The Man From Beijing (49 page)

Birgitta stopped and turned to confront Karin.

‘We don’t know each other all that well,’ she said. ‘Maybe we think we do. Or wish we did. When we were young our relationship was quite different from what it is now. We’re friends. But we’re not that close. Perhaps we never have been.’

Karin nodded. They continued walking along the beach, where the sand was driest, higher up than the seaweed.

‘You always want things to stay the same, for everything to be just as it used to be,’ said Karin. ‘But as you get older you have to be careful to avoid sentimentality. If friendships are going to last, they have to keep being re-examined and renewed. Maybe old love never goes rusty. But old friendships do.’

‘The fact that we’re talking about it is a step in the right direction. It’s like scraping away the rust with a steel brush.’

‘What happened next? How did it all end?’

‘I went home. The police, or some branch of the secret service, had searched my room. I have no idea what they hoped to find.’

‘But you must have wondered. A mugging?’

‘It’s all about the photograph from the hotel in Hudiksvall, of course. Somebody wanted to prevent me from looking for that man. But I think Hong Qiu was telling the truth. China doesn’t want foreign visitors to go back home and talk about so-called unfortunate incidents. Not now, when the country is preparing for the Olympic Games.’

‘A whole country with more than a billion inhabitants waiting in the wings to make its brilliant entry onto the world stage. A remarkable thought.’

‘Hundreds of millions of people, our beloved poor peasants, probably don’t realise what these Olympics mean. Or else they realise that nothing will get better for them simply because the young people of the world are gathering in Beijing to play games.’

‘I have a vague memory of her – that woman called Hong Qiu. She was very beautiful. There was something evasive about her, as if she were on edge.’

‘Could be. I remember her differently. She helped me.’

‘Was she the servant of several masters?’

‘That’s something I’ve thought a lot about. I don’t know. But you’re probably right.’

They walked out onto a jetty. Several of the mooring berths were empty. A woman was squatting in an old wooden boat, bailing out. She nodded to them with a smile and said something in a dialect Karin couldn’t understand.

Afterwards they drank coffee in Karin’s living room. Karin talked about her current work, studying several Chinese poets and their work from liberation in 1949 to the present day.

‘I can’t devote my whole life to empires that died long ago. The poems make a pleasant change.’

Birgitta came close to mentioning her own secret and impassioned pop lyrics, but said nothing.

‘Many of them were courageous,’ said Karin. ‘Mao and the rest at the top of the political tree were rarely tolerant of criticism. But Mao tolerated the poets. I suppose you could say that was because he wrote poetry himself. But I think he knew that artists could show the big political stage in a new light. When other political leaders wanted to clamp down on artists who wrote the wrong words or painted with dodgy brushstrokes, Mao always put his foot down and stopped them. To the bitter end. What happened to artists during the Cultural Revolution was of course his responsibility, but not his intention. Even if the last revolution he set in motion had cultural overtones, it was basically political. When Mao realised that some of the young rebels were going too far, he slammed on the brakes. Even if he couldn’t express it in so many words, I think he regretted the havoc caused during those years. But he knew better than anybody else that if you want to make an omelette, you have to break an egg. Isn’t that what people used to say?’

‘Or that the revolution wasn’t a tea party.’

They both burst out laughing.

‘What do you think about China now?’ asked Birgitta. ‘What exactly is going on there?’

‘I’m convinced there’s a tremendous tug of war. Within the party, within the country. The Communist Party is trying to show the rest of the world, people like you and me, that it’s possible to combine economic development with a state that isn’t democratic. Even if all the liberal thinkers in the West deny it, a one-party dictatorship is reconcilable with economic development. That causes unrest in our part of the world. That’s why so much is spoken and written about human rights in China. The lack of freedom and transparency, the human rights so central to Western values, become the target of Western attacks on China. For me it’s hypocritical, since our part of the world is full of countries – not least the United States and Russia – in which human rights are violated every day. Besides, the Chinese know that we want to do business with them, at any price. They saw through us in the nineteenth century when we decided to brand them all as opium addicts and award ourselves the right to do business with them on our terms. The Chinese have learned lessons, and they won’t repeat our mistakes. That’s the way I see things, and obviously, I’m aware that my conclusions aren’t perfect. What’s happening is much bigger than anything I can take in. We can’t apply our way of looking at things to China. But no matter what we think about it, we have to respect what’s going on. Nowadays only an idiot would think that what’s happening there won’t affect our own future. If I had small children today I’d employ a Chinese nanny to make sure they become acquainted with the Chinese language.’

‘That’s exactly what my son says.’

‘He has vision.’

‘I was overwhelmed by the visit to China,’ said Birgitta. ‘The country is so enormous, I wandered around with the constant feeling that I could just disappear at any moment. And nobody would ask questions about one individual when there are so incredibly many others. I wish I’d had more time to talk to Hong Qiu.’

That evening they had dinner and once more immersed themselves in memories of the past. Birgitta felt increasingly strongly that she didn’t want to lose contact with Karin again. There was nobody else with whom she had shared her youth, nobody who could understand what she was talking about.

They sat up until late, and before going to bed promised themselves that in the future they would meet more often.

‘Commit some minor traffic offence in Helsingborg,’ Birgitta suggested. ‘Don’t admit anything when the police interview you at the scene. Then you’ll eventually end up in the dock. When I’ve sentenced you we can go and have dinner somewhere.’

‘I find it hard to imagine you in court.’

‘So do I. But that’s where I spend most of my days.’

The next day Karin went with Birgitta to the main railway station.

‘Well, I’d better be getting back to my Chinese poets,’ said Karin. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’ll spend this afternoon reading up on a couple of forthcoming trials. I envy you your poets. But I’d prefer not to think about it.’

They were just about to go their different ways when Karin took hold of Birgitta’s arm.

‘I haven’t asked you at all about the events in Hudiksvall. What’s happening?’

‘The police are convinced that, no matter what, the man who committed suicide did it.’

‘On his own? All those dead bodies?’

‘Maybe. But they still haven’t managed to find a motive.’

‘Lunacy?’

‘I didn’t think that at the time, and I still don’t think so.’

‘Are you in touch with the police?’

‘Not at all. I just read what’s written in the newspapers.’

Birgitta watched Karin hurrying off through the big central hall, then caught a train to Kastrup, tracked down her car in the car park and drove home.

Growing older involves a kind of retreat, she thought. You don’t just keep rushing forward. Like the conversations Karin and I had. We’re trying to find our real selves, who we are, both now and then.

She was back in Helsingborg by about twelve o’clock. She went straight to her office where she read a memorandum from the National Judiciary Administration before turning her attention to the two cases she needed to prepare.

She suddenly felt happiness bubbling up inside her. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Nothing is too late, she thought. Now I’ve seen the Great Wall of China. There are other walls and especially islands I want to visit before my life is over and the coffin lid nailed down. Something inside me says that Staffan and I will manage to handle the situation we find ourselves in.

It was eleven o’clock before she was at home and began to get ready for bed. There was a ring at the front door. She frowned, but went to answer: there was nobody. She stepped out and looked up and down the street. A car drove past, but apart from that it was deserted. The gate was closed. Kids, she thought. They ring the bell, then run away.

She went back in and fell asleep before midnight. She woke up soon after two without knowing what had disturbed her. She didn’t remember having had a dream and listened into the darkness without hearing anything. She was just about to roll over and go back to sleep when she sat up. Switched on the bedside light and listened. Got up and opened the door onto the landing. She still couldn’t hear anything. She put on her dressing gown and went downstairs. All the doors and windows were locked. She stood by a window overlooking the street and pulled the curtain to one side. She thought she might have glimpsed a shadow hurrying away down the pavement, but blamed her overactive imagination. She had never been afraid of the dark. Perhaps she had woken up because she was hungry. After a sandwich and a glass of water she went back to bed and soon fell asleep again.

The next morning when she was about to pick up her briefcase, she had the feeling someone had been in her study. It was the same kind of feeling as she’d had in connection with her suitcase in the hotel room in Beijing. When she had gone to bed the previous evening, she had put all the documents into the briefcase. Now some of the edges of those documents were protruding from the top.

Although she was in a rush, she checked the basement. Nothing was missing; nothing had been touched. My imagination’s running away with me, she thought. I had enough of a persecution complex in Beijing – I don’t need any more of the same here in Helsingborg.

Birgitta Roslin locked her front door and walked down the hill to the town and the district court. When she arrived she went to her office, switched off the telephone, leaned back in her chair with her eyes closed, and thought over the case she had to deal with about a Vietnamese gang accused of smuggling cigarettes. In the back of her mind she ran through the most important parts of the case against the two Tran bothers, which had resulted in their being arrested, three separate times, before finally being charged. Now they faced being tried and sentenced. Two more Vietnamese men, Dang and Phan, had been arrested during the investigation.

Birgitta Roslin was pleased to have prosecuting counsel Palm in her court. He was a middle-aged man who took his professional duties seriously. On the basis of the material she had access to, Palm had insisted on a thorough police investigation, which didn’t always happen.

As the clock struck ten she entered the courtroom and sat at her desk. The lay assessors and recording clerks were already in their places. The public gallery was packed. There were both police officers and security guards on duty. Everybody had been required to pass through metal detectors. She opened proceedings, noted down names, checked that all involved were present, then let the prosecutor take over. Palm spoke slowly and clearly and occasionally addressed his remarks to the public gallery. There was a large group of Vietnamese present, most of them very young. Birgitta Roslin also recognised journalists and a sketch artist working for several national newspapers. Birgitta had a drawing of herself, done by the same artist, that she had cut out of the paper. She had put it in a desk drawer, as she didn’t want her visitors to think she was vain.

It was a hard day. Although the police investigation had made it obvious how the crimes had been committed, the four young men started blaming one another. Two of them spoke Swedish, but the Tran brothers needed an interpreter. Roslin was forced to point out on several occasions that the translation was not clear enough – indeed, she wondered if the girl really understood what the brothers were saying. She also needed to instruct some of the people in the public gallery to be quiet and threatened to remove them if they didn’t calm down.

While she was having lunch, Hans Mattsson called in to ask how things were going.

‘They’re lying,’ Birgitta said. ‘But the case against them is solid. The only question is whether the interpreter is up to it.’

‘She has a good reputation,’ said Hans Mattsson in surprise. ‘She’s supposed to be the best one available in Sweden.’

‘Perhaps she’s having an off day.’

‘Are you?’

‘No. But it’s taking time. I doubt we’ll be finished by tomorrow.’

During the afternoon proceedings Birgitta continued to observe the people in the public gallery. She noticed a middle-aged Vietnamese woman sitting alone in a corner of the courtroom, half hidden from those sitting in front of her. Every time Birgitta glanced over, the woman seemed to be looking at her, whereas the rest of the Vietnamese were mainly watching their accused friends or family members.

Birgitta remembered when she had sat in the Chinese courtroom a few months earlier. Maybe I have a colleague from Vietnam observing me, she thought ironically. But surely somebody would have mentioned it. Besides, that woman doesn’t have an interpreter sitting next to her.

When she concluded the day’s proceedings, she was uncertain how much more time was necessary to wrap up the case. She sat in her office and made an assessment of what still needed to be done. One more day might be enough, if nothing unexpected happened.

She slept deeply that night, without being disturbed by strange noises.