There were also few people who could imagine investing money in a homeless person. Judging by appearances his ex-wife was an exception. Gränsberg mentioned being in contact with several banks, but had been rejected at an early stage.
Now it looked like he was in trouble with the police. And then mentioned his name! And in a context that evidently put him in a bad light, judging by the wording of the message. What was it that looked so bad? And returning to Sweden for that reason seemed terrible, to say the least.
When the initial surprise had abated, his irritation grew, not to mention his anger, at the tone of the message. Wasn’t she capable of seeing through an alcoholic homeless person’s fantasies and assertions? Did she really believe he was a corrupt journalist who let himself be bought and sold by anyone?
And then the aside that it looked bad for her too! As if, on the basis of loose talk, maybe Gränsberg had even had a relapse and gone on a bender, she would be soiled by the fact that the two of them had a relationship for a few weeks?
She did not want to believe he had anything to hide, but apparently she did. Anders Brant felt humiliated both as a professional and as a person, and that was a feeling he always struggled with. He was touchy, and he knew it, but had transformed that into a virtue, into fuel that could be used to take down an opponent without any scruples. But he never became irritable or sarcastic. In debates and in opinion pieces he displayed a reasonable tone that could be taken for wisdom and reflection. He would polish an article for days to bring out the apparently casual tone that marked his style. Razor sharp but light as a feather, sometimes almost forgiving, as if by charity he tossed off a few lines for the purpose of correcting an antagonist who had gone astray.
Deep inside however he was often furious, seldom forgot an injustice, and could strike back years after a superficially harmless discussion.
In that state of mind he sent an SMS. About the “experience” he did not write a word. Her interest in where, when, and who seemed completely sick in police terms, an occupational injury. She did not say a word about his troubles, not a word of encouragement. For her, murder was probably everyday fare.
Ever since his return from Itaberaba Anders Brant had been feverishly active, but without really getting anything accomplished. He could not find the peace of mind to write, and he cancelled two interviews he had previously scheduled with great difficulty. The most important one was with the provincial governor, a hard prey to catch, which he now voluntarily released.
The agrofuel article, commissioned by Aftonbladet, about which they had sent an inquiring e-mail just the day before, was half finished. He poked at it anyway but it would take a few more hours of work to put it into respectable shape, normally an easy match, but now he experienced it as a labor of Sisyphus.
He understood full well the source of his uneasiness. He had witnessed the murder of a homeless person, but had done nothing that might bring justice. He could have contacted the police, he was a credible witness, without personal interest either in the victim or the perpetrator. But he had not lifted a finger.
A homeless man who killed another homeless person, representatives of a group he had written about, collected solid material about in four countries, material that was meant to be compiled into a book.
It felt like a loss. As if the most impoverished killed each other while the injustices remained and increased. He had no illusions, because he had seen far too much irrationality, ignorance, and division among the oppressed and marginalized to be surprised. But that the wrath was so conspicuously directed inward and not against those who created the misery, made him deeply depressed.
On the personal level he had lulled a woman into false hopes, perhaps himself too, and then coarsely betrayed her. Vanessa was a good woman, he sensed that as soon as they met, a perception that only grew. She would have done him good, perhaps he could have been good for her too. They had all the prerequisites, he knew that. Yet he had gone his way. That he now left her in the lurch was a double betrayal besides, against her personally but also against the arrangement that he, colored by political opinions, supported more generally. He thought he betrayed the Brazil he loved when he left Itaberaba. It was an overwrought attitude; sure, love has other conditions than the economic world order, but still the feeling persisted that he seemed to have lost something fundamental, a foundation that crumbled and fell apart.
He felt more uncertain and experienced that he could not assert his opinion with the same precision and force. That was why the articles and interviews were on hold, he realized that. He was talking about the big picture, about the masses, to use an antiquated expression, but betrayed with premeditation a woman from this mass, a woman who without reservation had taken care of him.
His foundations were shaken. Depression, miscalculations, and dissatisfaction were not unusual, but this worry, downright existential anxiety, was new. His self-image had taken a serious blow.
And now, the icing on the cake, Ann’s desperate message.
Who was she? A police detective, certainly competent, mother of a bright boy, a woman who clearly had not had it easy on the personal level, who mentioned something about a couple of relationships relatively long ago.
Improbably enough she had connected with him, the journalist with a left-wing past, who saw the police department as a tool not only for maintenance of order on streets and squares and within the home, but also as a guarantor of the continued existence of the economic order, or rather disorder.
In the 1960s and 1970s there was talk about the apparatus of violence, and the police could easily be placed there. Police were brought in against demonstrators, to club them down and then take them to jail because they were “disturbing traffic.”
Those who questioned the arrangement had also been monitored during all periods, with their rights taken away by the secret police. Many cases were documented where irreproachable citizens lost positions and career opportunities due to a notation that labeled them as security risks. Perhaps because they participated in a summer camp arranged by a party on the left wing, or for a time subscribed to a certain periodical.
It was not hard for a left-wing sympathizer or even for a rights-conscious liberal to find evidence that the police were just such an apparatus for the maintenance of disorder.
In that machinery Ann Lindell was a cog.
He had fallen in love with that woman and for a few hectic weeks experienced great happiness. For that woman he had betrayed Vanessa.
“A pig,” he shouted, sitting in the kitchen, which had become his retreat when the noise from the street and the view from the living room, where he did his writing, constantly reminded him of the murder.
He reached for a sheet of paper, chose with care from the jar of pens, and at last picked a red felt-tip pen. He usually used it to mark galley errors and changes in his articles. The easy, even flow of the pen, the distinct lines formed by the tip-size 0.3-and the sharp color, all contributed to a feeling of security and well-being.
With it he would now right himself. That he chose to write by hand and not on the computer felt appropriate. This was not a feature story or an opinion piece, but something very different, which would be brought forth in red, sharp style. What exactly remained to be seen.