The Shadow Girls (9 page)

Lundin threw out his arms in a gesture that Humlin interpreted as a mixture of openness and boredom. Humlin went on to present his idea with the feeling that he was being judged in a court of law where all those not writing crime novels were presumed guilty. Lundin lit another cigarette and measured his blood pressure. When Humlin was done, Lundin leaned back in his chair and shook his head.

‘It’ll sell four thousand, three hundred and twenty copies at most.’

‘How can you know that?’

‘It’s that kind of book. But you can’t write about fat immigrant girls. What do you know about their lives?’

‘That’s what I’m going to find out.’

‘They’ll never tell you the truth.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m just telling you. I have experience in these matters.’

Lundin jumped up and leaned over the table.

‘What you should write is a crime novel. Nothing else. Leave these fat girls alone. You don’t need them and they don’t need you. What we do need is a crime novel from you and then let some young immigrant talent write the great new Swedish novel. I want a title on my desk by the end of the week.’

Lundin stood up.

‘It’s always a pleasure, Humlin. But I have a meeting with the oil executives. They have already indicated their approval of your new crime novel, by the way.’

Lundin swept out of the room. Humlin went to the nearest cafe and drank some coffee to try to regain body heat. He wondered briefly if he should talk to Viktor Leander about his latest idea, but decided against it. If the idea was as good as he thought it was Leander would immediately use it.

He took a taxi back to his apartment and noted with relief that neither Andrea nor his mother had left any messages. After leafing through the notes he had made for his next work of poetry – tentatively titled
Torment and Antithesis
– he lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Even though he was not entirely confident it still seemed that the idea he had had in Gothenburg was the strongest impulse he had to go on right now.

He lay on his bed turning his thoughts this way and that until
he got up and called Pelle Törnblom. Törnblom sounded short of breath when he finally answered.

‘What are you up to?’ Humlin asked.

‘I’m sparring with a guy from Pakistan. How did Andrea react?’

‘Exactly as I had predicted. But I survived.’

‘You have to agree it was a great party. The kids at the club feel very proud.’

‘Has an Iranian girl named Leyla given you her phone number by any chance?’

‘Her brother boxes at the club,’ Törnblom said. ‘He’s told me what this is all about. I think it’s a great idea.’

Humlin quickly rifled through the pages of his weekly planner.

‘Tell her I’ll come see her next Wednesday. Can we meet at your place?’

‘It’ll be better for you to meet here at the club. I have a large room on the ground floor that you could use.’

‘I hope we’ll be undisturbed there,’ Humlin said.

‘Of course, you realise her brother will have to be present.’

‘No – why is that?’

‘To make sure everything is above board, that no impropriety is committed.’

‘What could possibly happen?’

‘It’s not proper for her to meet alone with an unknown man. We’re talking serious cultural differences here, ones that need to be respected. You never know what could happen when a man and a woman are left alone together.’

‘Good God, Törnblom! You’ve seen her!’

‘She may not be the most beautiful woman on earth but that means nothing in this case. Her brother needs to be there to make sure all goes well.’

‘What do you think me capable of, anyway?’

‘I think it’s a wonderful idea for you to stop writing poetry and write something worthwhile. That’s what I think. You could really make something of yourself, you know.’

Humlin was starting to get angry. He felt insulted, but said nothing. He realised he would have to accept the fact that Leyla’s brother would be chaperoning her.

He hung up and the phone rang almost at once. Humlin let the answering machine pick up. It was a reporter from one of the biggest papers in the country. Humlin answered the phone and tried to sound as if he had just been interrupted in the middle of something very important.

‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ the reporter said.

Humlin always hoped against hope that the journalists who called would be women with soft, pleasing voices. But this was a man with a rough regional dialect.

‘I’m working, but I’m happy to take a moment to speak to you.’

‘I would like to ask you a couple of questions about your new book.’

Humlin assumed the reporter meant the book of poetry that had come out a few months earlier.

‘A few questions would be fine,’ Humlin said.

‘Do you mind if I turn on my tape recorder?’

‘Not at all.’

Humlin waited until the reporter, whose name he didn’t recognise, had turned on the tape recorder.

‘First I just want to know how you feel about it,’ the reporter said.

Images of the night at the Mölndal library flickered through Humlin’s mind.

‘I feel good about it,’ he said. ‘Very good.’

‘Is there anything in particular that you can point to as a reason for writing this book?’

Humlin looked forward to answering this question. It was one that reporters always asked. A few days ago he had thought of a new answer as he was lying in the bathtub.

‘I am always looking for ways to stray from my familiar literary surroundings and find my way along hitherto undiscovered paths. If I hadn’t become a poet I would probably have gone into topology. Mapping unknown terrain.’

‘I see. Could you translate that for me?’

‘I have a hard time thinking of a more important task than to show people new paths.’

‘Which people are these?’

‘The next generation.’

The reporter coughed.

‘That’s a strange but interesting answer.’

‘Thank you,’ Humlin said.

‘But you have to admit,’ the reporter continued, ‘it’s a big step for you as a poet to be trying your hand at a crime novel.’

Humlin stiffened. His knuckles on the hand holding the receiver grew white.

‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.’

‘We just received a press announcement from your publisher that you are working on a crime novel to be published in the autumn.’

Humlin had often had reason to think badly of Lundin in the past, but at this moment – cornered without warning by a reporter – he hated him. The only plot for a crime novel he could possibly think of was that of a writer who murdered his
publisher by stuffing false press announcements down his throat.

‘Hello?’ the reporter said. ‘Are you still there?’

‘I’m here.’

‘Do you want me to repeat the question?’

‘No need. It’s just that I’ve decided not to answer any questions about the new book. I’ve only just started working on it and it’s easy to lose one’s sense of concentration. It’s a bit like letting unwelcome guests into one’s home.’

‘That sounds complicated. But surely you have something to say. Why would your publisher be releasing this information otherwise?’

‘That I have no idea about. But I will say that I should be ready to talk about the book in about a month.’

‘Can you at least tell me what it’s about?’

Humlin thought hard.

‘I suppose I can say it will play out in the minefields of cultural difference.’

‘Look here, Mr Humlin, I can’t write that. No one will understand a word of it.’

‘People from different cultures who meet and do not understand each other. Conflicts. Is that better?’ Humlin asked.

‘So the murderer targets immigrants?’

‘I’m not going to say anything else. But you’re on the wrong track.’

‘You mean immigrants are killing Swedes?’

‘There are no murders of any kind in this book.’

‘How can it be a crime novel?’

‘I will say more in due course.’

‘When will that be?’

‘In about a month.’

‘Can you say anything else?’

‘No, nothing more at this time.’

Humlin hung up. The reporter had sounded grumpy by the end. Humlin himself was furious and drenched in sweat. He wanted to call Lundin immediately, but knew that nothing would really come of it. The damage was already done. The crime novel he was thought to be writing was already the new literary sensation.

*

Andrea stopped by unexpectedly that evening. Humlin had fallen asleep on the couch, exhausted by his conversation with the reporter. When he heard Andrea at the door he jumped up as if caught in the act of doing something unlawful. But when he heard that she didn’t slam the door he breathed easy. That meant she was not immediately going to attack him. If she closed the door gently that usually meant she was in a good mood.

She lay down beside him on the sofa and shut her eyes.

‘I’m starting to get bitchy,’ she said. ‘I’m turning into an old woman.’

‘It’s me. I often give you reason to worry,’ Humlin said. ‘But I’m trying to change all that.’

Andrea opened her eyes.

‘Oh, I doubt that very much,’ she said. ‘But maybe one day I’ll get used to it.’

They cooked dinner together and drank some wine even though it was the middle of the week. Humlin listened patiently while she ranted about the increasing chaos of the Swedish medical system. At the same time he was thinking about the best
way to tell her that he was going to meet with Leyla. But foremost in his mind was what his mother had told him the night before, that she and Andrea discussed intimate details of their private life.

She seemed to have read his thoughts.

‘How was your visit with Märta?’

‘Oh, the way it usually is. But she had bought oysters. And then she told me something I didn’t like.’

‘That she’s going to write you out of her will?’

Humlin frowned.

‘She said that?’

‘No.’

‘Then why would you say that?’

‘For God’s sake, what’s the big deal?’

Humlin realised it probably wasn’t the right time to talk about it. Both he and Andrea had drunk too much wine. That could lead to an explosion. But he couldn’t stop himself.

‘She said you two talk about our sex life. According to my mother you said we aren’t sleeping with each other very often.’

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Andrea said.

‘Do you have to tell her about it?’

‘Why not? She’s your mother.’

‘She has nothing to do with us.’

‘But we talk about everything. I like your mother.’

‘That’s not what you used to say.’

‘I’ve changed my mind. And she is very frank with me. I know things about her that you could never imagine.’

‘Like what?’ Humlin asked.

Andrea topped up their wine glasses and smiled enigmatically. Humlin didn’t like the look in her eye.

‘Like what?’ Humlin repeated. ‘What is it I don’t know about my mother?’

‘Things you don’t want to know.’

‘How can I know if I want to know them or not before I know what they are?’

‘She has a job.’

Humlin stared at her.

‘What kind of a job?’

‘That’s what you don’t want to know.’

‘My mother has never worked a day in her life. She’s jumped from one ridiculous artistic endeavour to another. But she’s never held down a real job.’

‘Well, she is now.’

‘What does she do?’

‘She’s a phone sex operator.’

Humlin slowly put his wine glass down.

‘I don’t want you saying things like that about her. It’s not funny.’

‘It’s true.’

‘What’s true?’

‘She’s a phone sex operator,’ Andrea repeated.

‘She’s eighty-seven years old.’

‘I’ve heard her myself. And why can’t an eighty-seven year old woman be a phone sex operator?’

Humlin was starting to get the gnawing feeling that there was something to what Andrea was saying. He was just having trouble putting it all together.

‘What exactly does this work involve?’

‘There are ads at the back of every newspaper with phone numbers for these kinds of services. You call up to talk dirty and
hear someone moan on the other end and God only knows what else. One of your mother’s friends came up with the idea that there might be a market for older men who would want to masturbate to the sounds of women their own age.’

‘And?’

‘Well, she was right. They formed one of these services, an incorporated business, actually. It’s run by four women, the youngest of whom is eighty-three and the oldest ninety-one. As it happens, your mother is the CEO. Last year, after deductions they made a profit of four hundred and forty-five thousand kronor.’

‘What kind of deductions? What are you talking about?’

‘I’m just telling you that your mother spends a few hours every day making sexy sounds into the phone for money. I’ve heard her myself and she sounds very convincing.’

‘Convincing?’

‘That she’s horny. Don’t play stupid. You know what I mean. How is your book coming along?’

‘I’m going to Gothenburg next week to get things going.’

‘Good luck.’

Andrea got up and started to clear the table. Humlin stayed where he was. What Andrea had told him made him both angry and uneasy. He knew deep down that what she had said was true. He had a mother who was capable of just about anything.

*

When Humlin got on the train to Gothenburg a week later he had spent most of the time in between fielding questions from more reporters wanting to know all about the crime novel he wasn’t going to write but that was nonetheless scheduled to come out next autumn. He had also had a fight with Viktor Leander
who called him on the phone to accuse him of being a spineless plagiarist who stooped to stealing his best friend’s ideas. In exchange for the promise of total secrecy Humlin had finally managed to convince Leander that the rumour was false and no crime novel written by his hand was ever going to be published.

The man he had most wanted to speak to, Lundin, had been unreachable all week. Humlin had even called him at home in the middle of the night without receiving any answer. He had also not confronted his mother about the scandalous information he had heard. But he had forced himself to accept what Andrea had told him as the truth. One day when he was alone he had drunk two glasses of cognac and then called the number that Andrea had pointed out to him in the newspaper. The first two times he had not recognised the women’s voices, but on his third attempt he was horrified to recognise his mother’s – albeit disguised – voice on the other end. He had thrown down the receiver as if he had been bitten by it, then poured himself some additional glasses of cognac to calm his nerves.