” It was the forklift driver. He edged past the forklift toward her. He
carried a red hoodie and a cap and handed them to her.
“Get going. The police are gone.”
She shrugged on the hoodie and put on the cap. “Thanks. But where should I…”
He looked behind him. The other two were not in sight. “I’ve helped you enough
already. Get lost.”
Niels Bohr
Niels Henrik David Bohr was a Danish scientist. He was born on October 7th, 1885
and died on November 18th, 1962. He was the son of Christian Bohr, a professor of
physiology at the University of Copenhagen, and Ellen Adler Bohr, who came from a
Jewish financial family. In his youth, Niels was goalkeeper on the Academic soccer
club, one of Denmark’s elite clubs. Niels’s brother, Harald, was his best friend
throughout his life. Harald also played soccer and was part of the Danish team who
won the Silver medal at the 1908 London Olympics.
As a young man, Niels Bohr already excelled in research, and while still a student at
the University of Copenhagen, won a gold medal from the Natural Sciences
Association in 1907. His doctoral thesis was completed in 1911 and dealt with the
electronic theory of metals. After that, he moved to England and pursued research
with J.J. Thompson and Ernest Rutherford. Bohr further developed Rutherford’s
model of an atom, and using quantum mechanics, Bohr was able to create his own
model, the so-called Bohr Atom. This model was one of the greatest achievements in
nuclear physics and important in the development of modern physics as a whole.
In 1916, he was granted the title Professor and in 1920 he became the director for
the newly created Institute for Theoretical Physics in Copenhagen. In 1922, he
received the Nobel Prize in Physics for his work on the Bohr Atom.
During Bohr’s leadership, the Institute became a worldwide center for nuclear
physics. Prominent physicists from all over the world came to discuss the field with
him. When Denmark was occupied by Nazi Germany in 1940, Bohr fought to keep
control of his Institute. But because his mother was Jewish, he realized that his life
and those of his family were threatened. In October of 1943, they were able to flee
Denmark, in a dramatic fashion, with the help of the Danish resistance movement.
From Sweden, he was smuggled out of Stockholm to England and then to the United
States, where he joined the Manhattan Project. Franklin D. Roosevelt had just
created it in Los Alamos, New Mexico, to work on the atomic bomb. Due to strict
security regulations and his importance to the project, Bohr worked anonymously.
His work during this period was signed Nicholas Baker.
Politically, at the same time Bohr worked with Franklin D. Roosevelt and Winston
Churchill to promote the free exchange of scientific research and a U.N. limit to
atomic proliferation.
Niels Bohr is seen as one of the most prominent nuclear physicists of his generation.
The element bohrium is named after him.
Source: Den store danske leksikon, Gyldendal and ab-fodbold.dk
56.
It was hard to walk over the frozen crust of snow, which had hardened with a
porous layer of snow underneath. Ida passed between some apartment buildings
and up a small hill, from which she could spy on the clinic.
She saw only two police cars. One was a squad car. The pudgy nurse was between
two police officers, gesturing in several directions.
That betraying bitch! Ida thought.
She surveyed the roads, the viaduct over the highway, and the large tree decorated
for Christmas in front of an exclusive mansion: all of which were on the other side of
the hill. Everywhere lights punctured the December darkness: headlights, bus stop
lights, streetlights. But where was Dolly’s Volvo in all this?
She moved on into a residential area. Beyond a major highway, between black and
white townhouses, was an enormous blue building. Spotlights illuminated four huge
yellow letters on its façade.
IKEA!
Of course!
She looked around and saw a father holding hands with two children, lumbered
with backpacks, just ahead of her. She ran to catch up to them, and then walked
close by as if she belonged to their group.
The only reasonable conclusion is they’re waiting for me at IKEA. We were supposed to
meet the trafficker when IKEA opened.
When the father and children turned left onto a footpath, Ida stepped aside and
hopped over a heap of plowed snow. She followed a snow-covered path through a
dark grove. Yellow marks of dog pee spotted the white snow.
On the other side of the grove, she came to the arterial and had a clear view of the
blue IKEA building.
I wonder if Dolly’s Volvo is there already?
It’d be stupid to park in the middle of an empty parking lot, especially with the
police on the lookout.
She sank behind a granite boulder long since left by a glacier.
What if someone with a dog comes here?
She decided to move back into the grove of trees, away from the path and crawled
under a spruce tree with branches sweeping to the ground.
I’ll just wait here until IKEA is open with lots of cars in the lot.
When does IKEA open? Ten?
She stared up through the branches and sighed. How am I supposed to pass the time
sitting beneath a tree?
She went through the pockets of the hoodie. Just a crumbled cigarette butt and two
empty condom packets.
She patted her own clothes. The case of the Maidenstone was still hidden in her bra.
She pulled it out, feeling some fright and yet unusually calm. She made sure the
clasp was secure, and then looked up to the sky.
She hadn’t seen any of those outlandish birds here in Haparanda.
Just a second look. No more than that. What would it matter – nothing matters any
longer.
She opened the lid and the stone shimmered slightly as it caught the light reflected
from the snow beneath her.
The Maidenstone.
She touched its surface and studied the fernlike growth. The grove was silent. She
could hear the pulsing vibration coming from the light of the sapphires. Its shifting
color was indescribably beautiful. She didn’t think before she took the stone up and
held it between both hands. It was warm. She hunkered down, unmoving, with the
stone in her palms. It seemed to give off a vague, scentless mist and electric impulses
just as she’d seen it do before.
Miranda, you will never get this stone from me!
She quickly set the stone back in its case and then tucked the case into her bra.
IKEA will open soon. Before long, I’ll be in the back seat of Dolly’s car again, I just have
to hang in there. I only have one hundred minutes to wait.
57.
Ida took a short cut over a field. Not far from the IKEA warehouse, she saw a long
line of cars backed up near a stop sign with a boom and some red lights. CUSTOMS
with written on the largest of a number of low buildings. Two policemen stood on
each side of the boom. The line of cars moved slowly through.
Beyond the customs buildings was a bridge over a wide river. A spit of land jutted
into the river on its other side with a house and forested land beyond as far as the
eye could see.
Finland.
Half of the IKEA parking spots were already taken.
Where oh where is Dolly’s Volvo?
RV’s and cars with trailers were in the lot, most of them registered in Finland,
although some were Russian. In one of the jeeps, an entire family was eating
breakfast crowded into the front seat.
Farther along, she finally found a Volvo Combi sheltered by a short roof jutting from
the building and the stand for shopping carts. With caution she walked slowly
toward it. There were no police cars nearby, just BMW’s, Audis, VW’s and Volvos.
How can I tell which Volvo is hers? What was her license number?
She couldn’t remember, but she walked confidently up to the passenger door and
glanced inside as she put her hand on the handle. She saw the empty package of
Singoalla cookies and opened the door to get in.
There was nobody in the car.
She looked around the interior. No one in the front seat. No note stuck on the
windshield. No bags.
Have they left me behind? Gone on without me?
Or am I in the wrong car?
But there was the pine tree air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror.
No, this must be Dolly’s.
She lay down on the back seat and held her hand on the stone’s case under her
clothes. Her thoughts darted back and forth. Tears were coming, but she held them
back.
Lasse! Where are you? You can’t desert me like this!
A noise outside the car. Dolly opened the driver’s door, got behind the wheel and
closed the door while muttering, “Did anyone see you?”
“I don’t think so,” Ida replied.
“What happened at the clinic?”
Ida told her the whole story.
“We had to drive away when we saw the squad car. When we got here, we left the
car to avoid suspicion.”
“Where’s Lasse?”
As she asked the question, a van with a food cart attached behind it rolled up to the
right of the Volvo. Ida turned away so the driver could not see her.
“Don’t worry,” Dolly said.
She turned to rest her palm on Ida’s cheek. “I don’t know when we’ll see each other
again. But good luck wherever you go.”
Ida was still for a second and then looked again at the food cart behind the van. It
looked like a hot dog stand on wheels.
“Get going, now,” Dolly said.
A small door on the side of the hot dog stand was slightly ajar and inside Ida caught
a glimpse of Lasse’s face. She checked to make sure she’d left nothing behind, and
then slid out of the car and into the food cart.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Shh!” Lasse said. He pointed behind him to a miniature kitchen, and then closed the
door. “Hurry up!”
58.
Lasse got down on his knees inside the food cart.
He handed Ida a bottle of fresh-pressed orange juice and a white pill.
“To calm you. Take it so all this isn’t too much for you.”
I’ve heard that before, Ida thought.
Still, she swallowed the pill and let the ice-cold orange juice slip between her teeth
to sieve out the pulp. While she drank, Lasse opened a trap door beneath the sink.
He pulled up a flat with bottles of dishwashing liquid and then eight bags of pita
bread and hot dog buns. Ida looked at a sign taped to the wall: Gyros 50 crowns,
Falafel plate 70 crowns, Skagen roll 60 crowns, Kebab 55 crowns, Langos (choose
flavor) 50 crowns…
So what’s this all about?
Lasse pointed down to a dark space beneath the floor. It looked pretty narrow. A
beam that seemed part of the suspension system was exposed. Lasse was already
climbing in until only his head was above the trap door. He told her it could be
opened again if absolutely necessary.
This is not going to work, Ida thought, but she still got to her knees to align her body
with the trap door. She could see nothing but Lasse’s shoes. The food cart began to
move. The van was pulling out of the parking space.
“Hurry up! We’ll be at customs in just a few minutes!” Lasse said from inside the
space.
She tossed the bread bags into the space and set the flat of dishwashing liquid by the
sink before she let her feet down through the opening.
“You’re standing on my face,” Lasse said.
She managed to squeeze her whole body into the area beneath the floor. Lasse slid
the trap door lid in place, and there was no light anymore.
The space smelled of sweat, oil and something rank. It was cold. Ida was laying head
to toe next to Lasse’s tall, square body. They could hear the puttering of the engine
in front of them.
Ida tried to accept her situation just as it was, but she felt as if another person were
experiencing it all.
“What’s that awful smell?” she whispered.
“Rotting meat,” Lasse said. “He’s smart. He’s trying to fool the dogs.”
“Dogs?”
“The custom’s dogs.”
Ida started to tremble. Countrywide search. It was so hard to reconcile the
concept—she was the target.
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“Jukka, I believe.”
“No fucking way,” a voice filtered back from in front of them. “My name is Mikkola.”
It sounded like it came from a tiny speaker. “You should be fucking happy that I’m
here to save your asses. We are going to be at the gate in about thirty seconds, so
shut the fuck up! When I talk to you again, you’ll know you’re safe.”
The voice stopped. Ida tried to figure out where the speaker was placed. Lasse
whispered to her to keep still.
The van had come to a stop. They could hear idling engines.
We must be in line.
The van moved forward and stopped again and again.
Ida noticed Lasse had begun to breathe more quickly, but was doing his best to take
deep breaths.
“I’m trying to avoid a panic attack,” he whispered.
She heard the sound of steps outside the vehicle. Voices.
The sound of a dog sniffing.
The steps went around the food cart, coming closer and then moving away again.
Then a thud right above them.
They’re inside!
Ida heard the tapping of dog claws close to her head.
Then: a bark.
“Johan!” the voice of a female. “She’s found something.”
The dog barked again. Ida heard it snuffling loudly. The space between her head and
the dog’s nose was almost infinitesimal. She closed her eyes and imagined the dog’s
wet nose above her face.
“Yeah, this guy’s been through here before. Take him to the side.”
She heard the officers and dog leaving the food cart.
The van started again, and moved slowly forward.
“Don’t say a word!” Mikkola whispered into the speaker as he parked the van.
More steps into the food cart, booted steps. The dog, sniffing and barking again.
People opening and shutting cupboard doors. The dog barking.
“Damn, it stinks in here,” a voice said. “So what do you think? Should we rip the
thing apart?”
“What do you say, Göran?”
A third voice, right above them.
“We probably should. This guy Mikkola is a common thief. We took him in for
smuggling last year – alcohol. I don’t know…if we do a thorough search, we will find
something. I’m sure of that. What’s the dog signaling? Alcohol? Cigarettes?”
“Just general suspicion. Maybe drugs.”
“It sure stinks of rotten food.”
“Is there room to smuggle a person here?”
“Well, hard to tell. Ronja, girl. Person. Find Person.”
The dog barked.
But horns were blaring from the line behind them.
“Oh, what the hell. Whatever he’s smuggling, we’ll catch him next time. We’re
supposed to be looking for a girl on the run, and I doubt very much that our pal
Mikkola has anything to do with her. Let’s focus on the main job right now.”
“So we’ll just let him through?”
“Yeah, but warn him that the next time he comes through here, we’ll turn this cart
inside out. We have our eyes on him. Let’s go. The line’s getting long.”
The booted steps walked out of the food cart. The door closed. The dog barked one
last time.
The van started its engine. They were on the move again.
They rolled through the gate and up onto the bridge over Torne River. The sounds of
traffic, moving freely.
“We’ve still got the Finnish dogs on the other side of the bridge,” Lasse whispered.
“Keep still.”
The van moved along, then slowed down. After a moment, it picked up speed again.
They drove for a long time now without swerving or stopping.
“Well,” Lasse said. “It seems the Finnish side was open today.”
He groaned. The smell was becoming unbearable. Ida was also starting to feel
nauseous.
The van was slowing. A turn, then another turn. Then a stop, and the engine cut out.
They heard the door to the food cart open, and then the trap door.
A face with a scraggly, gray beard loomed over them. Pilot glasses and a yellow cap.
“Welcome to Suomi, you fucking Swedish landlubbers.”
59.
Mikkola had parked on a forest road down from the highway. He’d gone to stand at
the side of the ditch to pee while drinking a bottle of Coke.
Lasse was looking around. They could hear the sound of traffic above them.
Lasse patted Ida’s shoulder. “We made it! We got out of Sweden in one piece!”
They hugged. Then Lasse took up a bit of snow to rub his face.
They were breathing in relief. Lasse shook his head. “What a trip! Mikkola said our
next stop is Kemi in order to gas up.”
They couldn’t help smiling at each other.
Then Lasse’s face darkened. “Let me see your hand.”
Ida held out her hand, thumb up.
They looked at it and then at each other.
Ida shook her head. Where the wound had festered, nothing more than a small scab
remained.
“What happened?”
Not a trace of an infection remained. There’d be nothing but a scar once the scab
was gone.
“What did you do? It’s all healed up. Did you get something from the clinic after all?”
“No.”
“Then what did you do?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I didn’t do anything.”
He looked at her thumb again and then into her eyes.
“We have to get on the move!” Mikkola called out. “Get your asses back into the food
cart and let’s get going!”
60.
Lasse and Ida sat on the floor of the food cart with their bags lined up neatly on both
sides. As the van with its cart drove along, they could hear the hum of a motor
running smoothly. They were passing coastal towns.
Lasse spied the iPad as he checked the bag closest to him.
“We might be able to use this,” he said. “You were able to use it, weren’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Do you know how long a fjärdingsväg is? Or an aln?”
“Not offhand. Those distance measurements haven’t been used in centuries. Why do
you need to know?”
“You’ll see.” Lasse was able to connect to an open network and went onto Swedish
Wikipedia. He searched both fjärdingsväg and aln. Then he turned off the iPad.
“We shouldn’t use up all the batteries if we can help it,” he said.
A few minutes later, Mikkola drove into a gas station and tanked up. Then they
headed out of Kemi. They traveled for a long time on what seemed to be smaller
roads.
Lasse pulled out a folder from inside his plaid shirt. “This holds the secret to the
river pearl mussels. Lobov’s letter might help us find something absolutely
amazing.”
He sat for a while, his fingers playing about his mouth as if he were trying to smoke
an invisible cigarette.
“We need money,” he said at last. “We need money to reach Alma. And to pay
Mikkola. We need a great deal of money.”
He paused. “Mikkola is on his way to the Christmas Market in Rovaniemi. He’s going
to drop us off there. But I don’t have enough money to pay him. Do you?”
“I have a couple of five hundred crown bills left. Three at the most.”
“That’s not enough,” he said. “Take a look at this, though.”
He opened the folder and showed her a photograph of a collier with a long row of
pearls.”
“Remember what I told you about the stone?”
“Come on, I’m sick and tired of hearing about it. And I’m exhausted.”
Lasse gave her a stern look.
“Ida, listen to me! We’re right in the middle of something odd and terribly
dangerous. I’m not sure we’ll even survive. Exhaustion means nothing.”
He paused to let that sink in before adding, “And we need money to go on…”
“All right, I understand.”
“So. Remember what I said? Linnaeus was afraid of the Maidenstone. It was outside
any system. It seemed to be both alive and a mineral at the same time. He kept
trying to solve the problem, and, finally, he came up with an interesting idea.”
Lasse took the two letters and held them up to the light above the grill. All the
elegant writing reappeared, but Ida had no energy or interest in reading them.
“Linnaeus wrote a letter to Solander. And Solander wrote a letter to Linnaeus, after
his visit to New Zealand. Between the two we should be able to understand what
they were thinking. This old Swedish is not the easiest to understand, but I’ll do my
best: ‘All at once, the beach was covered with mussel shells. Some seemed to be
over one hundred years old. We also found many traces of fire pits, as well as names
and dates carved into a half-dozen misshapen Gorr pines. People of previous years
traveled deep into Lappish territory, to Ounasjoki River, to search for the precious
pearls…’”
“Right, I know that,” Ida said. “I still don’t know why it’s so important.”
“Wait, wait, let me go on. ‘For three days we studied the nature of these mussels.
They are hard to see with the eye, as in nature they are often covered with slime and
water plants. They keep to the shadow of a Stone deep in the bottom sand, where
little light ever reaches them. Only a few of these mussels are gifted with pearls, not
even every sixtieth mussel, and of those with pearls, only one of ten is at all useful.
The rest are misshapen and discolored. However, we were not there to harvest
these mussels, but to sow…’”
Lasse opened a bottle of pear drink and took a sip.
“Listen carefully, now, Ida. ‘By Ounasjoki River, exactly one half fjerdingsweg and
three hundred alnar upstream from the Gorr pines, Nature invited us to a seemingly
hidden place especially given for such purposes as to situate the placement of such
Treasures such as the Object that our friend has given to us. In situ beside a cleft
hiding a giant’s kettle beneath the moss, where only a weak beam of the Almighty’s
Light can reach, we have now fertilized the Margaritifera M. Now may God’s Wrath,
which never awakens, be fruitful and multiply!...When we found this tiny and
tempered Specimen, by close studies of its rings, we found it to be one hundred and
twenty years old. My Hypothesis: this Mussel, growing in darkness, is little but
mighty, just as the tundra birches enduring the Cold and Poverty of the people of the
Finnmark turn gnarly but elderly…Our Mission is thereby concluded! Pray that the
Lapis Virgo never again troubles Our Age and may the Future be able to mature to
such knowledge whereby this virginal Monster may be tamed…’ Ida? Are you
listening to me?”
“Not really,” Ida said.
Lasse shut the folder with a snap but continued. “Remember, this was a different
era. They had a different understanding of nature. Linnaeus knew about the great
number of mussels in this part of Scandinavia. He secretly sent Solander here to
seed many of them with fragments of minerals. Linnaeus believed that the
Maidenstone was a result of a natural process that married both animal and mineral
worlds. The answer to his question was…” he opened the folder again and held up
the picture of the pearl necklace. “Mother of pearl!”
Ida took a bottle of apple juice and opened it. She felt slightly more interested. “Do
you really believe Linnaeus thought that an animal and a mineral could grow
together?”
“I don’t know if he believed that or if he were trying to recreate the conditions from
which the Maidenstone arose. Perhaps all he wanted to do was test a hypothesis.
The point is, he asked Solander to implant a wide sampling of minerals into mussels
from this cave in northern Finland. One of the two sites they tried, Raunajärvi, was
probably plundered sometime in the Nineteenth Century. But the other remained
unknown for two hundred years because Solander’s letter had been hidden--in plain
sight! Thanks to Lobov, we now know what no one else has ever known before.
Didn’t you understand when I read the letter to you? Ounasjoki River, from the
grove of Garr pine trees with inscriptions on them, you walk one half fjärdingsväg
and three hundred alnar upstream … really explicit directions! Lobov figured out
where to find the letter and he handed it to you! Amazing!”
Ida tried to collect her thoughts. “So, you say we might get some money from pearls
in old mussels?”
Lasse lowered his voice. “At first I thought that Solander had used only small pieces
of mineral to stuff into the mussels, but what if he used something else? Look here.”
He turned the letter over and read further. “’The Collection of Objects you sent me
for the Purpose you described impressed everyone in our company and of course
the beautiful Treasures dazzled all since, for the most part, all that can be seen in
these parts are Firs and Spruce and endless horrible dry Mosses in the simplest
variations. The specific Objects filled with God’s Wrath which you, Honored
Archiater, gave me to carry out your purpose, created in me such Wonderment
combined with Fear, as they showed the Serpent’s Mouth all too clearly to witness of
it, and its holy Power is, to us mortals, extraordinarily poisonous, and, in the deepest
Depths of darkness it may…’”
Lasse eagerly looked at Ida. “Isn’t it absolutely fantastic?”
“I don’t get it,” Ida said.
Lasse lowered his voice. “I also don’t know what he means, exactly. But I doubt he’s
referring just to minerals. ‘Small objects of metal.’ ‘Valuable treasure.’ Perhaps he
meant jewelry?”
“Oh!”
“I’m just guessing. But why did Solander write those words? And as for God’s Wrath
and the Serpent’s Mouth, that sounds extremely interesting.”
“God’s Wrath,” Ida said. “Lobov used those exact words at the Nobel Party.”
“He did? What else did he say?”
“I don’t remember exactly, but he must have meant something...”
Lasse thought a moment. “I’m not as well read as Alma. I wish we could reach her!”
He muttered a curse under his breath and reread the letter. “The treasures…let’s
start with them. What if that meant, say, jewelry, for instance?”
Ida shrugged.
“Perhaps they were pieces of jewelry. Perhaps from…Russia?”
“Why would they be Russian?”
“Well, just a few weeks before he sent Solander to Finland, Linnaeus had received a
present from Catherine the Great of Russia. Probably mostly bulbs and seeds
representing Russian flora; undoubtedly plants were involved. But what if…this
other thing, the object in this letter having to do with God’s Wrath and the Serpent’s
Mouth. I hardly dare imagine what it could be.”
He began to ponder his questions again, but Ida interrupted him. “I still don’t get it.
These metal fragments, jewelry or not, would they even be around today? Solander
was there centuries ago!”
“Why not?” Lasse asked. “River pearl mussels can live for hundreds of years. If
Solander planted the metals late in the eighteenth century, most of those mussels
could still be alive. Ounasjoki is not far from here. I’ll ask Mikkola to detour on the
way to Rovaniemi. Ounasjoki River is northwest of Rovaniemi, and we can take
another way back afterward. We’ll have a chance to find out more if Mikkola drives
us there. What was this special object? And if we find a few pieces of antique
jewelry, too, well, more’s the better. We can live on any money from that for a long
time and just keep moving so the police can’t find us. We have to get to Alma in
Moscow.”
“Can’t we just call her? Use Mikkola’s phone?”
Lasse thought a minute. “Yes, we do need to phone as soon as we can. But not with
Mikkola’s cell phone. I don’t trust him completely. When we get to Rovaniemi, we
can use a telephone card.”
Ida nodded. “But why do you think there’s money from the mussels?”
“Well, there’s no guarantee. Perhaps there’s something there, perhaps not. Perhaps
the mussels are all gone. But, if I’m right and we find antique Russian jewelry, just
imagine what they’d be worth today. Antiques from the Eighteenth Century. Perhaps
worth a small fortune nowadays. Just imagine yourself a Russian oligarch who
wanted to impress his darling Anosia.”
Lasse laughed then. “At least, that’s the only idea I’ve come up with. Do you have a
better one?”
Ida slipped the case from under her clothes. “We could get a few million dollars on
this!”
The color drained from Lasse’s face. His jaw clenched. “Ida, know this right now and
never forget it. If you show that stone to anyone, or try to sell it, you’ve just kissed
your life goodbye.”
61.
Mikael woke up and found himself still dressed.
Next to him, lying head to toe, Paul, also dressed, was snoring.
What time is it?
Mikael got up and looked at his cell phone. Ten thirty.
Ten thirty in the morning!
He opened the curtains. It was completely dark outside.
How could we have slept so long? We have to get going!
He shook Paul awake. Paul groaned and then checked his iPhone. He sighed, and
disappeared into the bathroom for a shower.
“So what’s next?” Mikael called through the bathroom door.
Over the sound of streaming water, Paul called back. “Go to that gas station and get
breakfast there.”
“I also have to call my insurance company.”
“You do that.”
They checked out of the Gruvan Bed and Breakfast.
“Well,” Paul said. “Old Gruvan had us in its clutches for too long.” He tossed their key
into the wooden box inside the door. “We have to get on the road.”
They walked over to the closest Pressbyrå newspaper and magazine stand, where
an elderly lady directed them to the taxi stand. Ten minutes later, they were
climbing out of a freshly washed Mercedes by the OKQ8 gas station in Klemensnäs.
Mikael began to inquire about the repairs needed on his Saab while Paul demanded
to know about rental possibilities.
“One at a time,” the gas station owner said. He had a neat part down the side of his
head. “All I have is a Ford Fiesta. You can have it until ten p.m., but then it must be
back.”
“Great! We’ll take it,” Paul said.
Mikael was on the phone to his insurance company, on hold and listening to the
recorded message about how many minutes he had to wait, while trying to pay
attention to Paul.
“Oh, and how much for one of those?” Paul asked. He was pointing to something
behind the counter.
Mikael concluded his call as Paul paid for a bolt cutter.
They had bought premade shrimp sandwiches and drip coffee from the gas station
and were now in the Ford Fiesta, starting down Järnvägsleden in the western half of
Skellefteå.
Paul gave a crooked smile. “Good thing you’re driving. Check out the map. Follow
Highway 95 northwest and we’ll be at the house in no time. It’s right off the
highway.”
They saw that Järnvägsleden merged with Highway 95 as soon as they left the city.
Traffic was light. They were slowed behind a striped city bus, but were able to pass
it after a red light. They sped up after they left the city and now cruised along at a
good speed.
Mikael glanced at the car’s clock. Twelve thirty.
“Yes, we’ll be all right,” Paul was saying. “We needed the rest. And now I have a bolt
cutter. We don’t know what kind of people we’re dealing with. I have no qualms
about breaking into the house if I have to. I think we’re only about eight kilometers
away…”
PING.
Paul stopped. “Hear that?”
He pulled out his iPhone. “It is my iPad! A new signal!”
He studied it a minute. “They’re not there any longer! The iPad has been moved!”
His face darkened.
Mikael looked over at Paul and decided to find a place to pull over. He saw an empty
bus stop and pulled in, while Paul kept staring at his iPad screen.
PING!
“Look! The iPad’s moving! It’s in Finland!”
Mikael saw that the little red dot on the screen move slightly.
Paul said, “It’s on the road to Kemi. I imagine they’re heading south.”
“So we’ll drive to Finland instead. We’ll have to turn around and take the Coast Road
to the Finnish border.”
“No, wait.” Paul kept looking at his screen. The signal had stopped.
He gave the phone an instruction, but the signal was gone.
They waited a few more minutes, but the signal did not return.
“Well, it’s gone,” Paul said. “Fuck this!”
They stared out the windshield into the darkness of a northern winter day.
“So what do we do now?” Mikael asked. “Go to this Dolly’s house after all?”
“Too risky. She might warn the people who have my iPad. We have to come up with
a new plan.” Paul bit his lip as he thought. “First of all, it’s not even in Sweden any
more. It’s in Finland. I think this means the girl still has it. If I were in her shoes with
the whole country looking for me, I’d get out of Sweden as fast as I could.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“And, it’s heading south! If you enter Finland via Haparanda and go south, where are
you headed?”
“You mentioned Kemi.”
“After that.”
They studied the atlas. “If they’re driving down the coast, they could be heading
anywhere. Uleåberg or Vaasa or maybe even Turku.”
“And after that?”
“Hard to tell.”
Paul went from his iPhone to the atlas and back again. There were no more pings.
“I have an idea. If we drive to Haparanda now, that’s five hours. And if the iPad is in
a car, as I think it is, they will always be five hours ahead of us. Unless they stop
somewhere. But we can’t know that. Think about the Finnish landscape. The iPad is
going to keep heading south, right?”
“If you say so.”
“Look here. Northern Finland is nothing but forest and lakes. They hardly even have
any roads up there. All the towns are in the south, so the iPad will keep going south.
Damn, I wish we’d get one more ping just to be sure.”
Cars passed them as they sat there.
“So, what was your brilliant idea?” Mikael asked at last.
“Well, I don’t know about brilliant,” Paul said.
Minutes passed and Paul kept studying the atlas. No more pings. Paul seemed to be
calculating distances.
“Well, fuck, it might work,” Paul said.
“So tell me already!”
“Yes, well, I checked Skellefteå first and they have no ferry.”
“So we’re taking a ferry over?”
“See here?” Paul put his finger on the atlas. “Here’s Umeå. A ferry leaves today at
15:30. It heads over to Vaasa. Takes about three hours.”
Paul looked up into Mikael’s eyes. “So, by taking the ferry, we’re no longer chasing
them from behind. We drive north from Vaasa to meet them. We’ll save time and
they’ll be coming right to us. This depends on whether the iPad is really heading
south, however. And that’s just my theory.”
“What about the rental car?”
“We’ll leave it at the OKQ8 in Umeå. They’ll take care of it. And we’ll just have to
worry about your Saab later. What do you say?”
Mikael didn’t know what to reply.
“Come on, we have to take the bull by the horns or we won’t have a chance!”
62.
Ida had been sitting for a while, not saying anything.
They could hear the sound of tires on the road beneath them.
Lasse was still talking. “I need to talk to Mikkola about this. We need to make a
detour by Ounasjoki River, and there’s a good route from here. I just need to get a
better map and figure out an explanation so Mikkola doesn’t get suspicious.”
Ida stared straight ahead.
That idiot Linnaeus. Why, oh, why did Alma have to care about this?
They’d driven south for about two hours.
Mikkola stopped at a gas station in the middle of the forest where a bit of daylight
could be seen through the trees.
Mikkola had used the restroom before Lasse took the opportunity to talk to him,
then they drove on.
Half an hour later, they stopped beside a lake with a rest area. Mikkola got out of
the van and came back.
“Time for lunch,” he said. “How about some langos?”
They ate inside, microwaved langos: butter, meat and cheese.
“So what’s with all this shit you have with you?” Mikkola asked, gesturing at the
bags.
“We’re moving,” Lasse said with a smile.
“All right. None of my business.”
They kept eating.
“So, when do I get my money?” Mikkola asked.
“In Rovaniemi.”
Mikkola pulled a vodka bottle from his jacket pocket and began to reminisce about
his life. He was from Kiruna, in Sweden, an ethnic Finn born in Sweden. He’d had
son, who died in a car accident. His daughter had disowned him and now lived in
Narvik with the son of a doctor. Once, a friend had betrayed him to the tax
authorities. Other former friends had stolen from him. His wife had left him.
He then fell silent, got up and unfolded a bed from the side of the food cart.
“In case anyone wants to take a nap.”
Ida had been given a blanket and was now resting on the cot, while Lasse and
Mikkola studied a map. Mikkola had found a chocolate cake, and was offering Lasse
a swig from his vodka bottle. Lasse took it, though Ida felt he just pretended to
swallow, and refused a second sip.
After discussing the route for a while, Mikkola folded up the map.
“Time to get going,” he said.
“I’ll sit up front with you so the girl can sleep,” Lasse said.
“Sure.”
The door closed behind them. Ida heard the engine start. They were on the move
again.
Small country roads. Badly plowed. Potholes. It seemed never to end, and Ida was
thoroughly shaken where she was lying.
Jesus. I’m all alone, lying on a cot in a food cart – in the middle of Finland.
63.
Mikael found himself at a window table in the Moonlight Dance Bar on the ferry
Wasa Express, one of the few seats with a view outside. Little girls in pink princess
outfits were playing in the middle of the otherwise empty dance floor. Speakers in
the bar were giving out bland dance music. People were rushing up, claiming seats
with their jackets and heading on to the buffet tables. Near the keyboard corner, a
poster read: Musique Quiz Tonight 19 hrs. At the DJ corner, a different poster said:
Klubb Galaxy – Mischa Daniel’s Scandinavian Album Tour feat. J-Son & Sandro
Monte.
In the next booth were four men in their mid-twenties, all with snuff under their
upper lips.
“What kind of chicks do you think we’ll get tonight?” asked one of them. “I bet we
have our pick of the thirty-year-olds. Sex guaranteed!”
Mikael glanced at them and snorted. What had poet Gunnar Ekelöf said in the
sixties? Sweden had been Americanized in a German way.
All these horribly tasteless ferries. Identical throughout Scandinavia. Pickled herring
and poached salmon. All the fat-filled food. Greasy sausages, kept lukewarm on the
buffet tables. All the vomit on the decks. The horrible bachelor’s parties. The gangs of
girls with their small town haircuts. The ferry boat itself: you could never tell if it was
actually moving. It rumbled and vibrated, and all of a sudden the archipelago was
sliding past one way and then another. The ferry slowly zigzagged and then, you
arrived.
I want to see where we’re going. I want to see someplace that reminds me of Jävreholm
and the small gray rocks of Bondö Bay south of Lill-Räbben. We were a family then,
that summer in Piteå, a complete family. A small, whitewashed vacation cabin, a baby,
and my woman Johanna. How we both despised all the luxury sailboats and yachts
gliding past us in the archipelago.
The bow and the lower decks were illuminated by spotlights. He had trouble seeing
what was outside, but he did catch sight of beams from two lighthouses in the
afternoon twilight.
That summer, yes. Even though our relationship seemed to be built on our mutual
contempt for such things, and even if later everything went to hell; oh, yes, that
summer we were still in love.
Paul came up with two beer glasses.
Mikael gazed at the beer. How long has it been since I was drinking? Two years?
“Wow, what great atmosphere in this bar,” Paul said sarcastically.
They chuckled and Paul sipped his beer. “Well, no more pings, but here we are. We
just have to hope that this is the right decision. We might as well relax and maybe
take a nap. Though I wouldn’t mind if you told me more about Linnaeus.”
Somewhere a beer glass crashed on the floor. So it begins, Mikael thought as he
looked up. Alcohol and bad food mixing in stomachs above a 28,000 horsepower
engine vibrating beneath us. Not to mention all the duty-free boxes of chocolate and
Finnish green jellies. Tomorrow morning, underpaid Russian cleaning ladies will be
hosing all the vomit from the decks...
Stop! Stop! Your thoughts are wandering again! Pay attention! Focus!
Paul stroked his iPad with his thumb and mentioned that the reception was worse
the farther they got from the coast. A pale young girl wearing a Winnie-the-Pooh
sweatshirt started to hang from the back of Paul’s chair.
Ugly clothes. Mikael thought. Branding kids. Rebecka would be this kid’s age now.
He stared at the girl. She has no clue.
He bared his teeth and growled, “Perkele!”
The Finnish swear word made the girl scream and run away across the dance floor.
The men in the next booth laughed.
Mikael was still looking past Paul’s shoulder when he noticed a woman in the
company of two others. She was watching them. Her black hair curled to her
shoulders and she wore red-framed glasses. Her expression was serious as she
studied them, then he turned to her friends and started to whisper.
God, I hope they don’t try to pick us up, Mikael thought. Please God, no!
Mikael ignored them, taking up his bag and unzipping it. He noticed Paul watched
him closely.
“So, here it is,” Mikael said. He took the book from its plastic protection. He lifted
away a dried ox-skin ribbon, which once had been attached to the back of the book
to wind it closed. It had come off and now lay loose in the plastic.
“Let’s make sure we don’t get any beer on this.”
He opened the cover and then slid the book toward Paul. Many loose papers lay
between the yellowed end pages.
“This is Solander’s original diary.”
Paul flipped through a few pages. “It’s hard to read.”
“Yes. They had very different handwriting in those days. But when you get to this
part…”
Mikael took the book back and turned a few more pages. “Take a look here. He’s
describing what they found in a grotto by Anahau Bay. Between the lines, you can
sense he’s afraid. Frankly, he was scared to death by what they’d found.”
“That Maidenstone again?”
“Of course.”
“Just what is it?”
“No idea. That’s one of the questions I need an answer for. I have to get that old
letter.”
Paul drank more beer. “Here’s the thing. I understand you’re curious and all about
that flea market find, and, yeah, I get it that you want to know more. But why write a
book about it? Why not just, like, call somebody and get a reward or something? Call
the Linnaeus Museum, for example.”
“Because,” Mikael said, wondering how to express himself clearly so Paul could
understand, “Because this is unique material! This is absolutely stunning! I just need
a bit more for my book and this letter will help.”
“Well, why don’t you just make up the rest? Writers make up stuff all the time.”
“No, not these days. People don’t read imaginary literature any more. It’s not
fashionable. Most of my colleagues just write about themselves. Or their parents.
Straightforward, nothing left out. No filters, no censorship, no imagination. Just
reveal everything to turn us all into voyeurs. And we’re not even ashamed of that,
either. Or we write about famous people and all their secrets. We become parasites
on their sex lives. That’s all people want these days. Old fashioned literature with
fantasy and imagination? No. If I want to write something acceptable, I’ll have to use
historical material that nobody’s heard about before. Yet many of our famous
Swedish figures have already been exploited: Carl Mikael Bellman, August Palm,
Poul Bjerre, Esaias Tegnér, Lewi Pethrus, Ingmar Bergman, Tycho Brahe, Greta
Garbo, Ellen Key, August Strindberg, Selma Lagerlöf, Siri von Essen…it never ends!
But there’s no big, fat book on Carl Linnaeus. And who’s even heard of Solander? I
have this unique source material and nobody will steal this from me to write a book
of their own, the way it’s been done with other old, dead Swedes...”
“Excuse me, hello! Do you remember me?”
They looked up. The woman peered down at them through her red glasses. She put a
hand on Paul’s shoulder.
“Uh, sorry,” Paul said. “You must be confusing me with someone else.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. You were at a medical conference in Umeå two years ago. I was
a nursing student doing my practical at the local hospital. We met at the Corona!”
“What’s that?”
“A nightclub!”
Mikael thought the woman seemed very upset.
“Sorry, no.”
“So you don’t remember me at all?”
“No, I don’t.”
“You don’t.” The woman frowned at him then wheeled around and went back to her
friends.
“Hey, do you know her?” Mikael asked.
“Oh no,” Paul looked back over his shoulder. “No idea who she is. Crazy people
everywhere these days.”
Paul flipped back to the beginning of the book.
“Look here,” Mikael said, pointing to a page where a palm tree had been drawn. “See
the date?”
Paul studied the elegantly written numbers. “1768. Fuck, that’s old.”
“Can you believe that Solander once held this very volume?”
“Fucking unbelievable.”
Mikael realized he’d been sipping from his beer glass – damn, damn it all! I’m not
supposed to drink!
He stared down at the amber bubbles as he realized the alcohol was reaching his
brain. I feel strong and capable today, and I’m thirsty. I won’t get a panic attack, no,
not today.
He took a big sip and then swigged the rest of the beer.
“Hello, again!” The woman with her curly hair was back. Her voice had changed,
seemed more assured. Mikael could smell the stink of alcohol on her breath. “You
still don’t remember me?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Your name is Paul. Right?”
“That’s correct.”
“I knew it was you! Know what you are? A fucking pervert turd, that’s what you are!
I’ve hated your guts for a long time! Do you remember why?”
Paul’s cheeks flamed red. He didn’t answer, just looked down at Solander’s book.
The woman’s two friends had come to stand behind her. They both had bleached
hair with black roots. A clear class marker, Mikael thought. They probably have
tattoos down their backs as well.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” Paul said. “So you know my name. So what?”
“You’re a fucking rapist, that’s what!” One of the women shouted. “Shut up and
listen, you asshole! Go on, Elin, give him hell!”
The first woman seemed suddenly awkward, seemed to search for words as tears
began to run down her face. She collected herself, raised her voice, and began to
shout so that everyone in the bar could hear her.
“This man here is named Paul! He is a perverted rapist! He puts Rohypnol in your
drinks! Then he’ll rape you and take pictures of you! He uses the photos to
masturbate, but let me tell you, his cock is thiiiis tiny!”
Everyone, even the children, was staring at them in silence and only the canned
music could be heard.
Paul got slowly to his feet. He looked out over the crowd and spoke in a loud, calm
voice. “I have never seen this woman before in my life! I hope I never have to see her
again, either!”
His words were clear and his voice was balanced. The young men at the next booth
chortled.
“I hope you burn in Hell!” the woman shouted. She picked up Paul’s beer and tossed
it in his face. One of her friends jumped forward and grabbed Solander’s diary.
“Hey!” Mikael yelped, leaping to his feet.
“What’s in here? Porn? I think I’ll just toss this overboard!”
“What the hell? That’s his book! Not mine!” Paul shouted.
The woman laughed and turned to run. Mikael tried to grab her, but the other
women blocked him.
“Hey, give me back my book! That’s mine! I don’t have anything to do with you and
Paul!”
Mikael heard the desperation in his voice. The other women shoved up close, but
after looking into his face, they decided to let him go.
“Wait, Anna!” they called. “Come back with his book!”
But Anna was out of sight. The door to the portside deck had shut behind her. Mikael
ran with Paul behind him, and behind Paul, two security guards.
64.
The deck was slippery. A cold wind slapped them in the face. The ferry had reached
open sea.
Anna was not in sight. Hurriedly Mikael tried to tell the security guards what had
happened. The woman was a thief. One guard charged up a metal staircase while the
other ran toward the bow. Paul rushed to the stern.
Mikael felt paralyzed, his heart pounding.
The book! I need to get my book back!
The woman with the red glasses came up to him. She now seemed calm.
“How are you?” she asked.
He couldn’t answer. He looked from one side of the deck to the other.
“So it was your book?”
“Yes, and that man Paul is not my friend.”
Mikael felt his knees weaken. A panic attack is coming on. I can feel it. I shouldn’t
have drunk that beer…
“Hey, I’m really sorry,” the woman said. “Anna does stuff like that sometimes. She
doesn’t think.”
Mikael could say nothing.
“Was the book important?”
“Important?” Mikael looked straight into her eyes. He felt a tunnel of light open
before him, heard his own troubled voice coming as if from under deep water. He
found his forearm pressed up underneath her chin holding her against a wall. “That
book holds the only drawings I have left from my dead daughter! Get it? If you don’t
get that book back, I’ll kill your pal and then I’ll kill myself! I’ve just been waiting for
a reason, and I hope you can live with all that on your conscience!”
The tunnel of light was fading and darkness was closing in. He felt his legs give way
and then he could see nothing at all, except the deck coming up to meet him and the
pain from hitting the side of his head after he fell.
65.
Paul sat in a chair as the man placed a small napkin before him and then a steaming
cup of hot water and a pouch of instant coffee. The ferry’s motor was rumbling
many decks below them. Paul read the man’s name on the badge pinned to his
uniform. Matti Mieto. He was about fifty and had a thick mustache and friendly eyes.
“So, let’s get to the bottom of this.”
Meito sat down across the table with a cup of his own. “I want to release your friend.
We have talked to both the woman who reported him and Mr. Mattson as well. He
regrets his actions and has no recollection of threatening the woman or threatening
to kill himself. And his actions were not due to too much alcohol…”
Paul waited for the man to continue.
“It seems to be about this book. It was extremely important to him. It appears that it
contained drawings made by his deceased daughter. He admitted that he sometimes
has a panic attack if his daughter is mentioned. At any rate, he begged the woman
for forgiveness and she has accepted his apology and will not press charges.”
“Well, that sounds great! Where’s he now?”
“We have him in the drunk tank for the moment.” Mieto apologized and stirred his
coffee with a plastic spoon. “Although he’s not at all inebriated. Perhaps he did have
a panic attack.”
Paul cleared his throat. “I would like to point out that I barely know the man. He is
not a friend of mine.”
“Yes, that’s what I want to talk to you about. How well are you acquainted?”
“Not much. I don’t really care what happens to him.”
“But are you not traveling companions?”
“What are you getting at?”
“You’re on a trip together, or am I mistaken about that?”
“Oh, well, yes, we happen to be traveling in the same direction.”
“Do you want to know why I’m asking?”
“No, I don’t care one way or the other.”
“Hmm. Well, we found out that you are a doctor. It would be nice, that is, nice for the
woman, nice for us on the ferry, if such a, shall we say, unstable person had a
responsible person looking out for him. A doctor would certainly be a responsible
person.”
“So,” Paul said. “You don’t want to take care of him.”
Mieto smiled. “Of course, we can if it is needed. This means we will have to lock him
up for the rest of the trip and then we’ll hand him over to the police in Vaasa.”
Paul sighed. “OK. I am a doctor. But right now I’m on sick leave. I have my own head
issues, you might say. Fuck it; I don’t know where to start…so many fucking idiots all
over the world.” Paul sighed again. “But, sure, sure, I can take him on.”
“Only until we reach port,” Mieto said as he sipped his coffee. “But what do you
mean about having your own head issues?”
“I’m all right, really, I can handle this. I’m just a little burned out.”
Mieto smiled. “You Swedes are always burned out.”
Paul did not smile back. “I worked a straight thirteen months in Haiti. Doctors
without Borders. It’s been a while, but I’m still on leave after that experience.”
“Oh, so you went there after the earthquake?”
Paul nodded.
“That was all such a damned shame,” Mieto emptied his coffee cup. “But you’re sure
you can handle this guy, then?”
“Not a problem.”
“Good. Then I’ll spring him after a few last questions. And he’ll be relieved to see this
again.”
Mieto pulled open a drawer in his desk and took out the antique book, along with
Mikael’s wallet, some candy, and what appeared to be a lock of hair in a test tube.
“Someone returned the book to the information desk. Everything’s there. The
drawings and all. Please wait here and I’ll bring Mikael in momentarily.”
Mieto stood up with some paperwork. He muttered something to himself in Finnish
and closed the door behind him. Paul let his eyes wander around the sparkling clean
office.
Eventually, his eyes fell to the table and the book. He examined the leather binding
for a moment, and then opened the book and started to read.
66.
Paul could see that Solander had a style of handwriting that crowded the tall letters
close together, but wobbled a great deal. I wonder if he was writing this on board the
Endeavour?
He could decipher a few words: Weather…Mr. Banks…Captain…Corpus…He flipped
to the end of the diary to a collection of loose papers. A photo fell out. A girl eating at
McDonald’s. She had blue eyes, pale skin and no hair. Another photo of the same girl
with hair. Spaghetti sauce smeared over her mouth. A big smile as if she were
laughing when the photo was taken. Paul thought the girl had the same eyes as
Mikael.
He found a death announcement clipped from a morning daily: Rebecka Mattson.
Born 2006.
No death date. Over the name, there was a picture of a squirrel with its tail over its
nose. A quote:
May I borrow your tail to shield myself from darkness, dear squirrel?
Mommy and Daddy
Below the obituary was a large, open envelope filled with papers. A letter slid into
his hand:
Result of your request
The Social Welfare Office has decided to reject your request to re-examine your case
number 32145. Your request to re-examine the case of a crime relating to 14 Chap
Paragraph 2 of the Social Services Law (Lex Sarah) arrived Nov 3, 2009. In
agreement with earlier decisions, the decision was made to close the case regarding
this request. Below see the reasons behind this decision and information concerning
an appeal.
Reason for denial
The Social Welfare Office believes that the additional material in this case does not
warrant a re-examination.
Appeal
This decision may not be appealed.
Paul kept ruffling through the papers. What’s this all about, anyway? He realized he
had his back to the door.
Behind the doorway, in the corner of the room, was an armchair covered in cloth
with an ugly green weave. He quickly shifted there, sank down into it, and continued
to read. I’ll be able to slap shut this book if anybody opens the door. No one will be the
wiser.
He read the letter Mikael had written to the Social Welfare Office. It was quite a long
letter, so he wound up skimming through it.
“Many of the doctors treating our daughter told us that her blood seemed unusual.
Tests were sent out, but we were never given the results. When we asked about
them, we were met with a wall of silence.”
Paul kept flipping through the papers: replies from the police, from the prosecutor’s
office, from other official departments. All denials. The first letters were signed by
both parents. So Michael’s ex was apparently named Johanna Mattson. The more
recent had only one signature, Mikael Mattson.
A one-man fight against the authorities, Paul thought. Classic case of stubborn refusal
to face the facts.
Paul read threatening letters, letters questioning the autopsy results, appeals, and
appeals of appeals. “My daughter is the victim of poisoning! Can’t you see?”
Paul found the autopsy and read it.
Well, nothing strange here. A normally progressing case of acute leukemia.
He found two standard form letters from the National Security Police and from His
Majesty the King of Sweden. Jesus Christ, how grief-stricken can one man be?
Paranoia, conspiracy theories, panic – stupid writer. Why couldn’t he figure out how to
resume a normal life after all that? He’s sacrificed his common sense on the altar of his
overblown imagination.
Then Paul found a sketch of New Zealand marked with several crosses and dates
between October 8th, 1769 and March 31, 1770. A legend proclaimed: Cook’s
Journey. A long list followed, titled Solander’s Equipment: rapier, knife, bow and
arrows, pistols for hunting and self-defense, bottles, jars, nails, ink and paper for
preserving specimens, microscope, thermometer and compass for navigation, linen
shirts with collars and puffed sleeves, cotton vest, linen knee breeches, wig and wig
box…
Then came excerpts from Solander’s diary, typed so as to be legible. Paul decided
he’d found something worth reading here.
17 November 1769
-- -- -- Spöring’s health is declining. To put tobacco to blame for this, his illness is
foolishness, since its appearance does not resemble the red illness in the least.
Limbs and stomach have become green in color for the most part and at times he
seems to have entered the realm of death and at times he shrieks and wails. He
prays to our Creator to take his hands, which he uses for drawing, rather than his
eyes, with which he may see the beautiful creations of our God.
19 November 1769
The petrified stone we had found and which then had been broken into four pieces,
of which two are still not recovered, is an unusual example of Glosso-petrification
with smooth edges. Within the rays of the sun, it gives a theater of Nature’s colors,
which must be from the great Physician. The Captain has on my advice commanded
an interrogation of all men in the Marine Corps to examine the whereabouts of the
two missing parts. There are other cases of theft on board.
20 November 1769
The three Sheep that had survived the travails of our Journey to this point have
become ill in their brains, lain down in the straw and died. After an autopsy, we
discovered Chrysalii in situ before the brain, where Larvae had been tunneling so as
to destroy the Nervous System within, so that the Creatures died thereof. I have
taken it upon myself to discover the Insect which is created within these Crysalii
and observe them until they hatch. -- -- -- In addition, there is no longer any Doubt
that the Lapis Virgo has given rise to many distressful Questions. This stone is a
Monster in its resolute refusal to become either a Mineral or Fauna of any known
kind. It cycles through a Process. Five days in Salt Water has not influenced it in any
way. May God grant we arrive in London, after which I will send Linneaus a Sample
of this Devil’s Mineral. -- -- -21 – 22 November 1769
On Tuesday last, I removed Spöring from the Company of others in sickbay. He was
no longer able to move his Bowels or to pass Urine. Instead a strange Salt or Fat is
seen, which caused so much Pain that an Enema was necessary. I placed a poultice of
Chickweed about the feet. An Opening appeared on the right leg, from which much
Pus exuded. An endemic Swelling appeared in the Limbs and as I cut into the right
knee, where a boil of at least 2 Quarters in size had arisen, a Metastasis of a
greenish-yellow color was revealed, and the Smell was that of Gangrene. His fingers
appear as if frostbitten and are dissolving, while small lumps of tallow have
appeared, though surrounded by a fragmented Matter resembling petrified Calcium
and green in Color. This evening Spöring was still living, though his Senses had
ceased to function. His eyes had been swollen shut by Fat and he could no longer
see. All the blood veins in his Corpus had swelled as well, especially within the
Throat, beneath the Arms and in the Loins. We can do nothing more but wait for an
End to his Suffering, may his poor Soul find peace.
23 November 1769
Spöring was released from this Vale of Tears at dawn. Captain Cook has decided to
name a few islands in his honoured Memory.
24 November 1769
With great Ceremony, we have sent Spöring’s Remains to rest at the bottom of the
Sea. All on board were present. We have returned an Artist and Disciple of Nature to
his Creator. I was left to sort his belongings and found many Sketches of the
Misshapen Beings in the Grotto. How Delirium or other Mental Troubles may have
affected these miserable Creatures is unclear. I intend to keep these Sketches in my
own care as I put my mind to understanding the Root Cause of them. Some of these
Creatures are so unpleasant to the eyes it seems to me only the Devil himself would
have thought to make beings such as this. – The butterfly Lycaenidae is of the same
species as those which have now hatched from the Crysalii found in the sheep.
Perchance the Sheep were infested by the Larvae while we were at anchor in
Anahau Bay. These Lycaenidae have wings from blue to purple in color, Wingspan 1
1/8 to 1 3/8 Inches. Upper side is matte; the Male is of a clearer color than the
Female, which has a touch of brown. The antennae are long and club-shaped.
26 November 1769
What Riddles our Lord has created for our Reason! The Petrificata Stone we found
in the Grotto on Anahua Bay baffles me in the most gruesome Manner. It does not
lend itself to be classified as either Fauna or Mineral solely, but appears a Mixture of
all the Kingdoms. On Occasion, Tension can be noted within the twain parts of this
Stone, of late this noontime, great Energy. If the twain are set beside each other
there arises an Oscillation as well as movement within the Nerve-appearing
Platinum Growth, which resembles the Fin of a Fish or the Base of a Feather on a
Fowl. But does this derive from the Skies or from the Depths of the Sea? Also, other
remarkable Effects seem to arise on its surface and from the Innermost Part of this
Stone. When held at various Angles, a sound is made and notable Oscillation in other
Objects near this Stone begins. This Factum, as well as Spöring’s unpleasant
Drawings, leads to a belief that the Grotto on Anahua Bay resembles to a great
Extent that Grotto which is found in Kalmar Sound named the Blue Maiden, which
Professor Linneaus revealed to me under great Secrecy. Therefore, I intend to send
to him, as soon as the Possibility arises, most probably when we arrive in London,
the Stone with the Fern-growth, the one I have named the Lapis Virgo, in connection
to the Blue Virgin of which Linneaus spoke.
The companion stone, I will endeavor to keep for myself for further Study. We are
still searching for the missing two parts of the Stone amongst the Crew.
27 November 1769
In Conference with Captain Cook, Mr. Banks and Monkhouse as Medicus, we have
determined to heave the deceased Spöring’s Possessions overboard, as the Crew had
been suffering great Consternation and Worry. Captain Cook had mentioned the
Law of Quarantine and wished that the entire Inventory to be given to the waves.
However, the Stones remained. We still search among the Crew for the two missing
parts of the Lapis Virgo. One of the Marines has remained under suspicion of Theft.
He underwent a flogging, but refused to divulge any whereabouts. May God so Will
that these two parts be returned to me before we reach Cape Bona Speranza.
Paul saw he’d come to the end of the clean transcription. He turned to the next
papers, which were pictures of Swedish blue butterflies of all sizes, some drawn by
hand, others cut from books.
Why in the world? Paul thought. Has he gone nuts over Linnaeus’s mysterious stone
after the death of his daughter? Are these useless writers all like that? They grab onto
some fixed idea and then think the rest of the world cares about their little family
drama?
He sighed, and for just a moment, in spite of having no children of his own, he
understood that losing a child might be one of the worst things that could happen to
a human being. Mikael’s grief seemed to have gone through many stages, just like
the manuscript mentioned. From the larval stage of sorrow to a chrysalis of denial
and now emerging as the butterfly of insanity, right here on the ferry to Finland, and
its wings were spreading: on the right his daughter and on the left Solander’s secret
documents. What held them together was one weak, thin body crushed to earth by
grief.
The door was opening. Paul quickly stashed the papers back into the diary and shut
it.
Matti Mieto came in the room, with Mikael right behind him. Mikael called out hello
and smiled at Paul, coming right up to him.
“How are you doing?” Paul asked.
“Eh, well, fine…” Mikael caught sight of the book and snatched it right out of Paul’s
hands.
Paul watched Mikael eagerly check to see if the photographs, the letters, the
drawings, everything was where it should be. His smile widened.
You know, he looks like a nice enough guy, Paul thought. A writer who appears normal
on the surface. But underneath – the man is a raging lunatic!
67.
For a moment, Ida could imagine what it would be like to be an astronaut. Alone in
the dark, encapsulated in metal, cut off from the rest of the world. And yet,
paradoxically free.
There were no windows she could look from, just a cap by the roof. She stretched
out on the cot and stared at a point of light from the refrigerator diode.
So far away from Stockholm. So far away from my normal life. A few days, and
everything has changed. Why didn’t Alma tell me anything about her research?
She recalled a letter in her grandfather Manfred’s handwriting. She found the
familiar folder near the top of one of the bags, and she opened it. A little rectangle of
paper fell out. It was yellow from age.
A small headline: Nurse sues Sinatra heirs – wants a part of the inheritance.
She remembered seeing the magazine clipping in the lab.
Why would Alma keep this?
She picked it up and looked closer. It was cut from the American men’s magazine
Esquire. Alma had dated it: July, 1998. Alma had circled words in red pen.
A nurse, Rosa-Ann Carters, who had assisted Sinatra in the weeks before his
death, told the court that he had promised her a few mementoes from his
estate, but his heirs refuse to accommodate her request. The quarrel was over
some signed LP’s, a microphone used by the Rat Pack in Las Vegas, and a
decorative stone, which, according to Carters, had been used by Sinatra to
relieve his cough and his painful joints.
“I loved those record covers. And the microphone. And we had our own little
ritual with this stone,” Carters said. “I would warm it in the microwave for
Sinatra every evening. I would wrap it in a towel and place it on his chest or on
his back, and he told me he never felt so well cared for. It made him feel safe
and secure. I do not want any money from the estate, just a few sentimental
items,” said Carters.
The executors showed no sympathy for her request. They planned to put up
several Sinatra mementoes for auction at Christie’s in New York. Among other
items, the Oscar that Sinatra had won in 1953 as Best Supporting Male Actor
for From Here to Eternity, directed by Fred Zimmermann.
Ida read the clipping a second time.
Frank Sinatra. His decorative stone. Could it be?
She didn’t want to continue that line of thought.
She put the clipping back into the folder and took out Manfred’s letter.
She felt the paper’s texture and age and noted Manfred’s round, wide handwriting,
so unlike Alma’s cramped style.
The letter was many pages long. She flipped some pages back and forth a few times,
but couldn’t find where the letter began. It was as if someone had deleted a few of its
sheets.
She started from the top sheet in the middle of a sentence:
I know about Alma. My love for Alma has never been compromised. I let her
keep secret what she wanted secret. Ida, I hope that one day when you’re older,
she will tell you herself about the painful experiences she has endured. Many
times, I’ve asked her to tell me, but she seems to break down at the question. I
must respect that. I feel that my love cannot demand to encompass everything
about her. Some things must remain unsaid. She must deal with them alone. I
am entrusting these letters to Alma, after all, and she has promised not to open
them; however, since I told her I would write about Eva, I can’t be sure she will
leave the envelope sealed. As you perhaps already understand, Eva is an open
wound in Alma’s heart.
Let me tell you about your grandmother Alma.
Alma was born in a small village near Lvov, in present Ukraine. In those days,
this area was part of Poland. Her father was a professor in physics at the
University of Warsaw, but by the time he became a professor there, she’d
already left home to pursue her own studies. Her mother, Alina, was Russian.
She remained in the village and worked for one of the farmers there. Alma’s
great gift for academics was discovered early, and she was sent to live in Lvov
to go to school where she excelled and in time was sent on to the high school
connected to the University of Piłsudski. She didn’t stay there long, but was sent
along to the Technical University in Darmstadt, Germany, where she became
part of a class of extraordinarily gifted academics from all over Europe. She
studied mineralogy, mechanics of minerals, mathematics, physics and various
modern languages. The war broke out in 1939. Sometime in the following year,
I don’t know how Alma became part of the Polish resistance movement. She
joined a special unit, where she was used as an interpreter and an expert in
geology. At any rate, she was captured by the Red Army at the end of the war
and she ended up in the Soviet Union. She was there for a number of years
before she could escape. She told me that she’d been imprisoned at a secret
Soviet research post in the Ural Mountains called Chelyabinsk 47. When she
was brought there initially, she didn’t know what it was called or where it was
located. . At any rate, in the fall of 1950, she was made part of a trip to the GDR,
from where she escaped to the British Sector in West Berlin. That was before
the wall was built in 1961.
The British realized she was no ordinary refugee. She was extremely intelligent
and well educated, fluent in many languages, and she had information about
the Soviet secret research. The British sent her to London right away. They
interrogated her for a number of weeks first, though, she told me. Finally, she
was offered a job with the Secret Service.
You have to realize how unusual that was. Most escapees were interrogated,
given new names and a bit of starting capital, and were sent on their way to be
shadowed for the rest of their lives. For some reason, however, Alma was able
to make her way into the center of the Service. She was a Polish-born ethnic
German who had fled from the depths of the Soviet Union and the next thing
you know, she was part of M16. What did she know that made her so valuable?
She told me she wasn’t a spy, herself, but rather a scientific advisor. Honestly,
though, who could know for sure? I don’t.
All of this was due to what she’d seen in Chelyabinsk 47: solve et coagula.
Those three words would follow her for the rest of her life.
Solve and coagula were actually two unusual elements that the Russians either
discovered or created in Chelyabinsk 47. The Russians named them after the
Alchemist’s search for transforming gold since the basic process was not
dissimilar. Solve dissolves everything into its basic component and coagula
reassembles and creates forms. Alma centered all of her research on solve and
coagula for the rest of her life. I worked as her assistant as she tried to
understand them. Yes, that’s what we were up to in our laboratory out in the
forest. I wonder if Alma will show it to you when you are older.
Perhaps Alma has already told you all of this. Perhaps you’re already well
aware that I worked for ASEA Atom in Stockholm and I went to a conference in
Southampton in the spring of 1955. There’s where I first saw her. Blonde hair,
beautiful, sorrowful eyes, and, above all, an expert in plutonium. We had our
first kiss on the balcony of that hotel in cold evening rain.
After the conference, I wrote to her continuously. I must have seemed crazy!
Not even a polite response! Alma seemed unable to make up her mind (and you
know that she usually knows what she wants!). For years I courted her. In my
heart I knew, she was the one. I’d have her or nobody. One day, out of the blue, I
received an invitation to come visit her in London. M15 had given her a small,
pleasant apartment near Thurloe Place. Symbolic really. Thurloe Place is
between M15’s local office by South Kensington Station, where Alma worked,
and the British National History Museum. She lived between spies and science,
running between them constantly. As time went on, she spent more of her days
at the museum.
Now she seemed to be interested in me. I surmise she realized that her work
could be accomplished outside of London. She gave away pretty much
everything she owned and followed me to Sweden. I remember that day so well.
On the plane, she warned me she had no intention of having children. She was a
scientist.
She didn’t know it, but she was already pregnant.
She loved nature out here. By the time Eva was born, we had already bought
the property in Jämtland and had already built most of the hunting cabin. We
started with one small room but after Eva was born, Alma became
With that, the letter ended in the middle of the sentence.
Ida read the last lines again. Censorship?
Had her grandfather’s letter from beyond the grave been censored by Alma herself?
Who else could have?
No! She wouldn’t have done that. She’d have simply thrown the whole thing out.
Perhaps the rest of this letter was mixed up with all the other files and folders.
Hope I wasn’t the one who lost it.
Ida closed her eyes and tried to count the times she’d loaded and unloaded all those
plastic bags. And then the craziness at Dolly’s house and the hasty repacking. Did we
leave any papers behind there?
With no clear answers, Ida finally fell asleep.
68.
Mikael felt hung over and hungry. As he thought of what had happened on deck, he
tried to block it by inwardly swearing and humming the tunes from Ace of Base and
Roxette’s songs. It was just about seven thirty in the evening. Mikael and Paul were
waiting for the ferry to dock and the gangplank to be lowered. They were in a
restaurant, whispering to each other about Paul’s iPad.
“Let’s stay around Vaasa until we get another ping from the iPad. Might be an entire
day. I just hope we’ll get a long signal and not just a short transmission.”
“What’ll we do if there’re no more pings?”
“Then we’ll have to come up with a new plan. Let’s find a good hotel this time. A
room for each of us, unlike that shabby Gruvan. And then we’ll need another rental
car to get on the road immediately when a ping comes in. I’ll keep watch on my
iPhone.”
Mikael kept looking around to make sure Elin, Anna and their friends were nowhere
in sight as the walk-on passengers began to gather by the gangplank door.
I bet they have a car. Nice not to have to run into them again.
The ferry’s engines switched to idle, and the narrow, plastic-draped pedestrian
tunnel was attached to the gangplank.
They kept their gaze focused forward, walked out of the ferry terminal, away from
the harbor and into the city.
They found a small hotel on Rantakatu, near the docks, the Vaasa Hotel.
“Original name,” Mikael commented. They read the prices posted outside. A single
room was 50 Euro a night. They walked into the lobby.
Unbelievable that I’ve landed up in wonderful, plucky Finland.
69.
Ida woke up freezing even with jackets and coats covering her. It felt as if she’d been
sleeping for hours. They weren’t moving…they’d landed in the Middle of Nowhere.
She looked out the small window and saw nothing more than darkness, snow and
trees. The clock read just past seven in the morning.
Have I really been sleeping since yesterday afternoon? Of course, the winter solstice is
just a few days away--no wonder it’s so dark. It’ll be a few weeks before the sun rises
fully over the horizon again.
Am I feverish? No, I’m fine.
In fact, she felt like her old self, as healthy as ever. She got up and looked out from
the vent on the other side. There were flickering shadows. A fire had been made.
Pinus sylvestris, the forest pines.
She rubbed her eyes. That old Linnaeus, always present whenever I think of the
natural world. As if he’s whispering his Latin nomenclature right into my ear.
Then the events of the past few days came crashing back into her memory. The
letter she’d just read. Chelyabinsk 47. Solve et coagula.
When would this start to make sense?
Alma could have told me much more. Even though she hadn’t wanted to remember her
life during wartime, she put me right in the middle of it!
She quickly put on her outerwear and left the food cart. Lasse and Mikkola were
sitting by the bluish-yellow flames that leaped from thick, red-hot logs.
“Good morning,” Lasse said. “I hope that you finally got a good night’s sleep. We just
got up ourselves.”
“I don’t believe that,” Ida grinned.
A folding chair with a sheepskin cover had been set up for her. Lasse handed over a
mug of blueberry soup.
Ida continued, “You’ve been up for a while or the fire wouldn’t be so fierce. You
made it at least an hour ago.”
Mikkola gave her a look with a hint of respect. “Yes, I’ve been out here for a while,
drinking my breakfast,” he said, smiling, while lifting a beer can. “But Lasse has been
busy searching for his relatives, he has.”
Ida turned her head to look at Lasse. Relatives? She searched for the right tone of
voice. “What relatives?”
“Well, the thing is,” Lasse said, “I have Finnish roots, you know, Ida. And before we
got any further, I wanted to see if we could…Yes, my brother, Sten, you know…he
was a biologist, and he drowned here, under the ice, near an old fishing spot.”
Lasse let his voice thicken with sorrow. “So…somewhere near here, he drowned,
and, you know, they never found the body. I wanted to visit the spot. And I’ve been
studying the map, and Mikkola has been kind enough to drive us here, following all
these small roads…and, well, I thought you’d like to take a look, too, Ida.”
Lasse said no more.
Ida realized Mikkola was studying their faces, looking from Lasse’s to hers.
“I don’t care as long as I get paid,” Mikkola said.
“Of course you’ll get your money,” Lasse said. He seemed to be wiping away a tear
with the edge of his mitten.
Lasse folded up a large area map and stood.
“Ida, are you ready to get going?”
“So the fishing hole’s nearby?” Ida asked.
“Almost. Just a short walk from here.” Lasse pointed through the trees.
Ida nodded, glancing at Mikkola.
Mikkola took another gulp of beer and smiled a slightly tipsy, friendly smile.
“You two go on ahead. I’ll stay here and enjoy the fire. If you’re good, I’ll keep the
glögg ready for your return.”
“Thanks.”
Ida took a slice of half-moon shaped, soft northern bread and squeezed some soft
cheese onto it. She then rolled it up. “I’ll be ready in a minute,” she said, going back
into the food cart where she finished her sandwich before she pulled on a pair of
thermal underwear and snow pants. She tucked the case into the thermal
underwear.
When she climbed outside into the cold, she found Lasse had already entered the
woods. His flashlight cast shaking beams of light onto the uneven forest ground.
Mikkola handed her up a small flashlight, too, and she started after Lasse.
She was soon surrounded by darkness. She turned for a moment to see Mikkola,
sitting by the fire, pulling a red woolen blanket over his shoulders and all the while
staring intently right at her.
70.
Ida kept a few meters behind Lasse, who, puffing and huffing, and with a serious
expression on his face, pushed through the high snow.
Deeper into the forest, the trees stood closer together and the area was so
dominated by the snow-covered limbs that any stray light was blocked from
reaching the ground.
Picea abien, she thought. Norway Spruce, in the Picea, or spruce, genus, and the
family of Sempervirens, evergreens.
The thick branches of the spruce trees had caught so much of the falling snow that
the ground beneath was now almost bare. Ida heard nothing but the stomping
sound of their boots and their breathing. The darkness seemed empty and dry, and
the branches seemed to move in rhythm with the beams of their flashlights. One
would suddenly take on the shape of a human being, a moss-covered stone the
appearance of a sleeping bear. Now and then, Ida thought she glimpsed the
glittering eyes of a young owl peering out from the branches.
Was it an owl? No, something else.
Ida looked straight up through the interlinked branch pattern. The sky was dark,
clouds, no stars, no moonshine at the moment. How far away Stockholm seems from
here. How did my Stockholm life change to this so fast?
She heard a sound and looked over her shoulder. Cats get yellow eyes in the dark,
foxes get blood-red eyes and those wolves I saw by Brunflo, they had blue-lilac eyes.
Is something following us?
She strode faster and caught up to Lasse.
What did I do as a child whenever I got scared of the dark? Alma always told me that
the dark was just absence of light. She’d always say, ‘It’s the same world in the day as
in the night. You just can’t see it.’
That never helped me much. Grandpa Manfred had a better way. Start talking out loud
as if you’re reading from a schoolbook. It distracts you.
“The spruce trees here are fully grown. It seems we’re in a first-growth area. All the
spruce indicates a great deal of calcium in the soil.”
Lasse didn’t reply.
Of course Lasse probably knows this trick. Maybe he doesn’t want me to feel more
frightened by acknowledging it?
She stopped for a moment and brushed off the snow from some half-dead branches.
She turned her flashlight on them for a moment.
Then she started walking again. I’ll keep on talking and I don’t care what he thinks.
“Rough, lichen-covered sallow and many layers of branches. Most of the branches
are thick and draped with Methuselah’s Beard lichen. See over there? This shows
that this landscape has hardly been disturbed by human beings. The area was
carved out by a glacial river thousands of years ago. There are glacial rocks
deposited here and there, and we’ve walked over some gravel deposits and now
over a double channel deposit.”
She continued to talk out loud and straight ahead.
He has to say something now, doesn’t he?
“Yes, indeed,” Lasse said aloud. “Underneath the snow, you will certainly find ice
channels that formed a delta. What do you think?”
Expressionless, he looked back at her.
Ida looked around, and said, “Yes, you’re right. Summer is sleeping beneath the
snow like a child tucked into bed. I think we’d find lots of mushrooms in the
summer.”
“What kind of mushrooms? And, by the way, we’re almost at the river.”
“Well, all kinds of mushrooms. Maybe even unusual kinds…like the Goliath
mushroom. Costs a fortune in Stockholm and Tokyo.”
“And lichen.”
“Reindeer moss, of course. And map lichen. And green spleenwort.”
“Do you remember what green spleenwort is in Latin?”
“Asplenium something or other…Asplenium viride.”
“Good! I’m impressed.”
They began to trot through the various unusual plants that could survive this far
north. Ida could imagine this cold, dark winter landscape erupting into a wonder of
spring and summer color: yellow and red lichen, deep blue alpine speedwell, pink
and golden flush on the rocks, Nordic reed grass, cotton sedge, broadleaved cotton
grass, all appearing as the snow melted away into marshland pools…
“Shh!” Lasse said.
They stood still.
She felt the darkness squeeze her like a hand holding an egg too hard.
She looked up at the sky.
“Do you hear anything?” she whispered.
He shook his head. She kept looking up.
A slightly wispy noise?
Or what?
Ida held her breath.
I’m going to have to start talking again. On just about anything.
Lasse strode forward again.
“I was poking around in Alma’s papers last night,” Ida said. “Do you know anything
about Chelyabinsk 47?”
Lasse took his time before answering. “Alma has told me a little about it over the
years. It was some kind of research station. A secret town, like many others in the
former Soviet Union.”
“Was Alma really a prisoner there?”
Lasse was walking so fast, he was out of breath. “Yes, well…to say the least…it was
not pleasant for the prisoners.”
Just keep talking.
“So what did they do in that secret town?”
“Don’t know…not really sure. Alma mentioned it…a long time ago. I believe it had to
do with…manufacturing artificial gemstones. Fake rubies and sapphires.”
“Wouldn’t that be difficult?”
“Not really. It made money for all those Communist organizations…they were
subsidizing…all sorts of countries worldwide.”
Ida thought about this. “And did you hear about solve and coagula?”
“I did. But Alma knows about it…not me. I don’t know as much about her as you
think I do.”
They walked on in silence for a while.
“Alma has lots of things she needs to tell me about,” Ida said.
“Well, we’ll call from Rovaniemi before trying for Moscow. Once we’re in Russia,
we’re definitely safe from the Swedish police. Safer than Finland.”
Ida nodded and sighed.
Lasse continued, “And Alma will know how to hide us.”
Ida did not want to consider never returning to Sweden.
“And in addition…” Lasse stopped. “Listen!”
They stopped. Ida could hear nothing overhead.
But there was a sound.
It came from behind the next rise. The sound of running water nearby.
“Ounasjoki River,” Lasse said. He was practically running up the hill. Ida couldn’t
help smiling as she rushed after.
From the top of a cliff they saw, about twenty meters down on the other side, a wide
rift from which the sound of bubbling water was rising. A winter dawn was coming
where the sun would briefly glow from just below the horizon to give a hazy twilight
to the day. The clouds had broken up, and they could make things out from new,
faint moonshine.
Snow covered the ground all the way to the edge. Ida stumbled and just avoided a
ten-meter drop to the river. Chunks of ice were swirling past downstream.
The other side of the river was not as steep.
Lasse shone his flashlight on his compass.
“What a great invention a compass is,” he said. “We’re off by only a few meters.”
They could see a rickety-looking contraption of old rope and planks nearby.
“An old hanging bridge. Do you want to try it?” grinned Lasse.
“Hell, no!”
Lasse nodded. “All right, let’s walk upstream until we reach a place where we can
cross.”
They started to walk along the edge of the cliff. In the gray light of midwinter day,
the snow began to shimmer on the rocks and the river seemed to become terraced,
with wide pools and inlets beside cliff rock formations. Farther downstream, the
river transformed into a broader, proper river, with low beaches and midstream
currents.
Ida was careful to look where she set her booted feet. The darkness faded as the sun
got up closer to the horizon. She turned off her flashlight.
The water of the river rushed beneath ice, around rocks, and down short waterfalls.
As they walked, the level of the water and the edge of the cliff, now more ground,
came closer together, so that after a few hundred meters, they were almost level.
They came to a meadow free of snow and growing four ancient Gorr pines whose
branches had grown so long, they had long ago touched the ground.
“Here they are. We’ve found the fishing spot Solander wrote about. These must be
the trees!”
“They look really odd!”
“Yes, but that’s what Gorr pines look like.”
One of the trees was upright but looked dead. Next to it, two of the others had fallen
over years ago. Ida thought they looked like enormous insects that had landed on
their backs with the branches resembling legs waving in the air. One of them had
pulled up its root ball as it fell. From that hole, new shoots sprouted through the
earth-sprinkled snow.
“Gorr is the name of a mutant pine that is cone less and has a misshapen form. Its
branches are in the wrong place,” Lasse told her. “And the burls on these trunks…”
“…are from a fungal attack,” Ida filled in at once. “Lasse, I’ve studied biology. A
wound then heals into a burl. Still, I can hardly believe that these trees have
survived for such a long time.”
“The environment is more important than genes when it comes to nature,” Lasse
said. “The mother tree gave rise to these offshoots.”
Lasse began to shine the beam of his flashlight along all the trunks, upright or fallen.
Then he chose to climb the living one. He stopped at only a few meters up.
“Yes, here they are!” he called down. “The inscriptions Solander mentioned. Not
hard to find at all. J. A. 1766. B.D. 1792. Then S. G. 1801, H.H. 1798 and F. G. 1786.”
“Who were they?” Ida called up to him.
“Perhaps the fishermen who stayed here. They lived here during the summer. Let’s
see…from here it is one half fjärdingsväg and two alnar, Solander wrote. So, one
fjärdingsväg is approximately two thousand, six hundred and seventy meters. Divide
it by half. Then add three hundred alnar, and an aln is about one sixth of a meter.
What does that give us?”
Ida did the math in her head. “About fifteen hundred meters. Give or take a meter.”
“Good. That’s what I get, too. The question is: how did Solander measure the
distance? What kind of tool did he use?”
Lasse shimmied down the tree. His eyes were shining. “Let’s just go back upstream
and keep count. My stride is about one meter. We’re looking for a hidden grotto, so
let’s make sure we watch for anything in the ground, too. And if the river narrows
enough, perhaps I can keep watch on the other side, too.”
Ida contemplated all four huge, ancient trees. In Jämtland, they’d have been turned
into paper more than a hundred years ago. This place, where they’d been standing,
would have been transformed into a ‘renewable forest’. But here, in the forests of
the Finnish far north, they stood, still, as large as trolls.
She watched Lasse’s back as she followed him upstream. Lasse soon found a spot
where he could cross the river by jumping from rock to rock.
Ida’s mind turned back to the ancient trees.
It takes a few hundred years for a tree that old to die.
We humans on the other hand, when we die, when I die…
It won’t be such a long, powerful process. We live a short, burning life and then, a brief
second, like Lobov – it’s over.
“Ounasjoki River!” Lasse was singing almost. “Here we are, my beautiful Ounasjoki
River! Here we are!”
71.
Ida had to pick her own way along the edge of the water. Some areas were rocky,
while others had thick brushwood and short, icicle-covered trees edging the river.
As they headed upstream slowly, Lasse on one side and Ida on the other, Ida thought
it must be the middle of the day.
Must be the fifteenth now.
Nine days until Christmas Eve.
Ginger cookies and Christmas presents..
She tried to think of something else. She looked up toward where the sun had
almost cleared the horizon and seemed to be sending warmth from its glowing
surface.
The sky, the clouds…
Back there, next to the quiet river’s edge…
Somebody watching? She sighed, looked back at the ground.
Just imagining things.
Need to use my tricks again to focus.
But how exact can we be? Even if we managed to count every step, it’s not the same
river that Solander followed to deal with his mussels. Even if there hasn’t been much
human intervention in the landscape, except for that hanging bridge. The river
changes. Floods, forest fires, beaver dams, maybe the river meandered and left an oxbow lake behind? The water always finds new ways to the sea. Always in motion,
always changing.
Lasse yelling at her from across the river interrupted her thoughts.
“Hey! Do you see it?”
She looked up. Twenty meters in front of them, a small overhang jutted over the
water, making the river whirl around its base with rather loud gurgling. It was free
of ice. The water then fell half a meter onto a flat rock, which had been smoothed
over the course of time. The current calmed at that spot.
“Yes, it looks possible,” Ida called back. “Can you walk around it?”
“Takes too much time. I’m coming over.”
Lasse took a rope from his backpack and whipped it around a large rock on his side
of the river. He tossed the other end across the other side to Ida, who picked it up
and fastened it around a tree trunk.
“Careful!” she called out. “The current is strong right here!”
Lasse tested the rope and gave her a ‘thumbs up’. He started to cross, using the
river’s thickest ice, while holding tightly to the rope.
Then he swore as one foot slipped through, into the water.
“Well!” he yelled. “It’s not deep at all! Just here we have a feeder stream…”
His leg had sunk into it up to his knee. He strained at the rope. The ice was so
porous, it cracked more, and it looked as if Lasse’s other leg would end up in the
water as well – but he pulled himself along and remained on his feet, running, to
reach the other side. He sat down at once.
“I’ll be all right. I wrapped my legs in plastic over my socks.”
Lasse took off his boots and shook out the water. “By the way, did you see any spot
where there might be a pool? Usually one leads to a grotto. We should be very close
by, now.”
Ida turned around to walk up on the cliff outcropping and then around to the other
side to the edge of the river again. Tall pine trees shaded the riverbank.
“What did Solander write? A huge giant's kettle
beneath the moss? Not much more than a deep pool, right?” She stopped. “What was
that?”
She stopped and stared back, as hard as she could, into the forest behind them.
“What do you see?”
“Did you see something?”
“No.”
She was on guard now, but saw nothing…except…
“A blinking light. From the direction we came.”
They listened in silence, both looking back into the trees.
“Let’s keep on our guard,” Lasse said. “Let me know if you see it again.”
Ida kept looking along the side of the river. “What about that one?”
She pointed at another cliff twenty meters upstream. It was free of ice and the
current flowed rapidly. “What do you think?”
Lasse came up behind her and said, “Yes, it looks as if the water is coming out of the
side of the hill. Let’s go take a closer look.”
Lasse now led the way. A few birch leaves, encased in ice, poked out through the
snow. Ida followed Lasse’s back as he strode up an uneven piece of ground, and then
back down.
“Oh!” Lasse had sunk down with one leg deep in the snow.
He swore as he tried to lurch out, but then his other leg disappeared as well.
“What the hell?”
There was a crack, and Lasse’s entire body disappeared beneath the surface of the
snow.
72.
Ida crept to the edge of the gap and looked down.
“Lasse? Lasse, are you all right?”
No sound. I hope he’s not…
Oh, not completely quiet…a sound.
“Uhhhhh…”
Then a strong voice coming up through the gap.
“I hit my tailbone! Be careful up there!”
He added, “Get the rope and tie it to a tree.”
Ida went back and found where Lasse had left the rope, untied it and brought it
back.
“Tie it tightly!”
“Yes!”
“Can you come on down, then? Bring the flashlights!”
Ida had secured it tightly to one of the birch trees a few meters away. She then sat
down near the gap and slid closer, but the snow gave way to dump her in, and she
fell, landing next to Lasse.
It wasn’t far down. They found themselves in a narrow cleft. The snow-covered
surface was barely two meters above them. They used their flashlights to sweep
upward. The interlocking roots of the birch trees had made a roof where moss, soil
and small plants had collected.
“So is this the giant’s kettle?” Ida asked.
“No, this is too small. Do you even know what a giant’s kettle is?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“A giant’s kettle is formed when a granite block gets stuck in a crevice. As the glacial
ice melts, its force rolls the block around and around for hundreds, if not thousands
of years. It’s like a mortar. Eventually it can carve out a smooth cave many meters
deep and wide, and in the middle of it all, a boulder still sits, like a marble in a glass
bottle.”
Yes, middle school geology lessons returned to mind. She’d just gotten interested in
botany, and, honestly, rocks never impressed her as much as plants and the animals.
“Look over there! There’s more space in that direction!”
There was a widening of the cleft just a meter below them.
“Are you claustrophobic?” Lasse asked. “Because, I, for one, will never fit through
that!”
Ida looked at him. “Was Solander a skinny guy? Did he really fit through that? I
won’t without a real reason.”
“People were usually much smaller in the eighteenth century. Only in the past fifty
years have we humans gotten back the height our hunter-gatherer ancestors had.
eating bread is the fault. And before that fifteen hundred years of the wrong diet.”
“That’s not really an answer.”
“Yes, I believe Solander was a thin, skinny guy,” Lasse answered impatiently. “At
least when he was young. He certainly could have climbed down there.”
Ida sighed and slipped off her backpack. She got down on her stomach and began to
wiggle like an eel straight down to the opening. The edges of the rock squeezed her
shoulders and then her hips. Small, frozen clumps of soil rained down on her. Then
she was through.
She detected a different sound at once, a different kind of gurgling in the water.
She let the light of her flashlight bounce over the round, gray gneiss rock walls.
She found herself at the top of a huge, bowl-like formation. She turned her flashlight
down and could see the bottom, where a pool of water had collected.
She called back to Lasse: “It’s the giant’s kettle , all right! It has a pool at the
bottom…there’s a crack in the side of the wall where the water flows in, and then it
seems to flow out on the other side toward the river.
“Great!” Lasse called back from above her. “Do you see any mussels?”
“Wait a minute!”
She wriggled a few more meters until she was at the edge of the pool. The water
below was calm and clear as crystal.
I can’t tell how deep it is. A half meter? A meter? Two or three?
She could see some shapes near the bottom of the pool. Did they have a rusty brown
color or was it just sand or pebbles?
The surface of water was disturbed as a steady current moved from the split in the
rock to the exit toward the river. Ida took off her mittens and took in a breath as
deeply as she could. She leaned forward and put her face in the water.
It was as if her skin had screamed aloud. Oh, how unbearably cold it was!
She looked around underwater while holding her flashlight above the surface. She
saw something glitter in the sand.
A small bouquet of black roses – there they were, clumped tightly together. The
river pearl mussels had dug themselves into the sand. Their shells resembled
hardened lava. There were also a few empty shells from dead mussels, but the
others held their shells at an angle and she could see the openings where they
allowed small particles to sift through for their food. The meat in the openings
looked like knotty, tiny siphons.
They’re alive! Unbelievable!
She realized she was smiling, even though the skin on her face was chilling.
She could see gold glitter among the mussels.
She was forced to lift her face out of the water and yelped from the effect of the cold
air. She tried to ease her back a little straighter, as much as possible, as she gulped in
air.
How long had they been there? Two hundred and fifty years?
“Lasse?”
“Yes?”
“They’re here!”
“What? You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. There are mussels in the water, and they’re alive!”
Lasse gave a whoop of joy. “It’s the right giant’s kettle after all!”
“But…” Ida’s voice had grown subdued.
“What is it?”
“Do we really have to take them?”
It took a moment for Lasse to reply. “What do you mean?”
“It’s hard to reach them. It’s too deep. And… they’re so beautiful. Shouldn’t they
be…protected instead?”
She could hear Lasse swear to himself.
“Honestly, Lasse. It’s really deep. I can’t reach them.”
“Ida, listen to me and listen good! We’re in a bad situation, you and I. We need
supplies, transportation, food. We might have to stay underground for months or
years. If these mussels can give us what we need to live – Ida, you’re just going to
have to do this somehow! I can’t. I’m too big to get through.”
Ida stared into the water as she replied, “OK. I understand.”
Ida realized she felt like weeping, but held back. “How many …do we absolutely have
to take?”
“All of them!”
“But…it’s so damned cold.”
A rustling sound. “Here, take this!”
A narrow, white rope snaked down through the gap. Lasse had put his flashlight and
a round metal flask in a bagnet.
“Take a swig. Then hop in! Remember you used to jump into the water by Alma’s
hunting cabin and it was just as ice cold as this, even in the summer.”
Ida positioned her small flashlight by the wall so that it lit up the entire grotto. She
let the other flashlight hang from the rope and point straight down into the pool.
She stripped off her clothes: boots, her outerwear, her woolen sweater, her thermal
underwear, bra and panties. The box glowed green on top of the heap.
She lay on her stomach and stared directly into the water. She was already starting
to shiver.
This water must be just above freezing.
She reached over to the metal flask, and drank a good swig. It burned in her throat.
Vodka, what else.
One, two, three…
No. I’m not ready.
She fought her fear back. Took another swig. Let the net float on the water. She
slapped her hands against her cheeks and rolled off into the water, head first.
73.
The chill exploded around Ida.
She was ready for the pain, but not the shock. Spots of black and white glimmered in
front of her eyes. She’d thought she could grab as many mussels as she wanted, but
now realized she would have just a few seconds before she’d pass out. A wave of
burning cold surged upward from her feet to her hips and then her stomach. It was
as if an iron hand was reaching into her chest and clutching her heart to stop the
flow of blood.
She could barely see her pale hands in front of her as they searched.
The mussels – there they were. A small clump…She heard bubbles and underwater
sounds as her feet hit bottom. She raised her head, and it broke the surface of the
water. The pool was not more than a meter and a half deep!
She could hear Lasse’s voice as if from another world.
She wanted to reply, but only a squeak left her tightened vocal chords.
“Ida! Grab them and get out! Otherwise you’ll get too cold! Ida!”
If I get up out of this water, I am never going back in.
She could barely feel her legs. She tried to kick the mussels loose while reaching for
the net.
Then she took another breath and went below the surface again.
She saw them clearly in their little group, unmoving for two hundred and fifty years.
She grabbed one of them, and it pulled in its siphon and shut its shell. An immediate
chain reaction moved among the other mussels, all closing.
Their threads tied them to the sediment, but not tightly. Ida was able to pry loose
three of them and stuffed them in the net. The water was starting to cloud up.
She stretched and her head was above the surface. She took another deep breath.
Last chance, she thought.
She could hardly move her fingers now and her heels were pricked. Was it from a
stone or a mussel? She couldn’t stay beneath the water much longer. She tried to
shake her head and could not tell if the stars she was seeing were from the flashlight
above or a warning she was about to lose consciousness.
As she scrambled out finally, her nipples scraped against the rock – she almost
leaped out almost automatically.
“I…I’m up out of the water now!” she exclaimed as she reached for the vodka flask.
She took deep breaths and tried to look into the now churned up water.
I wonder how many I got in the end. All of them?
She found her legs so stiff from the cold, she couldn’t move them. She had some
minor cuts--on her heel, on an index finger – I must have scraped myself on the shells.
She was shaking. She took another sip and then saw the case on top of her clothes. It
was open. The fossil stone had fallen out and was shining in the beam of the
flashlight.
“Hello! Lasse?”
She heard some mumbling words above her head.
She pulled the net out of the water. Four large closed mussels and a few broken
shells. She brushed away some of the sand. Something was glittering gold.
“Lasse! I found something!”
It was a pendant of some kind, of heavy gold. Two rings welded together, one
crossed over the other, almost looking like a plus sign. An unusually large gem in the
middle. It sparkled like a cut diamond. Small, elegant filigree work over the surface,
as well as some engravings. She could not see any mother-of-pearl.
Did this come from one of the dead mussels? Perhaps it had died shortly after
Solander had pressed the jewel into it?
“Lasse? It is jewelry! Russian jewelry, like you said!”
She couldn’t help looking more closely at the mussels. They were much heavier than
an average one would be. She put them to her ear and listened. They were making
bubbling sounds inside their shells. Or was that just water running out of her ears as
she turned her head?
So unbelievably old. Older than any other creature I have ever met. And why should we
just – kill them?
The shells were pressed shut tight. I’d need a super sharp knife to cut these open.
She shivered and found herself shrieking from the cold. She grabbed up the
Maidenstone to put it back into its case.
She felt something against her skin. A warmth.
What was this?
She clasped it more tightly. Its surface almost felt soft. As if energy was streaming
from it, streaming up her wrist and arm.
Perhaps nothing more than my body warming itself up.
She held one arm before the flashlight, while her other hand grasped the stone. She
could see her veins clearly as they pulsed beneath the narrow layer of fat below her
skin. The small hairs on her forearm had risen and as she lifted her arm up higher,
she saw that more of her veins were becoming visible. They seemed swollen and yet
strong. All up her arm, from her biceps, and through her lymph nodes, and the thin
hair in her armpits – her veins and arteries were expanding.
Maybe this is why people do polar swims? After a quick dip in the freezing water,
there’s this wonderful feeling of warmth and well-being. The blood flows through the
body reinvigorated, entering each part of the body until the stream of blood has
reached every vein with pulsing warmth. Every organ thaws from the inside out.
The warmth was spreading to her knees and her calves to her feet. The top surfaces
of her toes began to throb with heat, although they still looked red from the cold.
She felt it all through her body: her temples, her throat, her neck, her back, her
breasts, her ass, her hips….
I have to move. Can’t keep sitting here.
“Lasse!” she yelled as loud as she could.
No answer. What is he doing up there?
She began to get dressed again, putting on all the layers of clothes. She put the
mussels into one of her coat pockets and the gold pendant in her jeans. She put the
stone back into its case.
She called again and heard a muttered reply.
Finally!
She wriggled up through the gap, feeling dizzy and exhausted all of a sudden.
Just a reaction to the cold. I’ll just have to keep going! I can rest later!
She pressed on through and out of the giant’s kettle, back to the ledge where they’d
been sitting.
But Lasse was not there.
His backpack was. It leaned against a mossy root ball. She took the mussels and the
case out of her pockets and into the backpack.
A hand in Lasse’s mitten came down and she handed him the backpack. It was lifted
out and gone. Then the mitten came back and she grabbed it to feel the strong arm
pulling her out.
Immediately she could tell that this was not Lasse’s.
74.
Ida was blinded by a flashlight shone directly into her face.
When she could see again, she found Lasse sitting on an ice-covered boulder with
both arms tied behind his back with neon bungee cords.
Mikkola stood in front of her. Although he smell of alcohol, his actions were entirely
competent.
The sun had already sunk below the horizon again, and darkness had descended.
Mikkola was grinning as he aimed a black Browning revolver at her.
“Open that backpack for me and lay out everything on the ground.”
He kicked the backpack toward her.
Ida tried to figure out what to do. She sent a pleading glance at Lasse, but he wasn’t
looking at her. His jaw was silently clenched.
She went ahead, then, swearing under her breath, as she began to take out the
contents of the backpack. The beam of Mikkola’s flashlight shook behind her.
“You thought I was so dumb that I’d fall for the drowned relative bit? I know the
legend of the river mussels as well as you do! Though at first I thought you’d just be
prospecting for gold or something. Hand me the pearls! And that green box you’re
always so concerned about! How blind did you think I was?”
Ida mumbled an incoherent reply as she glanced back toward his Browning – yes, it
looked real – and emptied the entire backpack: measuring tape, black nylon ropes,
the net, the almost empty metal flask, the mussels, the lead-lined case.
The gold pendant slid out of her pocket as she leaned forward.
“Oh, what have we here?” Mikkola chortled as he bent to pick up the pendant. Ida
saw Lasse look over from his perch on the boulder.
Mikkola picked up the green case and opened it eagerly. He held the Maidenstone up
close to his face. “Well, well, well, what is this?”
He hummed happily to himself as he held it up into the air, where it caught all the
remaining light. The sapphires glittered.
“Better than I’d hoped for!”
He shoved the Maidenstone into his pocket and pulled out a piece of bread and
began to chew. He seemed to be thinking through his options.
“So, listen up,” he said. “I’m not a killer. I won’t be leaving your bodies to the bears
and wolves.”
He pointed to Ida. “You’ll walk ahead of me.”
He looked back at Lasse. “You’ll stay here. If you try to follow us, I’ll shoot off her
knees. So just sit and wait until she comes back for you later on.”
Lasse still said nothing.
Isn’t he going to say something? Anything?
Lasse did not move.
Mikkola poked Ida in the back with his Browning.
As she started to walk, she cast one last glance back at Lasse. Actually, he now
seemed almost in shock and extremely disappointed.
Ida carried her own flashlight while Mikkola held the light of his constantly on her.
He was carrying the backpack.
He kept stumbling over rocks and uneven ground.
Maybe he’s not in good shape. Maybe I’ll be able to run away from him. He’s still kind
of drunk as well.
The thought came that he might fire the Browning by accident if he tripped over a
rock. She shivered.
Mikkola turned around a few times to make sure Lasse wasn’t following them, but
soon he was out of sight.
Mikkola swore in Finnish each time he took a wrong step, and each time Ida
shivered, fearing a gunshot.
She looked at the river and it seemed there were footprints and a spot where the ice
had been broken through.
Hmm, perhaps Mikkola had broken through the ice just like Lasse when he was
following us. Perhaps his feet are freezing cold and that’s why he keeps tripping.
She hunched, thinking about the chill in the Giant’s kettle. How her body had
shivered and slowed down in the ice-cold water….
Mikkola seemed to be having trouble keeping up with her.
Doesn’t he see we can cross the river here?
She kept leading him onward the way they’d come, up and down a rise, as the chalkwhite crescent moon rose over the place where Ounasjoki River widened from a
rushing stream into a flowing river. When they reached the top of another rise, she
knew the cliffs were far behind them. The rotten hanging bridge was now right in
front of them.
Here’s where we came out of the forest.
The ice here was not as solid and had black spots. The snow was slushy.
“Where are you leading us? Are you trying to shake me off?”
Ida turned around slowly.
“What do you mean? I’m just walking ahead, just like you told me.”
“Don’t be a bitch!
“You’re the one in charge.”
Mikkola spat onto the snow. He was definitely out of breath.
“We could cross the river on this bridge,” she suggested. “If you don’t want to walk
back and cross where it’s not as wide.”
He snorted, never taking his eyes from her while he took out a sports bottle with an
Adidas logo. It looked as if it contained orange juice. He studied the bridge.
She did, too. It was about twelve to fifteen meters above the water. The cliffs on
either side were steep, and the bridge was attached to them about a meter below the
top.
Mikkola looked right into Ida’s eyes and began to laugh. He aimed the Browning at
her knees.
“So you think I’m a stupid wino, right? You think I’m not right in the head?”
She said nothing.
“Come on, we’ll head back and cross the river there, and then go straight to my van.
Then I’ll give you a blanket so you don’t freeze to death out here and you can walk
back for your friend. From there you can just keep on walking until you get to the
highway. Got it? I’m not a fucking idiot.”
She couldn’t answer. She couldn’t speak.
She stood stock still.
Behind Mikkola’s back, something was soaring in the air.
A large white bird had flown up from below the cliff.
75.
Ida threw herself to the ground, feeling cold snow jam between the cuff of her coat
and her mittens.
Mikkola still stood motionless.
His eyes were blank as the monster bird circled around him to ram its beak into his
cheek and rip its huge, sharp talons through the fabric of his coat and the woolen
lining straight into the muscles of his chest. Bloody saliva ran from the hole in his
face into his beard, and from his throat gurgled a strange sound.
Then he screamed – a high-pitched, piercing scream – and he tottered from side to
side as the enormous seagull fixed its talons into his back, while continuing to jab at
his face. His body jerked as if on fire and the bird was spitting kerosene.
BANG! He’d shot his revolver and the echo rang though the river valley, bouncing
from the high cliffs behind her.
Mikkola stumbled forward, rushing toward the hanging bridge. The seagull circled
above, its huge shadow falling over him. It waited to pounce again.
Jesus, it’s beyond belief! It’s enormous! Ida’s thoughts were disjointed.
The wings had a shimmering, oily appearance, and from its beak issued a caw that
was almost mechanical. Mikkola aimed his Browning and shot again – BANG!
The seagull swerved beneath the bridge and seemed to disappear. Mikkola swore
without a pause while blood poured from the numerous gashes on his face. For a
moment, his wobbling gun was pointing at her, and she stared into his wide-open
eyes.
Then he whipped around to run onto the slippery bridge. The backpack hung over
one of his arms, almost forgotten. Then came another sound, a tearing crack.
“What…” He yelled.
Then one leg slipped down as a plank broke in half and parts of it fell into the water.
Ida saw a dark shape clinging below the bridge, pecking relentlessly at the boards
beneath him. Mikkola heard the noises it made and he twisted, with only crazed fear
showing on his face, to shoot straight down.
Another plank broke free to lose parts to the whirling water below. He was white-
faced under the blood streaking his skin and beards and he seemed frozen, staring
at the river rushing below him.
“Where’d it go?” he yelled.
Why’d he get out there? Ida wondered. Did he think he’d get to his van faster that
way?
Mikkola tried to move as fast as he could, slipping on the ice-covered planks, and he
shoved a hand into his coat pocket to pull out a cardboard box. He kept staring,
horrified, downstream.
What’s he looking at?
Ida crawled forward to peek over the edge into the ravine.
Six black shadows against the snow, floating effortlessly on the wind a few meters
above the river.
It had seemed impossible – even ridiculous – for him to do that, but now she
realized Mikkola was opening a box of bullets. His fingers were shaking so that two
bullets bounced off the planks of the bridge, but he managed to stuff others into the
magazine. The birds were closing in on him quickly, branching off into two groups
as they rose level with the bridge.
Mikkola was raising his gun when they were on him. Ida jerked back.
They don’t want him – they want the Maidenstone! It must have spilled out of its case
again inside the backpack. He’s just an obstacle in their way. He doesn’t understand!
Will they attack me, too?
No, I don’t have the stone. They won’t bother with me.
Still –
She desperately surveyed the landscape below her and directly down saw a cliff
only a few meters below. From it led a footpath to the beach.
I’ve got to hide!
She got up to a crouch. Mikkola screamed an unholy scream. As she let herself over
the cliff, a cloud of white began to float around her. The seagulls were ripping apart
Mikkola’s down jacket. Another shot rang out as she slid from the cliff to the
footpath and then slipped all the way to the beach below.
She looked up. One side of the bridge’s ropes had given way so that the bridge
dangled vertically now over the water. Planks were coming loose and falling down,
to create black holes in the ice below.
And there was Mikkola’s blood-drenched body, too, caught by a foot in a rope. It had
been savaged. His body had been ripped open. Organs dangled loosely from the
opening—liver, kidneys—and what looked like his small intestine, resembling a
garden hose, swayed in the wind down to the icy water. His face was no longer
recognizable.
The revolver from his cramped fingers, the ribbons of his coat, the backpack slowly
slipped free as if in slow motion to hit the ice at the river’s edge. Ida watched the
green case and the Maidenstone and all the mussels roll out onto the slick ice next to
the rushing current.
The seagulls seemed to become confused. Their almost electrical, high frequency
shrieks hurt her ears. It was as if they no longer knew where to fly. One even shot up
straight into the sky.
The Maidenstone! Did that seagull get it?
The green case seemed to magnify itself in her sight, quite near her now. A soaked
plank next to it swirled into an opening hole in the ice, then fell through to
disappear.
The Maidenstone! Next to the case! Near that hole! Only three meters or so away!
Can I get it? Get it, get its case, get it back inside? I have to!
She’d have to risk going out on the ice now. No matter what it cost. She had no time
to lose. She couldn’t even lose time to go back and get Lasse.
But why weren’t the seagulls swooping down to get it?
Too much swirling water down here keeps them away? Or had they been scared off by
that last shot?
A hissing sound came from above her, on the side of the cliff. She shuddered but
slowly turned her head.
There it was: one of the monstrous seagulls with a golden beak dipped in blood. It
had shimmering white-gray feathers, but a dark liquid was streaming down from
the back of its head. Small, sharp, uneven things inside its beak.
It was injured, she realized at once. There was a bloody wound, probably from a
bullet, in one of its wings. It moved its head slowly to keep her in view. Its eyes were
like glass, with an odd, strong light coming from them, like two tiny diodes. It hissed
again and seemed to want to attack, throwing its head back and snapping its beak in
the air.
It stared again at her, even while the mass oozed from the back of its head and
dripped onto the rocks.
She began to slide slowly backwards while the gull focused on every movement.
When she moved her hand to support herself, the gull’s eyes zeroed in on her hand.
Then – it attacked.
She threw herself to the side to roll along the beach, hurting her shoulder on the
rock.
She looked around frantically but couldn’t see the gull. Then she heard the hiss from
its perch. The other gulls were now circling in the air, searching. She got up on her
knees.
The case and the stone still lay on the ice. Above, Mikkola’s body still hung lifeless
from the bridge, his body swaying in the air.
Now! As fast as I can! Before they come!
She slithered out onto the ice, arms and legs as far apart as possible to distribute her
weight.
She heard the gulls above her.
Here was the backpack, shreds of jacket, the revolver. She grabbed it, rolled over on
her back, fumbling off her mittens.
She saw the gulls getting ready to dive at her – their new target. She aimed the
revolver as best she could.
BANG!
She shot again.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
She shot until the weapon clicked on empty.
A voice.
Am I hearing things?
“Hey, take it easy, take it easy! You only need to get the stone and keep still!”
She opened her eyes to see Lasse standing at the edge of the river. Unbelievably, the
bungee cord was still wrapped around his arms.
“Hurry!” He called.
She looked up. The gulls had scattered and flown up high into the air.
I did scare them off!
She started to crawl again. The ice creaked and groaned beneath her. She felt it give
way a little. Her stomach was getting wet.
Fuck!
“Watch out!”
Lasse was striding along, dancing, whistling and making as much movement as
possible although his arms were still bound to his sides. It looked like he was trying
to attract the attention of the gulls to him and away from her.
“Get all of it! The mussels, the backpack, but above all, the Maidenstone! Hurry!”
She slithered forward.
There – she had her hand around the stone – and there – the case, yes, she had it in
her hand. First before anything else, she pushed the stone back into its case and shut
the lid.
Now the gulls can’t sense you anymore!
And the jacket – there – and the backpack – there it is – She swept it all, the case, the
jacket, the mussels, into the backpack.
She heard the flapping of wings. The gulls, but they were coming to land on the ice
beside her. She wanted to curl defensively into a fetal position, but they didn’t
attack. They just looked at her. They began to groom their feathers with their beaks.
They made no angry noises.
“Get back to shore!” Lasse was shouting.
She slid like a seal, on her stomach, even as she struggled to pull shut the zippers of
the backpack. Then, unbelievably, the backpack was moving away from her, no, she
was moving away from it, she was being sucked into the water…water just above
freezing…it’s still on the ice, it’s not moving, I am…and her feet, and knees and
limbs…all of her…a noise as cold water engulfed her. The ice had broken and she
was now under it…if only I had an ice pick! And her hands could not grasp anything,
there was nothing to grab, she could hear Lasse’s bellowing voice, but it was far
away, now, and her strength left her…and she was now deep in the dark water, in
the current, below the ice…
76.
What is happening to me now?
Ida’s thoughts were disconnected even as she came to understand she was being
pulled by the thundering dark water…they say, you see a light when you die…so
strange…the movies got it all wrong…the light at the end of a tunnel…I’ve always
believed it was real… She could tell her body was tumbling along in the water but she
felt nothing, her body was numb. Her head banged against ice, stones, the sand at
the bottom.
…poor humans…the brain gets no oxygen…the synapses…make calming light shows…a
deceiving glimpse of heaven…as if a paradise awaits…my brain…almost
unconscious…the water…indescribable…and darkness…
Through open eyes, she saw a gray sky and a diffuse color of rock.
She saw herself thro
wing her body off the cliff edge, jumping into the black water, which carried her
away, and her hair flowing with the current…and the darkness and the shock were
taking away the pain of the cold, and then the complete lack of pain, warm and
sleepy, almost motherly, everything going to sleep, spasms of electric signals going
to the arms, the legs…and total quietude.
The warm darkness disappeared. Cold and a grim, dark hardness took over. A
darkness with talons, gripping everything, into her chest, into her throat, into her
fingers, beneath her eyelashes, and behind the cold darkness, more darkness,
another darkness and a darkness beyond that darkness, as a mirror reflecting a
mirror reflecting a mirror…
This is eternity…complete and perfect darkness…a great…Nothing…
She seemed to be witnessing her own birth.
Her own baby body.
Her mother Eva, faceless, exhausted on the bed at the maternity ward. The umbilical
cord, right in front of her, in front of her eyes, like a pale snake.
Was this umbilical cord real?
Am I supposed to grab it?
She realized she didn’t have to try. It was winding itself around her.
What the fuck…
Paradise, October 31st
Ida, my child.
I look through the many letters I’ve written to you over the years, none of which I
sent, and feel a sense of cowardice, I suppose. But any letter from Paradise would be
dangerous for you. I keep them all in an old suitcase on which my only cat left,
Tempus, snoozes. I like to think he’s keeping watch until that day I dare send them.
Or perhaps I will take them to you myself! How tall are you now? Will I have to look
down at you or up? Or will we be equal on the day I meet you again? I know you are
very beautiful, not just because I am your mother, but because of the photo you
posted of you and your friend Marina at a pub. I recognize the faces you’re making. I
remember that grin.
I am so sorry I have to stay in hiding from you. Alma always told me that my body
would only be an object of research if anyone ever found out. I didn’t believe her at
first, but now I do. I’ll never forget that fear, nor, I think, will Alma. So I can’t reveal
where I am. I call this place Paradise. For me, it is a paradise, although that says
more about me than this place. I have no desire to ever leave, unlike other Eva’s
you’ve been taught about.
What pains me the most about these letters is that they are monologues. No matter
how much I write, it is always about me, my mathematics studies, my experiments
in magnetism (not the least the ones on robins, which I did for years. Imagine the
battles to keep my cats out of their cardboard boxes!). One is just about my love for
the singer Kate Bush. Her record Hounds of Love was the only music I could take
with me when I left. I felt I could hear you in that record: your baby gurgling, your
laugh, our love. The sweet smell of your neck. “I just know something good is going
to happen,” Kate Bush sang in that wonderful song Cloudbusting.
But these letters are just ridiculous without answers.
I never thought I’d be gone your whole life. I thought it would be temporary. Maybe
a year. Until that fall when everything fell apart.
I have to explain. At least once, I must explain. I don’t know what you think of me,
but here is my version of what happened:
During one of the last fights I had with Alma, your father tried to comfort me, but I
was so filled with hate, I just yelled at him and kept yelling. How could he always
take Alma’s side? Why did he even love her? Just the fact that he loved her meant he
hated me! I yelled so much the windows seemed to shake, but the sorrow in his eyes
is something I will never forget. Still. I was stubborn, and he was much too
accommodating. Even so, I always thought my trip here was only until I was healthy
and could return. We’d talk it all over then. Then we would discuss everything. After
two years, I did begin to feel better, season by season. Still, I was far from healthy.
Once, when I felt a bit more sullen than usual, I decided to get out and venture to the
nearest town. It ended with my neighbor, Ako, finding me at the side of the road just
beyond the marsh. I had been on the bus when the headache started, and the
bleeding cracks appeared on the insides of my elbows. That happens to this day; if I
think about leaving this healing place and its unusual nature, my body will protest
by having a self-immune reaction. It becomes allergic to itself. I’ll never understand
how I survived all those years in Jämtland.
Still, I was always determined to return one day. I feared your life would be as
difficult as mine had been dealing with Alma as Manfred. And what would happen to
you if your father became ill? If one day you were left alone with her?
One day, in late autumn, I called home to my father. I no longer remember the year. I
had the hope that we could work something out. I’d gone to a neighboring farm,
where they had one of those new, magical inventions called cell phones. If I found
the exact spot between the corrugated tin roofs of his barn and his shed where I
could make a call.
In that year, between November and Christmas, I had already made three calls. The
first thing I was told was that Alma was working to have me declared legally dead.
You can check that out. It tells you a great deal about Alma – when she tries to bend
reality to her will, she leaves no stone unturned. There are times when I think she’s
a true psychopath.
That was the strangest conversation in my life. We cried, said little, cried some
more, tried to speak, but couldn’t. Then we started laughing, your grandfather and I,
just before the connection was broken. I couldn’t call back.
The second time I called, he told me how you were doing. I remember watching the
first snow of the season start to fall as we talked. Such a wonderful sight – quiet and
comforting between the barn and the shed – and I took in each detail he told me.
You were starting to lose your baby teeth and had a big gap where you could suck
spaghetti. I’d dreamed of your face many times – and that detail made it real, the gap
where your baby teeth had fallen out. I asked many questions, but wish I’d asked
more than just about your physical health. If you had friends, what were they like?
He mentioned a certain Klara, I remember. You played with her. He seemed to talk
more about her than about you. It seemed a little off kilter. I got the feeling he told
me just what I wanted to hear, and, in the end, I realized you’d only played with this
Klara a few times. You really preferred to wander in the forest on your own. I
panicked. It didn’t help when he told me about the huts you built in the forest, or
when you went skiing with the neighbor, Lasse, or played Nintendo, or looked at the
stars, or had a chemistry box, New Year’s Eve fireworks, your herbarium and your
burning interest in everything beneath a microscope. None of that included friends!
That’s probably why I am so fond of that photo you put on Facebook. You and your
friend Marina at a pub. It seems you don’t have many friends beyond her; you’re not
in contact with very many people. Oh well, perhaps I am worrying about nothing.
Your life is much different from mine, anyway. Perhaps you choose this – you don’t
have many friends because you don’t want them. It wouldn’t surprise anyone who
studies genealogy. Nordlund family members are not known for their robust social
lives, and on Alma’s side…well, nobody knows who they are, but they’re probably
not a bundle of laughs, either…those tortured Slavic souls.
You have to understand, Ida. My childhood was pure hell. I can’t put it any other
way. My own body has tortured me for as long as I can remember. Perhaps I’d have
a week or two of normalcy, and then another sore would appear. It would take
forever to heal, and then the cycle would begin all over again. I remember when I
was six years old and upstairs in my room. The doctor had just visited me. I heard
Alma and Papa arguing downstairs. “You can’t keep her locked up inside all her life
just because she can’t be cured!” he was yelling. I remember those words well. I was
‘incurable’. It would be like this for the rest of my life. Then he said, “It might be best
for her to grow up at a sanatorium.” I hated him for saying those words. I didn’t
speak to him for months. It took me a long time to realize he was the one who
wanted me to have as normal a life as possible, not Alma. In a sanatorium, there
would be other young people, ill perhaps, that’s true, to keep me company. But, of
course, he caved in; he never had a chance against Alma. He’d played his last card
that day—I came to understand that much later. I was cared for at home; I had my
lessons at home; soon I began to realize I was kept prisoner at home. Whenever I
had a few stable weeks, Papa took me to the Scout meetings. But I was a shy girl,
with sores on my face, who blushed whenever anyone spoke to me. I would cry and
want to go home. Then I’d be gone for weeks. Of course, nobody wanted to be
friends with such a strange girl. I imagined everyone was ashamed of me. I
fantasized that boys would throw snowballs at our windows because I was such a
misshapen monster. They would want me to appear at the window like a ghost. But,
of course, nothing like that ever happened. Alma had chosen one of the most remote
places to live in all of Jämtland. She wanted to continue her experiments in her
secret laboratory like one possessed. “To cure you,” she often told me.
It would have been better if she had NOT tried to cure me!
I really don’t want you to demand an answer from her about all this, but if you ever
do, I already know her answer. My illness would have made me into an
“international object of research”. I would never have been left alone at a
sanitarium. They would have carried me somewhere halfway around the world to
isolate me in a bubble as if I were from outer space. They would have “taken me
away and cut me open”. That sounds noble of her, but it’s not true. The truth is the
scientists would have been interested in Alma, too. After all, where did my cells
come from? They would suspect that Alma also carried the mutation, or whatever
this is called. They’d want to find her lab and invade her life’s work. They’d discover
her secrets. Linnaeus and Solander, salve et coagula and all that bizarre business
she’s devoted her entire life to. She must have mentioned something to you about it
by now. If she’d be lucky, they’d lock her up in a mental institution. On the other
hand, if she could prove the truth in what she says, well then, hell is sure to break
out. Life in prison would be the least punishment for someone who has kept all this
a secret, just to seek fame.
She always puts herself first. She’s always been that way.
Papa and I decided I would call on Christmas Eve. I wanted to hear your voice. I
wouldn’t tell you that I was your mother. You’d always been told that you no longer
had one. I would just be somebody calling to wish the family a Merry Christmas.
We’d hoped that Alma might melt. Put down her defenses and open up to
negotiation of some kind. Establish some kind of contact – Papa and I were hoping
this might happen. So many years had gone by.
But Alma was the one who answered the phone. Did Papa let her in on our plans? He
was terrible at keeping secrets from her. She must have sensed something going on.
She never even said hello. It was as if she’d been sitting and waiting by the phone for
hours.
“Unlike you,” she hissed at me, “a woman who abandoned her own daughter, I’ve
taken my responsibilities seriously. Ida has been perfectly healthy ever since you
left. So we’re even. You don’t have a daughter and I don’t have a daughter.”
Then she hung up. I did not try to call Sweden again.
For many years, I feared I’d treated you badly in the short time we had together. I
might have created fantasies that turned into memories. But, in the end, I believe I
did nothing to hurt you. Memory is not trustworthy. Still, I don’t remember ever
hating you or consciously hurting you to make Alma’s comments more
understandable. Instead, I felt fear. Afraid to be close to you.
I know that Alma feels great guilt, but no one should take out their guilt on others.
Papa never picked up the phone again. They changed numbers. Papa never tried to
contact me. She held him in an iron grip.
I never even knew that he was sick.
The following summer, after I’d been away from you for several years, I was on the
porch peeling rhubarb when my neighbor, Ako, came tramping over the fields. He
yelled I was lucky today – I’d gotten a package. As I opened the carefully taped-shut
cardboard box, I found some envelopes with a loose photograph on top.
A photo of a gravestone. Manfred Nordlund.
A dry note on the back: “He was in a great deal of pain at the end. He asked for you.”
Papa was dead! Your grandfather was dead! And what did Alma say? She gave guilt!
Nothing but guilt!
I remember feeling in a fog as I went inside to sit beside my wood stove. Sorrow and
rage fought together inside me, and I couldn’t tell which would get the upper hand.
Nevertheless, I was mentally prepared. I knew that Alma would probably live to be a
hundred, as energetic as she is, but Papa would probably leave this life before she
did. He’d had health issues before.
But when I opened the other envelopes, it became too much. A feeling I hadn’t felt in
years and for which I was completely unprepared…mixed with grief and rage came a
bubbling mass of--happiness! I hadn’t expected it!
For, despite everything, Alma had sent me some photos of you.
All my emotions were mixed that summer and I tried to sort them out to feel them
one at a time, but it was impossible. Rage, sorrow and regret. And then I would
laugh out loud from happiness! You looked so healthy! And you were as beautiful as
a fairy-tale princess. You had many of Alma’s features, of course, but that nose and
those ears! They had come from Papa! There was a picture of you and Papa by a
beaver dam near Kerstinberget. You were both leaning forward a little with the
exact same gesture and the exact same expression in your eyes! As if the two of you
were coming to me! Our genes might determine our appearance, but we learn how
to move our bodies from those we love and who make us feel secure. We imitate
them subconsciously.
Your health was difficult for me since we had such a close physical tie. I was so sick
until I became pregnant with you. Then I was the perfect picture of health. Then,
after you were born, I fell ill again and I must have infected you – my breast milk, my
presence, my breath – from anything! When I was near you, you broke out in the
same painful eczema as I had.
Your mother is really a monster. This is true; I admit this. It is the monster lurking in
me that made me leave you so that both of us could find health. You must believe
this.
I found a book here. It’s a play by Berthold Brecht. The Caucasian Chalk Circle. Two
mothers, the biological mother and the adoptive mother, have gone in front of a
judge in order to determine who will have custody. The judge draws a chalk circle
on the ground and places the child at the center. He tells them that the stronger of
the two will be chosen since mother-love is the strongest of all loves. And then he
says: Ready set go – the first one to reach the child is the stronger. But the judge is
deceptive. He has a plan.
One of the mothers throws herself forward; the other stands still, horrified at the
thought of battling over the child.
The judge then says that the true mother is the one who is afraid of hurting her
child. So the frightened mother, who did not leap to grab the child, is the true
mother. He gives her custody.
It is a strange story, but when I think of it, I believe Alma is like the mother, who
leaps to grab what she wants, while I stood, trembling, waiting for a judge to step
forward and save me. But there was no judge for me!
I had always wanted to stay out of your grandmother’s field, but ironically enough,
mathematics has leeched into the field of biology more and more. The robins I told
you about: they use the planet’s magnetic field to find their way across the earth.
The magnetism in their beaks does not explain it all. Sea turtles, salmon, eels, even
bees and ants – they all find their way without magnetism. That’s because there are
other ways, for example crypto chrome. A perfect element for separating electrons
via quantum entanglement – that’s my field. Certain electrons are paired, you see. If
you change the orbit of one, the other one changes its orbit as well. Send one
thirteen billion light years away and the two will still be in ghostly contact. If you
change one, the other will change, as if distance did not matter.
Einstein did not like this. I do. I think about you. You are a part of me and I am
always in contact with you. Yes, mathematics has become my religion. I confess.
I do not understand how my body and my life became so unbalanced. Everything
else is balanced perfectly here in Paradise. If the power of gravity had been just a bit
weaker when the Big Bang took place, our universe would be nothing more than
loose gases. If it had been just a bit stronger, the entire universe would be filled with
nothing but black holes. The system is delicately balanced. The exact position, the
exact size for the third planet from the sun. But that’s all that is needed! Just the
proper distance and the proper gravity and life spurts out of material.
That life is not perfect, well, that’s as may be. But I, myself, have been exposed to
something that is not from nature but the hand of man. It is humankind that brought
me here. For this, I have to simply forgive—it’s all I can do. I hope that you will be
able to do this, too, one day.
Forgive me – please. My dear little daughter, my one and only, wonderful daughter.
I love you!
Eva
77.
The umbilical cord wound twice around Ida’s wrist. Or was it a rope, a blue rope?
She heard a voice calling; made out shapes, like tree trunks, slide past.
She almost thought she saw Alma between the trees.
The serpent was slithering between them.
The umbilical cord pulled her arm, jerking at it again and again.
“Ida! Try again, Ida!”
Cold current, underwater sounds.
And then cold air – and reality – returned.
She saw the gulls again. They were slightly upstream, pecking at the ice. She found
herself in the exact place where she’d fallen into the water. She must have simply
been spun around and around beneath the water and the ice.
She saw Mikkola’s body, the intestines hanging from his body, like a rope; she heard
Lasse again, and a pain cut through her chest.
She was breathing again.
Air!
A point of light. Lasse’s flashlight?
She saw Lasse’s mitten holding a knife that was sawing near her wrist. Cutting,
slicing. The umbilical cord was being cut from her wrist…or was it a rope? The
world was upside down.
She felt Lasse lift her to his shoulder as if she was a rug and she saw water dripping
from her hair to the snow.
She saw the cut serpent, the cut umbilical cord, pale on the pale ice behind them.
Lasse was jogging, going into the forest, leaving gulls behind on the ice. Lasse held
the backpack and Mikkola’s shredded jacket in his other hand. And she was
breathing, she was breathing.
She must have dreamt an umbilical cord…
It was Mikkola’s small intestine.
A length of it was still back there on the ice.
The rest still wound its way upward, back to Mikkola’s ripped body still dangling
from the broken bridge.
She was not dreaming her way into death. She was alive.
I’m alive!
She listened to Lasse’s labored breathing, the crack of breaking twigs below his feet,
the pieces of bark when they were broken off and rained down on her, the stream of
swearing that Lasse could not seem to stop.
He did it. He’s carrying me on his shoulders away from those gulls, back towards life.
And:
I did it. I saved the stone…and all the mussels…
Soon we’ll be back at the van.
78.
Mikael felt energetic.
They’d slept well during the night on comfortable beds. They got up at eight thirty
and started calling rental car agencies.
Yes, definitely many cars to rent, even on short notice.
“But no pings from my iPad,” Paul said as they met outside Mikael’s room to go to
breakfast in the dining area on the basement level. It had subdued lighting with
brass lamps and framed seafaring watercolors. The sofas were upholstered in red
velvet.
They started with a cup of strong coffee, noticing there were not that many guests at
the tables. Then they went to the buffet table and filled up plates with plenty of food
including bread, slices of meat and cheese, cornflakes and eggs, as well as Karelian
pirogues and Viili sour milk.
Paul picked up a copy of the paper, Helsingin Sanomat, flipped through it a second
and then put it down. “Finnish – I don’t understand a single word!”
Mikael didn’t bother replying. He was chewing on a chocolate croissant.
Idiot doctor, he was thinking. Self-involved, cool-headed scientist type. They can go on
and on about hypothermia, lymphomas, embolisms, and the Devil and his Aunt’s
hemorrhoids. But they know nothing about the humanities, not even the history of the
language they use every single day. Doesn’t this idiot Paul even know that Finnish and
Scandinavian languages belong to entirely different language families? And it’s
actually interesting how the Finnish people got to this corner of the North?
And why don’t people know about languages? What does Paul know about them? His
knowledge is just as superficial as the rest of the population. Only reads books ‘on
vacation’. And ‘nothing deep for me, thanks’ and ‘ha, ha, ha’.
An underage waitress with almond-shaped eyes came and refilled their coffee cups.
No, people don’t give a damn about education any more. Certainly not the humanities.
Cultural decay – yet again! Western Culture sinking into oblivion so slowly that nobody
notices that night is coming. Well, that’s the way it is. All empires fall. Just going at fast
forward now. People put their money into marble countertops, German vans, Italian
espresso machines just to show they are refined. They have no idea what they sound
like at dinner parties or business cocktail hours. They babble on – some new American
retro television show, some new Swedish clothing line ‘not as dangerous
environmentally as the usual cotton’, or perhaps a wonderful charter trip experience
during their latest trip to Spain – yes, it’s oral diarrhea running from their mouths!
Their bookshelves – with no books! Their walls – with no art! Their heads?
They ought to be ashamed that they are as infantile as the average eighteen-year-old!
Zero reflection outside the box, zero independent questioning of the status quo!
Whenever I’m hanging around with my peers, I feel like I’m talking to children! And
yet, the people my age, they’re the ones running Sweden today, and their like runs the
entire Western world! They’re the ones with money, with their mansions and their
positions in all these ice-cold businesses with just one thing on their minds, one
imbecilic short-sighted goal: growth at any price! These are the people who will be
writing the history of this era in twenty or thirty years…yes, the Infantile Era has just
begun! A darkness will descend which makes the Middle Ages…
He focused on the angel chimes on the table in front of him. Watched them whirl
around from the heat of the candles.
So, I’m letting my mind rant again. I have to control my thoughts.
And am I much better than they are? Not really.
He smiled to himself as he thought of the proverb: When the sun is low, even dwarves
have long shadows.
He took up his knife and fork to make quick work of his bacon and eggs. He looked
up at one of the paintings on the wall: a botched brig –
PING!
Paul dropped his fork onto his plate and dug into his pocket for his phone.
“Shit!”
He glanced up at Mikael, and then back at his glowing screen.
“Look!”
The red dot on the map pulsed.
“Where is it?” Mikael asked.
They both looked at the map.
“It’s up north!” Paul exclaimed. “About as far as it could be! In the middle of
nowhere! We guessed wrong!”
You guessed wrong, Mikael thought, but he said, “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, it’s in the middle of Lapp country. North of Kemi. But look, it’s following a
highway, and it’s moving south. I hope the signal keeps going for a while.”
Paul held the phone so they both could see. The dot moved slowly but surely along a
road named 79.
“Well, at least it’s going south. Look, the next big town is Rovaniemi. It will take
some time before it gets there.”
“How long?”
Paul tapped on his cell phone. “Rovaniemi is above the Arctic Circle. Hundreds of
kilometers north of here.”
“Let me call the rental agency…”
“No, wait,” Paul kept tapping. “It’s too far. We’d have the same problem we had
yesterday. They’ll be gone before we get there. If they are heading to
Rovaniemi…we’ll have to do something else. But what? What the fuck should we
do?”
He kept tapping his cell phone, then, “I’ve got it.” He smiled triumphantly. “Come on,
let’s get going. No time to waste!”
The taxi drove them from the center of town. Paul was busy on his cell phone as they
passed well-plowed roads with heaps of snow at the sides. In less than fifteen
minutes the taxi pulled up at the entrance to Vaasa Airport.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Paul gestured toward the building. “A shoebox from the eighties.”
“Added to a cardboard box made by Nordic bureaucracy,” Mikael added.
As they walked through the automatic doors, they could see the standard signs with
international icons. In a corner was a bistro Seventh Heaven, serving focaccia and
sushi.
“Not exactly bustling,” Mikael said.
“Except for those guys.” Paul gestured at a group of bearded men in red Santa Claus
hats. They stood near Gate 2 and were busy drinking beer. Mikael took a good look
at the men while Paul went on to the ticket counter. One of the men had a boom box
with loud hard rock blasting from it. Some families with children were nearby
watching. The children looked upset. Two of the men in lederhosen had beards and
sunglasses. They each opened fresh cans of beer.
Mikael rolled his eyes. Thank God I don’t have to deal with those people.
Paul came back from the ticket counter with a wide grin: “A Christmas special!
Flight, two nights in a double room, Hotel Rudolf. Transfer from the airport, a
welcome glögg, karaoke at the Christmas House restaurant. Not to mention our
children have free admission to the Gingerbread House!”
Mikael sighed as Paul waved the stack of vouchers. “Sounds nice,” he managed to
say.
“They’re remainders. Just two hundred Euros for the two of us. Not bad. We’re in
luck with all these extra flights between Vaasa and Rovaniemi during the Christmas
season. It’ll take just fifty minutes! The flight leaves at ten, and we’ll be there before
the iPad! If the iPad is on the way to Rovaniemi, that is.”
The way he talks about his iPad, I wonder what’s on it that’s so important. Maybe I
should just go ahead and ask.
“We’ll rent a car when we get there and hope for a new signal there. Yeah, I know.
It’s a slim chance, but it’s a chance. So, Gate 2.”
“What? Gate 2? We’re on the same flight as – those guys?” Mikael indicated the
young men dressed as Father Christmas eller kanske Santa.
“What’s the matter with them?”
They looked at the men even as one of them bent over and seemed ready to vomit
onto the marble floor.
“Seasonal help, of course,” Paul said.
The other men began to laugh. “Come on, Migga!You can’t be sick here. !”
“Swedes, of course,” Paul added. “That explains everything. Finnish people don’t act
like that in public.”
A voice came over the loudspeaker, first in Finnish, and then in Swedish. “We have
started to board flight FI2385 to Rovaniemi. Please have your boarding passes
ready. Hyvään matka!”
79.
Mikael looked through the laminated brochures in the seat pocket. According to the
brochure, they were flying in a Saab 340 prop plane, which was said to be
“unusually stable for its size”. Outside the window, there wasn’t much daylight.
Rather, it seemed like perpetual twilight.
He looked across the aisle at the Santa dressed men. They’d all slouched in their
seats and seemed to be napping with drool at the sides of their mouths. The
children, on the other hand, had perked up. They were calling to each other: “We’ll
soon be in Santa Claus Village!”
The flight attendants, in comfortable-looking uniforms, handed out sandwiches and
apple juice. Mikael had a window seat, where he could look down and see the forests
and the open spaces of lakes and rivers. The Land of a Thousand Lakes. Beautiful,
absolutely beautiful, of course, if only all these clichés didn’t come to mind! Sales
slogans instead of my own impressions…
The ground was white from snow, and only a few lights glittered in the twilight.
More lakes, all of them shining like mirrors in a checkerboard of fields and forests.
Enormous fields, clear-cut, spruce forests…all of it wrapped in dark bluish light.
He noticed that the twilight outside turned more and more into night the farther
north they flew. Yes, there is no day above the Arctic Circle.
“Ladies and Gentlemen…” It was the Captain telling them about the weather. Mikael
closed his eyes and drifted off into a warm doze.
He saw her at once. She wore a Lucia dress, white with a red sash, and she had an
electric Lucia crown on her head. She held a candle before her.
Of course, it was Rebecka. Her tousled blonde hair, always refusing to stay in place,
just as it did whenever it was time to get dressed or if there were homework she
didn’t like.
He watched his tiny Lucia crawl into bed. She turned her back to him and began to
cry in protest. I don’t want to die, dad. I’m not going to die, am I, dad? Why do I have
to die?
He reached to embrace her and hold her close, but she kept calling louder. Dad, hold
on, don’t let me go! He took her red silk sash and wound it around his wrists so it
wouldn’t slide off, but she kept calling, and as he looked down, he saw that the silk
had changed to blood, and the blood was running down his wrists and there were
deep vertical slashes…Did I do this to myself? He wondered in his dream, because he
knew vertical slashes on the wrists only meant one thing…and she turned to look at
him and smiled, lying in her bed in her fine, white linen, and she smiled at him and
he smiled back. Finally we can see each other again, she said to him and he replied,
Yes, my darling daughter.
I’m dreaming, he told himself in his dream, and then began to hear the drone of the
plane’s propellers.
It doesn’t matter. This is my only dream, my true dream, the dream I long for. How I
have been longing for it!
Just to hold her! Just to hold her again! To twirl a lock of her hair around my index
finger…Come back! Where are you going?
He opened his eyes to wake with a jerk.
The stale, plastic airplane smell.
Oh, back in the same old, same old, terrible reality.
He shook himself and found his feet had grown cold. On the tray in front of him was
a tiny can of Coke, unopened. A warm sense of the dream still filled his mind, as if
he’d been a cat, purring in the sun. He looked out the window and caught sight of
something flutter past in the black sea of air, perhaps a kilometer away.
What could that be?
Not a bird this high up.
No.
Nor an angel, either.
80.
The flight landed right on time.
Less than an hour later, they stepped out of the transfer bus and walked into the
lobby of the Hotel Rudolf in the middle of Rovaniemi at the corner of Korkalogatan
and Koskigatan.
It was a five-story building made of glass and cement. The families with children
went straight for the reception desk where a young, awkward-looking woman
manned the counter all by herself.
Jesus, Mikael thought. I hope they’re giving her hardship pay for this work: chronic
stench of gingerbread, tasteless Christmas ornaments covered in glitter, and this
infernal sound of jingle bells on repeat through the speakers.
Paul made a quick call to his wife. Mikael heard him say something about
‘unforeseen circumstances’ and that he’d be calling back again soon. Paul put his cell
phone back in his pocket, pulled out a ten Euro bill, and walked straight to the head
of the line. He put it down in front of the young woman. They both received their
keys in record time.
“We need to stash our baggage here for now,” Paul said. “We want to look around
town.”
She nodded, unable to protest, and put their small pieces of luggage behind a screen.
They went outside to begin strolling down Korkalogatan. Paul kept checking his cell
phone. Mikael made sure that the plastic covering around the Solander diary was
secure.
“Still nothing,” Paul said. “I imagined it would take her an hour or two to get here.
Let’s hope she turns on the iPad soon. And that she’s not driving in a different
direction.”
“How do you know she’s driving?” Mikael asked.
Paul sighed. “I know, I know! All I’m trying to say is that we just have to wait. Find a
car rental. Maybe have a drink?”
“All I want is water.”
They idly looked around and decided to go to one of the Christmas markets. Before
long, they found themselves sitting on stools made of snow, covered with reindeer
hides, beside a table made from a big chunk of ice. The whole place was made of
packed snow and called itself the Restaurant Paradise Igloo. It was enormous, with
different colored lights hanging from the ceiling, a dance floor, two bars, and rows of
speakers set in niches cut from the snow. The waiter soon came to hand them
purple thermal gloves and a mug of hollowed out ice filled with apple cider and a
cinnamon stick. Paul asked for a splash of calvados.
Mikael stared at the light machine as the disc jockey began to spin Boston’s More
than a Feeling and the hundreds of diodes imbedded in the walls flickered purple,
green, red, blue and yellow.
Oh dear God have mercy! Who designed this nauseating place?
“I had no idea that this, what shall we call it, Arctic porn?, was so popular up here,”
Paul said.
Mikael began to smile and reply when he froze at the sight of some people entering
the Paradise Igloo. A man, with an earflap hat and two women. They all wore large
scarves to cover their mouths and small ice droplets had formed on the outer side of
the wool. One of the women, laughing, pointed to an ice sculpture of a leaping
salmon. They set their mittens down on a table and went to the ice bar to buy
Finnish beer.
Mikael stared at the man.
He looks kind of like…very much like…no, it can’t be!
He peered at the man more closely.
Yes! It’s him!
That damned Edvard Lönncrona!
What the hell is he doing here? That bastard!
Here I am in the middle of Finnish Lapland Hell, hiding out in a snow igloo, and yet I’m
stalked by that overly praised piece of shit who pretends he’s the top of the literary
heap!
What in the high holy hell is he doing here?
“Let’s go,” Paul said, getting up, even as Mikael leapt past him and out the door.
As long as Lönncrona didn’t see me!
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Paul yelled at his back.
They started down the street.
Mikael didn’t reply. He found the ice mug still in his hand. He swilled down the last
drop of cider and then, without looking right or left, he threw it against a utility box
where it shattered into thousands of bits of ice.
He saw a gas station just a few blocks ahead of them. Paul was now jogging behind
him, and Mikael let him catch up.
“What is wrong with you?” Paul demanded.
“I just couldn’t stand it anymore,” Mikael said. “But look there! A gas station! A Shell
station, to boot, good old Shell! You can always depend on them!”
81.
Ida woke up on the cot as the engine noise stopped.
Time for a break?
The van had been moving for hours. A constant vibration and slight swaying.
A few hours ago, they’d risked a break in a roadside bar. She had gotten online to
research seagulls on Wikipedia but found no gulls that resembled the monsters that
had attacked Mikkola on Ounasjoki River.
Then they’d hit the road again and she’d fallen asleep. In her dreams she’d felt cozy
and warm, all bundled up, and she’d had no desire to wake up again.
She sat up to wipe some sweat from her forehead. Perhaps she’d been feverish. A
fever must have held her while she dreamed. She’d heard the seagulls, their shrieks
– and when she’d finally woken, fear came back, and, with it, the realization of how
close to death she’d been out on the river.
A wave of disgust. She remembered being tangled in Mikkola’s intestines. She’d
grabbed at an umbilical cord and it was nothing more than Mikkola’s intestines…
No, no, it couldn’t have been that. It must have been the bungee cords…
She decided to block all those thoughts out as she tried to sit up. She couldn’t move.
She found herself strapped onto the cot with Lasse’s belt.
So I wouldn’t roll off in my sleep? She unbuckled the belt and sat up. A bottle of water
and a mug with some antacid tablets had been taped to the floor beside the cot. She
took two tablets immediately and drank almost all the water.
She pulled up her backpack and emptied the contents onto the bed. The mussels fell
out first. Oh my God, the mussels. How long can they live without water? They were
still damp. The golden pendant was also there. And the case. And the Maidenstone
inside.
She looked to make sure and snapped the lid shut.
Those damned gulls! We should tape this thing shut!
She picked up the mussels and shook them slightly. Nothing much.
Lasse and I will have to open them together later.
She opened the curtain and looked out because of a yellow glow. Other cars? A gas
station?
Yes, they were at a gas station.
It was a large one with a number of pumps.
How was he going to fill the tank? He can’t use his credit card!
On the floor she found a pair of red rag socks in a ball and herjeans. She heard
Lasse’s voice outside.
She got dressed and found her body still felt exhausted.
So we’re at a gas station. How I would love a bag of BBQ chips and a bag of licorice. I
wonder…I wonder if it’s possible…
As she stepped out of the van, she saw they were in a town. Rovaniemi already?
Lasse’s voice – in English. “We’re heading east.”
“But perhaps you want a little fun first?”
“Ha, ha, ha!”
“You look tired. Long trip?”
“Yes.”
“Where’re you from?”
“Norway.”
Ida found herself next to two pumps and a huge pile of plowed snow, but no Lasse.
He must be on the other side of the cart.
She went to peek around the van.
The woman had a Russian accent.
“You need to relax.”
“Perhaps, perhaps.”
“I can help you.”
“Well, uh, maybe you can help me.”
“Don’t be such a shy Scandinavian! My name is Irma and I’m from Odessa.”
“Nice to meet you.”
What was Lasse doing? Ida pulled back.
“Hey there!” The Russian voice called out to her. “You behind the van! Come out!”
Ida realized that the Russian woman had probably spotted her feet. She sighed and
came out. She had to shut her eyes a moment when a car’s headlights blinded her as
it turned into the gas station.
A woman wearing a leather jacket stood near Lasse. She had gray, greasy hair in a
loose bun and she smiled with lips covered in purple lipstick. She looked at least
fifty years old. Her eyes were cold and calculating, with a touch of pain, in a worn
face. However, the smile she gave them was welcoming.
“Hello.” Ida couldn’t think of anything else to say.
Lasse turned around and looked at her.
Was he blushing?
Ida went back and loitered near the door of the food cart. She tried to listen.
“Your wife?” the woman asked.
Ida couldn’t hear his reply. Jesus, Ida thought. Lasse went alone to Thailand last year.
For something like this? I’ve never thought about him this way before.
She headed for the gas station entrance. She rubbed one cheek to cover her face as
she went to the candy shelf.
Not a single bag of licorice no matter where she looked.
Oh! And I don’t have a single Euro either!
A sallow, plump man with dark hair and a mustache stood nearby.
Damn! I have no money and these are so close!
Then her mind cleared.
Jesus, why do I think about candy when we have bigger fish to fry.
She looked back outside. Lasse was still talking to the woman…that…that whore.
The woman had her cell phone out and was looking serious. Lasse, too, looked grim
as he wrote something down on a scrap of paper. Were they exchanging cell phone
numbers?
What the hell’s he up to now?
They didn’t notice when she came back to climb into the cart and its warmth. She
noticed the iPad on the cot.
Oh, yes, there it is.
Lasse and the woman were still chatting, but now they were smiling.
Ida realized she absolutely had to go to the bathroom.
She glanced at Lasse. His back was toward her. She quickly got out and walked back
to the restrooms behind the gas station with the iPad tucked under her arm.
82.
Ida shivered in the unheated small room. It was clean—the smell of strong soap
reached her nostrils.
When she peed, it hurt She moistened some toilet paper with water from the faucet
to clean herself as best she could. And how many days until I get my period? Won’t
that be fun!
She uncovered the iPad to find the message: Connect to network?
She tapped Enter.
A short message to Marina. I’ll make a new g-mail address.
She opened Safari to see if the connection was working and came right onto the
tabloid site. The murder of Lobov was still in the news, but her picture was no
longer up. There was an article on ‘Getaway Car Found’ and then one about foreign
criticism of the crime. The Daily Telegraph had brought up the murders of Olof
Palme and Anna Lindh. “The Swedish security system is still a Sleeping Beauty. In
spite of half a century of terrorism and assassinations, they sleep on in their sleep of
one hundred years – waiting for a prince to awaken them with a kiss.”
The next article reported a discussion between the Swedish foreign minister and his
Russian counterpart. “Completely incompetent,” the Russian was quoted. “It may be
one thing for Swedish security to let an insane person shoot down their own Prime
Minister on the street or for another to stab their Foreign Minister as she shopped
for clothes, but when it comes to the safety of Russian citizens at an international
event like the Nobel Prize Award Dinner, this is naïveté to the point of stupidity.
Russia no longer has confidence in the Swedish police or their Secret Service. Russia
has begun its own investigation. As far as observing Swedish laws and customs
during out investigation, we will not be content with diplomatic nuance. We will use
all means necessary to protect Russian interests in Sweden, including a search for a
killer.”
The Swedish Foreign Minister had no reply except to point out that he had just
traveled to Lahore in Pakistan, as scheduled. He said, “I will not comment on the
work of out Swedish Security Service. During the next few days I must concentrate
on important meetings throughout Asia and the Middle East.”
A photo of the Foreign Minister showed him with his shoulders hunched and his
wire-rimmed glasses askew. Ida thought he looked wretched. That self-important
hypocrite from Halland Province! It looked like the Russian minister had just slapped
him across the face! Poor little boy!
There was a knock on the restroom door. A woman’s voice asked if the restroom
would be free soon.
I’d better write my message to Marina later.
She closed the iPad and got up from the toilet. She flushed, went to the sinkwashed
her hands, and glanced up at her face in the mirror. Pale, but not haggard. Her eyes
were shining.
She was just about to unlock the door when she heard a loud peeping sound– From
the iPad.
83.
“Look there! Right in the open! This city has no class!”
Mikael didn’t realize at first what Paul was talking about. The gas station looked like
any old Shell station, even if a bit bigger than most. He followed Paul’s blick to a
Toyota pickup truck trailing a huge, filthy food cart. The logo of the food truck was
splashed across the side. Next to the passenger door, a tall, heavily built man was
opening his wallet. A woman in heavy make-up and a leather jacket was close beside
him.
“Is that what they do up north? Sixty liters and a fuck, please?”
Mikael said nothing to that. “Come on, we should check out car rentals.”
They went through the station’s automatic door to the shelves inside and walked
along them. Paul decided on a cup of coffee from the automatic machine and a
pirogi. He picked up a Finnish sauna magazine, flipping through it as he walked to
the cashier.
“By the way,” he asked. “Is there a car rental nearby?”
The cashier asked him to speak in English.
Paul repeated the question.
“Oh, yes, rental cars,” the cashier said. He had a heavy Finnish accent.
He drew a quick map on a post-it note. HERTZ and tried to explain as he drew.
“First…you go that street…then here…you go…”
PING!
Paul jerked his cell phone from his pocket. Mikael looked at him. “Where is she?”
“She’s…”
His eyebrows furrowed. “She’s…the iPad…it’s right here!”
“Here in Rovaniemi?”
Paul enlarged the picture. “No, here, here!”
“What? Here at the gas station?”
“Right!”
Paul quickly trotted back through the shelves. The gas station was empty.
“It’s like she’s right here! Unbelievable! Wait…quiet!”
He tapped a command on his phone. “I’m sending to my iPad now. It’ll send a signal
back. Quiet! Hey, turn off the music!” he yelled at the cashier.
The cashier looked confused, but he turned down the music coming through the
speakers.
“Listen for a responding ping. Like from a submarine!”
There was no noise in the gas station. Mikael strained to hear anything.
By the potato chip aisle came an answering PING.
They stared at each other for a moment. “You go that way! I’ll go this!”
The cashier was staring at them as she picked up his cell phone as if he was thinking
of calling for help. They rushed to the back of the building down both sides of the
aisle.
Nobody was there.
“What the hell!”
“We must look ridiculous,” Mikael muttered.
PING!
Mikael put his ear to the wall. “Is she inside the wall somehow?” He said,
unbelieving.
“Bathroom…on other side!” the cashier seemed willing to help. “Outside…other side!
Bathroom…toilet!”
They didn’t understand, so they ignored him, but the ping was already starting to
move.
They moved along with it beside the wall past the shelves with cleaning fluid, motor
oil, rope, headache medicine, the ice cream fridge, the beer six packs, the shelf with
pornography.
They came to the entrance and the automatic doors slid open.
Walking across the asphalt, between the gas pumps, they saw a young woman with
tousled hair.
“There she is!” Paul yelled, flinging his coffee cup on the floor, and starting to run.
84.
Mikael ran after, straight for the young woman.
“Hey!” Paul yelled.
The woman turned around. She had the iPad clutched to her chest. Her eyebrows
lifted. It seemed she did not recognize Paul at all.
Jesus Christ, she’s much too beautiful to be with Paul! Mikael couldn’t help thinking.
Chiseled features, arched eyebrows, thick, chestnut brown hair, blue eyes, somewhat
Slavic…
She stared at them. Paul seemed at a loss for words, but for only a moment.
“Ida, right?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Look, I just want to talk! I don’t want anything from you. Just give me back my iPad.
That’s all I ask.”
She turned and ran.
“Come on!” Paul yelled.
She was running toward the Toyota and its food cart. As she grabbed open the door
to the truck’s passenger seat, Paul caught her jacket.
“Hey! Just give me my iPad!”
She yelled and kicked at him. There was no recognition on her face. She connected
with his kneecap, and then his shins, but then she missed, and fell in onto the
passenger seat with Paul on top of her. Mikael was deciding if he should intervene
when someone barged into him from behind, knocking him to the ground. He landed
on hands and knees, and rolled around to sit up. Both the big man and the
prostitute, screaming in Russian, had run up, and then the big man bent to the
passenger seat to heave Paul out on his back.
Paul squealed, “My iPad!” but the man was already leaping around to the driver’s
side and starting the engine.
The cashier had run from her spot behind the register and was yelling words at
them in English.
Mikael got to his feet even as Paul threw himself at the windshield of the truck. It
was already moving. The driver jammed on the gas and took a squealing right onto
the street. Paul fell and rolled across the asphalt in time to avoid the trailer. The
door of the food cart flapped open and bashed his back as it went past, before
slamming closed on its own.
The prostitute had already gotten into a Ford Escort and was speeding away from
the gas station.
“Damn it to fucking hell!” Paul screamed.
He still sat in the middle of the driveway. A BMW was turning in and honked its
horn. Mikael ran and grabbed Paul by the arm.
“Maybe they didn’t have a chance to fill up the tank,” Mikael suggested hurriedly.
He gestured toward the pump. Zero Euros. Zero liters.
“Maybe we can catch up.”
Paul spat on the ground as he dusted off his clothes. “Poor girl. One day at the Nobel
Party and the next having to sleep with an old duffer just to get across the border.”
“So you think she…”
“Of course! I imagine that geezer has his claws in her now. Off they’ll go to some
hellhole in the middle of nowhere, where he can pimp her off!”
Mikael kept an eye on the rear lights of the trailer already about five hundred
meters away. It was slowing. “Hey, look!” he yelled. “Bet they’ve run out of gas!”
Paul smiled. “O.K., let’s go get them!”
85.
Lasse batted at the iPad while he drove. “Turn that damn noise off!”
Ida looked down at the commands. One said: Find my iPad. She decided to hit OK.
The iPad stopped pinging.
Easy enough.
They were speeding along when the Toyota hiccoughed and the engine sputtered.
“Damn it,” Lasse said. “Are they behind us?”
Ida checked the side mirror. “No.”
“Who were those guys?”
Ida felt her pulse calm down. “One of them is named Paul. I met him at the Nobel
Party. I’ve never seen the other guy before. Paul owns this iPad.”
“Is he police?”
“No.”
“So why’s he after us?”
“I guess he wants his iPad back.”
“How did he track it?”
“Well…”
Lasse continued, “We don’t know if he’s a policeman or not. This entire town could
be swarming with police looking for us. Turn that damned thing off completely! Or
just toss it out the window! They must have traced us with it. How often have you
had it on?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe three times, I think, the whole time. I’d just turned it on back
there in the bathroom.”
She pressed the power button off and on.Finally appeared: Shut down. The iPad
went completely dark.
“Damn, damn, damn,” Lasse said. “We’re running out of gas. We should dump this
food cart, too. It’s like we have a big Come and Arrest Us sign behind us! But I’ve got
to fill up the truck.”
Ida stared at him. “So, why didn’t you?” Her voice rose. “Why did you talk instead to
that…that whore?”
“She came to me and she’s a very good contact have.”
“A good contact?”
“Yes, she’s Russian.” They stopped at a red light. “This is bad!” He said, looking back
in the rearview mirror.
She looked back, too, and saw two men sprinting toward them.
“Lasse, it’s them! They see we’re stopped!”
“We need to hide you somehow!” Lasse said.
To the right, they saw a modern building with a huge sleigh and some glowing,
fifteen-foot-high Santa Claus figures out front. Each figure held huge sacks of toys
above their heads. People were walking in.
“Go in there!” Lasse yelled.
The light turned green, and Lasse shifted into gear. He drove through the crossing,
engine sputtering, and pulled to the curb. “Get going! In there!”
“But why?”
He ignored, handing her the backpack. She put her hand on the door handle. “Why
there?” she repeated.
“Lots of people. Look at the sign! Some kind of free festival! Run in there now and
get lost in the crowd! I’ll meet up with you at the information desk in a little while.”
“But where’s the information desk?”
“Just find it! Oh, I already took the gold pendant out of your backpack. It’ll cover
getting some money and gas! I’ll keep this iPad to confuse them.”
Ida nodded and looked again in the mirror. She couldn’t see the two men.
“All right,” she said.
As she opened the door, Lasse said, “And try to look intellectual, O.K.?”
“What?”
Lasse waved and drove off.
86.
Mikael and Paul had been running toward the Toyota, when it jerked to life and
drove through an intersection to stop again just past it.
“Did you see?” Paul yelled. “Someone jumped out. I’m sure it’s her! Look! She’s
running into that building!”
Mikael was panting and barely keeping up with Paul.
That Paul probably jogs three mornings a week, damned health freak of a doctor! He
swiped at his sweaty brow as his heart pounded.
Near the intersection they saw a gateway built of ice. A great red canopy covered the
entrance to a snow-covered square with a sign saying Joulapukki. Crowds of people
hovered around market stalls. A number of old-fashioned buildings were draped in
red garlands.. Hundreds of people were making their way inside one of them, named
The Sleigh Cultural House.
“She went in there!” Paul declared.
He headed straight for the line.
What kind of god-awful spectacle is this?
They squeezed past some Swedish-speaking Finns, all wearing black, and passed
through a foyer to a large space that appeared to be a theater.
“Do you see her?” Paul said as they stood on each side of the door, looking in all
directions. Masses of people were streaming in.
“No, I don’t,” Mikael replied. He was just going to suggest that they should separate,
when the house lights went down. A woman in a fur shawl and rings of gold around
her neck stepped onto the stage. She was greeted with warm applause. She started
to speak in the lilting Finno-Swedish accent.
“Hello and welcome back everyone! For those of you here for the first time, welcome
to the thirty-fourth season of the Rovaniemi Christmas Cultural Festival! This year
we are pleased to…”
Mikael began to focus on what the woman was saying. Christmas Cultural Festival? It
sounds truly unendurable.
He and Paul were still in place, and they began to look along the rows of people in
their seats. This was the only entrance, but Mikael could see an emergency exit
behind the stage.
“For this second half of the program, we have a few events in Swedish,” the woman
with the fur shawl almost yelled into the microphone. “First, we have a poetry
reading! This very special part of our program is called Arctisum Polaris: Snow, Ice,
Silence, Text and we are most pleased to welcome this evening’s poet, all the way
from Stockholm, Sweden! Edvard Lönncrona!”
Mikael groaned out loud.
Oh dear Lord, we have walked into a special circle of Hell.
He glared at the thin figure of Lönncrona, who bounced on stage and bowed stiffly
with a barely concealed grin, while the applause filled the theater. Lönncrona gave
the hostess a small, one-armed hug and then eagerly snatched the microphone from
her.
“Well, Edvard,” she began, her voice now barely making it to the microphone, “you
and I have had deep discussions about ice earlier today, and you have so many
intelligent ideas. Could you share with the audience something of your special
relationship to ice?”
Edvard stretched his neck and looked out at the audience with empty eyes. “Yes, as
you know, I have studied the opacity of poetry through the years,” he said. The
microphone screeched because his mouth was too close. “So, ice has the ability to
reflect both transparency and, at the same time, the capacity to distort. Whenever I
am eating breakfast or drinking a glass of cold water, I think of poetry’s promise of
intellectual fellowship and organic affiliation, which yet has a rival in our epoch’s
reminder that each esthetic image is a punctured illusion. Ice, yes, even those cubes
of ice we crack from our plastic ice cube trays we’ve taken from our freezers, when
we want to chill our mineral water or hand our children a glass of raspberry juice,
even that ice can be seen as a general valid metaphor for the deceptive
precipitousness of our environment so that we are all confined in a mentally and
socially frozen freedom bubble which must be interpreted in the terms of
claustrophobia and a basic shortfall of existential existence.”
Heartfelt applause broke out. Mikael looked around. Help! Somebody get me
earplugs! Fresh air! Anything!
“Thank you for those words,” the hostess said, while, with a smile, she physically
pulled back the microphone from his hands. “Soon we will hear even more beautiful
words from your coming poetry collection Shadows in a Dim Mirror – Blinding
Reflection.”
She turned back to the audience. “And afterwards, our accomplished dancers from
the troupe Arctic Gender, based right here in Rovaniemi, will give us their
interpretation of the theme Ice, Snow, Silence, Gender, Text. Then, of course, our
surprise guest of the evening, the jolly bearded guest everyone is waiting for, the
one who put Rovaniemi on the map, Joulupukki – Santa Claus himself! He’s promised
to recite our favorite Christmas poems and rhymes! But now, please welcome
Edvard Lönncrona!”
Mikael felt nausea rise as soon as the heron-like man took his place behind the
podium. Lönncrona then swallowed so loud so near the microphone that the sound
echoed over the entire audience. It was as if he was trying to settle his Adam’s apple
into its proper place before he began to read. A spotlight found him, and he turned
his face into its glow as if he were praying.
Then his voice began to sound from all the speakers. Mikael did his best to ignore
the waterfall of words. He kept searching for the girl in the darkened theater.
He saw Paul gesture to him, so he edged with Paul along the side of the wall. They
looked along one row of seats after another and saw that the closer to the front they
were, the emptier they became.
Lönncrona droned on. “The demagogical afterbirth of indulgence.” A pause for
effect. “The triumphant forerunner of affectation.”
The public sighed. Mikael groaned. He looked over at Paul.
What the hell?
Paul seemed mesmerized by Lönncrona, even swaying slightly to the rhythm of the
words. He saw Mikael look at him and gave him a thumbs-up.
“This stuff isn’t so bad! I like it,” Paul whispered.
Mikael hoped these were words from Paul’s usual sarcastic self, but Paul really
looked sincere! Paul looked back at Lönncrona, switching attention from Mikael.
He can’t really like this crap.
Lönncrona droned on and Mikael sighed aloud. Paul didn’t hear him.
Then – Mikael spotted her. In the first row.
Yes, it was Ida Nordlund! And she was alone.
Mikael nudged Paul, but, unbelievably, Paul was caught up in Lönncrona’s spell.
Mikael sidled down to the front row and quietly took an empty seat beside the girl.
She winced, but did not get up.
87.
“Take it easy,” Mikael whispered as he sat down beside Ida. “I’m not a policeman and
I don’t wish you harm. I just need to ask you a question.”
She stared stiffly ahead.
She seemed frightened. She smelled of sweat and her hair spiked out in all
directions like the branch of a birch tree without leaves.
“I just want to talk to you about the letter,” he whispered.
“Shh!” came from a woman behind them.
Lönncrona looked up a moment as if to locate this out-of-place noise was coming
from, but then he went back to reading.
Mikael looked back for Paul but couldn’t catch his eye.
Ida remained still.
He leaned closer and put a hand on her arm.
Will she run away?
Mikael then opened his backpack to pull out Solander’s diary. He opened the fragile
pages.
“You see, I know the Russian, Lobov, gave you a letter.”
He waited for an answer that did not come.
He heard her breathe a little faster. It seemed she was trying to figure out what to
do.
“Yes, I know you have it. Look here,” he continued. “The same man who wrote this
diary, Daniel Solander, wrote your letter. I just want…to talk to you about what’s in
that letter. And where Lobov found it. Do you know any of that? And then, if you
want, I can help you. We can help you. We can get you away from that old man
you’re traveling with.”
“SHHHHH!” the woman behind them leaned forward and tapped him on the
shoulder. The speakers went silent. Lönncrona had lost his place. He looked up and,
as if it were meant to be, Mikael’s and his eyes met.
Does he remember me? One writer to another?
Lönncrona cleared his throat disapprovingly. Then he picked up his manuscript to
begin again where he’d left off, but now the tone of his voice changed from one of
sacred recitation to become more aggressive and agitated.
“Come on, let’s get out of here and talk,” Mikael whispered to Ida.
Lönncrona stopped abruptly again and frowned directly at them. Someone from the
back of the hall yelled out, “If you want to talk, go outside!”
“Yeah, get out!” other voices joined in.
Mikael turned his head for Paul and saw that he had started to walk down toward
them.
In a huff, Lönncrona muttered a thanks to the audience and stalked off the stage. The
audience broke out in talk and much sympathetic applause.
After a long, confused pause, two dancers in white costumes came on stage followed
by a worker pushing out a table with a xylophone made of ice.
“Hello!” Paul said, as he slid into the seat on Ida’s other side. “We don’t really mean
to sneak up on you like this again, but…”
As strange plinks started to come from the xylophone, the two dancers, quickly and
silently, contorted their bodies into odd, unbelievable positions.
“…don’t you have my iPad?”
Ida leaped up before Paul could get out another word. Then, to Mikael’s dismay, she
grabbed Solander’s diary straight out of his grasp before she rushed away among
the seats. Mikael tried to grab her arm, but couldn’t as he, himself, leaped up behind
her. Then, abruptly, he ran right into another person, one with a turtle-like head,
thin neck and a bitter look in his eyes.
Lönncrona himself.
“If you’d had any sense of propriety, you would have left this theater!” Lönncrona
thundered. His pages of poetry seemed to flutter into the air as he then pushed
Mikael, who fell back into Paul and then onto the floor. Paul pulled him back up.
Then Paul extended a hand to Lönncrona. “A fantastic reading! Thanks! Sorry we’ve
got to go!”
Lönncrona batted away Paul’s hand and shoved him, too, hard in the chest.
Meanwhile, the dancers on stage had segued to rapid leg movements.
With great satisfaction, Mikael deliberately made a fist and punched Lönncrona
directly on the nose.
What a great feeling!
Paul tried to get between them, while the woman moderator came running up. For
his troubles, Paul received a good sock on the jaw from Lönncrona.
The xylophone music died abruptly. The moderator got an elbow in the face, and she
fell down with a screech, blood streaming from her nose and onto her fur. By now,
half the audience was on its feet in total commotion.
“Perkele!” someone yelled behind them. A security guard, dressed ridiculously as
Santa, was heading for them, pushing the crowd aside like a granite boulder on the
move.
Behind his Santa Claus beard, the guard was a big, muscular man. He pushed
Lönncrona to the side while telling Paul, in Finnish, to calm down.
“We have to catch her!” Mikael yelled.
He and Paul got away from the brawl, even though other men in the audience made
half-hearted attempts to catch them, and were able to reach the foyer. The sounds of
yelling voices came from behind them.
They ran out of the Sleigh to be hit by the cold air.
“Where’d she go?” Mikael yelled. “Did you see? She stole my book!”
They looked frantically up and down the street. Paul took out his cell phone and
jabbed at a button or two. “No good! The signal’s gone. They must have turned it off!
We’ve lost them!”
They exchanged frustrated glances, but then were pressed back, as a parade of fifty
fat elves and just as many women dressed as reindeer came dancing past on their
way into the Sleigh. Some small trucks were driving alongside, blasting Santa Claus
is coming to Town from their speakers.
“God damn this Finnish Winter Hell!” Mikael yelled into the air as the parade passed
by. A crowd of poetry lovers was jostling out of the building for a smoke and soon
the whole square was filled with people.
Mikael realized he was about to break down, as he said, over and over, “My
book…my book…my book…”
88.
Ida caught sight of Lasse waving at her from behind the xylophone. He stood at the
back of the stage by the emergency exit. She ran toward him, clutching both her
backpack and the Solander diary. Lasse shouldered open the emergency door, and
they ran out.
Behind them, they heard the screech of a woman’s voice yelling: “I’m sure! It was
her! The Nobel killer!”
Do I really look like a killer? Ida thought, as they ran through the area behind the
stage, with a little make-up room and a toilet.
Lasse led her through the empty hallway and down a few stairs. They could hear
voices behind them. A door banged shut.
They entered a basement and zigzagged between cardboard boxes as Lasse led her
onward until they reached a basement hallway with pipes and webs of metal string
in the ceiling. Lasse opened another fire door and they were in an underground
garage. They hunched over, running between parked cars, and reached the other
side of the garage. A newly painted metal door shone in the fluorescent light. They
could hear the sound of people at the side of the garage they’d just fled.
“Hurry!” Lasse said, pushing open the door and into another underground hallway.
They ran past a number of machine rooms and out another emergency exit. The next
thing they knew, they were in a shopping mall. Crowds of people were meandering
around, some eating McDonald’s ice cream or carrying bags marked H&M.
“Hurry, this way!” Lasse said. They strode quickly past all the varied stores, took an
escalator up to the ground floor, and walked through a revolving door to the
outside. They crossed a small square surrounded by Soviet-style architecture and
now holding more Christmas market booths. In the center revolved a carousel with
happily shrieking children holding to the icy reins.
They walked as fast as they could past all this until, at last, Ida saw the Toyota and
the food cart trailer parked on a back street near a grill stand. Lasse gestured at a
yellow stucco building with a broken sign: Jari’s Lucky Striking Rolling Bowling.
“No more truck,” Lasse said grimly. “I’m sure the Finnish police are on the alert for it
now.”
Glancing around to make sure nobody was following them, Lasse ducked into the
yellow building. He held a slip of paper up. She saw the name Irma and a phone
number.
“I told you,” Lasse said emphatically. “She’s a good contact to have!”
89.
They made their way down a dark, filthy staircase to emerge at the front door of a
bowling alley. Inside was a low-ceilinged interior with eight bowling lanes. There
was little light. A muscular man nodded at Lasse. They walked past a refrigerator,
which was humming loudly, and then across a dirty, slick floor. Long ropes snaked
across the surface. They came to the third lane, where there was a hole. The metal
arm used to remove the pins had been removed.
Lasse gave a loud whistle.
Irma’s face popped up. “Oh, good! Come on down here!”
I wonder what Lasse has told this Irma woman, Ida thought as Lasse jumped down in
the hole and she followed after.
There was a room holding machinery down there and, further along, several cots
lined up with screens between them. It smelled like used condoms and changing
rooms.
“Sorry about the place,” Irma smiled, and she gave Lasse a hug.
She lowered her voice. “I fixed it for nine tonight. O.K.?”
“How much did you get for the necklace?”
“Enough. My contact told me the diamond was good.”
“Yes, it certainly was.”
They were walking down a narrow hallway lined with a number of doors. They
could hear a man groaning.
The hallway widened to an alcove with a green sofa group and a pop machine.
“Wait here. Get something to drink if you want.”
How did I end up in a place like this? Ida thought.
The sound of a Dong! from an old-fashioned doorbell sounded further down the
hallway where a stairway led up to an outside entrance. A man in a coat was framed
in a glass wall.
“Got to work,” Irma smiled and shrugged. “Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.”
Ida and Lasse were glad to sit down on the sofa. Two familiar black plastic bags
were in a corner.
“I take it those are ours,” Ida gestured with her chin.
He nodded, seeming to know what she was thinking. “What was I supposed to do? I
had to dump the Toyota. Then I had to find you at that festival hall… Where could we
go?”
Ida did not reply. Lasse decided to buy a drink. He stuffed a Euro coin into the
machine for a turquoise can that seemed to hold some sort of lemon drink.
“You really have to tell me how this Irma woman is such a good contact,” Ida said
drily.
Lasse drank the entire can at once, and then dropped it to the floor, where it rolled
beneath the sofa.
“We did agree we had to go to Russia,” he stated.
Ida felt exhaustion and sadness sweep through her as he spoke.
How could we ever manage that now?
“Right,” she said dismissively.
“So, I kept Irma’s number for a very good reason,” Lasse said.
“And what reason could that be?”
Lasse smiled before he said, “If you know how to smuggle people from Russia to
Finland, you know the way in reverse, how to smuggle people from Finland to
Russia. How do you think Irma got here?”
90.
After a long while, Ida fell asleep. When she woke and sat up, she found two paper
plates with noodles, beef and vegetables on the sofa table. A smiling woman with the
familiar heavy make-up stood over her – Irma.
Lasse was still snoring in the sofa chair across from her.
“Wait a little,” Irma said in her accented English.
She put one plate into the microwave. As the machine started to whirr, above it Ida
could still hear the sounds from the men in rooms down the corridor.
Ding! Irma took the plate out of the microwave and put it in front of Ida.
“Please. For you.”
“Thanks,” Ida replied.
Once Irma had left again, Ida looked for her backpack and was relieved to find it was
still there by her, along with the case containing the stone, and all the mussels.
And the book – Solander’s journal! I have to tell Lasse about this as soon as he wakes
up!
She exhaled slowly, looked at Lasse, then picked up her plastic fork and began to eat.
Her meal smelled like sweet and sour sauce and black pepper. The noodles were
steaming in the chilly air.
A clock on the wall gave the time: a quarter past eight.
When Lasse woke a little bit later, Ida put his plate in the microwave oven, and, as it
warmed, she held out the journal.
“Look at this!” she said.
He took it, turned it over in his hands and then began to read the first pages.
“It’s Solander’s,” she added.
Lasse seemed at a loss for words. “Dear Lord! This is unbelievable! Where did you
get it?”
Ida told him about the encounter at the concert hall.
“So, two of them, after two things,” Lasse said. He kept carefully paging through the
book. “It will take time to read and understand everything in this journal. When
Alma finds out…well, it won’t be long now until we can show it to her.”
“Yes,” Ida said. She took back the book, rolled it in a camisole and put it into her
backpack. “And it’s time we got to another job as well.”
She put her hand into her backpack. “You must have a sharp knife?”
Lasse glanced around, but nobody was in sight.
Lasse gave her a Swiss army knife from the pocket of his pants, even as he began to
eat his food as quickly as he could lift the fork.
Ida laid out the mussels on the table. She opened the thinnest blade of the knife and
looked inquiringly at Lasse, who nodded.
The first mussel was heavier than the others. The two grayish-green halves of its
rippled shell were closed tight.
Two hundred and forty years old, Ida thought.
Ida held it for a moment in her hand, and then pressed the knife blade at the back
into the muscles holding the two halves together.
It plopped open and some water dribbled out. In the middle of the meat was an egg-
shaped pendant of heavy gold with red and blue gemstones all the way around its
oval form. She could not see a layer of mother-of-pearl.
“I was right!” Lasse exclaimed. “It’s jewelry. But an unsuccessful attempt at making
mother-of-pearl. Still, it’s worth a small fortune. Wonderful! Hide it. I wonder if this
is a forerunner to Faberge eggs? But…I see no snakes with open mouths.”
Ida picked up the second mussel and performed a similar operation. A large,
shimmering clump of mother-of-pearl slipped out. It had two small wings on either
side. Lasse bent over for a closer look.
“I think I see a little gold angel inside of this one,” he said. “Perhaps a brooch?
Perhaps it’s really in the shape of a butterfly? But it’s not a snake.”
“It seems to be gold, at any rate,” Ida said.
“Absolutely. Excellent. We can knock off the mother-of-pearl. Unless it’s more
valuable this way.” He glanced down the empty hallway again. “Keep going.”
Ida opened the third to find a silver Orthodox cross with a large ruby at its center. A
slight layer of mother-of-pearl fell off as she lifted it out.
“Look here,” Lasse said. “Cyrillic letters. This will definitely bring us some money!”
Only the fourth mussel was left. Its shell was rougher than the others. Ida did not
hesitate a moment before she deftly cut into the muscle and pried open the shell.
Inside was a tiny, golden key.
They peered closely at it.
“Look!” Ida said. Two serpents were entwined around the open loop. Their mouths
were open.
“Aha! Linnaeus asked Solander to hide a key!” Lasse said.
“A key decorated with snakes!” Ida continued.
They looked up at each other. “What does it open?”
“No idea.”
“What kind of snakes are these? They look odd.”
“Yes, indeed.”
They peered more closely at the serpents’ heads. Each detail was so exquisitely
carved that even the venom openings were visible by the fangs.
“Alma must see this,” Lasse said emphatically.
Ida closed her eyes, again feeling that pit of uncertainty. Did they really have to go to
Russia?
“Lasse – what if finding Alma isn’t really a good idea?”
She suppressed the tears in her eyes.
“We already agreed to go.”
“Yes, well…what if…what if we just stop right now, right here? Way too much has
happened as it is.”
“Get a grip, Ida,” Lasse said.
“What if, what if…I can’t take any more of this?” Ida almost whimpered.
Lasse waited a long moment then said slowly, “I realize how hard this must be for
you, Ida. But now understand. This is not just about you. And it’s not just about Alma
or Eva, either.”
Eva – my mother.
She listened carefully.
“It’s even not just about humankind. Those gulls – what was in them, what gave
them their unusual strength it threatens everything. Much more than you realize. It
threatens life. Not just evolution or the ecosystem – all of life. Everything living. And
you have a part to play in this.”
“Me? How?”
“The Maidenstone and what is in the gulls are connected. Something inside of both
of them. And, Ida, in you, as well.”
“What are you saying?”
“What Alma told me. You, your mother, and Alma, all are connected in some way.
She’s never explained, but it is some sort of a biological connection. It’s like some
poisons; they never disappear, but become more concentrated in each new
generation. But, oddly, what’s dangerous in one generation might be helpful in
another.”
“So I have some kind of poison in me?”
“No, well…I don’t know what it is. All I know is that Alma was subjected to
something horrible when she was in Chelyabinsk 47. This is why Eva became ill;
Alma passed it on to her. Perhaps some kind of a small genetic mutation. Now,
perhaps you have it. I don’t know! You don’t seem to have the physical problems.
Up to now. Since the day you were born, Alma has worried that you would get sick,
too. Look at that wound in your hand. How it was healed in no time after you held
the stone in your hand. It was not coincidence. It’s the connection between you and
the Maidenstone. You have it, your mother has it and your grandmother has it. You
three and nobody else.”
“But what did they do to her? Those damned Soviet scientists – what did they do to
her?” Ida demanded with angry tears.
“I don’t know. What they did then… is nothing like what they’re doing now.”
He stared off into space for a moment. “It’s no accident the Russians are after you.
That woman you met at the Nobel party…”
“Miranda.”
“Yes, Miranda. She and her bodyguard are part of an illegal network that stays
underground. Biological hackers, so to speak. They actually call it bio-hacking. I
think they’ve experimented on those gulls; they’re behind those changes. I wonder
why they chose gulls of all birds? They must have their reasons. They’ve taken up
the old genetic research from Soviet times and combined it with modern
nanotechnology – all beyond the reach of the Russian state, of course – and they’re
not the only ones. There are bio-hackers all over the world working on genes and
DNA. The difference is Miranda commands a great deal of money and
nanotechnology has become much less expensive.”
“Nanotechnology? I hardly understand what the word means. I can hardly see any
connection between me and my body to what they’re doing!”
Lasse sighed, and the muscles of his face sagged into fear. “Even when Alma tried to
explain it to me, I didn’t really understand. Perhaps I can explain it like this: a fox is a
fox and an ox is an ox. A rock is a rock and a dandelion is not a rock. However, once
we get down to a molecular level, everything resembles everything else. Just
because matter is made from the same atomic particles, however, doesn’t mean you
can breed a fox with an ox. Perhaps a fox with a dog, but certainly not an ox. And
definitely not with a rock. All life is threatened if those boundaries disappear. And
yet, this is exactly what bio-hackers hope to achieve with nanotechnology. That is
definitely what Miranda wants. But what will happen if what’s in those gulls passes
into the greater ecosystem? And who knows what else they’ve been working on?
What if it’s viruses? We can hardly deal with the natural mutations of viruses when
they turn deadly. But what if evolution was set to…turbo speed? Would a new
deadly virus appear every day? How could we ever protect ourselves against that?”
Lasse’s question hung in the air.
Ida thought a while before she asked, “Why are the bio-hackers doing this? What do
they want?”
“A good question. I don’t know. All I know is that their research threatens us all.
We’ll have to be extremely careful going into Russia.”
Ida felt faint. “But maybe we shouldn’t go into Russia at all! It’s just too much! It’s
been only a week since Lobov was killed! I feel I’ll go crazy any moment! Why not
just turn all this over to the authorities?”
“No, Ida, listen to me. We have a duty now. We must hand the Maidenstone over to
Alma along with Solander’s journal. She can interpret it the best and give us our
next step. This is beyond any authorities, much more important than you can
imagine, Ida! You are important! You and the Maidenstone and Eva!”
Ida said nothing more, but could no longer hold back her tears. Lasse just let her cry
for a while
Finally, at the sound of steps in the hallway, Ida scooped the jewelry into the inner
pocket of her jacket while Lasse rubbed off the table with his sleeve.
A huge man in a black leather jacket accompanied Irma. His face was rough with
craggy features decorated by days-old stubble. He said, in a thick, Russian accent,
that his name was simply “R”.
“Ready to go?” he asked.
Lasse looked at Ida, who was zipping her pocket shut. “I’m ready,” she said.
They gathered up all their gear. “R” wrinkled his nose. “What stinks?”
Lasse smiled at him. “We had noodles with shellfish.”
They made their way through a labyrinth of hallways and came out in a middle-
sized, underground city parking lot. An older model Subaru Outback was parked at
one side. “R” was constantly on the alert to make sure nobody was following them.
“Get in!”
They packed their baggage in the SUV.
Lasse thanked Irma sincerely for her help.
“My pleasure,” she said with a quick smile.
Ida climbed into the back seat and Lasse got in up front.
As the Subaru began to move away, Ida looked back, but Irma was already gone.
She lay down to hide as they drove through the center of Rovaniemi until the Subaru
headed over the Kemi River Bridge.
Lasse had the black hood obscuring his face and his chin sunk against his chest, but
when they were in open countryside, “R” tapped Lasse on the shoulder and Lasse
took the hood off/down.
Ida sat up.
“We will be on the road a long time,” “R” said. “A very long time.”
There was a map open on the seat. He pointed. “You see?”
Lasse studied the map while Ida leaned over the seat to look. “R”’s finger rested on a
small village in southeastern Finland. It was nothing more than a red dot with a
black circle drawn around it.
Ida made out the name of the village: Hattuvaara.
91.
In the snowy landscape, a long hollow opened, its bottom lost in the night. The
Subaru slid down the road, with “R” correcting the slide so that the vehicle
straightened, snow tires partially turned, and the vehicle slid sideways down the
narrow slope.
“Here. Värmajärvi. Perfect,” “R” said.
They drove onto a half-circle driveway flanked by two wings of a large farmhouse.
Among other buildings was a garage where they could see a Volvo parked,
windshield wipers up, in a way that resembled crab claws reaching into the air.
Beyond that was a long, high fence where a dozen or so black-and-white dogs
jumped, ran along the fence and barked continuously.
As “R” turned off the engine and the headlights went off, they saw someone light an
old stable lantern by the farmhouse porch. A hulking, older woman, wearing a faux
fur coat and cap with a body belt, stood by the screen door.
“Wait here,” “R” said. He took a bundle of bills from the chrome clip on the
dashboard, got out of the car and shut the door quietly behind him.
He stepped around the hood and up the porch stairs. He shook hands with the
woman and they began to talk.
“So, what now?” Lasse wondered out loud.
Ida didn’t bother to reply. She watched the woman, whose face was occasionally lit
by a cigarette. Her hair was very stringy under the cap, and layers of clothes bulked
beneath her faux fur. “R” showed the woman the bundle of bills. She didn’t take
them. The conversation continued. Their faces became obscured by the puffs of
breath crystalizing in the air.
They shook hands again and “R” walked back to the car.
He gestured and Lasse opened the passenger door.
“Arranged. Put your things by the pump.”
Ida and Lasse got out and began to haul out their belongings. “R” stood nearby but
didn’t assist them in lifting out the black plastic bags, the duffel bags and their
backpacks.
“Her name is Liisa. She talks not so much. She speaks no Swedish. No English. Just a
little Russian. You can trust her. Remember: say nothing on trip.”
“But how far is the border?” asked Ida. “How do we get to the other side?”
“R” got back in his vehicle. “Wait by pump. Perfect way to go.”
He smiled as he shut the door and started the engine. The Subaru took off up the hill.
Obediently, Lasse and Ida went to stand by the pump which looked like a rusty,
wilted tulip leaf.
Liisa had gone back inside her house with gables painted pink on one while the
others were in a myriad of colors. Lights were on in just a few of the rooms. They
could hear the back door slam. The dogs were no longer in the front yard, but they
could hear them barking.
Ida gazed along the hollow. “Is Russia that way?”
Lasse said nothing. The night was silent except for the barking of the dogs.
Small snowflakes were coming down. It was just about three thirty in the morning.
Finally Lasse admitted, “I don’t know. I’ve gotten turned around.”
The wind blew harder; the air was fresh but ice-cold. Ida felt the inside of her
nostrils start to freeze as she breathed. She was sleepy.
Finally Liisa came trudging along a path in the snow from behind the house. She was
short and plump, and she had a determined look on her rosy cheeks.
“So,” Lasse said slowly in English, with a smile, as she approached. “What is the
plan?”
Liisa did not answer. She walked past them without even glancing in their direction.
She went to a shed beyond the driveway and disappeared inside. When she came
out, she was carrying loops and bands of leather. She walked past them again, and
didn’t even turn her head.
“Strange person,” Lasse commented, and Ida had to agree.
Ida followed Liisa with her eyes, and understood, suddenly, that she was walking to
a sled. The woman stopped by the gate in the fence, and all the dogs ran up to her.
Liisa began to choose the dogs she wanted, and started to harness them up with her
leather bands. She chose eight dogs, and Liisa attached the dogs, one to another,
with reins that she had laid out on the snow near the pump. The dogs danced and
barked, and Ida could not help staring at their teeth and the muscles under their fur.
Finally, she turned away from all their frenetic energy, afraid to even look at them.
“Wow, fantastic animals,” Lasse said approvingly. “They look to me like Siberian
huskies. The Inuit peoples in Siberia and Alaska used them for transportation back
in the old days.”
All eight dogs were now fastened, and the lead dog kept looking back at Liisa, as if
waiting for her instruction. Liisa came up to Lasse.
“Dah!” she said. She gestured to their baggage and then to the sled. Ida saw there
was another, flat one attached to the dog sled by nylon ropes. It was long and wider
and had two places for passengers with sheepskins, and body-size bags of black
Gore-Tex cloth.
“I get it,” Lasse said.
“Bah!” Liisa said, and Lasse and Ida hurried to drag their baggage over to the sled,
pack it in and tie it down. Then he stepped in to sit in a passenger bag.
“Kah!” Liisa said to Ida, who hurried to sit next to Lasse.
The dogs were barking louder. They were straining against their harnesses, ready to
go. Ida pulled her hat down tighter and snugged her mittens more securely as Liisa
stepped into the driver’s position, pulled up two steel hooks from the snow and
yelled: “Shah!”
The sled jerked into movement and the snow whirled as the dogs took off.
Wind pummeled their faces. They were already several meters along before they
could even zipper the sled bags shut.
They hurtled along the hollow. The sled shook as the speed increased. The dogs
were running as if possessed, now completely silent. They drove onward in the dark.
Then the sound beneath the runners changed. The speed increased.
“It’s a lake!” Lasse yelled over to Ida. “We’re on ice! Smart! The border is probably
right down the middle of the lake! This must be the Virmajärvi Lake!”
Ida looked down at the ice beside them. It varied from black to dark gray with slight
wisps of snow over it. She feared it might be extremely thin, with cracks radiating in
every direction. She looked up to the moon and stars. Thin clouds were passing in
front of them.
“Rakina – ha!” Liisa commanded the dogs.
The dog team changed direction and moved across the open surface of ice. Snow
was twirling over the surface.
Ida twisted to look back. They had already come far from land.
They rushed rapidly over the large, uniform expanse of ice. The speed broke only
twice: first by a violent jerk as they thumped over a frozen channel in the ice and
secondly when one dog in the pair behind the lead dog paused to defecate while the
other dogs slowed. “How long until we reach land?”
“No idea.”
Ida felt her fingertips and cheeks hurting from the cold and then going numb.
She closed her eyes.
Rest. Just a moment.
Nothing matters.
Water! Ice-cold water sprayed into her face.
She opened her eyes to see the dogs splashing through water.
She was ready to escape from the sled, but Lasse held her back.
“Calm down,” Lasse said. “It’s just a little water on the ice.”
Liisa was continuing her commands to the dogs, pulling at the reins as the dogs
yelped and barked.
“Dah! Cha!” she yelled.
Ida tried to peer ahead. “What if the ice breaks?”
Lasse didn’t reply.
The dogs changed direction and began to run full speed again. The sled sprayed
water as it went through a soft spot and then it was back on drier ice.
They were nearing what looked like a spit, but which, Ida realized, was an island
with a few bent pines and glittering drifts of snow.
The dogs were turning and slowed to pass the island, and then resumed full speed.
Two dark poles loomed in the moonlit darkness.
“Look!” Lasse said. “Those poles must mark the border!”
Ida looked at the poles, and then back at Liisa, who stood firm in her position as
driver, the gray and white streaks of her hair fluttering behind her where it had
gotten free from her fur cap.
The dogs ran freely over the open space beyond the island, hesitating for only a
moment.
“Yii, Balto! Yii!”
The sled changed direction and the speed increased again. The bulk of the island
disappeared behind them. The ice now was covered with a deeper layer of snow.
“At this speed, we should be reaching the other side fairly soon,” Lasse said.
Ida peered forward, but could see nothing. She felt so very tired and forced her eyes
to blink a few times. She thought she might be seeing double.
Was that a reflection of another dog sled?
Running alongside?
Dogs were running parallel to their sled. She tried to count them.
There’re many more of them…
If I’m seeing double, why are there so many more of them?
She jerked as she realized what she was looking at. She glanced hurriedly at Lasse
and Liisa, who were also staring to the side.
“Wolves!” Lasse exclaimed.
A long gray line of wolves was loping along over the ice to their right. At least
twelve.
“Haa!” Liisa yelled to the dogs. The dogs leaped to pick up their pace. The wolves fell
easily into formation behind. Liisa continued holding the reins, but began to loosen
her belt. With teeth and one hand, she then tied it to the outside rein to let it dangled
behind the sled. At first it seemed the wolves swerved in fear of it, and dropped
back, but then they came up again to tear at the belt until the entire equipage shook.
One even leaped toward the back sled, itself, and was so close that Ida clearly could
see its tongue hanging out of its mouth and could hear the panting breaths from its
open jaws.
“Haa taah!” Liisa yelled. She threw her fur cap behind them. The lead wolf snapped it
up into his jaws.
The other wolves skidded to a halt and surrounded the wolf with the cap. Ida saw
them rip it to shreds. The wolves then circled a bit but were soon back on track
behind the sled. They might have seemed more tired and confused, but they easily
closed in on the sled.
“I wish I had a rifle!” Lasse exclaimed.
Ida saw Liisa pull a knife from her belt.
“That’s not going to help much,” Lasse muttered.
Then the line of dogs seemed to falter. The lead dog came to a stop and dropped its
head between its legs.
The wolves had come up to surround the sled, and they continuously ran in circles
around it, like gray shadows in the night, with only their white teeth gleaming in
their jaws. Their eyes glowed.
“They’re hungry, you can tell by their eyes,” Lasse said. “They want blood! Think
back to the hunters in Jämtland, how they’d react if they saw this. They’d tell us we
didn’t have a chance.”
Ida clutched Lasse with one mittened hand. “Maybe Liisa knows what to do?”
Lasse yelled over his shoulder to Liisa. “What should we do?”
Liisa yelled back to them, but they could not understand her words. Liisa then yelled
at the dogs, but they refused to move. All the dogs’ heads were down now, and they
sent pleading looks to Liisa.
The wolves stopped to stare at them. The wind was blowing harder over the flat
surface of the lake, and they could hear the unusual sound of ice under stress. It
echoed beneath the ice they were on.
Ida looked at Liisa. Her confidence seemed to have drained from her face to be
replaced by an uncertainty she was not accustomed to feel.
Liisa pulled out a leather whip. “Cha-ka-cha!” she yelled. She also waved her knife in
the air.
The wolves did not react. Some of them walked lazily around to the other side of the
sled.
Ida could now count seventeen. We’re completely surrounded.
Out on an ice-covered lake in the middle of nowhere. Yes, how idiotic this has been! I
never should have listened to Lasse!
Lasse was getting out of the sled bag. He took the knife from Liisa’s unprotesting
hand and stood, legs bent, facing down the wolf at the head of the pack.
“I don’t know if they will attack us or the dogs first,” Lasse yelled. “But I’ll go for this
one! He’s the leader!”
“Don’t!” Ida yelled. “It’s no use! There are too many of them!”
Lasse seemed to think it over and then he lowered the knife. “It’s impossible to kill
all of them.”
Then he angrily yelled in English. “What can we do, cha-ka-cha woman? Is there
anything?”
Liisa pointed forward and then to her mouth.
“Border guard!” she yelled.
“I don’t give a damn!” Lasse said. “I don’t want to be eaten by wolves! Stupid Finnish
woman!”
Lasse was furious. Liisa said nothing more, just wrapped her arms around her chest.
“Don’t blame her!” Ida yelled. “It’s not her fault!”
Lasse looked along the line of dogs.
Many of them had given up and lain down on their backs, their throats open and
unprotected, in complete submission.
“The dogs have surrendered,” Lasse said. “So the wolves will attack us first.”
He took a step back to the sled, his face red from the cold and anger. The wolves did
not move, except for the leader, who took a careful step forward. The wolf had an
unblinking, yellow stare, and its breath steamed out from its jaws. Saliva dripped
from its open, panting muzzle. “Wait! What about those wolves in Brunflo?” Lasse
asked Ida. “What did you do?”
Yes, I got out of the car, Ida thought back, step by step. I needed to take a piss and…it
seems so long ago, but it really was just a few days ago…
“Why did they back off?” Lasse insisted.
Ida looked into space, recalling. Then she scrambled to unzip the sled bag and rip off
her mittens to untie her backpack. She pulled out the green case.
Liisa was saying something they could not understand, as Ida stood, holding the
Maidenstone in both hands and began to walk straight at the wolf leader. She
surprised herself by her own courage.
Nothing else matters. If it works, it works.
At the sight of the Maidenstone hackles rose along the wolves’ backs and they
wavered back and forth on their feet.
A few of the dogs got back to their feet.
Ida paced around the sled with the Maidenstone held out in her hands. She went as
close to the wolves as she dared.
One by one, the wolves began to step backwards.
They all stared at the Maidenstone, and they all seemed, now, completely uncertain.
They were as still as if they’d been paralyzed.
Ida got back in the sled, continuing to hold the Maidenstone above her head like a
trophy.
By now, all the dogs were back on their feet, and Lasse had also gotten back into his
sled bag.
“It seems to work,” Ida said. She gave Liisa an encouraging look. “Sha-kah?”
“Sha-kah! Sha-kah! Cha-ka-cha!” Liisa yelled as loud as she could. She cracked the
whip in the air and the dogs leaped forward as one.
“Don’t you dare drop that thing!” Lasse said.
Ida watched the wolves resume following them, but at a greater distance.
Lasse said, “The dogs are so very tired. Can they keep going? Maybe this will be the
end of us, after all.”
Ida shut her eyes, but held the Maidenstone steady.
The wolves were coming closer again, seeming to regain courage and snapping their
jaws in the air.
Then, in this seemingly endless drive forward, they began to see the dark edge of a
beach on the other side. A line of trees and tiny lights, like lanterns.
“Look!”
“Sha-kah!” Liisa yelled.
The wolves were dropping back the closer they came to land. The ice was choppier,
forcing the dogs to slow down.
The wolves had stopped with their final trophy, the belt ripped from the rope
behind the sled. Now they were snuffling at it.
The dog sled finally reached land at the waterfront and the dogs immediately
collapsed, to lay down panting. A few snarled at the ice pellets frozen to their fur.
The lead dog looked back across the lake at the wolves. The wolves’ heads were
back. They started to howl.
High above them were the white shapes of seagulls swaying in the wind.
Ida got carefully out of the sled, still holding the Maidenstone high in one hand.
Liisa stared at the Maidenstone and said something incomprehensible.
“You don’t have to hold it up anymore,” Lasse said in Swedish.
“I’ll hold it as long as the wolves are out there,” Ida retorted.
“Close by,” Liisa said. She was rubbing her bare earlobes, which had turned white.
“Guard cabin is here close. Safe.”
She waved toward the small roof of a cabin under the trees. They could see the
silhouettes of two men with rifles approaching.
“My friends. No worry,” Liisa said.
“Good, good,” Lasse replied in English. “Thank you, kiitos, tack, Finnish Auntie.”
As Lasse started to unpack their baggage from the sled, Liisa pointed to the snowcovered ground. “This – Russia!”
Ida nodded. Lasse and Liisa gathered the baggage and began to carry it up the hill.
Ida still gripped the Maidenstone tight in her right hand.
Paradise, May 14th
Ida,
Recently I knew you were with me!
The feeling was so strong; I had to pick up my pen right away. The only good thing
about having a weak body is taking afternoon naps in good conscience. This nap was
filled with dreams and many images – a coral reef in strange colors, odd people, a
blinding light. These were figures from the past. I know that all dreams come from
activity in the upper brain during light sleep, when the mind is between imagination
and dozing. And yes, I do know this is nothing but neurological processes: nerve
impulses, mirror neurons, and blood flow – all the normal activity of a human brain.
And yet.
You were here with me in the dream.
We love our magazines here in Paradise. They might be months old when they reach
us. Many things might be out of date but they still are valuable currency. An old
Vanity Fair can get you many baskets of eggs. In one of these magazines, I saw a
model in a shampoo ad with chestnut brown hair – like you! And her ears were
slightly pointed – like yours! Those features must have tricked my brain into
bringing you into the dream…it looked like her but it was you.
We were sitting on the orange blanket we always took on our picnics with Manfred
and Alma. We were on the rock outcropping over Lindare Lake. We had raspberry
juice and cookies and you were all grown up. I kept looking at you without you
noticing. I studied your cheeks and your ears and your soft eyebrows – yes, every
feature in your face. I reached for you, I wanted to hug you, but you laughed and
pulled away.
It didn’t matter! It didn’t matter that you were shy and stubborn and mistrustful of
me.
It didn’t matter that I couldn’t hug you! Or that the image I had of you was from an
advertisement, and it didn’t matter that nothing was real; that I knew it was a dream
all the while.
You were with me and that was enough.
One should be grateful for every person who visits us in a dream, real or imagined.
The warmth that filled me when I woke up – that was real!
Ida, I love you so much. I keep thinking that one day we will be together again.
One day after Alma has told you everything. Or one day after you decide to demand
that Alma tell you everything.
And I mean absolutely everything. The mysterious fossil stones, what happened in
the Soviet research city during the fifties, my illness and whether you have my
genes, and solve et coagula. And that I live here, in my little house in Paradise.
Once you have heard about all those unhappy things that explain my absence,
perhaps you will want to contact me.
And one day, in some way, we will be together.
Not just in my dream, also in real life. Really. In reality.
Reality, where a hug is a hug and not just something I dream about.
I promise you it will come true.
Perhaps that day is closer than I know.
Your mother forever,
Eva