Jansson rarely swears. Just as he rarely uses his beautiful singing voice.
‘I’m the one who’s looking for the police, rather than the other way round.’
‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘It seems as if Louise has got into some difficulties, but I’d rather you didn’t spread that throughout the archipelago.’
‘I would never do such a thing.’
‘Both you and I know that you would. During all those years when you were a postman you spread just as many rumours as letters.’ Jansson said nothing, but I knew he was offended. ‘The police must have said something else,’ I went on.
‘They asked me to let them know when you came back.’
‘And of course you said you would?’
‘What else was I supposed to say?’
‘Has there been anything in the newspaper?’
‘No.’
I wondered what I should ask Jansson to do; I didn’t want anyone thinking I had fled from my homeland.
‘So you’re really in Paris?’
‘My battery’s running out; you’re breaking up.’
It wasn’t true, but Jansson would carry on trying to draw the story out of me unless I ended the call right now.
‘Talk to you later,’ I said and hung up.
I was sweating. The fact that the police were looking for me could only mean they were convinced I was guilty. I hated sympathy, particularly when it was offered by people as stupid as Jansson. Only I have the right to feel sorry for myself.
I strolled along Boul’Mich and stopped at the bistro where Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir used to spend their days. There were lots of people inside, so I sat down at one of the pavement tables. I had a coffee and two glasses of Calvados. My trip to Paris was beginning to resemble an alcohol-sodden escape from my isolated island, where the ruins of my burned-out house lay waiting for the winter snow.
I tried to think through what would happen when I found Louise. I didn’t even know what she was accused of.
I couldn’t focus. I headed back to the hotel, my pace getting slower and slower. When I glanced at the shop windows, I saw an old man’s face looking back at me. A lady by the name of Madame Rosini was on duty instead of Monsieur Pierre, and gave me my key. They were very much alike, somehow: the same faint smile, the same warmth. There was no sign of Rachel.
I lay down on the bed and fell asleep. In my dream the house was burning down once more. I ran outside to escape the blinding light, only to be transported straight back to my bed. Over and over again the darkness metamorphosed into dazzling searchlights, searing my eyeballs. My dog, who died several years ago, came back to life. I also thought I saw my last cat, running away with her fur on fire.
It was dark when I woke up. I got undressed and had a shower. The water was just as cold as the sea; I couldn’t work out how to adjust the taps.
I had just wound the biggest towel around my waist when my phone rang — a Swedish number again. I hesitated; should I answer? Was it Jansson or someone from the police?
It was Lisa Modin.
‘What’s the hotel like?’ she asked.
‘Is that why you’re calling?’
‘I’m going to come over.’
‘Today?’
‘Tomorrow. Don’t ask me why.’
‘I’m really pleased.’
‘Don’t expect anything.’
‘Why do you always say that?’
‘I just want to make sure you’re not expecting anything.’
‘When are you arriving?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I’ll come and meet you.’
‘I don’t want you to do that. Have you found your daughter?’
‘I’ve been to the embassy; they’re hoping to be able to help me tomorrow.’
The connection was broken; perhaps Lisa had ended the call. I tried her number but couldn’t get through. However, she was coming to Paris, and she knew which hotel I was staying in. That must mean she wanted to see me. Everything was changing. I got dressed and went down to reception. Monsieur Pierre was back, looking less than clean-shaven.
I asked whether a Madame Modin from Sweden had booked a room for the following day. He studied his computer screen, then shook his head.
‘No Madame from Sweden, I’m afraid. Just a Canadian lady, Madame Andrews, who comes to stay with us once a year, in the autumn.’
I went out into the mild November evening. I ambled down to Gare Montparnasse, bought a Swedish newspaper, then went into a little restaurant that seemed to serve only French customers. I couldn’t see any tourists. I ordered sweetbreads; they weren’t very nice, but I was hungry. I drank wine and thought about my daughter, Lisa Modin and bloody Jansson — I would never be able to work him out.
When I had finished eating I drank a cup of coffee while I flicked through the newspaper. I realised I had already read it while I was waiting at the airport.
I left the restaurant feeling unexpectedly cheerful. I set off towards the Latin Quarter, even though my legs were aching from all the walking I had done during the day.
On the way I was once again overwhelmed by the feeling that I was older than everyone else.
I thought about Louise. Had someone at the embassy managed to track her down in the labyrinth of Paris police stations?
It occurred to me with something that might have been sorrow that I had never allowed myself to be Louise’s father. When she suddenly came into my life, I regarded her as more of a nuisance than a joy for a long time. Needless to say I had never admitted this to her. Nor had I confronted Harriet with my feelings, although I did blame her. She had robbed me of my daughter. Even though Louise was now part of my world, I would always be incapable of loving her the way I imagined one would love a child.
But perhaps that love would blossom when I met the child she was carrying? Or was that already a lost cause?
I wandered the streets, unable to reach any kind of clarity. Eventually I decided that the birth of a child meant the beginning of a new story in the great chronicle of mankind.
I had reached the lower part of the Jardin du Luxembourg when I remembered a jazz club I used to frequent whenever I came to Paris: Caveau de la Huchette. I knew exactly where it was. Perhaps it was still a jazz club? I needed a goal for my evening stroll.
I went into a bistro for a coffee. I noticed that a black woman who was sitting at a table with a man of about the same age kept glancing over at me. I looked around to see if she might be trying to attract the attention of someone else, but there was no one there — just the window panes glimmering in the light of the street lamps. She was perhaps ten years younger than me. I didn’t recognise her. I concentrated on my coffee, but every time I raised my eyes she was staring at me.
She must recognise me. Or possibly she thought she knew who I was, which seemed more likely.
She stood up abruptly and came towards me, pushing her way between the tables. Her husband, or whoever her companion was, seemed totally uninterested.
She spoke to me in English; I naturally assumed she had mistaken me for someone else.
‘I’m sure I recognise you,’ she said. I gestured to the chair opposite, and she sat down. ‘I remember your face,’ she went on. ‘From a long time ago. My mother was the same; she could recognise a person she had met only once, thirty or forty years earlier.’
‘And you can do that?’
‘Yes.’
‘But I have no idea who you are. Your face doesn’t ring any bells, your voice hasn’t triggered anything in my memory.’
She looked at me searchingly.
‘Now I’m certain,’ she said. ‘When we were both young you came to the customs office here in Paris to pick up a typewriter someone had sent you — I don’t remember which country it was from. You had to pay import duty because it was new, but you didn’t have any money. In the end I let you take it without paying anything. You were almost in tears.’