“Yes, they’re sending a police car. Come on, we’ll go and eat. They’ll ring if they want to speak to us, but I don’t think they’ll need to, at least not yet, perhaps later, but then they’ll get in touch. This has nothing to do with us at all, you see, not really.” She was almost breathless, talking frantically.
“Can’t we just wait and see them arrive, please can we?”
Eva shook her head. She crossed the street with the girl in tow, while the red man was still showing. They were an oddly matched pair as they walked into town, Eva tall and thin with slender shoulders and long, dark hair, Emma plump and broad and knock-kneed, with a slightly waddling gait. Both of them felt cold. And the town was cold, in the miasma from the chill river. It’s an inharmonious town, Eva thought, as if it could never really be happy because it was split in two. Now the two halves were struggling to gain the upper hand. The north side with the church, the cinema, and the most expensive stores, the south side with the railway, the cheap shopping centers, the pubs, and the state off-license. This last was important and ensured a steady stream of cars and people across the bridge.
“Mom, why did he drown?” Emma fixed on her mother’s face and waited for an answer.
“I don’t know. Perhaps he was drunk and fell into the river.”
“Perhaps he was fishing and fell out of his boat. He should have been wearing a life jacket. Was he old, Mom?”
“Not particularly. About Dad’s age, perhaps.”
“At least Dad can swim,” she said with relief.
They had arrived at the green door of McDonald’s. Emma put her weight against it and pushed it open. The smells within, of hamburgers and french fries, drew her and her unfailing appetite further into the place. Gone was the dead man in the river, gone all life’s problems. Emma’s tummy was rumbling and Aladdin was within reach.
“Find a table,” Eva said, “and I’ll order.”
She made for the corner as usual and seated herself under the flowering almond tree, which was plastic, while Eva joined the line. She tried to banish the image that lapped at her inner eye, but it forced itself on her again. Would Emma forget it, or would she tell everyone? Perhaps she’d have nightmares. They must stifle it with silence, never mention it again. In the end she’d think it had never happened.
The line inched forward. She stared distractedly at the youngsters behind the counter; with their red caps and red short-sleeved shirts they worked at an incredible pace. The fatty haze from the cooking hung like a curtain behind the counter, the smells of fat and frying meat, melted cheese and seasonings of all kinds forced their way into her nostrils. But they seemed oblivious to the thickness of the atmosphere, running back and forth like industrious red ants, smiling optimistically at each and every order. She watched the quick fingers and the light feet that sped across the floor. This was nothing like her own day’s work. She stood in the middle of her studio most of the time, arms folded, fixing a stretched canvas with a hostile stare, or possibly an imploring one. On good days she stared aggressively and went on the attack, full of audacity and aplomb. Once in a blue moon she sold a painting.
“Happy Meal, please,” she said quickly, “and chicken nuggets and two Cokes. Would you be very kind and put an Aladdin in? She hasn’t got that one.”
The girl went to work. Her hands packed and folded at lightning speed. Over in the corner, Emma raised her head and followed her mother with her eyes as she finally came weaving across with the tray. Suddenly Eva’s knees began to tremble. She sank down at the table and looked in wonderment at the girl who was eagerly struggling to open the little cardboard box. She searched for the toy. The eruption was deafening.
“I got Aladdin, Mom!” She raised the figure above her head and showed it to the entire restaurant. They all stared at her. Eva buried her face in her hands and sobbed.
“Are you ill?” Emma turned deadly serious and hid Aladdin under the table.
“No, well — just not a hundred percent. It’ll soon pass.”
“Are you upset about the dead man?”
She started. “Yes,” she said simply. “I’m upset about the dead man. But we won’t talk about him anymore. Never, d’you hear, Emma! Not to anyone! It’ll only make us sad.”
“But do you think he’s got children?”
Eva wiped her face with her hands. She wasn’t certain of the future anymore. She stared at the chicken, at the doughy brown lumps fried in fat, and knew that she couldn’t eat them. The images flashed past again. She saw them through the branches of the almond tree.
“Yes,” she said at length, “he’s probably got children.”
3
An elderly woman out walking her dog suddenly caught a glimpse of the blue and white shoe among the stones. She phoned from the telephone box near the bridge, just as Eva had done. When the police arrived, she was standing somewhat self-consciously by the bank with her back to the corpse. One of the officers, whose name was Karlsen, was first out of the car. He smiled politely when he caught sight of the woman and glanced inquisitively at her dog.
“He’s a Chinese crested,” she said.
It really was an intriguing creature, tiny, wrinkled, and very pink. It had a thick tuft of dirty yellow hair on the crown of its head, but was otherwise entirely bald.
“What’s his name?” he asked amicably.
“Adam,” she replied. He nodded and smiled, diving into the car’s trunk for the case of equipment. The policemen struggled with the dead man for a while, but eventually got him up on the bank where they placed him on a tarpaulin. He wasn’t a big man, he just looked that way after his sojourn in the water. The woman with the dog retreated a little. The team worked quietly and precisely, the photographer took pictures, a forensic pathologist knelt by the tarpaulin and made notes. Most deaths had trivial causes and they weren’t expecting anything unusual. Perhaps a drunk who’d toppled into the water, there were gangs of them under the bridge and along the footpaths in the evenings. This one was somewhere between twenty and forty, slim, but with a beer belly, blond, not particularly tall. Karlsen pulled a rubber glove on to his right hand and carefully raised the dead man’s clothing.
“Stab wounds,” he said tersely. “Several of them. Let’s turn him over.” They fell silent. The only sound was that of rubber gloves being put on and pulled off, the quiet click of the camera, the breath of one or another of them, and the crackling of the plastic sheeting which they spread out by the side of the body.
“I wonder,” Karlsen muttered, “if we haven’t found Einarsson at long last.”
The man’s wallet had gone, if he’d ever had one. But his wristwatch was there, a gaudy affair with a lot of extras, like the time in New York and Tokyo and London. Its black strap had dug into his swollen wrist. The corpse had been in the water a long time and had presumably been carried by the current from further upstream, and so the location of the find wasn’t of special interest. Even so, they inspected it a bit, searching the bank for possible footprints, but found only a plastic can which had once contained antifreeze and an empty cigarette packet. A number of people had gathered up on the path, mostly youngsters; now they were craning their necks to steal a glance at the body on the tarpaulin. Decomposition was well under way. The skin had loosened from the body, especially on the hands, as if he were wearing oversize gloves. It was very discolored. His eyes, which had once been green, were transparent and pale, his hair was falling out in great tufts, his face had puffed up and made his features indistinct. The fauna of the river, crayfish, insects, and fish, had all tucked in greedily. The stab wounds in his side were great gaping gashes in the ashen white flesh.