The rain continued to fall on the roof of the tent. She pushed away all thoughts of Fernando and her failure to impersonate a Kurd. Instead she tried to recall the uneasy and wild dreams that had rushed through her head all night. But the only impressions still left were like the ruins of a burned house, the blurry shadows that had surrounded her as she slept, shadows that seemed to creep out of her head, put on strange plays and then disappear again into the depths of her brain. She had seen her father curled up on the rooftop in their village. He had been cursing his imaginary enemies, threatening to kill the living and raise the dead, and he had stayed up there until he fainted from exhaustion and rolled off, landing in the dry sand where Tea-Bag’s distressed mother had tearily pleaded with him to return to his senses.

But little of this remained when Tea-Bag awoke. There was only the fading impression of her father on the roof. There was nothing left of her other dreams, only the fleeting faces of people she wasn’t sure she recognised.

Tea-Bag pulled the dirty blanket up to her face. Was the dream trying to tell her that perhaps she was the one who was now on that rooftop, sharing the pain that her father had suffered? She didn’t know, didn’t find any answers. The rain fell steadily against the sailcloth of the tent and the thin light that came in through her eyelids told her it was seven or seven-thirty in the morning. She fumbled for the watch that she had stolen from that Italian engineer. But it had disappeared after the shipwreck. She still had very few memories from that night. There were no precise details, she could remember only their desperate attempts to survive, not to be pulled down and die a few metres from the land that meant freedom.

The phone rang.

‘I want a child.’

‘Right now?’

‘I’m thirty-one years old. We either have a child or it’s over.’

It was Andrea. She was a nurse anaesthetist and never knocked on doors. Humlin had met her at a poetry reading he had done a couple of years earlier when he had just sworn off the bachelor lifestyle and decided to settle down with one woman. With her slim face and dark hair he had immediately been attracted to Andrea. He had also fallen for her enthusiastic response to his poems. When she was angry at him, which was a fairly common occurrence, she liked to accuse him of having picked her in order to have constant access to someone in the medical profession, since due to his hypochondria he was always convinced that he was suffering from a fatal illness.

This time she was furious. Humlin wanted children, many children. But not right away and possibly not with Andrea. Naturally this was not something he was prepared to discuss with her, at least not by phone.

‘Of course we’ll have children,’ he said. ‘Many children.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re always changing your mind about everything. Except, apparently, about waiting to have children. But I’m thirty-one.’

‘That’s no age at all.’

‘For me it is.’

‘Maybe we could talk about this a little later? I have an important meeting coming up.’

‘What kind of meeting?’

‘With my publisher.’

‘If you think your meeting is more important than this conversation then I want to break up with you right now. There are other men.’

Humlin felt a pang of jealousy arise in him and escalate to painful proportions.

‘What other men?’

‘Men. Any men.’

‘You mean you are prepared to leave me for some man, any man out there?’

‘I don’t want to wait any longer.’

Humlin sensed that the conversation was spiralling out of his control.

‘You know, it’s not good for me to have these kinds of discussions so early in the morning.’

‘And you know I can’t talk about these things at night. I need my sleep because I have a job that starts early in the morning.’

The silence travelled back and forth between them.

‘What did you do in the South Pacific anyway?’

‘I rested.’

‘You don’t seem to do anything else. Were you unfaithful again?’

‘I haven’t been unfaithful. Why would you think that?’

‘Why not? You’ve done it before.’

‘You think I have. That’s not the same thing. I went to rest.’

‘To rest from what exactly?’

‘I happen to write books, as you well know.’

‘One book a year. With about forty poems. What’s that — less than one poem a week?’

‘I also write a wine-tasting column.’

‘Once a month, yes. In a trade paper for tailors that no one else reads. Now, I could have really used a trip to the South Pacific to rest.’

‘I invited you to come with me.’

‘Since you knew I couldn’t get away. But I’m about to take some time off. There’s something I want to get started on.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘I’m going to write my book.’

‘About what exactly?’

‘About us.’

Humlin felt an unpleasant pain in his stomach. Of all the things he had to worry about, the thought that Andrea might prove the more talented writer seemed to him to be the worst. Every time she brought this up he felt as if his very existence was threatened. He sometimes lay awake at night and imagined the sensational reviews of her new book, how the critics embraced her as a new talent and wrote him off as a has-been. For this reason he always devoted an extraordinary amount of time to her whenever her authorial ambitions kicked in. He cooked her dinners, talked about the inordinate amount of suffering and hard work it took to complete a book and had, up until now, always been able to talk her out of her plans.

‘I don’t want you to write a book about us.’

‘Why not?’

‘I want my private life to remain private.’

‘Who said anything about your private life?’

‘If this book is about us, it involves my private life.’

‘I can call you Anders.’

‘What difference would that possibly make?’

Humlin tried to take the conversation in a different direction.

‘I’ve thought about what you said.’

‘About being unfaithful?’

‘I haven’t been unfaithful. How many times do I have to tell you that?’

‘Until I believe you.’

‘And when are you going to believe me?’

‘Never.’

Humlin decided to retreat from this topic.

‘I’ve been thinking.’

‘What about?’

‘That you’re right. We should have a child.’

‘Are you sick?’ Her voice was sceptical.

‘Why would I be sick?’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I’m not sick. I meant it. I’m a very serious person.’

‘You’re childish and vain. Are you serious?’

‘I’m neither childish nor particularly vain.’

‘Are you serious? You don’t think we should wait?’

‘I’m at least prepared to take it into serious consideration.’

‘Now you sound like a politician.’

‘I’m a poet, not a politician.’

‘If we’re going to have a baby, we can’t talk about it over the phone. I’m coming over.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What do you think? If we’re going to have a baby we have to go to bed first.’

‘I can’t. I have a meeting with my publisher.’

Andrea hung up. Humlin returned to the bathroom and looked at his face, looking past his suntan to the warm long nights on the Solomon Islands and Rarotonga. I don’t want to have any children, he thought. At least not with Andrea.

He sighed, left the bathroom and poured himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. In his study he leafed through the latest reviews of his book that the PR department had forwarded. Humlin had given them careful instructions as to what kind of reviews he wanted to read. He only wanted to see the good ones and had an old-fashioned ledger where he noted which papers and critics continued to praise his work as ‘the primary representative of mature poetry at the end of the twentieth century’.

Humlin read the latest reviews, made some notes in his ledger, and noted that the Eskilstuna Courier had once again given his work too little notice. Then he walked over to the window and looked out. Andrea’s latest outburst worried him. There was a chance he would soon face the prospect of either making her pregnant or accepting the fact that she might finally write her book.

At seven he called a taxi service, giving the receptionist plenty of time to recognise his name. He got in the taxi and gave the driver the address. The driver was African and spoke poor Swedish. Humlin wondered grumpily if he would actually be able to find his way to the little restaurant in the Old Town where he was going. It was not, as he had told Andrea, his publisher he was going to meet. That meeting was tomorrow. But this was something equally important.

Once a month he met fellow writer Viktor Leander. They had met when they were still young and unpublished and had taken to meeting regularly to compare notes and pick each other’s brains. They had never liked each other very much. They were competing for the same market and were always afraid that the other was going to have a brilliant idea and leave his rival in the dust.

The driver had no trouble finding his way among the narrow alleys of the Old Town. Humlin took a few deep breaths before getting out. Viktor Leander was waiting for him at their usual table in the corner. He was wearing a new suit and had let his hair grow somewhat longer than normal. Viktor Leander was also tanned. A few years earlier he had managed to purchase his own solarium bed with a couple of well-paid articles about ‘new horizons’ in a magazine for data consultants.

Humlin sat down.

‘Welcome back.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I got your postcard. Nice stamps.’

‘It was a good trip.’

‘I look forward to hearing about it.’

He knew the man on the other side of the table had no interest in hearing about either the Solomon Islands or Rarotonga, just as Humlin had no real interest in hearing about Leander’s experiences.

They ordered their food. Now came the delicate task of interrogating the other.

‘I had a whole bunch of debut novels and poetry with me on the trip. That was hardly relaxing.’

‘But educational. I know exactly what you mean.’

It was part of their ritual to speak badly of the latest batch of new writers, especially if any of the debuting authors had been particularly praised.

Humlin lifted his glass and toasted his colleague.

‘What are you working on these days?’

‘A crime novel.’

Humlin almost choked on his wine.

‘A crime novel?’

‘I want to show up all these upstart bestseller types who can’t write. I’m going to give this genre a literary treatment. I’ve been reading Dostoevsky for inspiration.’

‘What is the book about?’

‘Oh, I haven’t come that far yet.’

Humlin sensed a door being shut. Of course Leander knew what he was planning to write. But he didn’t want to give Humlin a chance to steal his ideas.

‘Sounds like a great idea.’

Humlin was irritated. He should have thought of this himself. A crime novel from one of the country’s greatest poetic talents would gain a great deal of attention. It could be a bestseller, as opposed to the small editions of his poetry books. His trip to the South Pacific had been a mistake. If he had stayed here he would no doubt have had the same thoughts as Leander. He hastily tried to find a counter-blow.

‘I’ve been thinking of writing for TV myself.’

Now it was Leander’s turn to choke on his wine. When they last met, a few days before Humlin was leaving on his trip, they had spent most of the dinner talking disdainfully about the quality of programming on TV. Humlin had not had any thoughts then of writing plays or series. When he was younger he had tried, of course. But after two rejections, one from the City Theatre and one from the Royal Dramatic Theatre, he had decided not to keep writing dramas. But television was the only thing he could think of to counter Leander’s idea of a crime novel.

‘And what are you writing about?’

‘Reality.’

‘How interesting. Which reality is this?’

‘The unbearable tristesse of everyday life.’

Humlin sat up. He sensed that Leander had taken a blow.

‘There will also be an element of crime.’

‘You’re going to write a crime series for television?’

‘Not at all. The crime will remain in the background. I think viewers are tired of the conventional police drama. I’m envisioning something completely different.’

‘Such as?’

‘I haven’t decided yet. There are various possibilities.’

Humlin raised his glass. A certain equilibrium had been restored.

‘Reality and the tristesse of everyday life, he said. ‘An underexamined subject in our time.’

‘What in the world is there to say on the matter except that it is boring?’

‘Quite a lot, actually.’

‘I can’t wait to hear it.’

‘It’s too early for me to tell you any of this in greater detail. If I say too much now I might lose all inspiration.’

They ordered dessert and dove into a neutral topic as if by silent agreement. Both of them enjoyed this part of the evening — gossip.

‘What’s happened since I left?’

‘Not much.’

‘Something always happens.’

‘An editor at one of the major publishing houses hanged himself.’

‘Who?’

‘Carlman.’

Jesper Humlin nodded thoughtfully. Carlman had once almost refused to publish one of his earliest books of poetry.

‘Anything else?’

‘The stock market is wavering.’

Humlin poured them both more wine.

‘I hope you haven’t been silly enough to put any money in the new tech companies.’

‘I have always had a soft spot for the two pillars of the Swedish economy: timber and iron. But everything is tumbling.’

‘I know. That’s why I switched to bonds some time ago. Boring, but safe.’

The economic competition between them was also ongoing. Both of them had checked the other’s figures in the public tax records and confirmed that the other was not expecting a significant inheritance.

The train pulled out of the station. Humlin decided to mull over the conversation with Lundin until he reached Södertälje, at which point he had to start thinking about tonight’s reading. He had been planning to do this first thing, but the visit to his mother’s last night had made that impossible.

His phone rang. It was Andrea.

‘Where are you?’ she demanded.

‘On my way to Gothenburg. Have you forgotten about my reading?’

‘I haven’t forgotten about it since you never told me about it in the first place.’

Humlin sensed that she might be right. He decided against having an argument he was bound to lose.

‘We’ll talk when I get back.’

‘When I see you I want to talk about reality, not your poetry.’

Andrea ended the conversation abruptly, as she often did. Humlin kept thinking about what Lundin had said. He grew more and more agitated.

When the train left Södertälje, however, he forced all thoughts of crime novels out of his head and thought about the evening ahead. He liked jetting about the country and speaking about his work. Leander had once — after an especially inebriated dinner — accused him of being nothing more than a vain impresario. Humlin especially enjoyed speaking at libraries and adult education settings. He was more sceptical of high schools and plain fearful of any school at a lower level. This evening in Gothenburg promised to be to his liking. A civilised evening at the library with a focused audience of upper-middle-aged women who clapped heartily and never asked difficult questions.

He decided which poems he would read and which version of his journey to authorship he would present. He had tried a variety of different stories over the years and had finally settled on three accounts that he could choose between at will. The first of these was the closest to the truth. He talked about his sheltered upbringing and the frightening fact that he had never felt the need to rebel in adolescence. He had done well in school, never joined any radical factions nor travelled too adventurously. It usually took him about twenty minutes to talk about this abnormal normality.

The second version of his life was mostly lies. It consisted of a far more colourful youth and since his old classmates sometimes turned up in the audience, he had made sure to only claim such experiences as would be impossible to verify.

The third story was about a long and uncertain path to becoming a writer. In this account he claimed to have written his first novel at the age of eight but that he had burned it when he published his first real book. This version came the closest to describing the man he wished he had been. But he would never have admitted that any of these things he said about himself were not true.

In the late afternoon as the rain had begun to drizzle down over Gothenburg, Humlin took a taxi to Stensgården. It was a depressingly generic city suburb with rows of concrete apartment buildings laid out like blocks. He got out on the windy main square of Stensgården where the library lay wedged in between McDonald’s and the government-owned wine store. Once again his taxi driver had been an African man, and once again he had found the address without any problems. The sign for the library was broken and the front door was covered in graffiti. Humlin went in search of the librarian in charge who turned out to be almost identical to the woman at Mölndal library. He asked with obvious trepidation if she had invited any special groups to the reading.

‘What kind of groups?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps you’ve been doing a community outreach of some kind to bring in a new clientele to the library.’

‘And what kind of people are we talking about?’

‘I don’t know. I was just asking.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I should warn you that we are not expecting very many people tonight. At best I think we’ll have ten.’

Humlin looked at her with horror.

‘Ten people?’

‘We normally only get that many for poets. If we have a writer of crime fiction we naturally draw a larger crowd.’

‘How many more?’

‘Last time we had a hundred and fifty-seven people.’

Humlin had no more questions. He placed his overnight bag in the librarian’s office and left. Once he was back out in the deserted main square he tried to call Lundin again. This time he was there.

‘I hope you didn’t talk to any media people.’

‘Of course I did, but unfortunately they didn’t seem very interested.’

Humlin felt a huge weight lift from his chest.

‘So there will be no story?’

‘Probably not. But I’m not going to give up just yet.’

‘I want you to give up.’

‘Have you given any more thought to your crime novel?’

‘No.’

‘You should. Let me know when you have a title.’

‘I’m a poet. I don’t write detective fiction.’

‘Let me know when you think of a title.’

Humlin put the phone back in his pocket, pulled his coat more tightly around his body and started wandering across the square. After a few steps he realised that there was something different about this place. At first he didn’t know what it was, then he understood that it was the people. It was as if he had suddenly crossed over an invisible line into a foreign country. The people he saw on the street were different in colouring, dress and posture.

It struck him that he had never spent any time in this other new Sweden that was emerging, the ghetto-like city suburbs where every immigrant or refugee ended up. It also struck him again with fearful clarity that only ten people were coming to his reading tonight. What did his poetry possibly have to say to these people?

He walked around the square until he got too cold. He went into a cafe with Arabic music playing over the loudspeakers and looked for Pelle Törnblom’s phone number. He found it under ‘Törnblom’s Boxing Club’. Then he turned to the dark-skinned girl behind the counter and asked her if she knew where the boxing club was located.

‘On the other side of the church.’

Humlin did not recall having seen a church. The girl walked over to the fogged-up window and pointed it out to him, then returned to her magazine.

Humlin finished his coffee and walked over to the church and the ramshackle industrial building where a small sign on the door read ‘Pelle Törnblom’s Boxing Club’. Humlin hesitated before ringing the bell. Why was he looking him up after all these years? What would they have to say to each other? He decided to go back to the library, but at that moment the door opened. It was Törnblom. Humlin saw at once that he had gained weight. Earlier he had kept himself fit. Now he had a large belly and a red face. The shirt under his leather jacket strained across the middle. Törnblom nodded in recognition.

‘We’re coming to see you tonight,’ he said with a smile.

‘Who’s we?’

‘Amanda and I.’

‘Who is Amanda?’

‘My wife. My fourth and last wife.’

‘Then that brings us to twelve people. The librarian is expecting ten.’

Törnblom invited him in. They walked up a narrow staircase and entered a room that smelled of old sweat. There was a boxing ring in the middle of the room. Weights and other tools for strength training were lined up along the walls. Humlin instinctively looked around for something that resembled Lundin’s rowing machine.

‘Thursdays are my day off,’ Törnblom said. ‘Otherwise this place would be full of kids.’

Törnblom escorted him to a small office in the back where they sat down. Törnblom seemed to take the measure of him.

‘Why are you so tanned?’ he asked.

‘I’ve been travelling.’

‘It doesn’t look natural.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s too even. It looks like you keep it up in a solarium.’

Humlin was now convinced he had made a mistake in looking up his old friend.

‘I’ve been out travelling in tropical places. It makes you tan.’

Törnblom shrugged.

‘You look like you’ve gained weight,’ Humlin said as a counter-attack.

‘I’m married for the fourth and last time now. I can let myself go.’

‘What about your health?’

‘I’m only this heavy in the winter. I lose weight in the summer.’

‘Tell me more about this Amanda.’

‘She’s from Turkey, although to be precise it is more like Iran. But her father was born in Pakistan. He lives in Canada now.’

‘So she’s an immigrant?’

‘She was born in Sweden. Whatever that makes her.’

‘I saw a lot of immigrants around here as I was wandering around the square.’

‘It’s probably only me and the alcoholics that hang out in front of the liquor store who are what you would call ethnic Swedes. Everyone in my boxing club has another nationality. I’ve counted nineteen different ones so far.’

‘I can’t imagine I’ll see many of them at the reading tonight,’ Humlin said, and noticed to his surprise that the thought disappointed him.

‘You’ll meet them later,’ Törnblom said cheerfully, and reached for a coffee maker that had been sitting high up on a shelf.

‘After the reading?’

‘I couldn’t convince anyone to come to the library, but they’re all coming to the party afterward.’

‘What party is this?’

‘The party we’re throwing for you. It’ll be here.’

Humlin felt a new wave of anxiety wash over him.

‘No one said anything to me about a party.’

‘Of course not. It was going to be a surprise.’

‘Unfortunately I’m not going to be able to attend. I just have enough time after the reading to catch the last flight out for Stockholm.’

‘Then why don’t you leave tomorrow?’

Humlin saw Andrea’s face in his mind’s eye.

‘I can’t. Andrea will go crazy.’

‘Who is Andrea?’

‘She’s the woman I guess I share my life with.’

‘Are you married?’

‘No. We don’t even live together.’

‘Call her and tell her you need to stay overnight. She’ll understand.’

‘No, she won’t. You don’t know Andrea.’

‘Not even one night?’

‘I can’t do it,’ Humlin said.

‘Everyone will be very disappointed if we cancel the party. All the kids were looking forward to it. They’ve never met a famous bestselling author before.’

‘I’m not a bestselling author. And I’m not even particularly famous.’

Pelle Törnblom had managed to get the coffee maker to work. He offered Humlin a cup, but the poet turned him down.

‘I didn’t think someone like you would have it in you to disappoint a group of young immigrant kids. Some of their parents are coming too.’

Humlin gave up. He tried to imagine how he would explain staying overnight to Andrea, but realised there was no way in which it would not be turned against him.

‘Some gypsies are coming to play music,’ Törnblom said encouragingly.

Humlin didn’t answer. Instead his gaze fastened on an old poster advertising a match between Eddie Machen and Ingemar Johansson.

Märta Humlin had bought oysters for supper. Humlin hated oysters.

‘Why did you buy oysters?’

‘I like to give my son the best. Isn’t this good enough for you?’

‘You know I’ve never liked oysters.’

‘I’ve never heard any such thing.’

He realised the futility of continuing the conversation. Instead he told her about the idea he had had in Gothenburg. At times his mother had been able to give him valuable feedback.

‘That sounds like a marvellous idea,’ she said when he finished.

His surprise was genuine.

‘Do you really think so?’

‘You know I always say what I think.’

‘I see. Then how come everyone else I’ve talked to has been against it?’

‘It doesn’t matter. You should listen to me, and I’m telling you to go ahead and write about this girl from India. It will be very romantic, very moving. Is it a love story?’

‘She’s from Iran, not India. I was thinking more of something along the lines of a socio-realist novel.’

‘A love story is better. I think you should write something thrilling about a Swedish author and a beautiful woman from a foreign land.’

‘She’s fat and ugly, mother. And anyway, I can’t write love stories.’

Märta Humlin fixed her eyes on him intently.

‘I thought the whole idea was to break away and try something new.’

‘I want to write about something real. The way things are,’ he said.

‘Tell me how they are. And why aren’t you eating your oysters?’

‘I’m full. I want to write about how hard it is to come to a new land and try to set down new roots.’

‘And who in God’s name would want to read about a fat girl with a headscarf who lives in the suburbs?’

‘Quite a few, actually.’

‘If you follow my advice you’ll do fine. Otherwise I would leave it. You know nothing of what it’s like to come to a foreign country. And why aren’t you and Andrea having babies?’

‘We’re talking about it.’

‘Andrea says you rarely make love these days.’

Humlin dropped the little fork that he had been using to skewer the oysters he was only pretending to eat.

‘You and Andrea talk about things like that?’

‘We have an open, trusting relationship.’

Humlin was shocked. Andrea had often said how overbearing and self-centred she found his mother. Now it turned out she had a completely different relationship to this woman in front of him who forced him to eat food he didn’t like.

‘I am never coming back here again if you and Andrea keep talking like this behind my back.’

‘We simply want what’s best for you.’

Humlin suddenly remembered the phone conversation he had had with his mother a few days ago. He didn’t want to get drawn in any further into a meaningless debate about what exactly Andrea and his mother talked about. What he had heard was already enough.

‘What was that important announcement you said you were going to make?’

‘What announcement?’

‘You called and told me I had to come over because you had an important announcement to make.’

‘I have no recollection of doing any such thing.’

‘If you have made changes in the will that leave me out I want to know about it,’ he said.

‘What is in my will is no one else’s business.’

‘If we knew we could count on some measure of economic security in the future that would really help me and Andrea make the decision to have children.’

‘Are you telling me you hope I’m going to die soon?’

Humlin pushed his chair back from the table. It was late, but that seemed to have no effect on his mother.

‘I have to go home now. I’m tired and I have no desire to talk finances with you in the middle of the night.’

His mother gave him a wounded look.

‘Where did I get this son who always complains of being tired? It must be from your father.’

Then she started talking about how tired her husband had always been and Humlin stayed until three in the morning. In order not to be woken up by Andrea when she came home he put in earplugs and lay down on the couch in the living room. It took him a long time to fall asleep. In his thoughts he returned to the memory of the young woman who called herself Tea-Bag.

Törnblom had been blocking the exit. When the two of them entered the room a sudden silence had descended on everyone gathered there. He felt everyone’s eyes on him and then the murmurs had started up again, even more loudly. Humlin tried to avoid looking at everyone as he made his way to the table where Leyla, Tea-Bag and one other girl were seated. They had pulled up a seat for him. He thought with increasing desperation that when he reached the table and sat down he would be expected to know how to proceed.

For some reason he suddenly thought of his stockbroker. Maybe it was because the noise in the room reminded him of the chaos of the various stock exchanges he had seen on TV. Or perhaps it was simply because it had been over a week since he had been in touch with Anders Burén, the broker in charge of his investments. For a couple of years these investments had been unbelievably lucrative, but lately his shares had started to plummet, like all the rest of the stocks around the world.

If I survive this I should give him a call tomorrow, Humlin thought. He immediately started worrying that something dramatic was taking place somewhere in the world at this very moment, the effects of which would soon render all his investments as worthless as if they had been wiped out by a tidal wave. When he reached the table all chatter around the room ceased. He nodded to Tea-Bag, but it was Leyla who stretched out her hand in greeting. Tea-Bag seemed to be testing him somehow. The third girl sat with her face turned away from him.

When he took Leyla’s hand it was like grasping a dead, sweaty fish. But fish don’t sweat, he thought in a confused way. And girls must be allowed to sweat if they get nervous. Perhaps I can use this image in some future poem, although it seems unlikely I will publish another collection. My future right now is determined by two books I will never write. The marketing campaign for one of them is already underway.

Humlin held on to Leyla’s hand, afraid that he would lose his tenuous hold on the situation if he let go of it. He greeted them all in a friendly fashion. Somewhere in the room behind him someone started clapping enthusiastically.

‘I see you brought some friends with you,’ Humlin said to Leyla, trying to sound casual.

‘They really wanted to be here. You’ve already met Tea-Bag.’

Humlin shook Tea-Bag’s hand. She pulled her hand back as if he had squeezed too hard. He didn’t manage to catch the third girl’s name. She didn’t stretch out her hand and sat turned away from him. He sat down on the empty chair. At the same time a group of people in the room who had been sitting at the very back got up and made their way to the front.

‘They’re my parents,’ Leyla explained.

‘All of them?’

‘The two tallest ones are my brother and sister. The other two are my parents.’

Leyla pointed to them as she spoke. They all looked equally short to Humlin.

‘My family would like to be introduced to you.’

‘I thought only your brother was going to come,’ Humlin said.

‘I have three brothers. My grandmother is also here. And two aunts on my father’s side.’

Humlin was introduced to the family members one by one. They were friendly enough but were also clearly looking him over. Humlin heard their names but forgot them all immediately. When all the introductions were over they started their way back through the rows of other people. Humlin felt sweat running down his chest, inside his shirt. The windows looked nailed shut. He looked over at Törnblom who was standing by the door like a bouncer. Humlin felt a growing panic and cursed the fact that he had for once in his life forgotten to bring the pills he had for calming his nerves.

‘This is Tanya,’ Leyla said, indicating the girl who sat with her head turned away.

Humlin half-expected to hear a new group of family members approach the table, but heard nothing. Tanya must have come on her own.

‘Where are you from?’ Humlin asked.

‘She’s from Russia,’ Leyla answered.

‘And you are here to learn to write? To tell your story?’

‘She has been through more than any of us,’ Leyla said. ‘But she doesn’t talk very much.’

This turned out to be an accurate observation. Tanya did not say a single word all evening. Humlin looked at her surreptitiously from time to time. He assumed she was the oldest of the three, perhaps twenty-five or twenty-six. She was the complete opposite of Leyla, slender and with a beautiful oval face framed by straight brown hair that fell to her shoulders. She was very tense and stared at a fixed point on the wall. Humlin realised that he didn’t have the slightest idea what she could be thinking, not even when he employed all of his imaginative powers. He also realised, with the usual mixture of anxiety and anticipation, that he was starting to feel attracted to her.

Next to Tanya was Tea-Bag, the young woman he had first met in Mölndal and who had asked him the question that was the real reason he had returned to Stensgården. That time she had struck him as outspoken and strong. Now she seemed preoccupied and insecure and never quite met his gaze.

There was a hush in the room. Humlin realised that the orchestra had arrived, and that he was the conductor. He had to think of something. He turned to Leyla.

‘Why do you want to write?’ he asked.

‘I want to be a TV star,’ she said.

Humlin was taken aback.

‘A TV star?’

‘Yes, to be on TV, ideally a programme that comes on every night for ten years.’

‘Well, I hardly think I can help you with that goal. We’re not going to be talking about the TV business.’

Humlin didn’t know how to continue. The whole situation seemed preposterous. A low buzz had started up again in the room. On one side he had Leyla, who was sweating and who had just told him she wanted to be a TV star, on the other side was Tanya, who still had her face turned away from him, and Tea-Bag whom he no longer recognised. In order to buy some time he pointed to the pads of paper the girls all had in front of them, labelled ‘Törnblom’s Boxing Club’.

‘I want you to write two things,’ he said and was immediately interrupted by someone with a heavy accent asking him to speak up.

‘This is not actually intended to be a lecture,’ Humlin replied in a loud voice. ‘What I want at this point is for the girls to write down the answers to two questions: “Why do you want to write?” and “What do you hope to do in the future?”’

A murmur of surprise and anticipation filled the room. Törnblom made his way over to the table with a glass of water.

‘Can’t we open a window in here? It’s so hot!’ Humlin asked.

‘We’ve had too many burglaries. I was forced to nail the windows shut.’

‘I’m suffocating!’

‘You’re just dressed too warmly. But this is going very well, I think. Keep it up.’

‘It’s going to hell. I’m going mad. And if I don’t get any air I’m going to faint. I can’t faint. What I should do is kill you.’

‘I don’t think you can since I’m much stronger than you are. But don’t worry. Things are going well.’

Törnblom returned to his place by the door. The girls were busy writing on their pads of paper. What do I do next? Humlin thought and felt a growing sense of desperation. He decided not to do anything at all. He would just gather their answers, read them and then ask them to write something for next time — though there would be no next time — about how they had experienced this evening. After that he would be able to leave this suffocating room and maybe even make the last train or flight back to Stockholm. He was never going to return. He looked around at all the people in the room. A woman who was breastfeeding her child nodded encouragingly to him. Humlin nodded back politely. Then he gathered up the pages that the girls had written. He did not plan on reading their answers out loud. In order not to have to deal with wild protests from the crowd he turned to Leyla and whispered, ‘I want you to tell these people that these answers have been written in confidence. I am not going to read them out loud.’

She looked horrified.

‘I can’t do that. And I don’t even know all the languages these people speak.’

‘Surely they understand a little Swedish?’

‘You can’t be too sure about that.’

‘Why can’t you tell them the notes are written in confidence?’

‘My brothers might think I was writing a secret message to you.’

‘And why on earth would you do that?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I can’t run a writing seminar if everyone always has to know everything that’s going on. To write is to tell stories from deep within yourself. It’s a process of revealing your innermost self.’

Leyla thought about it.

‘You don’t have to read our answers out loud,’ she decided. ‘But you will have to give them back to us so that I can show them to my family when I come home. It doesn’t matter in the case of Tanya or Tea-Bag, of course.’

‘And why not?’

‘They have no family. We are their family.’

Humlin saw they were not going to get any further. He stood up.

‘I will not read these answers out loud,’ he announced.

A grumble broke out among the crowd.

‘But naturally the girls will keep what they have written.’

The protests slowly dwindled in volume. Humlin sat down again and threw Leyla a grateful glance. Then he looked through the notes. First there was Tanya’s. Her page was blank except for a drawing of a little heart that appeared to be bleeding. Nothing else. Humlin looked at the image of the bleeding or weeping heart for a long time. Then he looked at Tanya. She was still staring at a point on the wall opposite her and seemed to be somewhere far away from this stuffy room. He folded her note, realising it had moved him, and handed it back to her.

Next he looked at Leyla’s note. She wrote that she wanted to be an author so she could tell people what it was like to be a refugee in a country like Sweden. But she had also added an honest addendum: I want to write so I can be thin. Humlin wondered if this was perhaps the most honest answer he had ever received to the question of why someone wanted to be a writer. She had also written that she dreamed of one day becoming a talk-show host or actress.

The last page was from Tea-Bag. I want to write about what happened on the beach. In answer to the question of her future she had also written that she wanted to be a talk-show host.

The answers were interesting but also confusing. Humlin searched his increasingly weary mind for a good way to round off the evening. He looked at the three girls, and then at the ever more impatient crowd. I’m just going to lie, he thought as he stood up. I’m going to lie and I’m going to do it well. Not because I’m mean-spirited or full of disgust, but because this whole project has stalled before it even got off the ground.

‘I’m not going to keep you here any longer this evening. Now we know a little bit more about each other and I have a better idea of what you would like to get out of the writing seminar. I will be in touch to arrange our next meeting. Thank you very much for coming here tonight.’

There was a second of confused silence, then someone started to clap. Humlin felt a huge wave of relief that it was all over. He started making his way towards the exit and stopped to shake the many outstretched hands along the way. That was when the seventeen-year-old girl Sasha had smiled at him and he — without ever knowing why — patted her on the cheek. Then everything went black.

He didn’t hear her come out of the bedroom. She moved soundlessly.

‘Why did you go to bed?’ he asked when he saw her.

‘I was tired. I’m going now.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Tea-Bag.’

He hesitated.

‘Your passport fell out of your pocket while you were sleeping,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t help seeing that your real name is Florence.’

She laughed heartily, as if he had told a good joke.

‘It’s a fake,’ she said.

‘Where did you get it?’

‘I bought it in the camp. On the beach.’

‘What camp? Which beach?’

That was when she started telling him her story. How she had crawled up onto the Spanish shore and been caught by armed guards and albino German shepherd guard dogs.

Humlin always felt uncomfortable when he entered Burén’s office. He had often asked him why the curtains always had to stay drawn.

‘I think it creates a cosier atmosphere,’ Burén said.

‘I think it creates the feeling of sitting in a cellar.’

‘When talking about money I find one needs to stay completely calm and rid oneself of all extraneous thoughts.’

‘The only thought I have when I come to see you is that I want to get out of here as soon as possible.’

‘That is also the point.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That I don’t like for my clients to stay longer than necessary.’

Burén was all of twenty-four years old, but looked closer to fifteen. He had had a skyrocketing career within the financial world, beginning when he borrowed money in school to make a couple of extremely lucky investments in the growing Internet business. He had made his first million before he even graduated. For a few years he worked for one of the largest investment firms in the country, then he had broken off to start his own business in this dim office. Humlin sat down in the uncomfortable wooden chair Burén had bought for an outrageous sum of money at the Bukowski auction house.

‘I just want to know how my investments are doing,’ Humlin said.

‘Everything is fine.’

‘What about the recent stock-market fluctuations?’

‘What fluctuations?’

‘Every paper in the country has been running this as front-page news! The market has lost fourteen per cent of its value.’

‘An excellent development,’ Burén said.

‘How can you say that?’

‘It just depends on what perspective you use to look at it.’

‘I can only see it this way: how are my stocks doing?’

When Humlin started investing a few years ago, he decided to follow his mother’s advice to be conservative and not put all of his 250,000 kronor in one basket. He had insisted that Burén — whom Viktor Leander had recommended — buy shares in a variety of companies and industries. But after about a year Burén had convinced him that it was time to make a concerted investment in some extremely promising Internet company. Burén had suggested White Vision, a company that apparently made ‘cloned accessories’, which was a phrase Humlin still did not understand. The company was being praised to the skies in the media and the founder was a nineteen-year-old student at Chalmers Business School who was considered a brilliant innovator. She was also a beautiful woman whose private life was often the subject of extra press coverage.

At first the new strategy had been extremely profitable. Humlin’s initial investment of 250,000 had risen in just a few months to three times his original stake. Every time he suggested selling and pocketing the profits Burén had convinced him the stock had not yet peaked. Now Burén was looking at his computer screen in an inscrutable, thoughtful silence. Humlin’s stomach was starting to hurt.

‘Your shares are doing just fine,’ Burén said finally.

Humlin felt a wave of relief. He had been worried about the market for several weeks now and had not been able to make himself follow the numbers in the papers.

‘So they’re still going up?’

Burén looked again at his screen.

‘They’re not going up. But they’re fine.’

‘You sound as if you’re talking about an unruly group of schoolchildren. When we bought those shares they were worth a hundred and twenty kronor per share. Last time we talked they were up at almost four hundred. What are they today?’

‘Their recent fluctuations have been negligible.’

‘Is that up or down?’

‘Both. Sometimes mostly up, sometimes mostly down.’

Humlin’s worry was starting to return.

‘And where are they right now, exactly?’

‘They appear to have stabilised.’

‘Can’t you give me a straight answer?’

‘I am giving you straight answers.’

‘What are they worth?’

‘Right now: nineteen fifty.’

Humlin stared with horror at the man he only saw dimly on the other side of the desk. In his mind he saw all his savings turning from a mountain of gold to a heap of ashes.

‘But that’s a catastrophe. I bought shares for two hundred and fifty thousand kronor. What would I get today if I sold everything?’

‘About thirty-five thousand.’

Humlin gave a bitter roar.

‘You mean to tell me I have lost two hundred thousand kronor?’

‘As long as you don’t sell you haven’t lost anything.’

Humlin’s heart was starting to beat irregularly.

‘Do you think they will go back up?’

‘Of course they will.’

‘When?’

‘In all probability they will go up shortly.’

‘How can you know that? How soon?’

‘White Vision is a well-run company. If they don’t declare bankruptcy they will almost certainly grow strongly over the next few years.’

‘Bankruptcy?’

‘And in that case we can deduct your losses against the profits you’ve made in other deals.’

‘But I have no other shares!’

Burén looked at him sternly, and with a certain amount of pity.

‘I have been trying to tell you this for a long time,’ he said. ‘You should have diversified earlier. Then you would always be able to counter losses.’

‘I had no more money!’

‘You can always borrow.’

‘So I should have taken out a loan to buy shares that will be profitable so that I can deduct the losses of the shares I have that I lost everything on?’

Humlin felt completely crushed. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to beat up the spotty young man on the other side of the desk.

‘You need to keep a cool head in these situations,’ Burén said.

‘What I have is a pain in my head.’

‘The market always bounces back. Your shares have stabilised at a very satisfactory number. The company has already alerted investors about anticipated losses and cash-flow strain in the next quarter. But these things are never written in stone. How are the poems coming along?’

‘At least they haven’t lost all their value yet.’

Suddenly Burén leaned across the desk.

‘I should perhaps tell you that we will become colleagues soon.’

‘I will never set foot in the world of finance.’

‘That’s not what I mean. I’m writing a novel.’

For a split second Humlin imagined Burén publishing a book and being welcomed by the critics as the new hope, as Humlin himself was sidelined and forgotten.

‘What about?’

‘It’s a crime novel. It will centre on a terrible financial crisis.’

‘Will you figure in this novel?’

‘Not at all. The murderer is a woman. She is a ruthless investment broker who doesn’t simply stop at fleecing her clients.’

‘What else does she do?’

‘She literally skins them. I plan to finish the book next month.’

Humlin felt outraged that a man like Burén assumed he could master something as complicated as writing a novel. He wanted to protest, but of course said nothing.

Burén glanced at the computer screen.

‘They’re very stable. Nice and easy. Just levelling out at seventeen kronor.’

‘Five minutes ago they were up over nineteen, you said.’

‘These are negligible fluctuations. You bought for one hundred and twenty. What do you care if they are at nineteen or seventeen?’

Humlin was almost at the point of tears.

‘What is your professional advice?’ he asked.

‘To sit tight.’

‘Is that it?’

‘I’ll be in touch when things look better again.’

‘And when will that be?’

‘Shortly.’

‘How soon is that?’

‘In a few weeks. Ten years at most.’

Humlin stared at him. The chanting of Franciscan monks was coming from somewhere. Burén must have turned it on without him noticing. The music swelled to a deafening roar inside his head.

‘Ten years?’

‘That is the outer margin. Not more than that.’

Burén stood up.

‘I have to leave now. But please don’t worry. I’ll send you a copy of the manuscript when I finish. I look forward to getting your feedback.’

I continued to drift in that boat. Time was no longer of any importance. I think the boat trip lasted three days and three nights. I only rowed in to shore the few times I passed a small village and wanted to buy some food with the last of my money. In one of the villages there was a black man in the market that I had decided looked as if it sold the cheapest food. This was the shop I always looked for, the one with the dirty façade and the broken sign. He looked at me with serious eyes but when I smiled he smiled back. He said something to me that I did not understand. But when I answered him in my own language, the language that was already beginning to feel foreign to me, he jumped up from his rickety chair and answered me in the same language.

‘My daughter!’ he said. ‘You come from my country. What are you doing here, who are you, where are you going?’

I thought it was best to be careful in my answers. This man was one of my people, but he sat on a strange chair in a foreign land. Perhaps he would contact the police who would come down with their dogs and make sure I was thrown in jail. I did not know. But it was as if I had no more energy for subterfuge. I couldn’t run away or even give false answers. All of my lies felt meaningless, as if they were simply going to bounce back into my mouth and choke me. I decided to tell this man the truth.

‘I have escaped from a Spanish refugee camp.’

He frowned. I could see in his face all the lines and scars he had received from many dangers and sorrows.

‘How did you get here?’ he asked.

‘I walked.’

‘My God! You have walked from Spain?’

‘I have also drifted along the river in a boat.’

‘How long have you been travelling?’

When he asked me that question, I suddenly knew the answer. I thought I had lost all sense of time, but suddenly I could see the long line of white stones in my head. I counted them all.

‘Three months and four days,’ I said.

He shook his head in disbelief.

‘How have you managed? Where have you found food? Have you been alone? What is your name?’

‘Tea-Bag.’

The man was tall and strong, but his hair was already starting to turn white. He leaned forward and looked me in the eyes.

‘You have been alone for a long time but now you are my daughter. At least for a while. Soon Monsieur Le Patron will be back and then you can’t stay, since like the white man that he is he has explained to me he can only tolerate one black person at a time.’

I still did not trust him. Even though he looked me straight in the eyes, allowing me to see deeply into him, I never forgot that I was trespassing on forbidden territory.

‘What is your name?’ I asked him.

‘Zachary. But in our language my name is Luningi.’

My father’s name! Now I was the one who opened my eyes wide and hoped he could see through my eyes to the village where my father had lived until he was one day taken away.

‘My father’s name was Luningi.’

‘I have my name after an uncle who dreamed of a mountain. He set out to find it and never returned. We think he found the mountain and decided to stay because it was so beautiful. Perhaps he is still there deep inside it. What do you and I know, what does anyone really know? Where is it you are going, my daughter?’

‘To Sweden.’

Luningi frowned again.

‘Is that a city? I have heard the name before.’

‘It is a country, to the north.’

‘Why are you going there?’

‘Someone is waiting for me there.’

Luningi looked at me for a long time with his wide eyes. The silence around him was heavy with thought. There was a sharp smell in the shop from the cheese counter that I found calming. The smell of the cheese and the man’s white hair were real. I had hardly spoken to a person for three months. My tongue had started to feel swollen and stiff, as if it was suffering from being used so little.

‘Who is waiting for you?’

‘The country. The people who live there know who I am.’

Luningi nodded slowly.

‘It is good to have a goal. You should hold on to it. People who have lost sight of their goal often begin to live in a careless manner. I had a goal once. It was to travel to Europe and work for ten years. Nothing else, only that. I wanted to live as cheaply as possible, save my money and then return home in order to fulfil my dream.’

‘What was that?’

‘To build a mortuary.’

I had never heard that word before. ‘Mortuary’. Was that a cheese shop? Brightly coloured cloth for dresses? Or was it a restaurant with food so spicy that one started to sweat after the first bite? I didn’t know.

‘Perhaps you don’t know what that is,’ he said. ‘Or perhaps you don’t want to know. Are you afraid of death?’

‘Everyone is afraid of death.’

‘Not me. A mortuary is a place where the dead rest before their burial. It is a room full of ice where the sun never reaches in. The dead have time to cool after their battle with death, before they are placed in the earth.’

‘Why do you want to build a mortuary?’

‘When I was young I travelled around our country with my father. He was helping people look for water. He was not a shaman, he did not look for it with a wooden stick. He simply saw the water in his mind. But what I saw were big cities where there were so many people crowded together they almost stuck to one another, and villages where the sense of desolation was so strong it made people silent. I saw that we were slowly losing our ability to die a slow and thoughtful death. An African who loses the ability to die with dignity is a lost man. He loses the ability to live, just like the people in this country. I want to build a mortuary where dignity is intact. In my mortuary the dead will be able to rest in the cool air before they bow one last time to the earth and disappear.’

‘I think I understand.’

‘No, you don’t. One day perhaps you will, if you are not eaten alive by the country that is waiting for you. Countries can be like hungry animals with a thousand mouths. They eat us up when their need is great and they spit us out when they are done. I sell some cheese in this shop every day, but I am never able to save any money. The only thing I fear is that when I feel my death approaching I will not have enough money or strength to return to the place where I was born. One can live a rootless existence but one cannot die without knowing where one should plant one’s last and most valuable roots.’

Luningi walked to the door and squinted in the light out into the street. There were church bells pealing in the distance.

‘Now it is best that you leave. Monsiuer Le Patron will soon be back.’

Luningi put some cheese in a plastic bag for me. I saw that his back was bent as if under a great weight. His left leg dragged slightly behind him when he walked.

‘Cheese will fill you up,’ he said.

Then he handed me some wrinkled banknotes from his pocket but I would not take them.

‘They are for your mortuary,’ I said.

‘Other people will build it. It is too late for me.’

‘But what about your trip home?’

‘It is not as important as your trip to the north.’

We stood there silently in the dim light of the shop. Luningi stretched out his hand and stroked my cheek.

‘You are very beautiful, my daughter,’ he said. ‘When I remove my hand I can no longer protect you. Many men will desire you, perhaps hurt you, because you are so beautiful. The only one who can protect you is you.’

‘I am not afraid.’

Luningi pulled back his hand and looked at me with sudden disapproval.

‘Why do you say you are not afraid when that was the first thing I saw in you? I have also been on the run. I know what it is like not to be welcome anywhere, always to be hunted, surrounded by people who want to catch you. Don’t stand there and say you are not afraid. I am too tired to listen to lies.’

‘I am afraid.’

‘Yes, you are afraid. Go. I will try to see in my dreams if you reach the goal you have set for yourself. To arrive. To become visible. But don’t forget that you live in a world where thousands of unwelcome refugees are streaming across the globe. The ones who have already made it to the other side will do all in their power to make sure that you do not make it. Now you should go.’

‘What is wrong with your leg?’

‘I only have enough energy to give to one leg. Go.’

He pushed me to the door, caressed my face a last time with his fingers, then forced me out onto the street. I tried to remember the feel of that push for the remainder of my journey, to try to capture the strength he had tried to give me along with the cheese and the money. In my thoughts I spoke to him every day. I could always ask him for advice. Every time he answered me it was as if the energy it required made his hair grow more and more white.

When I was tired the images of Luningi and my father were joined together into a new face that I had never seen before but that still seemed familiar to me. In my dreams, often as I was just falling asleep, I saw the two of them, Luningi and my father, deep in conversation in a secret language I had never heard. From time to time they would turn to me and smile. They were discussing how best to help me, what advice to give, which prayers to say and which gods would best protect my venture. Sometimes I was angry at their inadequacy. Neither one of them was a very powerful protector. I was always running into bad luck and the only one who helped me out was me.

Humlin did not manage to convince the officer who filed the report to let him call Pelle Törnblom until four o’clock in the morning. Before then he had managed to spend a few moments alone with Tanya.

‘I’m going to tell them the door was already open when we arrived,’ he said. ‘And I won’t tell them anything about who you are. How did you learn to break open doors anyway?’

‘My father was a burglar. He taught me.’

‘Is that what you do, then? Are you a thief?’

‘How would I manage otherwise?’

‘Is that why you keep a crowbar in your boot?’

Her eyes glinted angrily.

‘I hate being poor. Do you even know what that is? To be so poor you start to despise your own existence? Do you know? No, how could you know.’

‘Is that why you left? You wanted to escape the poverty?’

‘I did not try to escape anything. I left Smolensk in order to become rich. I was tired of breaking into houses where there was nothing left to take. I wanted to come to a country where there was something to take behind the doors I was going to break open. And it happened to be Sweden.’

At this point they were escorted to different rooms. Humlin was placed in a room with a drunken ice-hockey fan who had thrown up on the floor and whose right eye had swollen shut. During the half-hour that followed, Humlin was forced to listen to a completely incomprehensible account of the brawl that had taken place at the Scandinavium arena. It was only when the ice-hockey fan was taken away that Humlin was able to gather his thoughts. What could he do? When Törnblom finally turned up at dawn Humlin had prepared an explanation that shielded Tanya. Törnblom stood and glared at him for a long time before speaking.

‘Why didn’t you just call me and ask me to come down and unlock the door?’

‘I left my phone on the train. Didn’t you ring to check what time the train was coming in and hear it was delayed?’

‘I was waiting for your call, you know. It was damned difficult to stand there and explain to everyone that you had simply stood them up.’

‘The train was delayed,’ Humlin repeated in hurt tones. ‘I didn’t let them down.’

‘Haiman had brought a rugby ball to give to you. When he realised you weren’t coming he said he regretted not having hit you even harder. Everyone was very disappointed.’

‘The train lost all power just outside of Herrljunga! How many times do I have to say this?’

‘Why didn’t you call?’

‘The phone was out of range.’

‘I hope you realise I find this all a bit hard to believe. There are a few too many convenient coincidences in your story.’

‘Every word I’m telling you is true. What happened anyway? I mean, when I didn’t show up.’

‘I had to explain that unfortunately you had revealed your true colours as a fundamentally unreliable person. We decided to cancel the whole thing.’

‘Cancel?’

‘I hope you realise how disappointed the girls are.’

‘This is ludicrous. You’ve heard my explanation. I haven’t let them down.’

‘Where did you find Tanya anyway?’

‘She was waiting for me outside your club.’

‘Why was she still there?’

It was at this point that Humlin used his newly fabricated story.

‘She was guarding your door since there had been a break-in.’

‘There was no break-in. Nothing was stolen.’

‘I wouldn’t know about that.’

Humlin was completely unprepared for Törnblom’s next reaction which was to reach out and grab Humlin by his shirt.

‘I don’t know what the hell you’re up to or what you’re thinking. But you leave my club alone!’

He slowly let go. Humlin was speechless. They were alone in the room. Humlin had to wait for the report to be completed before the police could let him go. He had no idea where Tanya was.

‘How many times do I have to tell you that I had nothing to do with your club being broken into?’

‘You’re probably enough of a worm to pin this on Tanya, aren’t you?’

‘I told you she was just guarding the door. I’m not pinning anything on her.’

Törnblom pulled out a pack of cigarettes although a sign clearly stated that all smoking was forbidden.

‘You can’t smoke here, you know.’

Törnblom calmly lit his cigarette and sat down.

‘This isn’t good enough. You’re not good enough.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You aren’t man enough to help these girls start to believe in themselves.’

‘And how could I do that? You just cancelled everything.’

‘I was humiliated when you didn’t show. Leyla was close to tears and all her relatives were upset. Even if you don’t care about them you don’t have to treat them like shit. You’ll have time to regret you did.’

‘I assume you mean Haiman is going to come looking for me.’

‘We don’t use violent methods. That’s part of the stereotype of immigrants people like you help to perpetuate.’

‘I’m not perpetuating any stereotypes. I’m just trying to understand what you’re saying.’

‘The reporter was also very disappointed. He said he was going to study your poetry for signs of a mindset that despises weakness in people. Even if you try to hide behind pretty words he’ll find you out. He’ll crush you.’

Humlin’s stomach started to hurt.

‘This is unfair. I don’t deserve this kind of treatment.’

Törnblom threw his cigarette on the floor and crushed it with his foot.

‘There’s no point in continuing this conversation. I still don’t understand how you can claim one of the girls was with you on the train only to disappear in Hallsberg. It sounds implausible. I take it for granted you understand that we will have no contact after this. You should also avoid Stensgården, at least for the next few years. The people out there have their pride, however humble their circumstances.’

Törnblom left. Humlin searched desperately for a solution to what he now viewed as his greatest problem, the fact that a reporter was going to write an article with the intention of crushing him. But he was also hurt and saddened by Törnblom’s words.

The door opened and a police officer looked in.

‘You are free to go,’ he said. ‘We just need you to sign a couple of papers.’

‘I’m not signing anything.’

‘It’s just a document stating that you are not accused of having committed any crime.’

Humlin signed it.

‘What happened to the girl who was brought in with me?’

‘Do you mean Tatyana? Tatyana Nilsson?’

Humlin wasn’t surprised by anything at this point.

‘Yes. Where is she? We arrived at the boxing club at the same time. The door was already broken in.’

‘We know that.’

‘So I’m assuming that means she is also being released now?’

‘We can’t release her.’

‘Why not?’

‘She escaped through a window in the bathroom. We’re still not sure how she actually opened it and got herself out.’

‘Is that a crime?’

‘Not in itself. But we have been checking her driving licence in our registers and there’s something fishy about the information she gave us. We haven’t got to the bottom of it yet.’

‘There are few things that make any sense in this life,’ Humlin said. ‘But can I go now?’

It was a quarter past five. Before Humlin left the station he called his mobile phone number. He was surprised to hear that someone answered.

‘Who am I speaking to?’ he asked.

‘Who’s asking?’

‘The phone you’re using actually belongs to me.’

The man who had answered Humlin’s phone sounded sleepy and not completely sober.

‘I bought this phone yesterday for one hundred kronor.’

‘I’m going to block the account as soon as this conversation is over. If you really did buy the phone you bought stolen property.’

‘I don’t care about that. But you can get it back for five hundred.’

‘Where can I meet you?’

‘I’ll think about it. Call back in an hour. What time is it anyway? Who the hell calls people at this hour?’

‘I’ll call back in quarter of an hour.’

Humlin’s head was throbbing. During the last few years he had become increasingly convinced that he was going to develop high blood pressure, just like Olof Lundin. But his doctor had patiently explained to him that his blood pressure was completely normal. He had bought a blood pressure cuff in secret since he always suspected she didn’t tell him the truth. When the cuff showed the same results as the doctor’s, he immediately suspected that it had malfunctioned.

Every morning he spent the first few minutes of his day going through his various body parts to see how he felt. He was rarely sick but often felt bad. If he discovered some little thing that seemed amiss it could ruin his whole day. A few weeks earlier he had found a strange rash on his leg and right arm. He immediately suspected it could be the sign of serious illness and asked Andrea about it as soon as he had a chance. She glanced at his arm.

‘That’s nothing,’ she said.

‘You can see this, can’t you? How can you say it’s nothing?’

‘Because I am a highly qualified nurse and because I can see with my own eyes that it’s nothing.’

‘But I’m completely red here!’

‘Does it itch?’

‘No.’

‘Hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Then don’t worry about it.’

Then, he was temporarily assuaged by Andrea’s words. Now he massaged his aching head and wondered if he should call his doctor, even though it was only half past five in the morning.

After fifteen minutes he called his mobile again. It had been turned off. He slammed the phone down in a fury and left the police station. It was still dark outside. He was tired and hungry and his head still ached. He was worried about what Törnblom’s reporter was going to write. When he walked past the Gothenburg football stadium he suddenly had the feeling that someone was following him. He turned around but there was no one there. He continued on towards the Central station. It was windy and icy cold. He thought he felt a sore throat coming on. When he reached the station someone appeared at his side. He jumped. It was Tanya. Or Inez/Natalia/Tatyana.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I wanted to see how things went.’

‘Neither of us is accused of any crime, but they did find something wrong with your licence. Is your name really Tatyana Nilsson?’

‘Of course not. It’s a fake ID.’

Humlin looked around nervously. He felt additional problems growing up around him. First Tea-Bag had disappeared. Now Tanya had escaped from the police station. He pulled her over to a cafe that had just opened.

She looked curiously at him.

‘Why are you so worried?’

‘I’m not worried. Do you by any chance have a mobile phone I could borrow? I left mine on the train and now someone has stolen it. Probably one of the cleaners. Who then sold it.’

‘Is there any particular brand you want?’

‘What?’

Tanya got up. Some businessmen in expensive winter coats were leaving a table nearby. She walked past them, then returned. When the men had left she handed him a phone. Humlin realised she had somehow managed to steal it from one of the men.

‘I don’t want it.’

‘They can afford to buy new ones.’

‘I can’t understand how you managed to take it. Was it lying on the table? Didn’t he notice that you took it?’

‘He had it in his pocket.’

‘His pocket?’

‘Is that so strange?’

‘I don’t understand how you could get it.’

She leaned forward and patted his arm.

‘What do you have in your pocket?’ she asked.

‘Some change. My keys. Why do you ask?’

‘Can you show me your keys?’

Humlin reached for his keys but couldn’t find them. Then she opened her hand and showed them to him.

‘When did you take them?’

‘Just now.’

Humlin stared at her.

‘Who are you? What are you? A burglar, a pickpocket?’

The door to the cafe opened and one of the businessmen hurried in. He looked at the table he had been sitting at, then went up to the counter and asked if anyone had found his phone. The server behind the counter shook her head. Humlin crouched down. The man shook his head and walked out again.

‘Didn’t you have to make a call?’ Tanya asked.

‘I don’t think I’m quite up to it.’

Tanya got up again.

‘I have to do something. I’ll be back.’

‘How do I know that?’

‘I will be back. An hour at the latest.’

‘I might be gone by then.’

‘No,’ she said, ‘you can’t go until I’ve answered your question.’

‘Which one?’

‘The one about if I’m a thief or a pickpocket.’

Tanya left. Humlin had another cup of coffee, then tried to gather his thoughts. The phone felt heavy in his pocket. He forced himself to take it out and call Andrea.

‘Why are you calling so early?’ she said.

‘I haven’t slept all night.’

‘I can hear that.’

‘How can you hear it?’

‘You sound like you always do when you’ve been up drinking all night. Have you had a good time?’

‘I’ve been holed up in a Gothenburg police station accused of breaking and entering.’

‘Did you do it?’

‘Of course not. It has not been an enjoyable evening. I just wanted to tell you I’ll be home later today.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Because I want us to have made a decision about our future together in exactly forty-eight hours.’

‘I promise.’

‘What do you promise?’

‘That we’ll talk about this.’

‘It’s for real this time. Also, you should call Olof Lundin.’

‘What did he want? When did he ring?’

‘He called last night. He said you could call back any time. I also should tell you that your mother called.’

‘What did she want?’

‘She said you had attacked her.’

‘I never laid a finger on her!’

‘She said you hit her so hard she ended up lying on the floor in the hallway for several hours.’

‘It’s not true. She’s losing her mind.’

‘She always sounds coherent and clear when I talk to her.’

‘She’s senile. She just puts on a good act.’

‘I have to go. But I’m counting on the fact that we’re going to have a serious discussion tonight.’

‘I’ll be there. I miss you.’

Andrea hung up without commenting on the last thing he said. Humlin sighed and wondered if Andrea was plotting to leave him. He also wondered what new dramas his mother had up her sleeve. In order to distract himself from these concerns he called Lundin.

‘Lundin here.’

‘It’s Jesper Humlin. I hope I didn’t wake you up.’

‘I’ve been up since four. Where are you?’

Humlin decided to make something up on the spot.

‘In Helsinki.’

‘What are you doing there?’

‘Preparatory research.’

‘So you’ve decided to go ahead with the crime novel. Excellent. Then we can market your book alongside your mother’s.’

‘There will be no team marketing strategy. And my mother is never going to write a book.’

‘Never say never. I’ve read a draft.’

Humlin felt a stabbing sensation in his stomach.

‘She sent you a manuscript?’

‘One page, to be more precise. Handwritten. She summarised the plot in a few paragraphs, something about cannibals and civil servants I think. I couldn’t read all of it since her handwriting is somewhat difficult but one has to have patience with ninety-year-old first-time authors.’

‘I’m telling you you’ll never see a book from her.’

‘I’ve been worried about you. Are you done with that crazy stuff in Gothenburg?’

‘No. And it’s not crazy.’

‘As long as I get my crime novel you can spend your time however you please. I’d like it to be three hundred and eighty-four pages.’

‘I was thinking of something more like three hundred and eighty-nine.’

‘No can do. We’ve already informed the book binders and ordered the paper. How far along are you? Why is the book set in Helsinki? It’s too easy for it to degenerate into a cold war spy thriller. Brazil is better.’

Humlin was taken aback.

‘Why is it better?’

‘It’s warmer.’

Humlin thought about Lundin’s ice-cold office and wondered if there was a connection.

‘I’m just joking with you,’ Humlin said. ‘I’m not in Helsinki, I’m in Gothenburg. I’m not planning to write a crime novel. I don’t know what I’m going to write next. Maybe a story about a young pickpocket, or a book about a girl who has a monkey on her back.’

‘Are you ill, Humlin?’

‘No.’

‘You are talking very strangely.’

‘What was it you wanted to talk to me about when you called yesterday?’

‘I just wanted to reassure myself that the news in the paper wasn’t true. I await your crime novel with pleasure. So do the oil executives.’

‘There’s not going to be a crime novel.’

‘The line’s breaking up. I can’t hear you.’

‘I said, there’s not going to be a crime novel.’

‘I can’t hear anything now. I’m going to hang up. Come up and see me when you get back. We need to talk. And the marketing department want to meet with you to present their ideas for your next book campaign.’

He hung up. Humlin was exhausted. The feeling of having lost his foothold in life returned like a great weight. It was as if someone had blocked all the exits out of a burning house.

The coffee cup was empty. He carried it out into the kitchen and returned to the living room. He looked around. There were a number of photographs in gilt frames on one shelf. They depicted children of various ages, a wedding couple, a man in a uniform. Above the shelf there was a flag that he assumed must be Turkish. I am in the middle of a story, he thought. Everything that is now happening to me, everything that the girls tell and don’t tell, what they do and don’t do, I may be able to shape into a narrative that has not been related before. Tea-Bag disappears God knows where; police dogs burst into the room at the boxing club. I am currently camping out in an apartment that belongs to a Turkish family. The girl who lives here for the moment is a person who doesn’t exist. She hides out in caves, behind borrowed identities. A girl whose real name may or may not be Tanya, and who supports herself by committing burglaries and picking pockets.

He gingerly started opening drawers around the apartment looking for a pen and some paper. So much had happened during the past week that he wanted to make some notes. He found a pad of paper and a pencil, then sat down at the kitchen table. He decided it was probably best to call and reassure Andrea that he was coming home this evening even though he would be quite late. He left a message on her answering machine, this time not even thinking about the fact that he was still using a stolen phone. Before he returned to his notes he called his investment broker.

‘Burén here.’

‘How come you’re suddenly always there when I call nowadays?’

‘Have you changed phone numbers? I thought you were someone else.’

Humlin frowned.

‘You mean you wouldn’t have answered if you saw the call was from me? I thought I was one of your clients!’

‘You are.’

‘It doesn’t seem like it. I’m borrowing the phone of a friend of mine. You don’t need to keep this number. I won’t be using it again.’

‘I save all phone numbers. My computer stores them automatically. What was it you wanted?’

‘I don’t want you to store this number. Is that understood?’

‘I heard you. What was it you wanted?’

‘I want to know how my shares are doing.’

‘If they don’t go down I think we can reasonably expect them to go up.’

‘Please give me an honest answer. Will I ever recoup the money I invested?’

‘In time.’

‘“In time.” How long is that?’

‘Five to ten years. By the way, I’ve just started the middle section of my novel.’

‘I’m not interested in your novel. I’m interested in my investments. You have swindled me.’

‘It is always risky to let one’s greed get the better of one.’

‘You were the person who talked me out of selling.’

‘It is my duty to give you the best advice at my disposal at any given moment.’

Humlin felt that he was simply getting snared by Burén’s avoidance strategies. He hung up without saying anything else. Anders Burén himself would be a good subject of a novel, he thought angrily. The distance between his world and Stensgården is like an expanding universe. The distance is increasing every second. If I brought the girls and him together, what would they talk about?

He bent over his notes. There was a sound at the front door. He held his breath and felt his heart start beating faster. It’s the Yüksels, he thought. Soon a large Turkish family will pour in and they are going to want to know what a strange man is doing in their apartment.

But it was Tanya who had come back. She looked questioningly at him. She sees my fear, Humlin thought. If there’s anything she knows all about it’s insecurity since she lives with it constantly. Tanya emptied the contents of her backpack on the table. Apart from the now-familiar icons, pine cones and baby’s dummies there were mobile phones. Seven, to be precise.

‘You can choose the one you want.’

‘Where did you steal these?’

‘At the police station.’

Humlin stared at her.

‘The police station?’

‘I didn’t like being kept there overnight. I wanted to revenge myself a little. I went back there and picked up a few phones.’

‘These phones belong to police officers?’

‘Only the commanding officers. And a prosecutor. Take them all. If we’re lucky they won’t be blocked until tomorrow.’

‘I don’t want a stolen phone. Particularly not one that belongs to a policeman.’

He saw that she was hurt. Then there was that angry glint in her eye again. Before he said anything she shoved one of the phones in his hand.

‘Take this one. Answer it when it rings.’

‘Never. How would I explain who I was?’

‘Do as I say. If you really want to know who I am.’

She left the kitchen. The front door was closed quietly. Shortly afterwards the phone rang. He hesitated, then answered it. It was Tanya.

‘This is Irina,’ she said.

‘Why are you calling yourself Irina? Where are you?’

‘You can see me from the windows in the living room.’

He walked over to the windows and looked out. Tanya was standing in the middle of a muddy patch of land that was supposed to be a lawn.

‘I see you. Why are we talking on the phone?’

‘It’s easier for me.’

‘Why are you calling youself Irina?’

‘That’s my name.’

‘What about Tanya? And Natalia, Tatyana and Inez?’

‘I like to think of them as my stage names.’

‘Actresses have stage names. Not pickpockets.’

‘Are you making fun of me?’

‘I’m just trying to understand why you go by so many names.’

‘How are you supposed to make it in this world if you aren’t prepared to sacrifice something like a name?’

‘I still don’t know which is your real name.’

‘Do you know how I came to Sweden?’

He was surprised by her question. Her voice sounded different, less hard and remote.

‘No, I don’t know that.’

‘I rowed.’

‘How do you mean “rowed”?’

‘It means what you think it means. I rowed to Sweden.’

‘From where?’

‘From Tallinn.’

‘From Estonia to Sweden? That’s impossible!’

Humlin brought sheets and a blanket to the study and made up the sofa bed. Tea-Bag came in wearing his robe. He turned away while she removed it and crawled into bed. That was when the front doorbell rang. Tea-Bag made a startled sound and seemed frightened.

‘It’s just my mother.’

Humlin closed the door to the study and sat down in his chair. Tea-Bag lay in bed with the covers pulled up to her chin. He saw her gaze travel over the wall-to-wall bookcases.

‘This is where I write my poetry,’ he announced.

‘You don’t happen to have a book about monkeys?’ she asked.

‘Not that I can remember.’

She seemed disappointed.

‘What are most of these books about, then?’

‘People, I guess.’

Then he took the plunge.

‘What happened that made you get off that train?’

Tea-Bag didn’t answer. She started to cry. Humlin felt like an oaf.

‘Shall I leave you alone?’ he asked.

She shook her head and Humlin stayed put. It was as if he were holding her book in his hands again, waiting for it to be opened.

‘I got scared.’

‘Were you scared of me?’

‘Nothing from the outside frightens me any more. My fear comes from inside. I heard my father’s voice. He told me to run. I couldn’t see him, but I knew I had to do as he said. I ran as fast as I could and I didn’t look back.’

‘Then what?’

‘The fear went away. I hitched a ride all the way back to Stockholm.’

‘And what’s all this talk of a brother?’

‘Who?’

‘You say you have a brother by the name of Adamah. He has a restaurant where I often eat, apparently.’

She turned her back to him and curled up so that all he could see was her braided hair against the pillow. In a few seconds she had fallen asleep. He looked at the contours of her body under the covers and thought about what she had said: My fear comes from inside. I heard my father’s voice. He told me to run. Humlin turned off the light and carefully opened the door. He tiptoed over to the kitchen door. His mother’s voice was loud and authoritative. He fled to the bedroom.

The same evening Humlin finally had a long conversation with Andrea about their relationship. He was still fuming over the text he had read at the publishing house. He had left a number of irate messages on Lundin’s voice mail. Now he forced himself with some difficulty not to think about the thriller he was never going to write and to focus on Andrea. He immediately felt pressed into a corner.

‘You aren’t listening to me,’ she began.

He stared at her.

‘What do you mean? You haven’t said anything yet.’

‘You’re not listening.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m doing.’

‘Well, how is it going to be?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know what I mean. We have a relationship. It’s been going on for many years. I want to have a child. I want you to be the father of that child. If you don’t want a child I have to ask myself if I should look around for another man.’

‘I want to have children too. I just don’t know if now is the right time.’

‘For me it is.’

‘But I am in the middle of changing my authorial profile right now. I’m not sure I can combine that with the responsibilities of fatherhood.’

‘You are never going to change anything about your profile,’ she said. ‘You are always going to be how you are right now. And important decisions regarding anyone but yourself will always be very low on your list of priorities.’

‘I don’t think this will take more than a year.’

‘That’s too long.’

‘At the very least I need a few more months.’

‘Are you going away again?’

‘I’m trying to write a book about those girls in Gothenburg.’

‘I thought the whole point was that they were going to do that for themselves? Why else are they doing this writing seminar?’

‘I’m not sure they’re up to the task of doing it themselves.’

‘Why are you doing this then?’

‘I’m trying to get the stories out of them, help them. You aren’t listening to me.’

‘It sounds to me like you’re stealing something.’

‘I’m not stealing anything. But one of the girls is a pickpocket.’

‘You’re still stealing their stories. But that’s not what we were talking about. I can’t wait for you to make up your mind. Not for ever.’

‘Can’t you give me a month?’

‘I want us to settle this now.’

‘I can’t.’

Andrea got up from the kitchen table.

‘Then as far as I’m concerned our relationship looks like it’s ending.’

‘Do you always have to be so dramatic? Every time we have a serious talk it’s as if I’ve been thrown into a play where I haven’t even picked my own part.’

‘I am not particularly dramatic. In contrast to you I simply say what’s on my mind.’

‘So do I.’

Andrea looked down at him.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if you’ve ever really said what you think. I don’t think there’s room for anyone in your head except yourself.’

She left the kitchen and slammed the door. In her anger and disappointment she also turned off the light. Humlin was left in the dark. He pushed aside all thoughts of Andrea and the child she wanted to have and wondered what Tea-Bag was doing right now. He tried to imagine ten thousand people hidden in church cellars and the like, but without success. He lay down on the couch in the study where Tea-Bag’s sheets were still bundled. It was as if everything inside him had stopped. Thoughts of Lundin kept him from sleeping.

The TV crew were already there, setting up their equipment. There were three of them: a camera operator, sound engineer and reporter. All three were women. Very young women.

‘I take it you are waiting for me?’

‘Don’t think so. Where are the girls?’

Humlin was thrown off balance. The girl who had spoken to him had a foreign accent and did not hide her impatience.

‘My name is Azar Petterson,’ she said. ‘I will be doing this interview. But I had taken it for granted that the young women in your seminar would be present.’

‘For now I would like to handle this situation with the utmost discretion,’ Humlin answered. ‘There’s a chance that we cannot continue our work in peace if there is too much publicity and unwanted attention.’

Azar looked critically at him.

‘What should I ask you?’

Humlin was starting to feel nervous.

‘I thought it was your job to come up with the questions.’

Azar shrugged then turned to her crew.

‘We’ll do a short interview,’ she said to the fat young woman holding the camera. ‘Then we’ll come back another time and shoot the girls.’

Humlin was very uncomfortable by this point. He had never been in a situation where the reporter showed such reluctance towards her task.

‘Where do you want me to stand?’

‘Right there is fine.’

The red light on the camera started glowing and the boom hung down over his head.

‘Stensgården is one of the suburbs outside Gothenburg that has unfairly earned the reputation of a slum, simply because of the high percentage of immigrants that live here. Right now I am standing in Pelle Törnblom’s Boxing Club where the author Jesper Hultin has been conducting a writing seminar for immigrant girls. Tell me, why did you decide to do this?’

‘It felt important.’

Azar turned to the camera woman.

‘We’ll cut here.’

Humlin’s mouth dropped.

‘That’s it?’

‘We can use it as an intro to the segment with the girls.’

‘My name is Humlin, not Hultin.’

‘I’ll cut that.’

Azar handed him her card.

‘Call me a few days before your next meeting. And make sure the girls are going to be there.’

‘They’ll be here soon.’

‘We don’t have time to wait around.’

The TV crew packed up and left. Humlin felt humiliated, but did not have time to ponder his hurt feelings. Haiman came in through the door. Humlin’s feelings turned to fear. Haiman was coming straight at him, holding a plastic bag in one hand.

‘I did not mean to hurt you. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s all right.’

‘If I had been really angry, the blow would have killed you.’

‘I believe you.’

Haiman took a stained and worn rugby ball from the bag and held it out to Humlin.

‘I hope we can be friends.’

‘It’s all behind us,’ Humlin said breezily. ‘I’ve already forgotten about it.’

Haiman frowned.

‘I have not forgotten. I never forget what I do.’

‘Of course we both remember what happened. But we just won’t think about it any more.’

Haiman looked at him in a confused way. The furrow in his brow grew deeper.

‘I don’t understand you.’

Humlin broke out in a light sweat.

‘I mean the same thing you do. Neither one of us has forgotten what happened but now you give me this wonderful rugby ball and we are friends.’

Haiman smiled.

‘That’s exactly what I mean. Do you like rugby?’

‘It is one of my favourite sports.’

Törnblom appeared in the doorway and said it was time to start. When Humlin walked into the room he saw that Leila’s large family was once again in attendance. Leyla, Tanya and Tea-Bag were sitting up in the front waiting for him. He pushed his way through the throng. The chatter died away. Humlin waited until there was complete silence in the room.

‘We are now at the point where we can start the course in earnest. Tonight I want you to take twenty minutes to write down the most important thing that happened to you today. You can write in any format you please: a poem, whatever you like. But you only get twenty minutes. Then we’ll read what you’ve written. Don’t talk to each other. And please, no chatter from the audience.’

‘What about what we wrote last time?’ Leyla asked. ‘Aren’t we going to talk about that?’

The tone of her voice irritated Humlin, but he tried not to show it.

‘Of course we’ll talk about it. Just not right now.’

Leyla got up and walked over to a corner of the room, asking some of her relatives to move. Tea-Bag stayed in her chair hunched up in her thick coat. Tanya moved as far away from the others as possible. There was complete silence in the room. Humlin looked at Tea-Bag and her bowed head. She seemed completely oblivious of her surroundings. He got to his feet.

‘I’ll be back when the time is up,’ he said, and left.

Oh God, I say, oh God, and I know I shouldn’t use his name in vain but I am anyway, I’m going to say ‘Oh God’, because nothing was the way it should have been when I woke up today: everything was wrong. I remember thinking that it was going to be just another forgettable day. Yet another day that was not going to leave any traces, only sweep through my life like a stray wind. Another day that would make me feel like it was mocking me.

It was far too early in the morning. I hate waking up before I have to but I had been dreaming about apples — I was driven wild by them in the dream — apples that gleamed on the outside but tasted of rotten fish, or perhaps more like the remains of that cat I found once as a child. It was lying on the other side of a fence and someone had cut the paws off and it was covered in maggots. Me and some kids beat it with sticks, although perhaps all we managed to do was hit the fence, or maybe it was each other. I don’t know why we were doing it. Perhaps we just needed to hit something since life was so hard.

I can’t say for sure what it was that woke me up, if it was the apples or the memory of that cat, but I was furious. It was only six o’clock in the morning and I never wake up at six of my own free will. I suppose that’s not actually true, strictly speaking; I often wake up early but then I manage to fall back asleep. That’s a habit from when I was very little, probably from around the time that my brother Ahmed was shot. I used to wake up because I was afraid my father wouldn’t be there when I got up in the morning. I was always afraid someone would try to kill him too. I thought I could see Ahmed standing in the shadows telling me everything was all right, that I should go back to sleep. Every night was the same, even though I knew Ahmed was dead. I had seen him when they carried him away on the stretcher and his face was so peaceful, as if he were sleeping up there on the stretcher being carried away on the angry men’s shoulders. I woke up every night and every night he was there to comfort me and tell me to go back to sleep.

Now I don’t see him any more. Perhaps he doesn’t feel comfortable here in the Swedish light. But I wake up anyway and sometimes it takes me a long time to fall back to sleep. But this morning I didn’t want to wake up, I wanted to sleep. Why should I wake up and go to a school where I don’t understand anything anyway? I don’t know what it was but I got up because I was so anxious. I put on my clothes and went outside. It can be beautiful in this country at dawn. There are almost no people around and the tall apartment buildings look like frozen pillars carved from huge granite slabs.

It was cold and suddenly I knew I had to visit my grandmother who lives in Nydalen. She and my father, her son-in-law, don’t get on so she can’t live with us. I don’t know why they fight. We gather at every holiday and once every other month she comes over to eat: Ramadan, the end of Ramadan, all of these holidays we celebrate together but otherwise she and my father never want to see each other. I looked in on my parents before I left; sleeping people always make me nervous, they seem so unreachable as if they are already dead.

I can’t remember the last time I went out so early in the morning. There were no people anywhere. I walked over to the tram stop and there was a man there called Johansson and he’s Swedish, although I think he’s originally from Russia. He gets drunk every Friday and he hangs around the tram stop, never going anywhere, just standing there as if he were waiting for someone who never comes and the whole time he mumbles to himself. Me and my sister tried to get really close to him one time to hear what he was saying but all we heard was ‘Trouble, trouble, too much trouble.’ It is as if he were saying his Friday prayers there. He must be close to a hundred years old, maybe he’s already dead and doesn’t know it, maybe he has no relatives to bury him.

The tram was almost empty. I sat in the very back. I like it when the cars are empty; it’s like riding in a white luxury limousine. It seems to make the trip last longer and you can imagine that you are on your way to anywhere, like Hollywood or New Zealand, which is a place I’ve dreamed of because it’s on the other side of the earth. I’ve seen it on maps in school and on a computer: Auckland, Wellington, and all the sheep. But I know I’ll never get there.

The tram line to Nydalen goes through the city centre. It’s like travelling from a country called ‘Stensgården’ to another called ‘City Centre’ and then crossing the border into Nydalen. Maybe some day we’ll have to show our passports when we get on the tram; whenever I go to the centre on Saturday night it’s the same thing. I don’t feel welcome, at the very least I don’t feel as if I belong.

Sitting on the tram I started wondering what I was doing. My grandmother was probably still sleeping. She can be sulky or happy, you never know until you get there. Somewhere close to the bridge it started to snow. I think snow is beautiful but I wish it was warm like sand. Why can’t the snow be related to sand instead of ice? But it is beautiful. Snow was falling over the river and on a boat that was leaving the city. The sun had just come up over the horizon. I had never seen it look like that before. Mostly yellow, but a little red where the rays hit the clouds and then blue behind it.

A few people with familiar faces boarded the tram. I recognised a man — I think he is Greek and has a newspaper stand in the centre — he yawned so widely you could see all the way down into his intestines. He didn’t sit down even though there were plenty of empty seats. Then some guys got on who looked like football fans. They were wearing blue and white scarves and acted confused, as though they had been in hibernation and woken up too early. I’ve never seen such grey faces, grey like the cliffs that Dad and I dive off in the summer. I got such a strong urge just then — it’s terrible — but I wanted to stand up and start telling everyone about the slum where I was born. I almost had to jump off the tram to stop myself.

People kept getting on and off, a lot of people got off at the hospital. Most of them were women who probably worked there. And then we started leaving the city again. Because of its name you would think Nydalen — New-valley — lay in a valley, but it doesn’t, it’s up on a hill. My grandmother has tried to find out how it got its name but even though she’s asked everyone she’s never found an answer. ‘The superintendent is going crazy,’ I heard Dad say once to Mum. ‘If she doesn’t stop asking silly questions they’re going to lock her up one day.’

In Nydalen there are nine high-rise apartment buildings on top of a steep hillside. My grandmother says people have killed themselves by jumping off the cliff but she says a lot of things and even though she is my grandmother I can tell you she tells a lot of lies. Maybe that’s why Dad has such a hard time with her. She lies to me as well. She’ll call out of the blue and say there were four masked men in her apartment — she lives alone except when her cousin who lives up in the north is visiting — and that they have taken everything she owns. But when Mum goes over to see, it turns out there’s nothing missing, only some little thing my grandmother can’t find, and then when Mum helps her find it there’s no longer any talk of the four masked men.

My grandmother tells lies, everyone does, I do it too, not to mention Dad, but my grandmother is better than us in making them sound believable. She doesn’t know anything about this country, she just talks about how afraid she used to be of the people who were going to come and kill us in the night. But now she’s also grown afraid of the cold and she doesn’t dare go outside. She even thinks it’s cold in summer sometimes when it’s actually sweltering. We have to open her windows when she isn’t looking, otherwise she thinks it’s going to kill her. She can’t speak a word of Swedish and when she got ill one time we had to go in the ambulance with her and she was convinced that the doctors — who she thought looked too young — were going to kill her.

But my grandmother — her name is Nasrin — can also do things no one else can. She can tell how a person is really feeling just from looking at their face. I know, because I can go over to her place and be feeling down but smile and laugh and then she says ‘Why are you laughing when you are crying inside?’ You can’t fool her.

I got off the tram in Nydalen and it had started to snow even harder. The ground was almost totally white. Nana lives on the ground floor in the building that is the furthest away from the edge of the cliff. I walked into the stairwell where someone had scrawled ‘Terror’ on the wall and again I started wondering what I was doing there. Why wasn’t I still at home or on my way to school? But I rang the doorbell and thought maybe she’ll be happy to see me. I know she likes me, she pays almost no attention to anyone else when she comes over to our house.

The door opened and at first I thought I had made a mistake. A young man had opened the door. He was about my age and he stared at me as much as I stared at him. I saw at once that he was Swedish, not because he was blond, which he wasn’t, but because he had that look in his eyes that only those people born in this country have when they look at people who are not from here. Oh God, I thought, but I kept looking at him and he kept looking at me.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘Who are you?’ I replied.

‘My name is Torsten and I’m Nasrin’s assistant.’

‘Nana doesn’t have an assistant. You’re a burglar.’

He started to protest but I was panicking at the thought that something had happened to Nana. I had never heard that she had any help at home and I was sure I would have since Dad loves to talk about Nana even though he can’t stand her. But Nana was sat in a chair watching TV, even though she couldn’t understand a single thing the people were saying. She lit up when she saw me.

‘I dreamed about you last night,’ she said. ‘There was a red bird pecking at the pillow next to my ear. The sound forced its way all through my dream and that’s how I knew you would come. Every time a bird visits me in my dreams I know you are on your way. When I dream of wriggling fish washed up on the shore it is your father who is coming.’

‘I didn’t know you had help, Nana.’

Nana looked momentarily confused, as if she too had no idea what the stranger with the duster was doing in her apartment. Then she waved me closer and whispered that it was a secret. She and Mum had agreed to go behind Dad’s back on this since he was so stingy. Mum paid for the help, and arranged for Nana’s other children to chip in and Dad was on no account to hear of any of it.

I asked her why she hadn’t come to me for help with cleaning the apartment and combing her hair but when she said she didn’t want me to neglect my studies I felt bad for the first time that I almost never go to school. But of course I didn’t say anything about that. I took off my coat and the whole time we were talking the guy called Torsten was dusting Nana’s photographs. Nana’s apartment almost looks like a photo studio because there are so many photographs on all the walls. There are even old photographs in the bathroom that are so faded you can hardly make out the outlines of people’s faces any more.

Technically in our religion we aren’t supposed to even own photographs. I don’t know why exactly. But Nana wants all these old pictures on her walls, she says the photos ward off evil spirits and the thoughts of those who don’t wish her well — the ones who forced us to flee. This way, wherever she is in the apartment, she has loving eyes looking at her and that helps calm her down. Every time I come over Nana leans on my arm and then we walk around together looking at all the pictures. Even if I have been there two days in a row she forgets that she’s just showed me the pictures. She tells me who they are and what their names are and says they are family, even though it’s not true.

Mum is the one who told me that ever since she came to Sweden Nana has been collecting old pictures that others have thrown out. She’s looked for them around the rubbish bins and in the basement storage area, and every single picture she’s found has gone up on the wall. She gives the faces names and makes them cousins or second cousins or even more remote family connections. She has given them dates of birth and decided if they died peacefully in their beds or in terrible accidents. She has given them occupations and let them be poets or singers or remarkable prophets who have wandered in the desert and had visions, or women who have given birth to children with diamonds in their mouths. Even though I know nothing of what she tells me is true I always go around with her and she never changes a single word of her stories. These pictures are Nana’s family and sometimes it feels as if it were all quite real.

The whole time we walked around together Torsten was cleaning in the background. I felt him looking at me when my back was turned and I blushed even though he couldn’t see my face. The picture Nana always ends with is of a man carrying a rifle. He is laughing and Nana calls him Ajeb, the chieftain who hides out somewhere in the desert and who will one day perform a miracle that will transform our lives. I once tried to press Nana on exactly what this miracle was going to be, but that made her angry and she slapped me. It is the only time she’s ever done that. She doesn’t want me to ask anything, just listen.

When we were finished with our tour of the photographs and Nana was back in her chair in front of the TV with a blanket over her legs, Torsten came and said he was done for the day and that he was going to be leaving now but that he would be back on Friday. I was disappointed and wanted to say something but I didn’t dare. Nana patted him on the cheek and then he left.

‘He’s a good boy,’ Nana said and ran a hand over her hair. ‘I never knew before that a man could be so good at combing hair.’

I saw then that Nana’s hair had been brushed so it gleamed. She has long hair that reaches all the way down her back. I couldn’t understand how Nana who is so afraid of everything in this country could let a boy like Torsten comb her hair. I wanted to ask her more about him, where he came from and how they had found him, but I didn’t because I was afraid she would get angry.

Suddenly Nana grabbed my hand and pointed to the screen. There was a programme on about a refugee camp in Africa. A little black girl — so very thin — was walking around in a desert landscape dotted with low bushes. She walked slowly and hesitantly and then she pointed to something on the ground. Suddenly crushed skulls and white pieces of bone appeared on the TV screen. The girl cried and she was speaking a language I couldn’t understand but I could follow the subtitles that said her parents had been killed here by soldiers who had been crazed by alcohol and blood lust and she had seen everything and everyone had died except her because her mother fell on top of her when she died.

We sat completely still and Nana was holding my arm so tightly it almost hurt. She forced us to watch that girl who wandered around and cried among all the dead and all at once both Nana and I started crying. Suddenly the girl turned towards the camera or the people operating the camera and it looked as if she were turning towards us, as if she had heard us crying. Then the programme ended simply by cutting to a black screen and then — without even a moment’s pause — a programme came on about cultivating tomatoes in a cold climate.

It was quite a shock to find ourselves looking at tomatoes after that girl weeping among her dead. I tried to hear if the sound of her crying reached the studio where they were talking about soil acidity but there was nothing. Nana grabbed the remote control angrily. She pushes all the buttons — since she doesn’t know how it works — until the TV shut down. Then we drank some tea without saying anything. It was as if that little girl was in the apartment with us. I thought about her and I thought about Torsten and Nana was thinking about something so far away that she closed her eyes and forgot to touch her tea until it was cold. It was still snowing outside but not as much. Nana finally pushed her teacup away and asked me why I wasn’t in school.

‘There’s no school today.’

‘How can that be?’

‘It’s some kind of holiday — I don’t know exactly.’

‘All the children in this building left for school as normal.’

It was getting harder and harder to lie, but there was no way out of it now.

‘It’s a holiday today in Stensgården.’

Nana nodded. I don’t know why I returned to the idea of Nydalen and Stensgården being different countries, just like I had been thinking about on the bus when I was still irritated by the fact that I couldn’t sleep. But Nana accepted my answer and didn’t pressure me with any more questions. I washed the teacups and then I was at a loss as to what I should do next. I couldn’t go home because then Mum would nag at me for not being in school. I supposed I could go to school late and say I had had a stomach ache or that Nana had been ill — no one really cares if you go or not. But I didn’t want to go there today. I didn’t want to stay with Nana either. If I did she would make me play this card game that she has invented, a game I still don’t understand all the rules to and that takes several hours.

I stood up and said I was going home. Nana nodded again, got up awkwardly from her chair and stroked my cheek. When she does that her eyes are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I get completely relaxed when she touches me, I stop thinking about the cat with its paws chopped off and I feel how the world calms down around me. When I was younger I used to imagine that I would one day see the man I was going to marry at one of these times when she was touching me. But God help me — the only thing I saw this time was Torsten’s face.

I flinched as if Nana’s hand had burned me — she couldn’t know that I had seen Torsten and not one of the beautiful men she used to talk about like one of Mum’s cousins who wasn’t simply a picture on the wall but a living person who lived somewhere in a country far away or in a refugee camp. We have relatives all over the world, in Australia, the USA, even in the Philippines. It is as if families on the run are shattered by something other than just grenades. The flight and fear tears us apart and those parts land in all kinds of places — we don’t even know where. But we always try to find them afterwards.

I remember a time two years ago when we got a letter from Taala, one of Mum’s four sisters who had disappeared and who had now traced us and said she lived in a city called Minneapolis in America. Mum started dancing when she got this letter, Dad sat on the sofa and watched her, he looked so young, like a little boy, and he watched her moving through the rooms of our apartment almost as if he were embarrassed to see her happy after so many years of fear and grief and imprisonment. She danced so the walls started crumbling and the windows opened and she stepped out of herself and she became the person she really was and all because Taala wasn’t dead. Taala had breathed on her through that letter and memories had risen up from her words and Mum danced as if she were a young girl again.

But when Nana touched my cheek I saw Torsten. He looked just like he had when he opened the front door and saw me. He was holding a duster in one hand and he was wearing a silly red apron with blue hearts and we stared at each other. You can’t love someone who wears a red apron with blue hearts. Nana looked at me and wanted to know what I was thinking. I always blush when I get questions I don’t want to answer and she noticed of course and asked me sternly if I had been thinking about a boy and who was it? I don’t know how I thought of this but the words came of themselves as if they had been stored inside me for so long they needed to get out.

‘I was just thinking of Ahmed.’

‘And you call that “just”! To be thinking of your dead brother!’

‘I don’t mean it like that.’

‘How do you mean it?’

‘It was so unexpected. It was as if he was there in your hand.’

Nana calmed down.

‘He is always in my hand,’ she said. ‘He is in my hand like I am in God’s hand.’

Then she walked back to her chair in front of the TV, pushed some buttons on the remote control and started watching. A programme came on with several men seated around a table, discussing something. Sheep, I think. They talked about sheep-shearing. I said goodbye, took my coat and left. When I came out I looked down into the snow and tried to figure out which footprints belonged to Torsten and which were the ones that I had left.

Then I started walking back to the tram stop and it was light now and the snowflakes didn’t feel cold for some reason. I wondered what I should do. When I entered the underpass that leads to the tram stop I stopped short. Torsten was standing there. I stared at him. I thought I must be mistaken. But it was him. He was just standing there and even though I couldn’t know, I did know. There was only one reason why he would be standing there and that was that he was waiting for me.

Humlin did as he was told. He took a taxi to the boxing club which was almost deserted. Two young boys were leaning on each other in the ring. One of them had a nosebleed. They stood locked in a wrestling hold, swaying back and forth as if they had found themselves on a sinking vessel at sea. The office was empty. In the diary that was lying out Humlin could see that Törnblom was sitting in a dentist’s chair at that moment.

He walked back out into the training area. The boys in the ring had stopped swaying and the nosebleed had dried up. Humlin recognised the boy with the bloody nose. He was one of Leyla’s relatives. He smiled at Humlin, who only now noticed that the boy’s eye was swelling shut.

The boys went into the changing room. Humlin pulled on a pair of boxing gloves and started hitting a sand bag. It hurt. He wished he was punching Olof Lundin. When he broke into a sweat, he stopped. The boy with the nosebleed came back out. He was dressed in baggy pants and a long T-shirt, both articles of clothing covered with images of the American flag.

‘Someone’s coming.’

‘Who is it?’

‘I don’t know. One of them, but you’d better wait outside.’

The boy left, shortly followed by the other one. Humlin walked out onto the street. It was raining. He was reminded of the night Tanya had turned up out of the shadows and he had thought he was about to be mugged. He jumped. Tanya was right behind him. As usual she had managed not to make a sound.

‘Where’s Tea-Bag?’

She didn’t answer. They started walking.

‘Where are we going?’

‘The city centre.’

‘I thought Tea-Bag was here?’

Again there was no answer. They took the tram. A drunk man tried to talk to Tanya, but she swore at him with startling ferocity. It was like seeing her turn into a dangerous predator. The man immediately backed off.

They got off close to Göta square. The rain had stopped. Tanya led the way onto one of the small but impressive streets above the square where large stone villas lay nestled in expansive, well-tended gardens. Tanya stopped by the gate to one of the less-impressive mansions.

‘Is this where Tea-Bag is staying?’

Tanya nodded.

‘Who lives here?’

‘Gothenburg’s Chief of Police.’

Humlin flinched.

‘It’s no big deal. He’s gone to a conference, and his family aren’t home either. Plus he has no alarm system.’

Tanya opened the gate. The front door was slightly ajar. The curtains were drawn in the large living room on the ground floor. Tea-Bag lay on the floor watching TV with the sound turned low. The programme was a Swedish film from the 1950s. The actor Hasse Ekman was turning on the charm for some actress Humlin couldn’t remember the name of. She’s watching a film about an extinct species, Humlin thought. A Sweden whose inhabitants no longer exist.

There was a clatter from the kitchen. Tanya was making a meal. Tea-Bag quickly got up and joined her. Humlin heard them laughing. Then he was startled by the sound of the front door opening. But it wasn’t the Chief of Police, it was Leyla. She was red in the face and sweating heavily.

‘I love him,’ she said.

Then she too disappeared out into the kitchen. Humlin wondered if he was ever going to hear the rest of her story. He joined the girls and sat down next to Tanya who was chopping onions, tears streaming down her face.

‘How did you know this house was empty?’

‘Someone told me, I can’t remember who. After everything me and Tea-Bag have been through I think it’s only fair that we get to borrow it for a while.’

‘Can I help with anything?’

No one answered.

Slowly the table was filled with the contents of both of the large refrigerators. It was one of the most remarkable meals he had ever had, even compared to his mother’s late-night feasts. Everything was brought out and mixed; champagne and juice, pickled herring and jam. This isn’t happening, Humlin thought. If I were ever to write about this evening, this meal in the absent police chief’s house, no one would believe me.

He tried to remain alert for outside noises, checked that the curtains remained drawn and waited for the doors to be thrown open. But nothing happened. He did not participate in the conversation which simply jumped between the three girls. Giggling teenagers have the same language, he thought, regardless of where they come from.

A strip of passport pictures of the three of them was passed back and forth and finally landed in Humlin’s hands. He had done the same thing in his youth, pressed himself into a picture booth, pulled the curtain and had his picture taken. Tea-Bag found a pair of scissors and cut out the four snapshots. They walked into the living room. There was a row of family portraits on the bureau. They picked out a photograph of a large group of people gathered in the shade of a big tree.

‘What strange clothes,’ Tea-Bag said. ‘When was this?’

Humlin looked at the picture.

‘That’s from the late nineteenth century,’ he said.

‘This is where we belong,’ Tea-Bag said, opening up the back of the frame and stuffing one of the passport pictures into a corner.

‘What will they think?’ Leyla said when Tea-Bag had replaced the back of the frame and put the picture on the bureau. ‘They won’t understand. They won’t appreciate the riddle — the best gift anyone could get.’

Humlin looked at the picture. The three smiling faces were already blending into the old picture of the people who had posed for the camera one hundred years ago.

They returned to the kitchen. Even though it was warm, Tea-Bag had not taken off her coat. She hadn’t even unzipped it. Tanya sat down at one corner of the table where her face was in shadow. Leyla picked at a spot that was growing on one of her nostrils. Tea-Bag rocked back and forth on her chair.

‘What happened?’ Humlin asked, thinking the moment had arrived.

Tea-Bag shook her head and tucked her chin even deeper into her coat.

‘She tried to steal a monkey,’ Leyla said.

‘A monkey?’

‘A Chinese monkey. Made of china. It was in an antique store. It broke. It was pretty expensive.’

‘How much was it?’

‘Eighty thousand.’

‘How could it be so much?’

‘It’s from some ancient dynasty. Three thousand years old or something. It said something about it on the price tag.’

‘Good God. What did they do?’

‘The owners locked the front door and called the police. But she ran away. But the bag with the mobile phones was left behind.’

‘Why did you want to steal a china monkey, Tea-Bag?’

Tea-Bag didn’t answer. She got up and turned off the light. It was dark outside now. A narrow strip of light fell into the kitchen from the hall and living room. Humlin sensed that he was about to hear the continuation of the story that had been interrupted so many times before. He would perhaps even hear it to its end.

Once upon a time I had a doll named Nelf. I found it under one of the beds in a room at the refugee camp where people came and went, and where you could hear people scream and cry in their sleep. But there was also an atmosphere of relief there. We had arrived. We were in Sweden. Everything was going to be all right, without anyone actually being able to say what ‘all right’ was. I thought it was ‘good’ that I found the doll, and I immediately gave her the name Nelf. I was surprised that no one seemed to understand what it meant. Not even grandmother Nasrin who was still clear-headed those days. But even she didn’t pick up that it was the name of a god.

We had just arrived from Iran but I don’t remember much about that trip, only that when we were about to land my dad tore up all our documents. My parents’ passports, Nasrin’s passport — which actually wasn’t hers but belonged to Uncle Reza. First we landed in the small Swedish town called Flen where I found the doll and a few months later we moved to Falun where we lived for three years before we came to Gothenburg, to Stensgården.

It was in Falun that my dad decided my sister Fatti was going to marry one of Mehmed’s brothers. Mehmed lived in Södertälje and was one of the first to move to Sweden; he came even before the Shah was overthrown and Khomeini had us all under surveillance and was in the process of making the country into something better and which maybe one day it actually will be. But Fatti had eavesdropped on the conversations between Dad and Mehmed — she had been told to stay out of the way — by crouching down outside the door to the living room and when she crept back to bed in the room that we shared I heard her cry.

I got up and crawled into bed with her, which is something we always do when someone is sad or has a nightmare or is just alone. Fatti dredged up the terrible words she had just heard through the closed door, sobbing as she told me. She had heard Mehmed and Dad agree to marry her to Mehmed’s brother Faruk. Both of us knew who he was, he had a little shop in Hedemora and everyone took it for granted that Mehmed was supporting him since there were never any customers in there. Faruk often came to visit us at the weekends. Neither Fatti nor I liked him. He was nice, but perhaps it was that he was too nice, so you actually became afraid of him. And now Fatti was going to have to marry him.

She said she would run away, but she didn’t know where to. We both knew you can’t run away from your father; he would look for you for a thousand years and finally find you. I said this to my sister and that there had to be another way for her to escape a marriage with Faruk. Our mother was not going to be a help; she never did anything without asking Dad first, but maybe Nasrin could stand up to him. The following day was Midsummer’s Eve. I remember that Fatti and I walked down to the lake through the birch trees and talked with Nasrin. But Nana just got angry and said that Fatti should be grateful to get someone like Mehmed as a relative. I’ll never forget the fact that Nasrin talked about Mehmed the whole time even though Faruk was the man Fatti was supposed to marry. I could see how desperate Fatti was getting. Nasrin had been her last hope. She pleaded with her for help but Nasrin just kept on talking about how wonderful it would be to have such a well-established man as Mehmed in the family.

That night I crawled into Fatti’s bed again. She told me she was going to run away but I didn’t believe her. Where would she go? Sometimes girls from families like ours run away but I’ve never heard of anyone who didn’t eventually come back. Even the ones who commit suicide are brought back. But when I woke up the next morning the bed was empty. Fatti was gone. At first I thought she was in the bathroom or out on the balcony wrapped in a blanket, but she was gone. I peeked in all the rooms. Dad was snoring, Mum’s foot was hanging down on the floor. Fatti’s red coat was gone. She had not taken very much with her. The only bag that was missing was her little black backpack. I walked out on the balcony. It was still early. A bird somewhere was chirping, the sun was rising out of the mist, and I wondered where Fatti could have gone. I thought that I should have gone with her because Fatti and I are really the same person. Fatti is thinner than I am. That’s the only difference.

I will always remember when I stood on the balcony in Falun and realised that Fatti had run away, and I remember thinking that everything would be different from then on. They found Fatti in Sala four days later. She had fallen asleep on a park bench, or else she had fainted. The police drove her home and when they had left, Dad hit her so hard that she fell and got a deep gash in her neck. Dad wasn’t the only one who hit her, he wasn’t the worst, he only hit her that one time. My brother came down from Gothenburg and he didn’t even bother taking off his hat before he dislocated her shoulder. Fatti was no longer allowed to go out after that. She was nineteen, she wanted to be a nurse and she had been interested in the sport of orienteering. I don’t know why, but she was drawn to the idea of running around in a forest, looking for the most indecipherable clues marked out on maps.

Nothing came of all that. We still shared the same room and whispered to each other at night. I saw her face in the moonlight and it looked like Nasrin’s face: dried up, turned inward. The whole time she kept talking about the four days she had been on the run, how she had been afraid but also had the feeling of complete freedom. Something happened during that time that she never told me about. Under her pillow she kept a gleaming metallic nut with bevelled edges. Sometimes when she thought I was sleeping she would get it out and look at it. Someone must have given it to her, but why would anyone give her something like that? What was it she wasn’t telling me? I don’t know. Of all the riddles I have been given, this is the biggest: the gleaming nut that Fatti kept hidden under her pillow.

It was a time I don’t like to think about. Fatti was so afraid of being beaten that she wet herself, even though she was nineteen years old. I remember her saying, ‘I’m going to be slaughtered. I’m going to end up in a slaughterhouse.’ I didn’t understand then what she was talking about. The following year Fatti was married to Faruk and they moved to Hedemora. She still had no children after two years. We had moved to Gothenburg by then and I wanted to visit her but was not allowed to. I couldn’t even call her since only Faruk answered the phone. When he wasn’t at home he disconnected the line. Then it happened again. Fatti ran away. She ran away in the dead of winter wearing only her nightdress. I don’t know what had happened but I think Faruk used to beat her because she didn’t have any children. When Faruk dragged her back she refused to sleep in the same room as him. It didn’t help that Mum talked to her, and Nasrin. She didn’t care about being beaten any more. She had made up her mind. She didn’t want to be married to Faruk.

I still don’t know if it was Faruk or Mehmed who threw that container of burning acid in her face. A neighbour heard a terrifying scream from the apartment and when she opened her door she saw a man running down the stairs, but we never found out who it was. Both of them denied it, both had alibis. Fatti’s whole face was deformed, especially her cheek and one ear. She never goes out any more. She lives in an apartment here in Gothenburg with her curtains drawn. She never talks to anyone; she’s just waiting for it all to end. I have called out to her through the letterbox in the door. I’ve asked her to let me in but she always tells me to go away. The only one who visits her is Mum. Dad never talks about her, nor do Faruk or Mehmed.

Faruk is remarried now. No one was ever punished for destroying Fatti’s face. I think about her all the time, my sister in her dark apartment, and I know I never want my life to turn out like hers. She wanted to wait until she found someone she really wanted to share her life with, she wanted to be the one making the decision. I can’t understand my father. He always says that we left our homeland in search of freedom, but when we want to be free that’s wrong. I wonder what happened during those four days that Fatti was free. I think freedom — if it actually exists — is always threatened, hunted, always on the run.

I know Fatti met someone during those four days, someone who gave her that gleaming nut with the bevelled edges. Each night before I fall asleep I hope, I pray that Fatti will get to dream about that person who gave her the nut when she was free and terribly afraid. Maybe that’s why I want to learn to write; I would want to write about those four days, I would want to write about everything that happened to her then, everything that people walking past her on the street would not have noticed.

If I don’t care about Fatti, who else is going to do it? Mum loves her, and Dad probably does too in his way. I know that I have to defend love where it exists and where it doesn’t exist and I know it exists even for me since he waited for me in the underpass, and he must have done so because he knew I would go that way to get to the tram stop.

They arrived in the early afternoon. During the trip he had made them spread out to various parts of the train. When they were just pulling out of the Södertälje station he asked to borrow one of Tanya’s phones.

‘Whose phone is this?’

‘It works fine.’

‘That’s not what I was asking. Am I still using phones that belong to police officers and prosecutors?’

‘This one belongs to one of the train conductors.’

Humlin was taken aback. Then he locked himself in the toilet and called his mother, who picked up immediately.

‘I’m waiting for you. When will you get here?’

‘We’ve just passed Södertälje.’

‘I thought for a while that I had been dreaming. I take it you are bringing them here because they need a place to hide out?’

‘Yes.’

‘How many are they? Ten, twelve?’

‘Just four.’

‘Are you also staying here?’

‘No.’

‘I’m looking forward to meeting these Indian girls. I’m wearing an Indian shawl your father gave me while we were engaged.’

‘They’re not Indian, Mother. I told you this morning. Take off that shawl and don’t make any strange food. I would also be grateful if you could refrain from moaning on the phone this evening.’

‘I’ve already called the others about it.’

Humlin was horrified.

‘What did you say?’

‘Naturally I said nothing about you coming over with the girls. I just said I didn’t have the energy to work tonight.’

Humlin finished the conversation and then tried to flush the phone down the toilet. It got stuck. He left the toilets and went back to his seat.

Once they got to the Central station he looked for a taxi big enough to hold them all. A police car drove by and Tanya and Tea-Bag waved to it. One of the officers waved back. They think I can guarantee their safety, Humlin thought. They don’t understand that I’m unable to give guarantees of any sort.

It was a sumptuous dinner. It was also the first time in years that Humlin had actually felt hungry as he sat down to dine at his mother’s table. He noticed the respect with which the girls treated her. It was as if nothing from the past or the present could touch them while they sat there in the sanctuary of the apartment. Humlin should have invited Andrea. If she had been able to experience this for herself she would perhaps have been able to understand why these girls had become so important to him. That was also true for Viktor Leander, his doctor, Burén; everyone in his inner circle. But there was another important person missing from this gathering.

Humlin got up and called Törnblom from the phone in his mother’s study. Amanda answered.

‘I’m cleaning up the office. Otherwise it gets to be such a mess that no one can work in here.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever told you what a great man you’re married to.’

‘There are millions of men in the world, but a real Man is rare. Pelle is a Man.’

Humlin tried to understand the difference while he waited for her to get Törnblom. When he came on, Humlin told him about the hasty get-away from Gothenburg and all that it had entailed. Törnblom chuckled.

‘The Chief of Police? Really?’

‘That’s what Tanya said. I don’t think she’s the kind to lie.’

‘She lies constantly, but not about these sorts of things. What are you going to do now?’

‘It’s not a question of what I’m going to do now. I’ve learned one thing about these girls and that’s that they take care of themselves. They’re far from helpless victims. They win every boxing match they’re forced into.’

‘I told you it would all turn out for the best, didn’t I?’

‘Nothing has turned out the way I expected it to. I thought I was teaching them to write. But the longest story I’ve received is just a few scribbled lines.’

‘Whoever said something had to be written down on paper to be a story? The most important thing is that they are telling their stories at all. Keep me posted. I have to go now — a couple of guys look like they’re getting into a fight.’

Törnblom hung up. Humlin stayed at the desk for a while, listening to the excited chatter from the dining room. He suddenly realised he would not be able to join them until he had made a decision. Was he going to give in to Lundin and write a bestselling crime novel after all, and improve his now disastrous financial situation? Was there an alternative? What did he want to do? In relation to Tea-Bag, Tanya and Leyla he suddenly felt like a pickpocket. Their stories were finding their way into his hands just like Tanya collected those phones.

He got up and walked over to the window. He was reminded of how he had seen Tea-Bag turn the corner with something that looked like a little monkey on her back. Tea-Bag, who had come to Sweden after meeting a Swedish man in a refugee camp in Spain, a man who had shown an interest in her life’s story. This is how it has to be, he thought. He saw it clearly now. Hiding out was wrong. Tea-Bag and Tanya didn’t have to keep hiding — that was part of the problem. Instead they would attract the media with the only weapon they had: that they were illegal aliens; that they had much to tell about a life that few Swedes knew anything about.

He didn’t need to think it through any longer. His mind was made up. He took out the phone book and started making calls. Soon he had spoken to reporters from all the major newspapers. They were in business.