‘How long are you staying here?’ she asked.
‘Until tomorrow.’
‘I’d like to visit the ship. And naturally, I won’t mention the fact that I met you here.’
She thought she could detect a doubtful look in his eye as he tried to decide whether or not to believe her. But she looked him straight in the eye. She was his equal now, no longer the scared cook who had curtseyed deeply to him almost a year ago.
She stood up and brought the conversation to a close. She was setting him free.
They said goodbye outside in the street.
‘This afternoon will be okay,’ said Svartman. ‘I have business to see to this morning, and I must keep an eye on the bunkering.’
The peacock was nowhere to be seen. The street was completely deserted in the blazing sunshine. She stretched out her hand.
‘I’ll come this afternoon, then,’ she said. ‘If that’s all right with you.’
‘I’ll be there.’
He bowed, then seemed to hesitate.
‘Peltonen is dead,’ he said. ‘He fell overboard one night off the Egyptian coast. Nobody noticed he was missing until the next morning.’
‘It was Peltonen who measured the depth of Lundmark’s grave,’ said Hanna. ‘1,935 metres.’
Svartman nodded. Then turned and walked away. He turned off into the first side street.
So he’s not taking the shortest route to the harbour, she thought. He turned off as soon as possible so that I wouldn’t be able to see him.
She suddenly wondered if they had seen any icebergs.
Then she was driven back home to her house on the hill, and sat down to write the letters that couldn’t wait.
51
It was a shock to her when she read through the letter she had written to Elin. Instead of writing about the voyage, she had written something more like a saga. The only link with reality was her description of how she had met Lundmark, married him, and then been forced to watch as he was buried at sea. But she had left out completely most of what had happened afterwards — her jumping ship and meeting the brothel owner Senhor Vaz. She merely wrote that she was in Africa, in good health, and on her way home. As an explanation of why she hadn’t completed the voyage to Australia and hadn’t come back to Sweden on the Lovisa, she wrote rather vaguely that she had been afflicted with a serious but short-lived illness, and had been perfectly healthy again for ages.
She put the letter down in disgust. It was only now that she realized the full consequences of what Captain Svartman had said. What Forsman had been told when the ship docked in Sundsvall after returning from Australia. And what Elin must eventually have been told in her house in the remote mountains.
Her daughter was dead. For a long time Elin had been forced to live with the sad news that Hanna had died in a foreign country. Nobody knew what had happened to her, or where her grave was. Always assuming that there was a grave.
The thought made Hanna cry. She suddenly realized that Julietta was standing in the half-open doorway, watching her. In a flash of rage Hanna grabbed Senhor Vaz’s old bronze paperweight and hurled it at her. Julietta dodged it, and hastily closed the door.
Hanna wanted to cry in peace. But it seemed that there was no time even for that. She tore the letter up and wrote a new one, her hand shaking.
‘I’m alive,’ she wrote. That was the most important thing. ‘I’m alive.’ She repeated those words on almost every other line. The whole letter was a sort of long request to be taken at her word. She was alive, she wasn’t dead as Captain Svartman had thought. She had gone ashore because she was devastated by grief, and then stayed there when the ship continued its voyage to Australia. But she would soon be coming home. And she was alive. That was the most important thing of alclass="underline" she was still alive.
That was the letter she wanted to write to Elin. And she repeated the same words, albeit in less emotional style, in the other two letters she wrote that day. One was to Forsman, the other to Berta. She was alive, and she would soon be coming home again.
Eventually the three letters lay on the desk in front of her, meticulously fitted into envelopes that she carefully sealed with the names of the recipients written as neatly as she could possibly manage. She and Berta had taught themselves to read and write — with difficulty, but even so it was an important step away from poverty: she still found it difficult to write, and was unsure about spelling and word order. But she didn’t bother about that. The letter to Elin would be the most important message she had ever received in her life. One of her daughters had returned from the dead.
In the afternoon she summoned Andrade’s car and was driven to the harbour. She had put on her best clothes, and spent an age in front of the big mirror in the hall next to the front door. On the way to the harbour she suddenly had an idea, and asked the chauffeur to make a detour and stop outside Picard’s photographic studio. Picard was a Frenchman who had established himself in Lourenço Marques as early as the beginning of the 1890s. His studio was used by the town’s wealthy inhabitants. His face had been disfigured by a shell splinter that had hit him during the Franco-Prussian War in 1870. Although his face was repugnant, his friendliness and his photographic skills endeared him to everybody. But he refused to take pictures of black people, unless they were in the role of servants or bearers, or simply made up the background behind the white people who were being portrayed.
Picard bowed and informed her that he could take her photograph immediately — a couple had just cancelled their slot because their engagement had been broken off. Hanna wanted to be photographed standing up, wearing her big hat, her long gloves, and with her furled parasol by her side.
Picard asked respectfully who the picture was for. He knew exactly who she was, and about her short marriage to Senhor Vaz. Hanna also knew that for some unknown reason Picard had always patronized a rival establishment when he made his regular brothel visits.
‘The photograph is for my mother,’ she said.
‘I see,’ said Picard. ‘So we want a dignified picture. One showing that all is well on the African continent, and that you are leading a life that has brought you success and riches.’
He placed her next to a large mirror and a chair with beautiful arms. He moved a flower arrangement standing on a small table out of the composition after having tried it but found it unsuitable. Then he took the photograph and promised to develop it immediately and make three copies. Hanna paid him twice as much as he asked for. They agreed that the black messenger boy would deliver the photographs to Captain Svartman’s ship the moment they were dry.
When she reached the harbour she found Captain Svartman standing on the gangplank, waiting for her. Hanna noted that his uniform had been newly brushed down and his peaked cap polished. She walked up the gangplank, and for a brief, dizzy moment recalled the emotions she had felt when she left the ship. Some crewmen were busy splicing ropes, others were repairing a cargo hatch. She couldn’t see anybody she recognized. The captain realized that she was looking for a familiar face.
‘The crew is completely new,’ he said. ‘After Lundmark’s death rumours started to spread suggesting that I was an unlucky captain. Peltonen’s disappearance didn’t help matters. But my new crew is very competent. As captain I can’t go around wishing that earlier crew members were back on board again. I sail with the living, not the dead.’
He took her to his cabin. On the way there she saw the new cook coming out of the galley, a young man with blond hair.
‘An Estonian,’ said the captain. ‘He usually makes pretty good food. He’s quiet and clean.’