‘No. I just need transport, nothing else.’
I dug out an old bag left over from Harriet’s time and packed my Chinese shirts, my underwear and my phone charger. I gathered up the cash I had, then wrote a note to Alexandersson. I didn’t want anyone to think I’d done a runner. I told him that my daughter was in trouble and needed my help, and I hoped to be back in a few days.
I was waiting on the jetty when Jansson arrived, punctual as usual. We shook hands; he was always very particular on that point.
‘I expect you’re going to the harbour,’ Jansson said. ‘When do you want to come back?’
‘I don’t know.’
The sea spray was fresh and cold as we sped across the water. Jansson dropped me off by the petrol pumps, and I gave him a hundred kronor as usual. By the time he left the harbour I was already on my way to the coastguards’ office. I had folded the piece of paper and written Alexandersson’s name on one side.
As I was passing the chandlery I couldn’t resist popping in to ask Margareta if my wellington boots had arrived. They hadn’t.
‘I’m going away for a few days,’ I said. ‘Perhaps the boots will be here when I get back.’
‘You can never tell when orders will arrive,’ Margareta said. ‘You can’t rely on anyone these days.’
Oslovski wasn’t at home, but when I looked in the garage, all the tools were in their proper places.
The curtains were closed.
I got in the car and drove off.
I hoped to find a flight leaving for Paris that evening. I would leave my country with a slight bow.
Part Three
The Bedouin in the Bottle
Chapter 14
During the drive to Arlanda many thoughts about Louise passed through my mind, along with memories from my younger days: hitchhiking by the roadside, travelling from town to town, sometimes even crossing the border into a new country. I remembered drivers who had stopped, but turned out to be drunk. On one occasion I was picked up by a young woman. She was driving an expensive sports car, and there was barely room for my rucksack between my legs. In broken English she informed me that she had just murdered her husband. I recalled with particular clarity that she said she had stabbed him in the back. She tried to excuse her actions by saying that he hadn’t had time to realise what was happening; I don’t know what I said in response. She suddenly slammed on the brakes and told me to get out of the car in the middle of nowhere in the dark. I don’t remember how I continued my journey.
Just as my hitchhiking to Paris always led me to Belgium, especially the city of Ghent, if I travelled by train I always ended up in the central station in Hamburg at three o’clock in the morning. I used to change trains there for Paris, where I would either stay or go on to Spain or Portugal, perhaps even across to North Africa. Homeless beggars used to wander around the deserted station in Hamburg; this was only about fifteen years after the end of the Second World War, so I always imagined that these elderly men in their long, dirty overcoats were soldiers who had survived the Western or Eastern Front. There was a dark imprint of horror in their eyes. However, I don’t recall ever giving any of them money, either because I had no German currency or because I felt too poor. The pale light transformed the enormous space into a theatre set, where the actors had left long ago but the lighting technician had forgotten to switch everything off before he went home. The few nocturnal wanderers, the passengers and the cleaners were acting out a drama that had no beginning and no end.
When I had reached Arlanda and parked my car, I stepped straight into a world swarming with people. Long queues stretched from every check-in desk. I hadn’t a clue what to do. I couldn’t tell you when I was last in an airport.
It was a while before I managed to pull myself together sufficiently to start looking for a ticket office. According to one of the big electronic information boards, the 19:30 Air France flight to Paris was delayed by two hours. That was the only departure I could find, but luckily there were still spaces. I paid with the credit card I had collected from the bank earlier in the day. I was holding the ticket in my hand when I realised I had an important question for the woman behind the glass in her blue uniform.
‘I’ve left my passport at home,’ I said. ‘As a Swedish citizen, I assume I can travel to France without it?’
‘As long as you have ID, that’s fine,’ she replied. ‘Otherwise the police here in the airport can issue a passport which is valid for one journey.’
I went and sorted out a provisional passport, then changed some money, found the right check-in desk and went through security. In the departure hall I bought a cheap suitcase on wheels. I transferred the contents of Harriet’s old bag into it and purchased some more shirts and underwear. I sat down by one of the huge windows overlooking the tarmac, where the planes were squatting at their gates like beasts in their stalls.
I called Lisa Modin; she answered just as I was about to give up hope. I briefly explained what had happened — my daughter’s cry for help, my hurried departure.
‘Can I ask you a favour?’ I said. ‘I haven’t even managed to sort out a hotel. Could you possibly use your computer to find something that’s in the city centre but no more than three-star? From tomorrow — the plane’s delayed, so I’ll be arriving in the middle of the night.’
‘How much do you want to spend? And for how many nights?’
‘I’ve no idea about the cost — three-star is three-star. I need the room for at least two nights.’
‘No problem.’
She called me back after twenty minutes to say that she had found a hotel.
‘It’s called the Hotel Celtic, and it’s in Montparnasse, Rue d’Odessa, not far from Rue de Vaugirard.’
At first I wondered if she was joking. Of all the thousands of streets in Paris, Rue de Vaugirard is the one I know best. During my longest stay in the city, in 1963, I rented a room on Rue de Cadix, just off the far end of that long street, right next to the Porte de Versailles. It was a forty-minute walk from Montparnasse. When I was out and about at night I often saw packs of huge rats by the kerb moving from one drain to another. Some of them were as big as cats. It was frightening; I felt as if they could change direction and attack me at any moment.
At night my footsteps echoed on the cobblestones. My shoes were brown and far from clean. I had been given them by someone I met by chance in a jazz club in Rue Mouffetard. He thought the shoes I was wearing, with the left-hand sole coming away, looked dreadful. Late that night I accompanied him and his girlfriend to one of the streets behind the Jardin du Luxembourg. He lived right at the top of a house in one of the tiny garrets that had once provided accommodation for servants. He didn’t want to come all the way down again, so he tossed the brown shoes out of the window. They hit the cobblestones with a short, sharp smack. I put them on there and then, and they fitted perfectly.
‘Are you still there?’ Lisa asked. ‘Shall I make the booking? There are rooms available.’
‘Yes, please. Will they want my credit card number?’
‘I’ll give them mine to secure the booking, then you can pay with yours.’
‘Won’t you come with me?’
Only when I heard myself say those words did I realise that that was what I had been planning ever since I asked her to find me a hotel. I wanted to entice her to come with me, even though I would be searching for my daughter.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Exactly what I say. Come to Paris. I’ll pay for everything. To say thank you for the night I spent in your apartment.’