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Authors: Henning Mankell
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paper from 1949,' he said. 'There's a great deal of interest in it.'
'Do you really have time to read newspapers that are more than twenty years old?'
'I never had time to read it at the time,' his father said. 'Among other things, because I had a two-year-old son who did nothing but scream all day. That's why I'm reading it now.'
'I was planning to help you pack.'
His father pointed to a table stacked with china.
'That stuff needs to be packed in boxes,' he said. 'But it has to be done correctly. Nothing can break. If I find a broken plate you'll have to replace it.'
His father returned to his paper. Wallander hung up his coat and started to pack the china. Plates that he remembered from his childhood.
He found a cup with a chip in it that he could remember particularly clearly. His father turned a page in the background.
'How does it feel?' Wallander asked.
'How does what feel?'
'To be moving.'
'Good. Change is nice.'
'And you still haven't seen the house?'
'No, but I'm sure it'll be fine.'
My father is either crazy or else he's becoming senile, Wallander thought. And there's nothing I can do about it.
'I thought Kristina was coming,' he said.
'She's out shopping.'
'I'd like to see her. How is she doing?'
'Fine. And she's met an excellent fellow.'
'Did she bring him?'
'No. But he sounds good in all respects. He'll probably see to it that
I get grandchildren soon.'
'What's his name? What does he do? Do I have to drag all this out of you?'
'His name is Jens and he's a dialysis researcher.'
'What's that?'
'Kidneys. If you've heard of them. He's a researcher. And in addition he likes to hunt small game. Sounds like an excellent man.'
At that precise moment Wallander dropped a plate. It cracked in two. His father did not look up from the paper.
'That'll cost you,' he said.
Wallander had had enough. He took his coat and left without a word. I will never go out to Österlen, he thought. I will never set foot in his home again. I don't understand how I have put up with that man all these years. But now I've had enough.
Without realising it he had started to speak aloud. A cyclist, who was huddled up against the wind, stared at him.
Wallander went home. The door to Hålén's apartment was open. He walked in. A lone technician was gathering up the remains of some ashes.
'I thought you were done?' Wallander said, surprised.
'Sjunnesson is thorough,' the technician answered.
There was no continuation of the conversation. Wallander went back out onto the stairwell and unlocked his own door. At the same time
Linnea Almquist walked into the building.
'How terrible,' she said. 'The poor man. And so alone.'
'Apparently he had a lady friend,' Wallander said.
'I find that hard to believe,' Linnea Almquist said. 'I would have noticed that.'
'I'm sure you would have,' Wallander said. 'But he may not have been in the habit of seeing her here.'
'One should not speak ill of the dead,' she said and started up the stairs.
Wallander wondered how it could be considered speaking ill of the dead to suggest that there may have been a woman in an otherwise lonely existence.
Once he was in his apartment, Wallander could no longer push aside thoughts of Mona. He should call her. Or would she call him of her own accord in the evening? In order to shake off his anxiety, Wallander started to gather up and throw out old newspapers. Then he started in on the bathroom. He did not have to do much before he realised that there was much more old, ingrained dirt than he could have imagined. He kept going at it for over three hours before he felt satisfied with the result. It was five o'clock. He put some potatoes on to boil and chopped some onions.
The phone rang. He thought at once it had to be Mona, and his heart started to beat faster.
But it was another woman's voice. She said her name, Maria, but it took a few seconds before he realised it was the girl from the newsagent.
'I hope I'm not disturbing you,' she said. 'I lost
'Do you really have time to read newspapers that are more than twenty years old?'
'I never had time to read it at the time,' his father said. 'Among other things, because I had a two-year-old son who did nothing but scream all day. That's why I'm reading it now.'
'I was planning to help you pack.'
His father pointed to a table stacked with china.
'That stuff needs to be packed in boxes,' he said. 'But it has to be done correctly. Nothing can break. If I find a broken plate you'll have to replace it.'
His father returned to his paper. Wallander hung up his coat and started to pack the china. Plates that he remembered from his childhood.
He found a cup with a chip in it that he could remember particularly clearly. His father turned a page in the background.
'How does it feel?' Wallander asked.
'How does what feel?'
'To be moving.'
'Good. Change is nice.'
'And you still haven't seen the house?'
'No, but I'm sure it'll be fine.'
My father is either crazy or else he's becoming senile, Wallander thought. And there's nothing I can do about it.
'I thought Kristina was coming,' he said.
'She's out shopping.'
'I'd like to see her. How is she doing?'
'Fine. And she's met an excellent fellow.'
'Did she bring him?'
'No. But he sounds good in all respects. He'll probably see to it that
I get grandchildren soon.'
'What's his name? What does he do? Do I have to drag all this out of you?'
'His name is Jens and he's a dialysis researcher.'
'What's that?'
'Kidneys. If you've heard of them. He's a researcher. And in addition he likes to hunt small game. Sounds like an excellent man.'
At that precise moment Wallander dropped a plate. It cracked in two. His father did not look up from the paper.
'That'll cost you,' he said.
Wallander had had enough. He took his coat and left without a word. I will never go out to Österlen, he thought. I will never set foot in his home again. I don't understand how I have put up with that man all these years. But now I've had enough.
Without realising it he had started to speak aloud. A cyclist, who was huddled up against the wind, stared at him.
Wallander went home. The door to Hålén's apartment was open. He walked in. A lone technician was gathering up the remains of some ashes.
'I thought you were done?' Wallander said, surprised.
'Sjunnesson is thorough,' the technician answered.
There was no continuation of the conversation. Wallander went back out onto the stairwell and unlocked his own door. At the same time
Linnea Almquist walked into the building.
'How terrible,' she said. 'The poor man. And so alone.'
'Apparently he had a lady friend,' Wallander said.
'I find that hard to believe,' Linnea Almquist said. 'I would have noticed that.'
'I'm sure you would have,' Wallander said. 'But he may not have been in the habit of seeing her here.'
'One should not speak ill of the dead,' she said and started up the stairs.
Wallander wondered how it could be considered speaking ill of the dead to suggest that there may have been a woman in an otherwise lonely existence.
Once he was in his apartment, Wallander could no longer push aside thoughts of Mona. He should call her. Or would she call him of her own accord in the evening? In order to shake off his anxiety, Wallander started to gather up and throw out old newspapers. Then he started in on the bathroom. He did not have to do much before he realised that there was much more old, ingrained dirt than he could have imagined. He kept going at it for over three hours before he felt satisfied with the result. It was five o'clock. He put some potatoes on to boil and chopped some onions.
The phone rang. He thought at once it had to be Mona, and his heart started to beat faster.
But it was another woman's voice. She said her name, Maria, but it took a few seconds before he realised it was the girl from the newsagent.
'I hope I'm not disturbing you,' she said. 'I lost
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