“Thanks,” he mumbled, following her into the stairwell of the concrete block.
He found the flat on the third floor, discovering that, unlike the densely populated nameplates of his two Arab neighbors, Assad’s had only his own name on it.
Carl pressed the bell a couple of times, sensing already that he was out of luck. Then he bent down and flipped open the letter box.
The place looked empty. Apart from some junk mail and a couple of bills on the floor, he could see nothing but a pair of timeworn leather armchairs against the far wall.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Carl turned his head to see a pair of baggy white tracksuit bottoms with stripes down the leg.
He straightened up to face a powerhouse whose tanned upper arms looked like sides of beef. “I’m looking for Assad. Do you know if he’s been home today?”
“The Shiite? No, he hasn’t.”
“What about his family?”
The man cocked his head slightly. “You sure you know him? Or maybe you’re the fucker who’s been doing the break-ins around here? What’s with all the peering through people’s letter boxes?”
He thrust his chest against Carl’s.
“All right, hold on a minute, Rambo.”
He put a hand against the man’s complex of abdominal muscles and fumbled around in his own inside pocket.
“Assad’s my friend, and so are you if you can answer some questions for me.”
The man stared at the police badge Carl held up in front of his face.
“Who’d want to be friends with one of you lot?” he snarled, lips retracted.
He made to turn and go, but Carl grabbed his sleeve.
“Maybe you’ll answer me anyway. It’d be a help…”
“Stick your questions up your arse, you fucking wanker.”
Carl nodded. In about three and a half seconds, he would demonstrate to this overgrown, protein-powder monster who the real wanker was. The guy may have been built like a brick shithouse, but he wasn’t so big he could ignore the firm grip of the law on his collar and the threat of arrest for insulting an officer on duty.
But then a voice came from behind him.
“Hey, Bilal, whassup? The man’s got a badge.”
Carl turned to see an even bigger individual, whose main occupation was clearly lifting weights. He was a window display of sports clothing. If his enormous T-shirt had been bought in a normal shop, then the place had certainly been well stocked.
“Sorry about my brother. He’s on steroids,” he said, extending a mitt the size of a provincial market town. “We don’t have anything to do with Hafez el-Assad. In fact, I’ve only ever seen him twice. Funny-looking guy. Round face and big eyes, yeah?”
Carl nodded and let go of the giant’s sleeve he was still clutching.
“Tell you the truth,” the brother continued, “I don’t think he even lives here. And if he does, it’s not with any family, that’s for sure.” He smiled. “Just as well, it’s only a one-room flat.”
After calling Assad’s number a couple of times with no answer, Carl got out of the car and took a deep breath before walking up the path to Vigga’s little allotment garden house.
“Hello, angel,” she sang in greeting.
Music of a kind he had never heard before poured from the tiny speakers in the front room. Was that a sitar, or some poor animal being tormented?
“What’s this, then?” he asked, fighting the urge to put his hands to his ears and shut out the noise.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” She danced a couple of steps that no Indian in his right mind could possibly consider well chosen. “Gurkamal gave me a CD. He says he’s got lots more I can have, if I want.”
“Is he here?” Stupid question in a dwelling with only two rooms.
Vigga smiled exuberantly. “He’s at his shop. His daughter’s got curling practice, so he had to take over.”
“Curling! Age-old Indian sport, eh?”
She swatted at him playfully. “You say Indian, but I say Punjabi. That’s where he’s from.”
“Oh, so he’s Pakistani then?”
“No, he’s Indian. But don’t waste your brain cells on it.”
Carl sat down heavily in a moth-eaten armchair. “Vigga, this whole situation’s no good. Jesper flitting back and forth, and you putting the squeeze on us like that. I hardly know where I stand with the house.”
“But that’s life when you’re still married to a woman who owns half.”
“That’s what I mean. Can’t we come to some sort of fair arrangement so I can buy you out?”
“Fair?” She made the word sound almost odious.
“Yes, fair. If you and I were to draw up a deed in the amount of, say, two hundred thousand, then I could pay you back two thousand a month. How does that sound?”
Vigga’s cogs began to whirr. When it came to smaller sums, she tended to be hopeless, but as soon as a figure contained enough zeros, she could be exacting indeed.
“Carl, my dear,” she began, and he realized instantly that the initiative was lost. “This is neither the time nor the place. At some point, perhaps. Though we’d have to up the figure. Who knows what the future might bring?” And then she laughed out loud, without apparent reason, and he was back to his usual state of bewilderment.
He felt he should collect himself and tell her they should have a solicitor look things over, but his courage failed him.
“But I will say one thing, Carl. We’re a family, and we need to support each other. I know how happy you and Hardy and Morten and Jesper are living at Rønneholtparken, and it would be a shame to disrupt things for you. I can see that.”
Looking at her, he sensed that any second now she was going to table a proposal that would knock the wind out of him.
“So I’ve decided to leave you all in peace for the time being.”
It was easy enough for her to say. But what would happen when this Gherkin, or whatever his name was, tired of her incessant jabber and knitted socks?
“But I want you to do me a favor in return,” she added.
It was the kind of utterance that from the mouth of Vigga could entail no end of insurmountable problems.
“I think-” he managed to say before being interrupted.
“My mother would like you to visit her. She’s always talking about you, Carl. She still thinks the sun shines out of your backside. So I’ve decided you should look in on her once a week. If that’s all right with you. Starting tomorrow.”
Carl swallowed. This was enough to turn any man’s saliva to sandpaper. Vigga’s mother! A completely deranged individual who hadn’t even fathomed that Carl and Vigga were married until four years after the event. A woman who lived life in the firm conviction that God had created the world entirely for her own amusement.
“I know what you’re thinking, Carl, but she’s not nearly as bad as she used to be. Not since her Alzheimer’s set in.”
Carl took a deep breath. “I’m not sure I’ve time once a week, Vigga,” he ventured, noting the immediate pursing of her lips. “But I’ll see what I can do.”
She extended a hand. It was odd, but they always seemed to be shaking hands on something that put him in shackles yet imposed on her only a bare minimum of inconvenience.
He parked the car in a side road by Utterslev Mose and felt very alone. There was life in his house, but it wasn’t his. At work, he was mostly in a dream. He had no interests and didn’t play any sport. He hated being with people he didn’t know and wasn’t thirsty enough to drown his sorrows in a local drinking establishment.
And now some bloke in a turban, straight out of the starting blocks, had swept his ex off her feet quicker than you could find Internet porn.
His so-called partner at work wasn’t living at the address he had given, so hanging out with him was out of the question, too.
No wonder he was feeling downhearted.
He breathed in slowly, drawing in the marshy air, and felt goose bumps appear on his arms once more as sweat ran from all his glands. Was he about to hit bottom again? Twice in less than twenty-four hours?