I’ve now reached the crossroads. The road on the left leads to the entrance to the highway. The road on the right continues on past more cabins and yards to another part of Marhem. To the area where the smoke is coming from. My foot presses down on the clutch. My hand is resting on the gearshift. I signal to turn left. And then turn right.
15
Slowly, I drive along the winding road that takes me deeper into Marhem and farther from the highway. The thin coil of smoke against the sky is my guiding star. Wherever it’s coming from, there are bound to be people. Real people. The kind I can see with my own eyes, who will talk to me and convince me that what I’m seeing actually does exist. That what’s going on is real.
In this part of Marhem, the cabins are larger. Most of them are more like houses than cabins, and there’s more space between the yards. But here too, everything looks closed up and deserted. I drive at a crawl, letting my eyes sweep from one side of the road to the other, looking for fire. For any sign of other people. Even so, the sound is so unexpected that I flinch. I slow down, listen. A series of muted, fitful sounds. When I realize what I’m hearing, I pull over. My heart is hammering excitedly. A dog barking. That must mean I’m close.
I get out of the car and proceed on foot. On the right side of the road, I see dark trees and flashes of sunlight glinting off a big picture window. The yard is huge but a lot of it is hidden behind a tall fence surrounding the property. As I approach, I crane my neck to peer at the house. It’s several stories tall and painted brown, an unusual color around here. I catch a glimpse of glorious flowerbeds and a neatly mown lawn. On the highly polished deck, a charcoal grill is smoldering.
My ears are on high alert, but the only thing I hear now is the rustling of the trees and several birds screeching down by the water. Otherwise everything is quiet.
At that second the barking starts up again, and a black streak comes racing around the corner of the house. It’s a big dog with a shiny coat, his tongue hanging out. He’s batting a yellow ball with his paws, chasing after it, then stumbling over it. The dog seems so immersed in his game that he’s not aware of me standing there, hesitating just outside the fence. Or maybe he’s too well trained to bother with strangers.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see something move, making me look up. My gaze is automatically drawn to the top floor of the house. Inside a partially open window, a thin curtain billows. Is someone there? I stand still, not sure what to do. I should stop here, try to make contact. Isn’t that why I came? But the thought of having to talk to another person makes me uneasy. What if they can tell by looking at me?
I whip around and begin heading back to the car.
“Hello there! Can I help you?”
I spin around and almost fall over, I’m so stunned by the voice. Behind me, an elderly man is standing at an open gate. In spite of the heat, he’s wearing pressed trousers and a sweater over his shirt. His hair is thinning, and his expression is friendly, though a bit wary. At his side, standing very close, is the dog. The man has a tight hold on the dog’s collar.
“Did I scare you? I didn’t mean to.”
I shake my head, murmuring something about being fine. But my heart is beating fast, and I have a hard time getting the words out.
“I apologize for sneaking up on you. I have to admit that I’m extracareful right now. There aren’t many people left in Marhem this late in the season, and you never know what those kids might get up to. You have to be on guard, that’s all there is to it.”
I stare at him. Those kids. So they really do exist. I’m not going… I shake my head, putting on an expression the man seems to take for agreement. He relaxes and smiles, apparently having decided that I’m no threat.
“It’s certainly not pleasant,” he goes on. “Some nights, they make a huge racket. Down by the water, sometimes out on the island. I try to keep my distance as best I can.”
Out on the island? I think about Alex and Smilla. About the black shoe I found when I was searching for them. I shiver. The man introduces himself, but a second later I’ve already forgotten his name.
“Do you live around here?”
I manage to nod and muster what might pass for a smile.
“In one of the cabins above the dock over that way,” I tell him, giving a vague wave of my hand.
“Alexander,” he says at once, startling me. “Are you with Alexander? It’s been a long time since I last saw him, but I thought I caught sight of him the other day, along with a little girl. I assume she’s your daughter?”
“Smilla?” I whisper.
There’s something wrong with my voice. It sounds hoarse and raspy. Hollow. But the man doesn’t seem to notice. He pats the black dog, who has stuck his wet nose in his hand.
“Smilla. What a lovely name. So you’re her mother, Alexander’s wife. Actually, I think we’ve met before. But it was only very briefly.”
I lower my eyes. Am I nodding again? Yes, I think I am. But my thoughts are elsewhere. This man says he’s seen Smilla. With Alex. The other day. What exactly does that mean? In spite of the heat, goose bumps rise on my bare legs.
“When did you say you saw them? Do you remember? Smilla and Alex, I mean. And where exactly did you see them?”
The man frowns. His eyes have gone hazy.
“I think it was near the dance floor, on Midsummer Eve. But that’s a few years back now. I seem to remember that you were newlyweds. Those were the days. That’s when there was still an active association here in Marhem that organized events.”
I stare at him and try again.
“I mean recently. You said you saw them the other day. Where was that?”
The man slowly shakes his head.
“I’m sorry,” he says uncertainly. “I don’t really remember.”
I find myself wondering why he would lie. But then I realize that maybe he’s actually telling the truth. He’s an old man, and maybe his memory isn’t what it used to be. Just because my own relationship to the truth is slippery, it doesn’t mean that other people casually toss lies around. The black dog pulls free of his master and comes toward me. He quickly sniffs at me, but when I make an attempt to scratch behind his ears, he retreats. The dog is no longer wagging his tail.
“Well, I’d better be going…,” I say, already turning away.
“He looked angry,” the man says suddenly. “Alexander, I mean. Or maybe scared. Terrified. Hard to tell which it was.”
A gust of wind sweeps past the tree trunks, carrying with it the smell of danger. Angry. Or terrified. Hard to tell which it was.
“I’m sorry, but I have to…”
I turn around and run. Race away without saying good-bye. Behind me, I can just barely hear the man shout that I should be on my guard, that those kids aren’t to be trusted.
The gravel sprays up from the tires when I speed off in the same direction I came from. I hardly notice where I’m driving, aware only that the car is veering from one side to the other. Angry. Or terrified. Hard to tell which it was. My stomach is churning and clenching, something is moving restlessly inside. My heart is banging against my ribs. Little Smilla.