Martin repeats that last sentence, and underlines it in his text. Unless we look into the effect they have had, of course.
When the explanation and demonstration are completed, Tom Herold wonders if anybody has any questions.
Nobody does.
That really is what he writes. Nobody has any questions, and Martin doesn’t even comment on that fact. I assume that the brains of both him and the others are overfull of what they smoked, and what sent them to sleep.
‘Okay,’ says Tom Herold. ‘We shall go out into the desert at dawn. You will be collected from your rooms at exactly six o’clock.’
And that is where the diary from Taza ends.
32
Perhaps there are authors who would be pleased to write a conclusion like that to a play, but I find it difficult to imagine that an audience would applaud.
I check to make sure that no pages have been torn out. It’s easily done, and incidentally Martin’s text ends halfway down one page.
Then I take out the typewritten pages. Sit and read through them for half an hour. It becomes clear that about three-quarters is typed-up material from the diary. There is nothing about Morocco, only Greece. Plus a few short free-standing texts: nature descriptions from Samos, a short essay on Cavafy and Odysseas Elytis, and something that looks like the beginning of a short story. Five pages of short poems, some of them in haiku form.
That’s all. Nowhere is there any continuation from Al-Hafez in Taza. Not a single page, not a single line about that. There is good reason to assume that all the typewritten pages were composed before the summer of 1980.
I put the pages away and check the clock. It is a few minutes past eleven. I let Castor out to do his business, and think: Should I start examining the computer material now, or wait until tomorrow?
Bessie Hyatt committed suicide in March 1981 — I have checked that. Eight months after the goings-on in Taza. She never gave birth to a child, I’ve checked that as well. Martin indicated to Bergman that he had material he had been sitting on for thirty years. It seems to me that it must be this stuff I have been working up towards. It must surely be about what happened at dawn on the second of August 1980, when six men went out into the desert with their revolvers.
Which resulted in Martin ceasing to keep a diary, and leaving Al-Hafez.
I can probably offer you eight translations of this without further ado, Bergman had said. How could he be so sure? Had Martin told him something about it? Or had a few vague hints been sufficient?
Castor came back. I put three new logs on the fire, and took out Martin’s computer.
I hadn’t opened the folder marked ‘Taza’ before, but when I did so now I saw that it contained two separate documents. I opened the first one, and it soon became obvious that it was the written-up diary entries. From all four summers, if I was not much mistaken. It occurred to me that I had been an idiot: I could have read it all on the computer instead of having to struggle with Martin’s messy handwriting. There might have been differences between the two versions of the text — he had naturally revised and rewritten some bits — but when I read carefully the first two days I couldn’t find any significant differences.
I scrolled down to the end. Bit my lip when I discovered that the text on the computer stopped at the same point as the handwritten diary.
But no, not quite. He had added a few lines. Five short sentences.
I’m sitting here, waiting. I feel very odd — the stuff we smoked is still hanging around, no doubt about it. The first signs of dawn are appearing. I don’t know what’s going to happen. It feels like a dream.
Then the document comes to an end. It feels like a dream. I closed it down. Went back to the folder to open the other document, the one he had entitled simply ‘At Dawn’.
I clicked on it.
It didn’t open. Instead I was informed that a password was needed.
Password? I thought. Martin Holinek? Well, knock me down with a feather (my father again).
I repeated the procedure with the same result. The document ‘At Dawn’ could only be opened if you typed in the correct password.
It didn’t say how many figures or letters were required. I could feel the irritation growing inside me — Martin had difficulty in remembering the code for his debit card. He could just about manage his own social security number, but not mine nor those of our children. He hated all PIN-codes. But nevertheless, he had locked access to this document.
You could see when it was created and when he had last opened it — the twentieth of September 2009 and the fifteenth of October 2012 respectively. It wasn’t all that old, only three years, so I assumed there had been an original version. And that he had opened it and looked at it — perhaps edited and added to it — as late as the week we left Nynäshamn.
The size was also given: no more than 25K, which as far as I knew could mean anything at all between three and fifteen pages of text. And I was convinced that the file comprised pages of text.
But what could the password be?
I started with Castor.
Was informed that was incorrect, and tried Holinek.
That was also wrong. I tried Martin.
Same again, and this time I was also informed that I couldn’t have any more attempts. I closed the document, and the folder as well, and started again. Surely it can’t be the same as with debit cards and mobile phones? I thought. That you only have three chances, full stop?
But it was.
Well, not quite. Another message appeared: Try again tomorrow.
Try again tomorrow? What did that mean? That it was okay to try different passwords the next day? Could it be so. . so damned cunning? And above all, could Martin have invented anything so damned cunning? Three attempts per day?
Perhaps he could, I thought. If there was something especially serious involved. Something that had to be concealed at all costs.
There was good reason to think that this criterion might apply.
I cursed and looked at the clock. It was ten minutes to midnight.
Midnight? If I could manage to restrain myself for ten more minutes, that should mean I would then have three more chances. Surely that must be the case?
Fair deal, I thought, and suddenly felt like the skilful female hacker in a traditional American thriller. Or why not an English war film? What was it called?. . Ah yes: Enigma.