Alice Rami, Jan thinks. But out loud he simply asks, ‘So when do you want an answer about the letters?’
‘Preferably now.’
‘I need to give it some thought.’
Rettig leans forward. ‘There’s a place down by the harbour; we use one of the rooms for our rehearsals. We can meet up there, do some jamming with the Bohemos... and afterwards we can have a chat. How about that?’
Jan isn’t sure, but he accepts the invitation anyway.
‘Come down there tomorrow, about seven. It’ll be cool, as they say.’
When Rettig has gone and Jan has locked the front door, he immediately regrets his decision. Why did he agree to play with the Bohemos? He’s heard them, and they’re too good for him.
He glances over at his drums, wanting to sit down and practise right away, but it’s too late at night. Instead he goes into the kitchen and gets out the four hidden books: The Animal Lady, The Princess with a Hundred Hands, The Witch Who Was Poorly, Viveca’s House of Stone. He almost knows the stories off by heart now. He knows the princess shouts, ‘I’m not unhappy, I just like unhappiness!’ when she first arrives in the village, and he knows that the first symptom of the witch’s illness is that her hair melts.
So why does he keep on reading the books, over and over again? Perhaps he is searching for some kind of hidden message. If these are Rami’s books, she must have had some ulterior motive when she asked Josefine to hide them in the pre-school.
And perhaps he finds a message in the end, because as he leafs through The Animal Lady for perhaps the fiftieth time, he suddenly sees a little patch of ink right in the bottom right-hand corner of the first page, below the text. There’s nothing odd about that, but there is a similar mark on the next page, the same size and in almost exactly the same place. And on the next page.
Jan looks more closely; he has been concentrating on the pages with the pictures, and hasn’t noticed this mark in the margin before.
It looks like a little animal. A squirrel?
He flicks through the pages, and the squirrel begins to move. It’s an illusion created by the movement of the pages: the squirrel scampers along, all the way through the book.
He goes through the books over and over again, and eventually he gets them in the right order. The marks on the hundred or so pages of the four books form a short animated film. The black squirrel first appears in the bottom corner of the first page of The Animal Lady, then skitters up across the pages of The Princess with a Hundred Hands and Viveca’s House of Stone, before finally disappearing into space at the top of the penultimate page of The Witch Who Was Poorly.
Jan stares at the squirrel’s progress.
A sign. That’s what it feels like, a sign especially for him.
20
The room where the Bohemos rehearse smells of sweat and dreams. It’s not far from the harbour, just a few blocks away from Bill’s Bar. The room is as bare as a scruffy youth centre — apart from the egg boxes. Hundreds of egg boxes have been stuck to the walls in order to reduce the echo.
Jan is sitting behind the drum kit, establishing the rhythm and being swept along by it at the same time. The Bohemos started with the classic ‘Sweet Home Alabama’, with a steady four-stroke beat which Jan was able to follow with no problem. That got them going, and now they have been playing old rock songs for almost an hour.
From time to time Rettig has turned around from his place at the microphone and nodded to Jan; he seems pleased. ‘A bit softer on the snare, Jan!’
Jan nods and obliges. After all those years of sitting alone at home accompanying bands on his stereo, it’s a strange feeling to be playing with real live musicians. He was a bit shaky at first, but he’s getting better and better.
The drum kit he’s using is an old Tama, not quite as good as his own; the skin on the bass and snare is worn and almost split in places. But it means he can be a bit less careful as he provides the backing.
‘Good,’ says Rettig. ‘Tighter and tighter.’
Two other members of the Bohemos have turned up. The bass guitarist is called Anders, and the rhythm guitarist is Rasmus. They are both about the same age as Rettig, and play without speaking. Jan has no idea what they think of the fact that he has taken over from Carl, the usual drummer; they haven’t said a word to him all evening, just glanced over at the drums occasionally.
Jan wonders whether Carl, Anders or Rasmus are also care workers at the hospital.
At quarter past eight they stop and start packing away. The two other band members leave immediately with their guitar cases, but Rettig hangs around. Jan stays too; he knows that Rettig is waiting for an answer.
‘You play well,’ Rettig says. ‘A bit of an African vibe going on there.’
‘Thanks,’ says Jan, getting up from his seat. ‘I enjoyed it.’
‘You’ve played in bands before, I assume?’
‘Oh yes,’ Jan lies.
The room is silent among all the egg boxes. Rettig walks over and picks up his black case by the door. He looks at Jan. ‘Have you made a decision? About what we discussed yesterday?’
‘I have.’ He takes a moment. ‘It’s International Children’s Day today, October fourth,’ he says. ‘Did you know that, Lars?’
Rettig shakes his head and starts to dismantle the microphone stand. ‘Isn’t it cinnamon-bun day?’
‘That too,’ says Jan. After another brief pause he asks, ‘Have you got kids, Lars?’
‘Why?’
‘Spending time with children makes you wiser.’
‘Probably. But I haven’t got any kids, unfortunately,’ says Rettig. ‘I’ve got a girlfriend, but no kids. How about you?’
‘No. None of my own.’
‘Like I said... have you decided?’
‘One last question,’ says Jan. ‘What do you get out of this?’
Rettig hesitates. ‘Nothing, not directly.’
Jan looks at him. ‘And indirectly?’
Rettig shrugs his shoulders. ‘Not much. We charge a small fee... a handling fee for delivery. Forty kronor per letter. But that’s not going to make us rich.’
‘And it’s just letters?’
Jan has asked this same question several times, of course, but Rettig is a patient man.
‘Absolutely, Jan. Just ordinary letters.’
‘OK, I’ll do it. I’ll give it a try, anyway.’
‘Excellent.’ Rettig quickly leans forward. ‘This is how it works. You get a package from me, and the next time you’re on the night shift you take it into the hospital through the basement. At night, as close to midnight as possible.’ He takes a sheet of paper out of his bag. ‘But only on certain nights... This is the schedule; it shows you when one of us is working.’
‘One of you... You and who else?’
Rettig lowers his voice. ‘Carl, our drummer. He does the same job as me. OK, so between eleven and midnight you take the lift up to the visitors’ room. Check that no one is in there before you open the door... but there won’t be. You hide the envelope under the sofa cushions, then you go back to the children. They’ll be asleep, I presume?’
Jan nods, thinking about the electronic Angels he has bought.
‘Any questions?’
‘Not about the delivery... But I would like to know more about the patients, as I said before.’
Rettig smiles wearily and puts his guitar in its case. ‘The carers are not allowed to talk about those they care for. You know that, don’t you?’