‘You’ve already said that, but I’m curious — why are you here?’
‘I’ve got nowhere else to go.’
She was wearing a green dressing gown. She tightened the belt around her waist, waiting for me to say something else. I didn’t.
She showed me into her living room. On the way we passed the half-open door of her bedroom. The duvet was thrown back; presumably she had been lying down when I rang the bell.
It was indeed possible to see the blue waters of the inlet from the living-room window. Lisa had positioned an armchair and a table with a pile of books on it in the spot which gave her the best view. There wasn’t much furniture, and hardly any pictures. A door led into another bedroom, while the kitchen was an open-plan arrangement.
She gestured towards the red sofa in front of a glass coffee table; its legs suggested that it might be from an Arab country.
‘What can I offer you?’
‘Nothing.’
‘In that case I’m going to make a pot of tea, then you can have a cup if you change your mind.’
She went into the kitchen and I looked around the living room. There was nothing to indicate the presence of a man. I couldn’t be sure, but there was no harm in hoping. When she had poured water into the teapot she disappeared into her bedroom and came back fully dressed.
She served the tea in white cups, and placed a plate of biscuits on the table.
‘So,’ she said. ‘Why have you come here?’
‘I don’t know where to start.’
‘I usually find the beginning is the easiest place.’
I already knew I wasn’t going to tell her the truth, but I also knew that for a lie to work, most of what you say must be true. It is only the conclusions that can contain the lie, twisting the story on its own axis. At the same time I thought the truth was impossible to deliver on this occasion, because I didn’t know what it was.
‘You know the beginning,’ I said. ‘The accusation that I’m an arsonist. I’m not.’
‘So surely it’s important for you to defend yourself? No one is convicted without solid proof of their guilt.’
‘I’ve already been convicted. I had a phone call to say I was going to be arrested. I’ve also received several anonymous letters.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t want any post delivered to your island?’
‘They were lying on the bench by the boathouse. I don’t know how they got there.’
Lisa looked at me pensively. The tea was very sweet, nothing like the blend Louise had left in the caravan.
‘My daughter has gone away,’ I said.
‘Why?’
‘Don’t ask me. She didn’t even tell me she was going.’
‘That sounds like very strange behaviour.’
‘My daughter is strange. I also think she makes her living as a prostitute.’
I have no idea where that came from.
‘That sounds alarming,’ Lisa said after a brief silence.
I noticed that she was on her guard now. I realised I might have gone a step too far.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ I said. ‘And I’d like you to forget what I just said.’
‘You can’t just make yourself forget something, but I’ll try. I still don’t know why you’ve come to see me.’
‘I’ve got nowhere to go. No one to talk to.’
‘That’s not quite the same thing. You could have phoned me.’
‘I’ll leave right away, if that’s what you want.’
‘That’s not what I said.’
‘I couldn’t stay on the island. I hardly know anyone around here. The only person I could think of was you, but now I realise I shouldn’t have come.’
Lisa was still looking at me with a certain wariness.
‘I hope you won’t write about this,’ I said.
‘Why would the local paper be interested in this?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘As you’re here, it’s probably best if you tell me what’s going on. I still don’t understand why you’ve left the island.’
I realised that my lies had made me unsure of what to say next, but there were moments during that long evening when I almost told her the truth: that I wanted her to take me into her bed. That was all.
Perhaps she knew what I was thinking? It was very late and we had drunk a bottle of wine when she suggested I should stay over on the sofa.
‘But don’t get any ideas,’ she added.
I felt like saying that it was always worth getting ideas, but at least she was letting me stay.
She made up a bed on the sofa, cleared away the cups and glasses and gave me a towel.
‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I need to sleep. First thing in the morning I’m off to visit two elderly siblings who live on a remote farm with no mains water supply and no electricity.’
I had hoped I would be able to give her a hug at least, but she merely nodded, switched off all the lamps apart from the one next to the sofa and disappeared into the bathroom. I decided not to get undressed until I heard the bedroom door close behind her.
I sat there in the pale light shining in from the street down below. I had draped the towel over the lampshade.
Nothing had turned out as I had hoped. The childish disappointment I felt reminded me of my clumsy teenage attempts at dating.
I walked around the silent apartment. Listened outside Lisa’s room. I had the feeling that she was standing just behind the door and quickly moved away. I opened the door of the other bedroom. There was a bed, but the room was clearly used as a study. On a desk by the window stood a computer and an old typewriter. I flicked through a pile of papers which contained barely legible notes and a few incomplete manuscripts. Daily newspapers were stacked up on the floor. I was listening the whole time; I didn’t want to be caught by Lisa if she emerged from her bedroom.
There were several framed photos on a shelf. I guessed they were from the 1930s or 40s, men and women posing for the photographer with smiling faces. However, there was nothing more modern, no pictures of people who might be Lisa’s parents or other relatives.
The apartment was strangely empty. It seemed as if her life and mine had some similarities after all.
I sat down at her desk and carried on looking through her papers. I turned on the lamp and read some letters, holding the paper in one hand while the other hovered over the switch. I didn’t want to be caught snooping. I have often expressed my contempt for those who pry into the lives of others, yet I have that same tendency myself.
One letter was from a reader complaining about the way Lisa had written about a serious matter involving the mistreatment of animals. A number of cows had been neglected, and had had to be slaughtered. The man who had sent the letter was called Herbert, and he felt he had been insulted and unfairly hung out to dry. At the bottom Lisa had put: No reply. Another letter was so full of hatred that I was astonished. I had received an anonymous phone call, but Lisa got letters. An anonymous man wasn’t attacking her for some article she had published; he was simply telling her how arousing he found the thought of sleeping with her. The fact that he had sadistic fantasies became clear after the first few lines.
This time Lisa’s note said: Can he be traced?
I turned off the lamp and got to my feet. There was a wardrobe on one wall, containing her clothes. I inhaled the smell of her and picked up a pair of high-heeled shoes.
As I stood there with the shoes in my hand I heard a noise behind me. I spun around so fast that I banged my head on the wardrobe door, but there was no one there. It was just my imagination. I put down the shoes exactly as I had found them. I was about to close the door when something right at the back caught my eye. At first I couldn’t make out what it was: possibly a small Swedish flag? However, when I took it out I discovered that it was an embroidered cloth. Above the Swedish flag was the word ‘Schweden’, and below it a black swastika on a red and white background.