"Sun and Shadow" - читать интересную книгу автора (Edwardson Åke)

8

When Winter got up, the square of sky he could see through his bathroom window was gray. When he went out the door, the same thing applied to the whole horizon. But it was warm. He was wearing a short-sleeved silk shirt, cool linen trousers, and sandals with no socks.

He passed the landlord and landlady, whose kitchen was next to the front door; they seemed to spend all day under the parasol, or under the sheet of canvas that had been stretched over half the patio when Winter arrived yesterday. Yesterday. Hadn’t it been longer than that?

As he passed by, the woman said something to him. She held up a finger, as if issuing a warning. He thought he had heard the word chicas. Yes, she had said “No chicas” and pointed to his room at the other end of the house, then added what sounded like “en la habitación. ” Her man smiled, perhaps in embarrassment. After a few seconds the penny dropped, and Winter made a dismissive gesture. No, of course not. He wouldn’t bring any women back to his room.

Winter turned right into Calle Luna and then left into Calle del Sol before coming to a little square. He continued to the open Plaza Puente de Málaga and found a café in the corner to the left: GASPAR. PANADERÍA AND CAFETERÍA. He sat outside at the only empty table. It was eight-thirty He was surrounded on all sides by Spaniards, men and women. They were drinking coffee with milk in tall glasses and eating small bread rolls with butter and jam, or just olive oil and salt. A waiter came, and Winter managed to order café con leche and pan with confitura. “Mantequilla?” the waiter asked, and Winter nodded without knowing what it meant. Butter, perhaps?

His coffee was duly served and was very good, strong espresso with hot milk. The bread arrived and was also hot. Mantequilla. was indeed butter. He prepared his breakfast sandwiches while the Spaniards on all sides coughed their way into the new day between deeply savored drags on their cigarettes. A man at the next table turned away and started coughing something awful. Another one joined in. It was like sitting through breakfast in a sanatorium. When the man at the next table had cleared what remained of his lungs, he signaled to the white-clad waiter as if to a nurse, and the waiter disappeared into the café before reemerging with what Winter assumed was a glass of water. But as the waiter passed he could smell gin. A glass of gin to start the morning. Why not? Winter smiled, finished his breakfast and lit a Corps cigarillo. Now everybody at the Gaspar café was smoking. The smoke drifted up toward the sky, which was gray, still. There was a different kind of stillness today, compared with yesterday, a silence that he hadn’t noticed then. He couldn’t work out where the sun was, which seemed almost an impossibility in a place like this.

Winter checked his watch and ordered another coffee. He still hadn’t finished his cigarillo. A young woman was walking from table to table, handing out leaflets. She came to Winter and he automatically held out his hand. She gave him a leaflet, her eyes fixed on his cigarillo. The message was from Centro Cristiano Exodus. He read it. It urged him to say NO! to heroina, cocaina, alcohol, tabaco, condenación, juegos de azar, Éxtasis, and SÍ! to el amor, la sinceridad, la paz, el perdón, la paciencia, la libertad, la vida…

He stubbed out his cigarillo, paid his bill, and checked his watch again. An Andalusian dog wandered over the road, chasing shadows. Winter thought about his father. He felt a drop of rain. The sky had turned a deeper shade of stone. The mountains beyond the avenida were an extension of the sky and hence whiter now than they had been before. Everything looked different. The buildings no longer reflected any light, which made people’s skin seem luminous. The rain was getting heavier, and Winter could picture his father in his hospital bed. The holiday season on the Costa del Sol was coming to an end, and Winter tried to avoid seeing symbolism in what was happening now, here and in the room at the Hospital Costa del Sol.

He crossed over the wide Avenida des Ramón y Cajal and continued as far as the promenade. Another Andalusian dog wandered over the paving stones, stopped outside a café, and listened to the flamenco music being played with the treble turned up. It cocked its leg against a wall.

The sea flowed into the sky, just like the mountains in the north. The feeling that the holiday season was over was stronger down here by the beach. Winter took off his sandals and walked to the water’s edge. A beach guard was carrying parasols. A café was open, its curtains flapping in the breeze. Winter could feel the wind now, and what seemed almost like a blast of cold. Sand was being whipped up as the wind strengthened. The song coming from the café was suddenly audible on the beach below. Winter thought about his child, and how the winter was creeping up on all sides. He thought about Angela, and suddenly longed to phone her; but he knew that she would be at work.

For people living down here the promise of winter must be a kind of hope, he thought. A mixture of desire and longing. Maybe people living here would now be able to be themselves, instead of constantly putting on a show.

He felt a warmer gust of wind and looked up. The clouds were breaking. Half of the sky was blue. It had opened up on the far horizon, over Africa. The sea was changing color, as if it were being lit from underneath.

Now the sun was visible, and seemed to be racing at breakneck speed through the remains of clouds resembling flakes of snow. Winter thought about the cold weather back home in Sweden: it would soon be upon them. Once again he thought about his child.

He could feel the heat on his head. As the sun returned he could appreciate its incredible strength even more clearly thanks to the preceding chill. The sudden surge of light made him feel strangely elated, as if he were starting to hope that the holiday season was back, that the sun had returned for good. He tried to avoid seeing symbolism in that as well. The sun is life, but it is also death.

As he stood there more and more people arrived to slump down on a hamaca and adjust the sombrilla to shield them from the sun. One man was building a sand sculpture about ten feet tall, representing a sphinx and a pyramid. This is the same sand as they have in Africa, Winter thought, blown here over the Mediterranean.

A street musician sat down on a chair a couple of feet away from Winter, put on his sandals, and launched into the first of the day’s flamenco songs: Adiós Graaaanaaaada, Graanaada Mííía. Winter dropped a few pesetas into the guitar case and went back to his car.

When he arrived at Room 1108 he found it empty. His stomach turned over.

Why the hell hadn’t she phoned? She took the mobile with her wherever she went, after all.

He went into the corridor and said his father’s name to the woman who hadn’t been standing there when he arrived, and she pointed to the exit and said: “Cuidados Intensivos, ” with an appropriately worried expression on her face. Calm down, Winter thought. This is only what you expected when you came here yesterday.

He found his mother in the corridor outside the ward.

“I haven’t had a chance to phone,” she said.

“How is he?”

“Stable, they say. He’s stable now.”

“What happened?”

“He had breathing problems. And his pulse.”

“What do the doctors say?”

“Dr. Alcorta wants to wait a bit before forming an opinion.”

“This fucking Alcorta! Where is he? I want to talk to him.”

“He’s operating.”

“On Dad?”

“No. Another patient.”

“Where is Dad?”

“He’s asleep. I can take you to him.”

They went into the intensive care ward. Everything was white and clean. There were no windows here looking out onto a graveled courtyard and dusty palm trees swaying in the wind. But there was a window with a view of the room where Winter could see his father in a bed surrounded by tubes and machines. He looked as if he were part of a medical research project.

“We’re not allowed to go in now,” his mother said.

“No.” He looked at her. In this intense light she appeared as ill as his father, possibly even worse, as her thin face was incapable of hiding anything. Winter could smell the smoke clinging to her dress and thought about the leaflet he still had in his pocket. La vida. Paciencia. Life and patience, in that order.

“How long is he going to have to stay here?”

“I don’t know, Erik.”

“How long have you been here now without a break? Three days? Four? Can’t you go back to the house? I’ll stay with him today and tonight.”

“Not now, Erik.”

“I think you need to get away from here for a while. Just a few hours, if you prefer that. You can take my rented car.”

“I don’t think I’m fit to drive just now.”

“Take a taxi, for Chr-”

She looked at him. Her eyes more red than white.

“Maybe I should, I suppose. Just for a bit.”

“I’ll stay here,” Winter said. “Go on, off you go.”

Bartram and Morelius were back at the station with a double portion of sweet-and-sour chicken from Ming’s down the road. They sat in the coffee room, halfheartedly watching a crime film on the box.

“That could have been us,” said Bartram, nodding at the television.

“The detectives, you mean?”

“They could have been us. The problem solvers. Think of all those women they get as perks.”

“We solve enough problems as it is. For ladies as well.”

“You know what I’m getting at.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Meaning what?”

“I’m not sure I have the strength to listen.”

Bartram said nothing, just poured more chili and soy sauces over the rice. The film had finished and was followed by a commercial for diapers. A baby was rolling around on a blanket and was then lifted up by his smiling mother.

“What a nice mom,” Bartram said.

“As long as the cameras are there, at least.”

“A nice mom,” Bartram said again. He chewed, swallowed, and poured on some more soy sauce.

“Your rice is black now,” Morelius said. “Black rice.”

‘A nice lady,“ Bartram said. ”A nice lady. A nice mom.“

Morelius tried not to listen, to concentrate on something else. The wall. The next commercial. The wall again. The last greasy lump of chicken. Bartram kept on and on.

“Nice… lady,” Bartram said.

“Put a sock in it now.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Put a sock in it.”

“But for Chrissakes… What have I said?”

“PUT A GODDAM SOCK IN IT!” screamed Morelius, standing up and walking over to the sink, where he threw his foil tray into the bin. He wished he could have stuffed Bartram inside at the same time.

Morelius hurried out of the room, into the bathroom, and sat down on the seat. Images were flashing through his head. Bits of conversation intruded, movements, faded, there again. The conversation he’d had with Hanne… when was that? Weeks ago? Two weeks? It had been a mistake to go to her. It was only a few of the young cops who went to see the vicar, and then only when… when…

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he’d said.

“It takes time,” Hanne Ostergaard had said.

“I have to be patient, is that it?”

“That’s not the word I would use.”

“I try not to think about it, but sometimes it’s too… hard.”

“Is there nobody you can… talk to about… your experiences?”

“No. You mean, am I living with somebody? No.”

“What about your colleagues?”

Morelius thought about Bartram and Vejehag. Neither had been with him at the time. They wouldn’t understand. The others? The ones who arrived on the scene later? No. They’d been too late.

“No,” he said again. “I was with a new recruit and he was useless after no more than a minute. Just leaned against the car and threw… didn’t feel well.” He looked at her. “I don’t know why I didn’t do the same.”

“We all react in different ways,” she’d said.

“I had a job to do,” was his reply.

He really did have a job to do.

They’d arrived at the scene just a couple of minutes after the crash. It was another occasion, not the one in the tunnel.

Glass and metal thrown fifty yards in all directions. Sleet, early for the time of year. Slippery road surface. His colleague had stood on a foot as he got out of the car. Just one foot. In a shoe. Rendered him totally incapable of anything. He’d radioed in and could hear the ambulances and fire engines in the distance even before he’d finished the call.

Somebody might have been screaming from inside the pile of twisted metal on the highway. Screaming louder and louder. Louder than the ambulances that still hadn’t arrived. Where the hell were the ambulances? This was their job. He couldn’t do anything, but he’d rushed over to the screams to see if he could help. Then he couldn’t hear them anymore.

The nearest car had been hit head-on and the driver thrown out. Possibly across the road and behind the protective barrier. Morelius couldn’t see any bodies in the wreck.

Next to it was a smaller car wedged between the others and it had been sliced in two. There was no roof. Two people sat in the front seats.

That was the image. That was the image he couldn’t stop thinking about. He kept waking up in the middle of the night with a freight train plowing through his brain and he was still dreaming about the bodies in that sliced-through car.

He told Hanne all about it. Tried to.

At first he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. He’d moved closer, but from behind, to see why they were lean… why they were leaning so strangely. A man and a woman. You could see that from behind because one was wearing a jacket and the other a short-sleeved dress. It had been warm in the car, so they hadn’t needed coats.

He stood at the side of the car and saw that neither of them had a head. He couldn’t stop himself from looking, and then he saw… the man’s head was in the woman’s lap.

Morelius had heard the ambulances, and the voices of the doctors and the paramedics and all the other thousands of rescue workers swarming around the scene of the accident. He was frozen to the spot, as if welded to the chassis, glued to the tarmac.

He closed his eyes again and heard the knocking on the door.

‘Are you okay, Morelius?“ Bartram was standing outside. ”We ought to be on our way now.“

He flushed the toilet.

“Yes, I’m coming.”

“I’ll be in the car.”