Naturally, they got their breakfast at 6 a.m. Later Wallander looked up passaggio a livello in his dictionary and found that it meant railway crossing. He assumed that his father had muddled it up with another phrase, but he was wise enough not to ask what that might be.
Wallander listened to the rain. Looking back, the trip to Rome, one brief week, seemed an endless and bewildering experience. When he took his morning coffee was not the only thing his father had fixed ideas about. He had guided his son through the city with complete confidence. Wallander could tell that his father had been planning this trip for a lifetime. It was a pilgrimage, which Wallander was allowed to share. He was a component in his father’s journey, an ever-present servant. There was a secret significance to the journey that he hadn’t quite understood. His father had travelled to Rome to see something he already seemed to have experienced within himself.
On the third day they had visited the Sistine Chapel. For almost an hour Wallander’s father had stood staring at Michelangelo’s ceiling. It was like watching a man send a wordless prayer to heaven. Wallander soon got a crick in his neck and had to give up. He knew that he was looking at something very beautiful, but his father saw much more. For a wicked moment, he’d wondered whether the old man was searching for a grouse or a sunset in the huge ceiling fresco. But he regretted this thought. There was no doubt that his father, commercial painter that he was, stood gazing at a master’s work with reverence and insight.
Wallander opened his eyes and looked out at the rain.
It was on the same evening that he’d had the feeling that his father was preparing something he wanted to keep secret. They had dined on the Via Veneto, which was far too expensive in Wallander’s view, but his father insisted that they could afford it. After all, they were on their first and last trip together to Rome. Then they had strolled slowly back through the city. The evening was warm, they were surrounded by throngs of people, and Wallander’s father had talked about the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. They lost their way twice before they finally found their hotel. Wallander’s father was treated with great respect after his initial outburst, and they had picked up their keys, received a polite bow from the desk clerk, and gone upstairs, said goodnight and gone to their rooms. Wallander lay listening to the sounds from the street. Maybe he thought about Baiba, maybe he was just falling asleep.
Suddenly he was wide awake again. Something had made him uneasy. He put on his dressing gown and went down to the lobby. Everything was quiet. The night clerk was sitting watching TV behind the front desk. Wallander bought a bottle of mineral water. The clerk was a young man. He’d told Wallander that he was working nights to finance his theological studies. He had dark, wavy hair and was born in Padua. His name was Mario and he spoke excellent English. Wallander stood there holding his bottle and found himself asking the clerk to wake him if his father appeared in the lobby during the night, or left the hotel. The young man looked at him. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. He simply nodded and said, certainly, if the senior Signor Wallander went out during the night, he would knock on the door of Room 32 at once.
It was on the sixth night that it happened. That day they had strolled around the Forum, and paid a visit to the Galleria Doria Pamphili. In the evening they went through the dark underground passages that led to the Spanish Steps from the Villa Borghese, and ate in a restaurant. Wallander was shocked when the bill arrived, but it was their last night, and this holiday, which couldn’t be described as anything but happy, was coming to an end. Wallander’s father showed the same boundless energy and curiosity that he’d had on the whole trip. They walked back to the hotel, stopping at a cafe for a cup of coffee on the way, and toasting each other with a glass of grappa. At the hotel they picked up their keys. Wallander fell asleep as soon as he got into bed.
The knock at the door came at 1.30 a.m. At first he had no idea where he was. He jumped up, half awake, and opened the door. The night clerk was standing there, and explained that Signor Wallander’s father had just left the hotel. Wallander threw on his clothes. He caught up with his father easily, and followed him at a distance. His premonition had been right. When the streets began to narrow, he realised they were on their way to the Spanish Steps. Still he kept his distance. And then, in the warm Roman night, he watched his father climb the Spanish Steps to the church with two towers at the top and sit down, a black dot way up there. Wallander kept himself hidden in the shadows. His father stayed there for almost an hour. Then he stood and came slowly down the steps. Wallander continued to tail him — as if it were the strangest assignment he’d ever had to carry out — and soon they were at the Fontana di Trevi. His father did not toss a coin over his shoulder, but stood for a long time watching the water spraying out of the huge fountain. In the dim light Wallander could see the gleam in his eyes.
Eventually he followed his father back to the hotel.
The next day they flew back on an Alitalia plane to Copenhagen. Wallander’s father had the window seat, as on the way there. Wallander waited until they were on the ferry heading back to Limhamn to ask whether his father was pleased with the trip. He nodded, mumbled something unintelligible, and Wallander knew that he couldn’t demand more enthusiasm than that. Gertrud was waiting for them in Limhamn and drove them home. They’d dropped Wallander in Ystad, and later that night, when he called to ask if all was well, Gertrud told him that his father was back in his studio painting his trademark motif, the sun setting over a becalmed landscape.
Wallander got out of bed and went to the kitchen, and made some coffee. Why had his father sat there on the Spanish Steps? What had he been thinking at the fountain? He had no answers. But he knew he’d had a glimpse into his father’s secret inner landscape. And he knew that he could never ask him about his solitary walk through Rome.
As the coffee was brewing, Wallander went into the bathroom. He noticed with pleasure that he looked healthy and energetic. The sun had bleached his hair. All that pasta must have added a few kilos, but he avoided the bathroom scales. He felt rested, that was the most important thing. He was glad they had made the journey.
The realisation that in just a few hours he would return to being a policeman again didn’t bother him. Often he’d had trouble going back to work after a holiday. In recent years he’d been very reluctant. There were times when he’d seriously thought of finding another job, maybe as a security guard. But in the end he was a policeman. This knowledge had matured slowly but irrevocably. He could never be anything else.
As he showered, he thought of the hot summer and Sweden’s triumph in the World Cup, recalling with anguish the desperate hunt for the serial killer who scalped his victims. During the week in Rome, he’d managed to banish it from his mind. Now the memories came flooding back. A week away had changed nothing.
He sat at his kitchen table until just after 7 a.m. The rain continued to lash the windows. The heat of Italy was already a distant memory. Autumn had come to Skane.
At 7.30 a.m. he left his flat and drove to the police station. Martinsson arrived at the same time, parking next to him. They said a quick hello in the rain and hurried into the station.
“How was the trip?” Martinsson asked. “Welcome back, by the way.”
“My father was very pleased,” Wallander replied.
“What about you?”
“It was great. And hot.”
Ebba, the station’s receptionist for more than 30 years, greeted him with a big smile.