Chapter 17
We started off talking like strangers who just happened to be sitting next to one another. I ordered wine from the waitress, and we raised our glasses. I brushed against her hand and said I was pleased to see her. I asked pointless questions about her journey; her responses were equally meaningless.
She suggested we should settle the bill; I wanted to pay, but she refused. When I offered to carry her case, she shook her head.
We went to her hotel together. I still hadn’t said anything about Louise, and she hadn’t asked. I was preoccupied with that horrible phone call from Jansson, and the fact that the widow Westerfeldt’s house was in flames right now.
We walked along in silence. Eventually I said, ‘Paris is always Paris.’
‘Always,’ Lisa replied.
Her hotel, the Mignon, appeared to be more modest than mine. A dark-skinned young man was on duty at the small reception desk; apparently guests were issued with some kind of plastic card instead of a heavy key. I waited while Lisa registered and handed over her credit card.
‘I’m tired,’ she said. ‘I need to sleep.’
‘312,’ I said. ‘I’m sure that’s a good room. If you’re up on the third floor, you won’t be disturbed by the traffic.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’
The bar next to reception was just about to close.
‘Just a few minutes,’ I said. ‘Stay for a drink. I’ve got news.’
She hesitated. ‘I need to wash my hands. I won’t be long.’
I watched her disappear into the lift; a couple speaking Danish rather too loudly collected their key card and I went into the bar. The woman behind the counter didn’t exactly look pleased to see me.
‘I won’t stay long,’ I said apologetically. ‘A glass of red wine, please. A guest who’s staying at the hotel will be down shortly. We won’t stay long.’
She nodded without speaking, poured me a glass of wine then went into the kitchen at the back. I wondered how many bars I had visited in my life. Thought about the endless hours I had spent hunched over wine glasses and coffee cups.
When Lisa came in I could see that she had combed her hair and changed her blouse. The barmaid emerged from the kitchen and asked her what she wanted; Lisa simply pointed to my glass.
‘The bar is closing,’ I said. ‘She seems a bit annoyed with us.’
‘My room is small,’ Lisa said. ‘I was kind of disappointed, but then I noticed how quiet it was. You were right: I couldn’t hear the traffic at all.’
‘I’ve found Louise, and she has a lawyer who’s helping her. We’re hoping she’ll be released either tomorrow or the following day, if the judge is sympathetic.’
‘You must be so pleased. I should have asked about her as soon as we met.’
‘I’m relieved. A man from the Swedish embassy helped me; without him I would never have found her.’
The barmaid brought the bill over, and this time Lisa let me pay. We emptied our glasses and stood up; before we had even got through the door, the lights had been switched off.
‘I’ve got something else to tell you as well,’ I said when we were waiting for the lift. ‘Jansson, the man who brought you to the island, called to tell me that a house on a neighbouring island is on fire. Right now, tonight.’
‘What? And was that deliberate too?’
‘I don’t know, but fires are rare out on the islands. There’s something strange going on. It’s frightening.’
For the first time since she saw me at the railway station, Lisa actually seemed interested in talking to me. I was disappointed; a burning house was clearly more important than the man who wanted nothing more than to get close to her.
‘We can talk about it tomorrow,’ I said, preparing to leave. ‘When shall I call round?’
‘Let me come to your hotel, then I can see what I booked for you.’
We arranged for her to be there at ten. When I got outside I was overcome by the urge to set off into the night, to see where life might take me. Without further thought I went over to a taxi waiting by a lamp post, and asked the driver to take me to the Place Pigalle. He was North African, and he was playing loud music. I asked him to turn it down as we drove off, but he pretended not to hear me.
I had had enough. I yelled at him, told him to pull over. I threw him a handful of euros and got out of the car.
‘Fucking music!’ I shouted at him through the open side window.
He shouted something in response, but I didn’t understand. I had already turned and was walking away. I was afraid he might come after me; if he attacked me, I wouldn’t stand a chance. I heard the car screech past; the driver didn’t even look at me.
I was so scared I was shaking. I knew I ought to go back to my hotel, but instead I got into another taxi. This one was driven by a grey-haired man; I guessed he was part of the distinguished tradition of Russian taxi drivers in Paris. His radio was switched off. The interior of the car smelled of sausages and strong tea. When I asked him to take me to the Place Pigalle, his only response was a brief nod. He dropped me off near the Moulin Rouge, and I went straight to the nearest bistro.
I drank. A lot. Partly due to relief, because I thought Louise would be released within a day or two, and partly because of Jansson’s phone call. I couldn’t believe he would have contacted me if this new fire hadn’t also been started deliberately.
But I drank mainly because I had realised that whatever reasons Lisa Modin might have had for coming to Paris, they were nothing to do with my hopes and dreams. She might be interested in me as a person, but not as a man.
I kept ordering, kept drinking. Eventually I called Jansson. It was a long time before he answered; he sounded out of breath as he shouted in my ear.
‘It’s me,’ I said. ‘Where are you?’
‘We’re trying to stop the fire from reaching the barn, but the lovely old house is beyond saving.’
‘Hold the phone away from your ear.’
‘What?’
‘I want to hear the fire.’
He did as I said, and I really thought I could hear the roar of the flames.
‘Did you get the widow out?’ I asked when he came back on the line.
‘They’ve taken her to the Sundells’ place on Ormö so that she doesn’t have to see this.’
‘Take a picture.’
‘A picture?’
Jansson didn’t seem to understand.
‘Have you got a camera phone? Take a picture and send it to me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I want to see that what you’re saying is true. I want you to send a picture to my phone, here in this bar where I’m drinking myself into a stupor.’
‘Why?’
‘Why am I drinking or why do I want a picture? I’ll tell you when I get home. I’ll say it one more time: I’m in Paris. I’m waiting for that picture.’
Jansson did as I asked. I had another drink, then my phone pinged. I looked at the image; it was terrible. You couldn’t see anything of the house, just a formless glow.
I held the phone up to the barman.
‘My house is burning down,’ I said.
He looked at me but didn’t say anything. I could understand why.
I went out into the night. I had neither the courage nor the desire to speak to the women hanging around on the street, but I suddenly recalled a New Year’s Eve, the year before I met Harriet, when I had a relationship with a girl who worked in an ironmonger’s shop.
At Christmas I realised I didn’t want to carry on seeing her, but I didn’t know how to tell her because she would be devastated. I needed time to think. A few days before New Year’s Eve I was in the apartment where she lived with her parents, who happened to be away. The original plan had been that we would celebrate the New Year quietly together, which was something I wanted to avoid at any price.