As he stood there Liu Xan thought about Ya Ru, who had given him the job he was about to perform, given him the necessary equipment and exhorted him to be efficient. Ya Ru had explained everything that had happened in the past. The journey had continued for many years, back and forth over oceans and continents, travels filled with fear and death, unbearable persecution — and now came the necessary ending, the revenge.
Those who had made the journey had passed on a long time ago. One lay dead at the bottom of the sea; others lay in unmarked graves. During all these years a constant lament had risen up from those resting places. He had now been given the task of putting an end to that painful dirge.
Liu Xan had snow under his feet, and was surrounded by freezing cold air. It was 12 January 2006. Earlier in the day he had noticed a thermometer saying it was minus nine degrees Celsius. He kept shuffling his feet in an attempt to keep them warm. It was still early in the evening In several of the houses he could see from where he was standing that the lights were on or in some windows the bluish glow from television screens. He strained his ears but couldn’t hear a single sound. Not even dogs. Liu Xan thought that people in this part of the world kept dogs to guard them during the night. He had seen tracks in the snow, but gathered that they were being kept indoors.
He had wondered if the dogs inside the houses would cause him problems, but he’d dismissed the thought. Nobody suspected what was going to happen; no dogs would be able to stop him.
He took off a glove and checked the time. A quarter to nine. There was still time before the lights went out. He put the glove back on and thought about Ya Ru and all his stories about the dead people who had travelled so far. Every member of Ya Ru’s family had been involved in part of the journey By a strange coincidence the one who was destined to put an end to it was Liu Xan, who was not a relation. It filled him with deep thoughts. Ya Ru trusted him as if he were his brother.
He heard a car in the distance, but it was not approaching. It was on the main road. In this country, he thought, during the silent winter nights, sound travels a very long way — as if over water.
He continued shuffling his feet. How would he react when it was all over? Despite everything, was there a tiny part of his consciousness, his conscience, that he was not familiar with? Everything had gone according to plan in Nevada. But you could never know, especially as this task was so much bigger.
His thoughts wandered. He suddenly remembered his own father, who had been a low-ranking party official, and how he had been taunted and mistreated during the Cultural Revolution. His father had told him how he and the other ‘capitalist swine’ had had their faces painted white by the Red Guards. Because evil was always white in colour.
Now he tried to think of the people in the silent houses that way. They all had white faces; they were the demons of evil.
The lights gradually went out. Two of the houses were now in darkness. He waited. The dead had been waiting for more than a century, he only needed to cope with a few hours.
He took off his right glove and felt with his fingers the sword hanging at his side. The steel was cold; the sharp edge could easily cut through his skin. It was a Japanese sword he had come across by chance on a visit to Shanghai. Somebody had told him about an old collector who still had a few of these much prized swords left after the Japanese occupation in the 1930s. He had found his way to the unremarkable little shop and not hesitated once he had held the sword in his hand. He had bought it on the spot and taken it to a blacksmith who had repaired the handle and sharpened the blade until it cut like a razor.
He gave a start. The door of one of the houses opened. He drew back further into the trees. A man came out onto the steps with a dog. A lamp over the door illuminated the snow-covered garden. Liu Xan gripped the sword tightly, screwed up his eyes and carefully observed the dog’s movements. What would happen if it picked up his scent? That would ruin all his plans. If he was forced to kill the dog he wouldn’t hesitate. But what would the man do, the man standing in the doorway smoking?
The dog suddenly stopped and sniffed the air. For a brief moment Liu Xan thought it had detected him. But then it started running around the garden once more.
The man shouted to the dog, which ran inside immediately. The door closed. Shortly afterwards the light went out.
He continued waiting. At midnight, when the only light came from a television screen, he noticed that it had started snowing. Flakes fell onto his outstretched hand like feathers. Like cherry blossoms, he thought. But snow doesn’t smell; it doesn’t breathe like flowers breathe.
Twenty minutes later the television was switched off. It was still snowing. He took out from his anorak pocket a small pair of binoculars fitted with a night-vision device and slowly scanned all the houses in the village. He couldn’t see any lights. He put the binoculars away and took a deep breath. In his mind’s eye he envisaged the picture that Ya Ru had described to him so many times.
A ship. People on the deck like ants, eagerly waving with handkerchiefs and hats. But he couldn’t see any faces.
No faces, only arms and hands, waving.
He waited a bit longer. Then he walked slowly over the road. He was carrying a little torch in one hand and his sword in the other.
He approached the house on the very edge of the village, heading west. He stopped to listen one last time.
Then he went inside.
Vivi,
This narrative is in a diary written by a man called Ya Ru. He had been given an oral report by the person who first went to Nevada, where he killed several people, and then continued to Hesjövallen. I want you to read it so that you can understand all the other things I’ve written in this letter.
None of these people are still alive. But the truth of what happened in Hesjövallen was bigger, far different from what we all thought. I’m not sure that everything I’ve written can be proved. It’s probably not possible. Just as, for instance, I can’t explain why the red ribbon ended up in the snow at Hesjövallen. We know who took it there, but that’s all.
Lars-Erik Valfridsson, who hanged himself in a police cell, was not guilty. At least his relatives ought to be told that. We can only speculate about why he took the blame on himself.
I understand that this letter will wreak havoc with your investigation. But what we are all searching for, of course, is clarity. I hope that what I have written can contribute to that.
I have tried to include everything I know about the case in this letter. The day we stop searching for the truth, which is never objective but under the best circumstances built on facts, is the day on which our system of justice collapses completely.
I’m back at work again now. I’m in Helsingborg and will expect you to be in touch, as there are a lot of questions, many of them difficult.
With best wishes,