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Authors: Håkan Nesser
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that she had come.
Odd, she thought when she was sitting in the bus again on the Sunday morning. Why did I do that?
A cat runs across the street and a roof tile falls down onto the road. What’s so special about that?
She had slept like a log for nearly twelve hours. She’d gone to bed the moment she had returned to the youth hostel, and only woke up when one of the Danish girls dropped a dish on the
floor at half past nine.
She had a shower, then checked out and just caught the bus that left at twenty past ten. Breakfast: a pear and a pear soda. Plenty of variation there . . .
But it had been odd, her behaviour the previous evening. Very odd. Not like her at all, that was even more obvious now in the cold light of day. Not like Mikaela Lijphart, the sensible,
clear-thinking Mikaela Lijphart. Quite a few of her classmates had fallen for various forms of new-age, turn-of-the-century mysticism and that kind of dodgy stuff, but not her. Not the clever,
reliable Mikaela. So there really was something remarkable about it, that business with the cat and the roof tile. And her reaction to it.
What if new omens were to confront her today? How would she react now?
Don’t be silly, she thought. Yesterday was yesterday. I was tired. Tired out and overwrought. Who wouldn’t have been? The day had been full of tortures. Full to overflowing.
As she walked towards Goopsweg it struck her that she hadn’t rung home since leaving yesterday morning.
She hadn’t promised to do so, in fact, but she always used to get in touch even so. She noticed a phone box in the little lane just past the pizzeria, and remembered that she had a new
telephone card in her handbag. She slowed down and began arguing with herself.
She really ought to. Why make her mum and Helmut worry unnecessarily?
But then again, there
was
a case for doing that. There certainly was. Why shouldn’t she allow herself to be a bit egoistic?
She was eighteen now, after all.
Why not let them get used to taking the rough with the smooth? she thought. Why not delay the call for an hour or two? Or even all day?
She started whistling, and passed by the phone box.
The woman who opened the door looked very like a maths teacher she’d had for a term when she was in class eight or nine. The same long, horsey face. The same pale eyes.
The same straggling, washed-out, colourless hair. For a moment Mikaela was so certain it was that very same teacher she had the name on the tip of her tongue.
Then she remembered that Miss Dortwinckel had committed suicide one Christmas holiday – by eating half a dozen broken crystal glasses, if rumour was to be believed – and she realized
that it was a case of similar features, no more than that. A certain charisma.
Or lack of charisma, rather. Perhaps our Good Lord had only a limited number of features to choose from – especially when it came to middle-aged women past their sell-by date.
Where do I get all these thoughts from? she wondered. And how can they come so quickly?
‘Well?’
The voice was sharp and unfriendly. Not a bit like that of Miss Dortwinckel, which she could recall quite clearly.
‘Forgive me. My name’s Mikaela Lijphart. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I would be very grateful if I could have a little chat with you.’
‘With me? Why?’
Now the smell of strong drink hit her. Mikaela automatically stepped half a pace backwards, and had to grab the handrail in order not to fall down the steps.
Eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning? she thought. Drunk already. Why . . . ?
Then it occurred to her that it could have to do with her father. With what her father had said. Could it be that . . . ?
She lost the thread. Or dropped it on purpose. The woman was staring at her.
‘Why do you want to talk to me?’ she asked again. ‘Why don’t you say anything? Are you mentally deficient, or are you one of those bloody hallelujah loonies trying to
recruit new souls? I don’t have a soul.’
‘No .
Odd, she thought when she was sitting in the bus again on the Sunday morning. Why did I do that?
A cat runs across the street and a roof tile falls down onto the road. What’s so special about that?
She had slept like a log for nearly twelve hours. She’d gone to bed the moment she had returned to the youth hostel, and only woke up when one of the Danish girls dropped a dish on the
floor at half past nine.
She had a shower, then checked out and just caught the bus that left at twenty past ten. Breakfast: a pear and a pear soda. Plenty of variation there . . .
But it had been odd, her behaviour the previous evening. Very odd. Not like her at all, that was even more obvious now in the cold light of day. Not like Mikaela Lijphart, the sensible,
clear-thinking Mikaela Lijphart. Quite a few of her classmates had fallen for various forms of new-age, turn-of-the-century mysticism and that kind of dodgy stuff, but not her. Not the clever,
reliable Mikaela. So there really was something remarkable about it, that business with the cat and the roof tile. And her reaction to it.
What if new omens were to confront her today? How would she react now?
Don’t be silly, she thought. Yesterday was yesterday. I was tired. Tired out and overwrought. Who wouldn’t have been? The day had been full of tortures. Full to overflowing.
As she walked towards Goopsweg it struck her that she hadn’t rung home since leaving yesterday morning.
She hadn’t promised to do so, in fact, but she always used to get in touch even so. She noticed a phone box in the little lane just past the pizzeria, and remembered that she had a new
telephone card in her handbag. She slowed down and began arguing with herself.
She really ought to. Why make her mum and Helmut worry unnecessarily?
But then again, there
was
a case for doing that. There certainly was. Why shouldn’t she allow herself to be a bit egoistic?
She was eighteen now, after all.
Why not let them get used to taking the rough with the smooth? she thought. Why not delay the call for an hour or two? Or even all day?
She started whistling, and passed by the phone box.
The woman who opened the door looked very like a maths teacher she’d had for a term when she was in class eight or nine. The same long, horsey face. The same pale eyes.
The same straggling, washed-out, colourless hair. For a moment Mikaela was so certain it was that very same teacher she had the name on the tip of her tongue.
Then she remembered that Miss Dortwinckel had committed suicide one Christmas holiday – by eating half a dozen broken crystal glasses, if rumour was to be believed – and she realized
that it was a case of similar features, no more than that. A certain charisma.
Or lack of charisma, rather. Perhaps our Good Lord had only a limited number of features to choose from – especially when it came to middle-aged women past their sell-by date.
Where do I get all these thoughts from? she wondered. And how can they come so quickly?
‘Well?’
The voice was sharp and unfriendly. Not a bit like that of Miss Dortwinckel, which she could recall quite clearly.
‘Forgive me. My name’s Mikaela Lijphart. I hope I’m not disturbing you, but I would be very grateful if I could have a little chat with you.’
‘With me? Why?’
Now the smell of strong drink hit her. Mikaela automatically stepped half a pace backwards, and had to grab the handrail in order not to fall down the steps.
Eleven o’clock on a Sunday morning? she thought. Drunk already. Why . . . ?
Then it occurred to her that it could have to do with her father. With what her father had said. Could it be that . . . ?
She lost the thread. Or dropped it on purpose. The woman was staring at her.
‘Why do you want to talk to me?’ she asked again. ‘Why don’t you say anything? Are you mentally deficient, or are you one of those bloody hallelujah loonies trying to
recruit new souls? I don’t have a soul.’
‘No .
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