Lime's Photograph (34 page)

“Come along,” she said, sounding very like a gym mistress, and I couldn’t help laughing.

“Yes, miss.”

She went down to the water’s edge, balancing carefully as she crossed the first couple of metres of stones until the water reached the middle of her thighs. Then she threw herself in and swam out with long, lithe strokes. It was a lovely sight, her tanned body breaking the surface and the drops of water sparkling around her. I turned my back
on the sea, changed into the trunks and walked down to the water’s edge. She had swum out past the first sand bar a short distance from the beach and was now treading water, snorting playfully like a dolphin. I walked out across the stones, enjoying the pleasant smell of seaweed and salt. The sun made the water gleam, as if the surface had been sprinkled with tiny, delicate stars. The stones were slippery and the water felt cold for a moment, then pleasantly cool. It was like the sea at San Sebastián, salty and invigorating, and my whole body tingled wonderfully as I plunged forward and swam out towards Clara. The water tasted clean, and when I dived under the surface I could see the clear, sandy floor and billowing green seagrass. It had been a long time since I had swum in the sea, and I felt utter delight. It was almost like being a child again when one day at the beach drifted imperceptibly into the next and you slept soundly at night, free from nightmares.

“There’s nothing like having time off when everyone else is at work,” said Clara when I swam alongside her. I trod water, while she rolled lazily over onto her back and floated further out, touching bottom on a sand bank where the water reached just above her waist. Her nipples pressed through the thin fabric of her bikini and her body glistened with goosebumps. I swam over to her and stood up, and she began splashing water at me and I splashed back. We were like children. We stayed in the water for 20 minutes, doing everything that adults stop doing: she dived between my legs and I dived between hers, she put her foot in my cupped hands and I flipped her over backwards, we dived for shells and swam idly side by side along the shore. The sun played on her tanned body, making the millions of tiny drops of water sparkle in all the colours of the rainbow. Her skin was smooth and supple to the touch and I was almost happy. After a while we felt cold, and swam in to the deserted coast.

I studied her smooth skin, as she turned her back and dried herself.
She had a little birthmark near her left shoulder blade that I noticed when she bent forwards and shook her short hair. She had kept herself in good shape, but wasn’t unhealthily thin and angular like all those young women who look like the victims of eating disorders. She was gorgeous. I went over to her and began to dry her gently, first her back and then down the backs of her thighs. She stood completely still, but when I straightened up and massaged her back with the towel again, she turned round and looked me in the eyes and I kissed her, gently at first, then harder. Desire hit me like a hammer, recognisable but still surprisingly novel after months without physical contact with a woman. I had forgotten how desire could be so intense that it is almost painful. I pulled off her bikini top and felt her hands slide down my back and into my trunks, which she pulled down over my buttocks and with difficulty over my erection, and then we were naked in the sun, lying on the blanket on the warm sand behind the protective rose bush. Her skin was cool and smooth. I caressed her gently, but my desire increased and I slipped smoothly inside her, and then it was as if darkness surged through my mind and smothered my longing and my erection vanished and I slipped out of her and the air suddenly felt cold, as though it was blowing from the north. I rolled off her. my heart thumping as if I’d just had the world’s most intense orgasm, but I felt empty, furious, desperate and tormented by a piercing, irrational guilt.

I sat up, half turned away from her, and then felt her hand run down my back and across my thigh. It didn’t help and I hated my life and myself. I turned my self-contempt against her and pushed her hand away.

“It’s all right, Peter,” she said softly, but with some effort. Her breath was still coming in short gasps. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

I didn’t respond, but stood up and dressed quickly, My heart was still thumping violently, I had a bitter taste in my mouth and I didn’t
want to look at her, but that would be too cowardly, so when I had finished dressing I turned towards her. She was sitting unselfconsciously, leaning back and resting on her hands. Her breasts were rounded and her dark pubic hair looked almost obscene in the afternoon sun.

I turned and walked off towards the holiday cottages.

“Peter, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “Peter! Stay here, please, Peter.”

I sped up and broke into a run without hearing what she said because the blood was rushing in my ears as if I was running in a strong wind. Where the track turned up towards the first row of holiday cottages, I stopped and looked back. She stood with the towel loosely covering the lower part of her body, watching me go, and that’s how I remember her: a beautiful, naked woman holding a blue towel, bathed in a golden light, standing in front of a bush hung with heavy red rose-hips, and the tranquil, blue sea as glossy as a sheet of ice in the background.

I ran until I tasted blood and felt sick, and my lungs told me that either they had to rest or they would stop working altogether. I sat down, panting, on a tree stump. I had no idea which direction I had taken, but Odden is a narrow spit of land and I could see the Kattegat through a pair of tall birch trees. I sat for a while with my head in my hands. The back of my t-shirt was soaked through. When I had my breathing under control, I lit a cigarette and walked slowly towards the Kattegat. We had passed a general store on the way down to the beach. It must be possible to ring for a taxi and buy something to drink there.

Both were possible. I bought a half bottle of vodka and a bottle of cola and then went down to the beach in front of the shop to wait for the taxi, and drank the vodka straight and washed it down with cola until the cola bottle was half empty. Then I filled it up with vodka. I sat behind a boat, smelling seaweed and wanting to cry, but I drank
instead. I thought I saw Clara’s blue Escort drive past slowly, as if she was looking for me, but I wasn’t sure if it was her.

The taxi driver was a young man with a trace of fair stubble on his chin.

“I want to go to Copenhagen,” I said, and got into the back of the car.

“That’s a long ride,” he said, taking in my dishevelled hair, jeans and sweaty t-shirt.

“I’d like to see some money really. No particular reason … but I think I’d like to.”

“The Hotel Royal in Copenhagen,” I said, and showed him my credit cards.

“Fine by me,” he said. “Missed the boat, have you?” he continued in that forthright, curious manner which some Danes take for granted.

“Right, listen,” I said. “You’ll get a hundred kroner tip in cash, but on one condition.”

He turned round and looked at me with pale-blue, questioning eyes.

“You don’t say a word until we get to the Royal. Not one,” I said.

“I’m not quite sure where the Royal is. Is it the SAS hotel? By the town hall square?”

“It is. You don’t say a word until we get into the city, then I’ll give you directions. One word and zero tip.”

“Fine by me,” he said, and accelerated away from the store, the large Mercedes spraying gravel in its wake.

He kept his promise, and I had finished the vodka by the time he pulled up in front of the Royal. He got his hundred kroner in cash, on top of the credit card payment, and drove happily home to Odsherred. I went into the lobby to pick up my key and Oscar got up from one of the sofas and walked towards me.

“Well, there you are. I’ve been waiting for you most of the damned day,” he said, and hugged me with his long arms.

“Hello Oscar. Is Gloria with you?” I said.

“She’s up in the room. How are you?”

“Dreadful,” I said.

“So I can see. And on the juice again, are we Lime? But easy does it. The Seventh Cavalry’s arrived. We’ll save you from the redskins, don’t worry.”

“I want a drink,” I said.

“Go to the bar, I’ll ring up to Gloria. She misses you, just so you …”

“And tell her that if she’s going to preach, she can stay away,” I interrupted.

“Always happy to serve, old boy,” said Oscar.

First Gloria kissed me three times in the Spanish way, then she gave me a hug and held me at arm’s length while she looked me over and shook her head, but she kept quiet. She ordered a glass of white wine and merely cast a sidelong glance at the whisky Oscar and I were drinking. She was looking relaxed and very Spanish in a flimsy, brightly coloured dress which was most becoming against her black hair. She was wearing delicate gold sandals, and her nail varnish matched the colour of her lipstick perfectly. Their holiday had done them good. Oscar looked fresh and rested too, and I could tell that they were in one of their love-struck phases because they touched one another constantly and Oscar looked at her with an expression signalling both desire and possessive privilege. It was as if he was saying, “Look at my woman, isn’t she lovely? And just remember, she’s mine.”

I told them the whole story. I was so very pleased to see them. They were the only fixed point in my life, the two people who knew me best, both my good and bad sides. They didn’t judge me, but accepted me for who I was. They were my best friends and we didn’t have many secrets from one another. They listened calmly and
sympathetically and, when I got to my disastrous trip to the beach, Gloria leant forward and stroked my cheek.

“You poor thing, Pedro,” she said.

I didn’t like her feeling sorry for me, but I knew what she meant. I thought I had freed myself from Amelia, that I had got over her and Maria Luisa’s deaths, that I had contained my grief, but it had only been skin deep. Deep in my subconscious, I was still married and incapable of being unfaithful.

Gloria lit another cigarette and Oscar ordered another round of drinks. I was aware of the alcohol, but I didn’t feel at all drunk.

“I know it’s not your thing, Peter,” said Gloria. “But don’t you think it might be a good idea to get some professional help?”

Once I would have taken offence and been angry, but now I didn’t reply.

“I’m sure there’s a good therapist back home in Madrid who you could talk to, and maybe come to terms with the things that are tormenting you. I know you’re not a great one for talking, and you don’t say much about yourself and your feelings, but perhaps that’s exactly why a professional could help. I don’t want to see you go to the dogs. I don’t want to see you fall apart.”

“No preaching, Gloria,” I said.

“You’re not getting off the hook,” she said. “We’re your friends, and friends are there to say the things no one dares to say.”

“You know how it is with women today, Peter. They believe in the conversation like their parents believed in the Blessed Virgin. They are convinced that everything on earth can be solved through talking, no-nonsense talking,” Oscar said.

“Do shut up, Oscar,” said Gloria, but without anger. “Peter needs to talk. You and I forget what he’s been through. We don’t want to lose you.”

“The problem is, I thought I felt something for her, or that I would
grow to feel something for her,” I said. “It was as if I was alive again … as if suddenly there was light ahead. As if I could forget … do you understand?”

“We do. And maybe, in the end, it’ll turn out for the best, Peter. But some professional help might be a good idea,” said Gloria.

Oscar leant forward.

“There’s something else,” he said. “Have you considered that all this might actually have been planned right from the start?”

“What do you mean?”

“Listen. Clara Hoffmann from the Danish secret police comes to Madrid with a photograph, and since that moment everything’s gone to hell. Somehow or other, that photograph got the whole roller-coaster ride going. What did she want with it? Why was it so important for you to come to Denmark and give evidence about some old story? What’s going on in Denmark? Ask yourself that. What were the police going to do with Lime and Lime’s photograph?”

It suddenly dawned on me. It was really quite simple in the light of what my old colleague Klaus had told me and what I had read in the Danish newspapers. The National Security Service was preparing some kind of report, but for whom? Clara had come to Madrid to ask about Lola and a German terrorist, but was more interested in a present-day Danish member of parliament who had lived in a commune with German terrorists 25 years ago. Why?

“Just a minute,” I said, and went to the reception desk and got the number of the News. Then I borrowed Oscar’s mobile phone and rang Klaus Pedersen. I was put through to a couple of different extensions, but finally got hold of him in an editing suite. He sounded harassed. I heard him giving instructions about a frame to one of the editing technicians.

“I’m seriously busy, Peter. Can we talk some other time,” he said.

“What are you working on?”

“Busy, Peter. Stress. Deadline. Remember?”

“Is it anything to do with the NSS?” I asked.

He was quiet for a second.

“Who told you that?” he said.

“What’s it about?” I asked.

“Briefly, the government has asked the National Security Service for an account of which legal political parties and trade unions they have infiltrated and bugged and kept under surveillance over the last 30 years. It’s the first time we’ve had the chance to look through their books, get an idea of their working methods, and hear about their budget. The review hasn’t turned up anything particularly new, but those on the left wing are furious and are demanding an independent inquiry. They don’t like the idea of the police investigating themselves. The right is more or less satisfied, and the Minister of Justice says no to an inquiry, on the basis that national security can’t be further compromised. It’s a big story. Why do you ask?”

“What if I were to tell you that a secret report has been made, the Minister of Justice has received it, and it states that a current MP lived with German terrorists in his younger days, so the Minister is satisfied with a watered-down review, because he knows the NSS was right to use surveillance? That the government isn’t going to explore the case because it is dependent on this particular MP’s cooperation to keep its majority? But that it’s very useful for them to have this knowledge, should pressure be required during parliamentary negotiations? What would you say to that?”