"Er, nothing." He shrugged his shoulders. The new thoughts both annoyed and saddened him.
"You look like you could use some cheering up. How about going out for a beer?"
"Great."
They left the editorial office and went out into the Mediterranean heat of the summer evening. It was a little past seven o'clock, and all the restaurants and bars were starting to fill up with sunburned tourists ready to party. They went to a bar on Stora Torget and chose seats outdoors.
"So what's really going on with you?" asked Pia when they each had a big, ice-cold pilsner.
"I'm okay. I'm fine. It's just that so much has happened lately that I don't know whether I'm coming or going."
"Becoming a father is a big deal, of course." Pia sipped at her beer. "So why aren't you with Emma and Elin tonight?"
"Emma has her other children, Sara and Filip, staying with her. They've been on vacation with their father, so she hasn't seen them in a while. That's why she wanted to spend time alone with them."
"Well, that's understandable."
"Yes, although sometimes I think that all I ever do is worry about getting in the way of her and her other family."
"Jeez, that really must get old," said Pia sympathetically. "As if it's not hard enough trying to keep a so-called normal relationship going." She rolled her eyes.
"So what about you?" asked Johan out of curiosity. Pia had never said anything about a partner, and he hadn't thought to ask. "Are you dating anyone?"
"I wouldn't exactly call it that. You might say that I screw this guy off and on, when it suits me."
"Are we talking about buddy sex?"
"No, I like him a lot, but it's never going to amount to anything, if you know what I mean. We just seem to be treading water. We aren't getting anywhere."
"Rather like me and Emma."
"But good Lord, the two of you just had a baby!"
"Sure. But in a strange way, it seems like that hasn't made much of a difference in our relationship. No matter how odd that sounds. For example, Emma has a thousand arguments for why she doesn't want us to move in together."
"You have to give her time. I'm sure you can see that. She had to split apart her whole family, and she has two other children to take into consideration. Plus the problem of working out everything with her ex. It's not so strange that she can't rush into anything. Elin is only a few weeks old, right?"
"Yes, I can see that," said Johan, disappointed that Pia wasn't taking his side. He could have used a little support right now. He emptied his glass and stood up. "Would you like another?" he asked.
"Sure."
There was a big crowd at the bar, and the volume of the music had been turned up full blast. Johan was enjoying being out on the town. Visby pulsed with life in the summer, and if he hadn't been with Emma, he would have probably gone out every single evening. While he waited to order, he surveyed the bar.
Suddenly he caught sight of someone he thought he recognized. The man was standing with his back to Johan, talking to a cute blonde who couldn't have been more than twenty-five. She was laughing at him as she sipped at her glass, which seemed to contain a sparkling wine or possibly champagne. When the man clinked glasses with his young companion, he turned enough for Johan to see his profile.
It was Staffan Mellgren.
SATURDAY, JULY 24
The next day Staffan Mellgren stayed out at the excavation site for a long time. He had made a late night of it. He was hungover and tired, but he preferred to be at work instead of having to explain to Susanna why he had spent the night in town. Even though he suspected that she knew what he was up to and didn't care in the least whether he saw other women, she still seemed to enjoy pretending just the opposite. She played the role of the gullible and wronged wife, just for the pleasure of seeing him suffer.
In the car on his way home he called her, and, after the obligatory argument, she accepted his explanation that he'd had to work overtime. Sounding hurt, she reminded him that this was the third time in the past week he'd missed dinner. He played along, explaining that there was a lot of work to do during the excavation part of the courses. In fact, that happened to be true. Especially this time, since the excavation work had been delayed by Martina's death and the shock and despondency it had prompted among the students. Some had chosen to leave, but most of them were still there, and he was grateful for that. Three weeks had passed since the murder, and they were still being constantly reminded of it. The fact that the killer hadn't been caught didn't exactly improve the situation. Mellgren tried to explain all this to his wife, but she would have none of it. Instead she accused him of neglecting his family. He couldn't even count how many times he'd heard all this before. He regretted calling her, and he tried to placate her by offering to feed the chickens when he got home.
They lived in Larbro, about twenty miles north of Visby, so it was a bit of a drive. He turned up the volume on the stereo as loud as it would go, enjoying the music. It helped him to unwind.
He wondered when the love between them had disappeared. He couldn't remember when he'd last seen any warmth in his wife's eyes. He was living in a loveless, phony marriage. The laughter had gotten stuck in his throat long ago. Maybe a divorce was unavoidable, but he was too much of a coward to take the first step.
The children kept him in the marriage. They were still so young; the oldest was only ten. He had neither the energy nor the desire to get out of the marriage right now. It would have to wait. In the meantime he would do whatever he could to make it bearable.
When he drove into the yard, everything was quiet. The kids were probably asleep by now. He might as well go out to the chicken coop right away.
Their farm had a view of the pastures and fields. He looked at the whitewashed limestone house, the blue-painted trim around the windows with their curtains and potted plants, and the porch with its ornate gingerbread carvings. On one side was the studio where his wife made her pots; she even had her own kiln. How he used to admire her work. When was the last time they had talked about her pottery?
The dilapidated barn that they had planned to paint this summer looked the same as always. So far nothing had come of their plans. Why bother to paint it? Why should they fix up anything? No reason.
A sudden feeling of melancholy came over him, and he sat down on the bench outside the potter's studio and buried his head in his hands. He would feed the chickens in a minute; he just needed to gather his forces first. They had turned half of the barn into a chicken coop. Whatever good that would do. When they were newly in love and had moved out of Visby to live in the country, they both thought it seemed romantic to have chickens. Since then the years had passed and the romance had disappeared, but the chickens were still here.
He had a feeling that life was slipping away from him as he stood on the sidelines and watched. The days came and went, and nothing changed. He and his wife kept up their usual bickering, their sex life was largely nonexistent, and one routine followed another in a never-ending stream.
It had been a good long time since they'd had a real fight. Neither of them seemed to have enough commitment even to argue. Nothing but surliness and a steadily growing distance. Not that he wanted any closeness with her. Not anymore.
He stood up and sauntered across the yard toward the chicken coop. It was a lovely, quiet night. The scent of jasmine from the bushes in front of the house mixed with the smell of chicken manure.
The chickens were strutting around the yard, pecking here and there, and clucking softly. They were unusually quiet this evening.
Suddenly he caught sight of something sticking out above the open barn door. He was too far away to make out what it was, but something was definitely there, he was sure of that. He kept catching a glimpse of it from behind the maple tree's swaying branches that stretched over the building on this side.