Read Online Before the Frost by Henning Mankell - Free Book Online
Authors: Henning Mankell
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Annaâs well-being. She opened the folder at the last entry, from the day that they were supposed to have met. Linda bent over the page; Annaâs handwriting was cramped, as if she were trying to hide the words. Linda read the short text twice, first without understanding it, then with a growing sense of bafflement. The words Anna had written made no sense: myth fear, myth fear, myth fear . Was it a code?
Linda immediately broke her promise only to look at the last
entry. She turned the page back and there she found regular text. Anna had written:
The Saxhausen textbook is a pedagogical disaster. Completely impossible to read and understand. How can textbooks like this be allowed? Future doctors will be scared off and turn to research, where there is also more money.
Further down the page she had noted:
Had lowgrade fever this morning. Weather clear but windyâ
That part was true, Linda thought. She flipped the page to the last line and read it through again. She tried to imagine that she was Anna writing the words. There were no changes in the text, no words scratched out, no hesitations that she could tell. The handwriting looked even and firm.
Myth fear, myth fear, myth fear. I see that I have signed up for nineteen laundry days so far this year. My dreamâto the extent I even have one right nowâwould be to work as an anonymous suburban general practitioner. Do northern towns even have suburbs?
That was where the entry ended. Not a word about the man sheâd seen through the hotel window. Not a word or a hint. Nothing. But isnât that exactly the kind of thing diaries are for? Linda wondered.
She looked farther back in the book. From time to time her own name appeared. Linda is a true friend, she had written on July 20, in the middle of an entry about her mother. She and her mother had argued over nothing and later that evening she was planning to go to Malmö to see a Russian movie .
Linda sat with the journal for almost an hour, struggling with her conscience. She looked for entries about herself. She found Linda can be so demanding on August 4. What did we do that day, Linda wondered. She couldnât remember. It was a day like any other. Linda didnât even have an organizer right now; she scribbled appointments on scraps of paper and wrote phone numbers on her hands.
Finally she closed the diary. There was nothing there, just the strange words at the end. Itâs not like her, Linda thought. The other entries are the work of a balanced mind. She doesnât have more problems than most people. But the last day, the day she thinks she just saw her father turn up on a street in Malmö after twenty-four years, she repeatedly writes the words âmyth fear, myth fear.â Why doesnât she write about her father? Why does she write something that doesnât make any sense?
Linda felt her anxiety return. Had there perhaps been something to Annaâs talk about losing her mind? Linda walked over to the window where Anna often stood during their conversations. The sun was reflected from a window in the building directly opposite, and she had to squint in order to see anything. Could Anna have suffered a temporary derangement? She thought she had seen her long-lost fatherâcould this event have disconcerted her so violently that she lost her bearings and started behaving erratically?
Linda gave a start. There, in the parking lot behind the building, was Annaâs car, the little red VW Golf. If she had left for a few days, the car should also be gone. Linda hurried down into the lot and felt the car doors. Locked. The car looked clean and shiny, which surprised her. Annaâs car tends to be dirty, she thought. Every time we go out her car is covered in dust. Now itâs squeaky cleanâeven the hubcaps have been polished.
She went back up to the apartment, sat down in the kitchen, and tried to come up with a plausible explanation. The only thing she
Linda immediately broke her promise only to look at the last
entry. She turned the page back and there she found regular text. Anna had written:
The Saxhausen textbook is a pedagogical disaster. Completely impossible to read and understand. How can textbooks like this be allowed? Future doctors will be scared off and turn to research, where there is also more money.
Further down the page she had noted:
Had lowgrade fever this morning. Weather clear but windyâ
That part was true, Linda thought. She flipped the page to the last line and read it through again. She tried to imagine that she was Anna writing the words. There were no changes in the text, no words scratched out, no hesitations that she could tell. The handwriting looked even and firm.
Myth fear, myth fear, myth fear. I see that I have signed up for nineteen laundry days so far this year. My dreamâto the extent I even have one right nowâwould be to work as an anonymous suburban general practitioner. Do northern towns even have suburbs?
That was where the entry ended. Not a word about the man sheâd seen through the hotel window. Not a word or a hint. Nothing. But isnât that exactly the kind of thing diaries are for? Linda wondered.
She looked farther back in the book. From time to time her own name appeared. Linda is a true friend, she had written on July 20, in the middle of an entry about her mother. She and her mother had argued over nothing and later that evening she was planning to go to Malmö to see a Russian movie .
Linda sat with the journal for almost an hour, struggling with her conscience. She looked for entries about herself. She found Linda can be so demanding on August 4. What did we do that day, Linda wondered. She couldnât remember. It was a day like any other. Linda didnât even have an organizer right now; she scribbled appointments on scraps of paper and wrote phone numbers on her hands.
Finally she closed the diary. There was nothing there, just the strange words at the end. Itâs not like her, Linda thought. The other entries are the work of a balanced mind. She doesnât have more problems than most people. But the last day, the day she thinks she just saw her father turn up on a street in Malmö after twenty-four years, she repeatedly writes the words âmyth fear, myth fear.â Why doesnât she write about her father? Why does she write something that doesnât make any sense?
Linda felt her anxiety return. Had there perhaps been something to Annaâs talk about losing her mind? Linda walked over to the window where Anna often stood during their conversations. The sun was reflected from a window in the building directly opposite, and she had to squint in order to see anything. Could Anna have suffered a temporary derangement? She thought she had seen her long-lost fatherâcould this event have disconcerted her so violently that she lost her bearings and started behaving erratically?
Linda gave a start. There, in the parking lot behind the building, was Annaâs car, the little red VW Golf. If she had left for a few days, the car should also be gone. Linda hurried down into the lot and felt the car doors. Locked. The car looked clean and shiny, which surprised her. Annaâs car tends to be dirty, she thought. Every time we go out her car is covered in dust. Now itâs squeaky cleanâeven the hubcaps have been polished.
She went back up to the apartment, sat down in the kitchen, and tried to come up with a plausible explanation. The only thing she
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