The Troubled Man (37 page)

She stood up in order to serve him more coffee. Wallander smiled and placed his hand over his cup. When she sat down again, he couldn’t help seeing her swollen legs and varicose veins. He could just imagine her, serving the officers in the banquet hall.

“Anyway, that’s what I remember,” she said. “Could it be of some use?”

“Definitely,” said Wallander. “Every piece of information increases the possibility of our being able to work out what happened.”

She took off her glasses and studied him.

“Is he dead as well?”

“We don’t know.”

“Could he be the one who killed her?”

“We don’t know that either. But of course, anything is possible.”

“That’s what usually happens,” she said with a sigh. “Men kill their wives. They sometimes claim they intended to kill themselves as well, but there are a lot who don’t have the courage.”

“Yes,” said Wallander. “That often happens. Men can prove to be very cowardly when the chips are down.”

She suddenly started crying again, a trickle of almost invisible tears running down her cheeks. Wallander felt a lump in his throat once again. Loneliness is not a pretty thing, he thought. She sits here among all her silent photos, and her only company is her memories.

“It’s never happened before, me crying like this,” she said, drying her cheeks. “But he keeps coming back to me, my husband, more and more often, the older I get. I think he’s waiting for me down there in the depths; he’s tugging at me. I’ll soon be going to accompany him. I get the feeling that I’ve lived my life now. But it keeps going nevertheless. A tired old heart, still beating away; but my dark night is somebody’s day.”

“That rhymes,” said Wallander.

“I know,” she said, then burst out laughing. “An old woman thinking poetic thoughts in her hours of loneliness.”

Wallander stood up and thanked her for her hospitality. She insisted on accompanying him to his car, despite the fact that he could see her legs were hurting. The man with the lawn mower was no longer there.

“Summer brings longing,” she said as they shook hands. “My husband has been gone for over sixty years, but I can still feel an intense longing for him, just like when we first met. Can a policeman experience anything like that?”

“Oh yes,” said Wallander. “He most certainly can.”

She waved as he drove away. That’s a person I will never see again, he thought. He left the village and shook off the melancholy of his visit to Fanny Klarström, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her comment that men kill their wives and then are too cowardly to kill themselves. That Håkan von Enke might have killed Louise was one of the first thoughts Wallander had had after his meeting with Hermann Eber. There was no obvious motive, no proof, no clues. It was just a possibility among many others. But he had the feeling that, having heard Fanny Klarström say what she did, he
should take another look at that fragile hypothesis. As he drove through the Småland forests, he tried to think of a series of events that would lead to Louise’s being killed by her husband.

He arrived home without having made any real progress.

But that night he lay awake for a long time thinking about Fanny Klarström before finally falling asleep.

Wallander was still asleep when the phone rang. It was his father’s old phone that he had rescued for sentimental reasons when the old man’s house in Löderup had been cleared out before being sold. He considered letting it ring and ring, but eventually he got up and answered. It was one of the new women in the police station reception; Ebba, who had been there since time immemorial, had now retired and moved with her husband to an apartment in central Malmö, where their children lived. Wallander couldn’t recall the new receptionist’s name—maybe it was Anna, but he wasn’t sure.

“There’s a woman here asking for your address,” she said. “I only let people have it with your permission. She’s from abroad.”

“Of course,” said Wallander. “All the women I know are from abroad.”

He stayed at the phone, and on his third attempt managed to pin down a dentist who could treat him an hour later.

It was almost noon when he got back home from the dentist’s. He had started thinking about lunch when there was a knock on the door. When he answered it, he knew immediately who it was, even though she had changed. Baiba Liepa from Riga, Latvia. There was no doubt she was the one standing on his doorstep, older and paler.

“Good God!” he said. “So you were the lady asking for my address?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“How could you ever disturb me?”

He embraced her, and could feel that she had become very thin. It had been over fifteen years since their brief but torrid love affair. And it must have been ten years since they were last in touch. Wallander had been drunk and called her in the middle of the night. Needless to say, he regretted it later, and resolved never to contact her again. But now, with her standing there in front of him, he could feel his emotions bubbling over. Their affair had been
the most passionate experience of his life. Being with her had put his protracted relationship with Mona into perspective. He had experienced sensual pleasure with Baiba greater than he had previously thought possible. He had been keen to start a new life and wanted to marry her, but she turned him down. She didn’t want to live with another police officer, and risk becoming a widow again, which she had already been through.

Now they were facing each other in his living room. He still found it difficult to believe that it really was her who had reappeared from somewhere far away in time and space.

“I never imagined this would happen,” he said. “That we would meet again.”

“You never got in touch.”

“No. I didn’t. I wanted what was over and done with to be over and done with.”

He ushered her to the sofa and sat down beside her. He suddenly had the feeling that everything was not as it should be. She was too pale, too thin, too tired and awkward in her movements.

She read his mind, as she always had, and took his hand.

“I wanted to see you again,” she said. “You are convinced that people are gone forever, but then you wake up one day and realize that you can never break away entirely from people who have been especially important in your life.”

“There’s some special reason why you’ve come here now,” said Wallander.

“I’d like a cup of tea,” she said. “Are you sure I’m not disturbing you?”

“There’s only me and a dog,” said Wallander. “That’s all.”

“How’s your daughter?”

“Do you remember her name?”

Baiba looked offended. Wallander recalled how easily she had taken offense.

“Do you really think I’ve forgotten about Linda?”

“I suppose I thought that you’d erased everything to do with me.”

“That was something about you that I never liked—you always made such a drama out of everything. How could anybody possibly ‘erase’ somebody they’d once been in love with?”

Wallander was already on his way to the kitchen, to make tea.

“I’ll come with you,” she said, standing up.

When Wallander saw what an effort it was for her, he realized that she was ill.

She filled a saucepan with water and put it on the stove, giving the impression that she was immediately at home in his kitchen. He took out the
cups he had inherited from his mother, the only items that remained to preserve her memory. They sat down at the kitchen table.

“This is a lovely house you have here,” she said. “I remember you used to talk about moving out to the country, but I didn’t believe you’d ever do it.”

“I didn’t believe it either. Not to mention that I’d ever get myself a dog.”

“What’s her name?”

“It’s a he. Jussi.”

Their conversation died out. He eyed her without making it obvious. The bright sunshine coming in through the kitchen window emphasized her emaciated features.

“I never left Riga,” she said à propos of nothing. “I’ve managed to trade up to a better apartment twice, but I could never even think about living out in the country. When I was a child I was sent to live with my grandparents for a few years, in extreme poverty that I always associate with the Latvian countryside. Maybe it’s an image that no longer applies today, but I can’t shake it off.”

“You were working at the university when we were together. What are you doing now?”

She didn’t respond, but took a sip of tea and then slid her cup to one side.

“I’m actually a qualified engineer,” she said. “Have you forgotten that? When we met I was translating scientific literature for the technical college. But I don’t do that anymore. Not now that I’m ill.”

“What’s the nature of your illness?”

She answered quietly, as if what she was saying wasn’t all that important.

“I’m dying. I have cancer. But I don’t want to talk about that right now. Do you mind if I lie down for a while? I’m taking painkillers that are so strong, I find it hard to stay awake.”

She headed for the sofa, but Wallander ushered her into his bedroom. He had changed the sheets only a couple of days ago. He smoothed out the bed before she lay down. Her head almost disappeared into the pillow. She smiled wanly, as if she had recalled something.

“Haven’t I been in this bed before?”

“Of course you have. It’s an old bed.”

“I’ll take a nap. Just an hour. They said at the police station that you were on vacation.”

“You can sleep here for as long as you like.”

He wasn’t sure if she had heard him, or if she had already fallen asleep. Why has she come here to visit me? he wondered. I can’t cope with any more death and misery, any more wives drinking themselves to death, any more mothers being murdered. He regretted that thought the moment he had it.
He sat down very carefully at the end of the bed and looked at her. The memory of their affair returned and upset him so much that he started shaking. I don’t want her to die, he thought. I want her to live. Maybe now she’s prepared to give living with a policeman another go.

Wallander went out and sat on one of the garden chairs. After a while he let Jussi out of his kennel. Baiba’s car was an old Citroën with Latvian plates. He switched on his cell phone and saw that Linda had called. He called her back, and she sounded pleased when she heard his voice.

“I just wanted to tell you that Hans has been awarded a bonus. Several hundred thousand kronor. That means we can rebuild the house.”

“Did he really earn that kind of money?” Wallander wondered, with a trace of cynicism in his voice.

“Why shouldn’t he?”

Wallander told her that Baiba had come to visit him. Linda listened to what he said about the woman now lying asleep in his bed.

“I’ve seen pictures of her,” said Linda when he’d finished. “You’ve spoken about her. But according to Mom she was just a Latvian prostitute.”

Wallander was furious.

“Your mother can be a terrible person sometimes. Making a claim like that is shameful. In many ways Baiba has all the qualities that Mona lacks. When did she say that?”

“How do you expect me to remember?”

“I think I’ll call her and tell her never to be in touch with me again.”

“What good would that do? She was probably jealous. People say things like that when they’re jealous.”

Reluctantly, Wallander acknowledged that she was right, and calmed down. Then he told her that Baiba was seriously ill.

“Has she come to say good-bye, then?” she asked. “That sounds sad.”

“That was my first reaction too. I was surprised and pleased to see her. But it only took a few minutes for me to feel depressed again. I seem to be surrounded by nothing but death and misery nowadays.”

“You always have been,” Linda said. “That was one of the first things they warned us about at the police academy—the kind of working life that lay ahead. But don’t forget that you have Klara.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. It’s the feeling of old age that’s creeping up and sticking its claws into the back of my neck. Wherever I look, my circle of friends is thinning out. When Dad died, I became next in line, if you get my meaning. Klara is at the end of that line, but I’m right at the front.”

“If Baiba has come to see you, it’s because you mean a lot to her. That’s the only important thing.”

“Come by,” said Wallander. “I want you to meet the only woman who has really meant anything to me.”

“Apart from Mona.”

“That goes without saying.”

Linda thought for a while before speaking.

“I have a friend visiting at the moment,” she said. “Rakel—do you remember her? She’s a police officer in Malmö. She and Klara get along well.”

“Aren’t you going to bring Klara with you?”

“I’ll come on my own, very shortly.”

It was almost three o’clock by the time Linda swung into the drive and had to slam on the brakes in order to avoid running into Baiba’s car. Wallander always thought she drove far too fast, but on the other hand he was relieved whenever she didn’t use her motorcycle. He frequently told her so, but the only response he ever got was a loud snort.

Baiba had woken up and had a sip of water and another cup of tea. She spent a long time in the bathroom. When she came out she seemed to be less tired than before. Without her knowing, Wallander had watched her injecting herself in the thigh. For a brief moment he glimpsed her nakedness and felt despondency welling up inside him at the thought of all that was now over, never to be repeated, never to be experienced again.

It was an important moment for him when Baiba and Linda greeted each other. It seemed to Wallander that he could now see the Baiba he had met so many years ago in Latvia.

Linda embraced her as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and said she was pleased to meet the love of her father’s life at long last. Wallander felt embarrassed but also pleased to see them together. If Mona had been there, despite his current anger with her, and if Linda had been carrying Klara in her arms, the four most important women in his life, in a way the only ones, would have been gathered in his house. A big day, he thought, in the middle of summer, at a time when old age is sneaking up closer and closer.