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Authors: Håkan Nesser
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unreality took hold of her like a sudden nightmare.
Arnold Maager. Her dad.
Dad
. She tasted the familiar word with its new meaning, and at the same time tried to conjure up his lean figure in her mind’s eye.
His somewhat hunched figure. That heavy, oblong-shaped head on its narrow neck. His similarity to a bird. His hands thrust deep down into his trouser pockets, and his shoulders hunched as if he
were feeling cold as he trundled along through the heat of summer. And the distance . . . The distance between himself and his daughter he was keen to maintain all the time, as if bodily contact
were something dangerous and forbidden.
They had wandered back and forth through the grounds in this fashion for over an hour – side by side, half a metre apart. At least half a metre. Walked and walked and walked. It was quite
a while before it dawned on her that she had no need to keep nagging at him.
She didn’t need to question him and press him to explain things. He had already made up his mind to talk to her.
To talk to her and explain in his own good time. In his own words. With pauses and repetitions and names she didn’t recognize. He had become more and more tense the further they had
progressed – but of course, that wasn’t so surprising.
Because the story he had to put into words for his daughter was not a pleasant one.
Not pleasant at all.
But he told her it all the same.
The bells in the low whitewashed church struck a quarter to seven just as she was getting off the bus in the square in Lejnice. Three muffled chimes that made a flock of
pigeons in front of her feet take off, then land again.
She walked round the dried-out fountain, and asked for directions at the newspaper kiosk. She had found the address in the telephone directory at the youth hostel: it turned out to be a mere
stone’s throw away, according to the lady behind the counter, glowing with summery sweat as she pointed down towards the harbour. Dead easy to find.
She thanked her, and set off in the direction indicated. Down Denckerstraat towards the sea – a narrow street lined with old wooden houses leaning inwards and making the street seem even
narrower. Then left into Goopsweg for about fifty metres. The house before the pharmacy.
Two things happened as she walked those fifty metres.
The first was that a black cat emerged from behind a fence and strolled across the street directly in front of her.
The second was that for some unknown reason a tile fell off one of the roofs and crashed to the ground three metres behind her. It happened only a couple of seconds after the cat had disappeared
behind another fence; a woman she had just passed was even closer to the spot where the tile landed, and gave a scream that frightened her even more than the tile had done. At first, at least.
She remained standing for quite a while outside number 26, wondering what to do next. She smelled a whiff of the sea drifting up on the slight breeze blowing in from the shore. And the scent of
cooking oil and oregano from the pizzeria on the corner. The house – the house in question – was a small block of flats, three storeys high with only two entrance doors. Typical 1970s
style with tiny built-in balconies facing the street, and perhaps also on the other side, facing the courtyard.
I’m not superstitious, she thought. Never have been, never will be. I don’t believe in that sort of silly thinking that’s a remnant from a less enlightened age . . . Those were
words she must have borrowed from Kim Wenderbout, she realized, her gigantic social studies teacher with whom at least half the girls in her class were secretly in love. So was she.
Silly remnants? A less enlightened age? Rubbish, she thought.
But she remained standing there nevertheless. The bells in the square started to strike seven.
The cat and the tile, she thought. Perfectly natural. She counted the chimes. And made it eight.
She turned on her heel and returned the same way
Arnold Maager. Her dad.
Dad
. She tasted the familiar word with its new meaning, and at the same time tried to conjure up his lean figure in her mind’s eye.
His somewhat hunched figure. That heavy, oblong-shaped head on its narrow neck. His similarity to a bird. His hands thrust deep down into his trouser pockets, and his shoulders hunched as if he
were feeling cold as he trundled along through the heat of summer. And the distance . . . The distance between himself and his daughter he was keen to maintain all the time, as if bodily contact
were something dangerous and forbidden.
They had wandered back and forth through the grounds in this fashion for over an hour – side by side, half a metre apart. At least half a metre. Walked and walked and walked. It was quite
a while before it dawned on her that she had no need to keep nagging at him.
She didn’t need to question him and press him to explain things. He had already made up his mind to talk to her.
To talk to her and explain in his own good time. In his own words. With pauses and repetitions and names she didn’t recognize. He had become more and more tense the further they had
progressed – but of course, that wasn’t so surprising.
Because the story he had to put into words for his daughter was not a pleasant one.
Not pleasant at all.
But he told her it all the same.
The bells in the low whitewashed church struck a quarter to seven just as she was getting off the bus in the square in Lejnice. Three muffled chimes that made a flock of
pigeons in front of her feet take off, then land again.
She walked round the dried-out fountain, and asked for directions at the newspaper kiosk. She had found the address in the telephone directory at the youth hostel: it turned out to be a mere
stone’s throw away, according to the lady behind the counter, glowing with summery sweat as she pointed down towards the harbour. Dead easy to find.
She thanked her, and set off in the direction indicated. Down Denckerstraat towards the sea – a narrow street lined with old wooden houses leaning inwards and making the street seem even
narrower. Then left into Goopsweg for about fifty metres. The house before the pharmacy.
Two things happened as she walked those fifty metres.
The first was that a black cat emerged from behind a fence and strolled across the street directly in front of her.
The second was that for some unknown reason a tile fell off one of the roofs and crashed to the ground three metres behind her. It happened only a couple of seconds after the cat had disappeared
behind another fence; a woman she had just passed was even closer to the spot where the tile landed, and gave a scream that frightened her even more than the tile had done. At first, at least.
She remained standing for quite a while outside number 26, wondering what to do next. She smelled a whiff of the sea drifting up on the slight breeze blowing in from the shore. And the scent of
cooking oil and oregano from the pizzeria on the corner. The house – the house in question – was a small block of flats, three storeys high with only two entrance doors. Typical 1970s
style with tiny built-in balconies facing the street, and perhaps also on the other side, facing the courtyard.
I’m not superstitious, she thought. Never have been, never will be. I don’t believe in that sort of silly thinking that’s a remnant from a less enlightened age . . . Those were
words she must have borrowed from Kim Wenderbout, she realized, her gigantic social studies teacher with whom at least half the girls in her class were secretly in love. So was she.
Silly remnants? A less enlightened age? Rubbish, she thought.
But she remained standing there nevertheless. The bells in the square started to strike seven.
The cat and the tile, she thought. Perfectly natural. She counted the chimes. And made it eight.
She turned on her heel and returned the same way
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