I had some knowledge of the art of creating ships in bottles. My great-grandfather, who had worked on cargo ships on the North Sea before returning home to become a fisherman, had made a model of the Daphne; she went down off the treacherous Skagen reefs one Christmas Day in the 1870s. A Danish fishing boat went out into the storm and managed to save the crew, but eight of the rescuers died. When I was a child my grandfather explained that the ship, with its tall masts and its tattered sails, had been pushed through the neck of the bottle while lying flat. Using a clever system of the finest threads, it was then possible to raise the masts and fix the sails, and to secure the ship on the waves, which were made of coloured modelling clay.
However, the Bedouin camp Ahmed had created was far more impressive than any ship in a bottle that I had ever seen. His technique and skill were outstanding. I realised that with those fingers he would probably be an excellent teacher for anyone who wanted to become a pickpocket.
‘It’s beautiful,’ I said. ‘Is this setting, with the tent and the man on the horse, something you’ve experienced yourself?’
‘I grew up in the kasbah in Algiers. The desert was far away, outside the city, but I saw pictures and films. And my father was a Bedouin; he spent his entire childhood as a nomad, with tents erected in a different place each evening.’
‘I should have brought you something,’ I said. ‘But I didn’t have much warning about this trip.’
‘I’m grateful that you helped Louise get out of prison.’
‘Thieving in Paris isn’t a very good idea,’ I said, immediately regretting my choice of words.
‘It’s over now,’ Louise said crossly. ‘Going on about it is no help at all.’
Ahmed reached out and placed his hand on her arm.
‘Your father is right. I don’t think Fredrik will mention it unnecessarily.’
He pronounced my name with a French accent, presumably to be polite. I was sorry about my earlier suspicions.
He stood up.
‘I think I need to sleep for a couple of hours more,’ he said.
He gave a slight bow and left the kitchen. Louise went with him, and I got ready to leave. After a few seconds she came back; I was standing there with the Bedouin bottle in my hand.
‘There’s something else you need to know,’ she said. ‘Put down the bottle.’
I did as she said and followed her into the room beyond the kitchen.
‘This is also my life,’ she said as she opened the door.
The room was small, painted white, simply furnished. A bed, a fitted carpet, a ceiling light. And a wheelchair. The chair was facing the window; I could just see hair and the back of someone’s neck.
‘This is Muhammed. We don’t need to whisper; he’s deaf.’
Louise went over to the wheelchair, and the person sitting there immediately produced a stream of incomprehensible noises. Louise turned the chair around. Muhammed was a seven- or eight-year-old boy. His face was distorted by a grimace that seemed to have stiffened into a rigid scar. He stared up at me. I had the feeling that the twisted mouth could let out a scream of angst at any moment.
‘This is my father Fredrik,’ Louise said in French, while simultaneously writing something on a screen linked to a computer attached to the chair.
She jerked her head to indicate that I should come closer.
‘He can’t move his hands, but you can say hello by touching his cheek.’
I did as she said, almost recoiling when I felt the boy’s skin. It was ice cold.
I knew there were a number of chronic illnesses where people are completely lacking in subcutaneous fat. They are very cold and can often suffer from a range of different mental or physical problems. Perhaps he had hydrocephalus, or water on the brain as it is sometimes called. However, his head didn’t seem unnaturally swollen, so I had doubts about my diagnosis.
‘Who’s his mother?’ I asked.
‘Muhammed is Ahmed’s brother,’ Louise explained. ‘Their mother had a breakdown when he was born and it became clear that he would never live a normal life. She sought refuge in mental illness, but Ahmed was determined to take care of him. That’s why he moved to France. For the first few years he looked after Muhammed alone, then I turned up. He will be like a brother to the child I’m expecting.’
‘What’s the diagnosis?’
‘He has many problems. Apart from the deafness, his brain isn’t fully developed. He can’t talk, and he’ll go blind within the next few years.’
We went back to the kitchen.
‘Leave the bottle,’ she said. ‘I’ll wrap it up safely, make sure it doesn’t break.’
‘I realise you won’t be coming back to Sweden with me.’
‘Not right now. Not before the child is born. After that we might move to Sweden — out to the island, once the house has been rebuilt.’
I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to put my arms around her, hug her as tightly as I could. Another part simply wanted to run away from the whole thing, go back to the caravan.
She asked how long I was thinking of staying.
‘I’m leaving tomorrow,’ I said. ‘You’re out of prison; you haven’t been deported. I know what your life is like. There’s nothing to keep me here, and staying in a hotel is expensive.’
‘You could stay here.’
‘Cities don’t suit me any more. I need to go home. I’m longing to get back to my island and my burned-down house.’
Louise thought for a moment, then said, ‘I’ll come to your hotel this evening. I’ll bring the bottle with me.’
We said our quiet goodbyes in the dark hallway. I felt unsure of myself, like a young child. I don’t like it when I can’t understand things.
Out on the street I paused for a moment. It would be many hours before we saw one another. Without really making a conscious decision I headed for the Metro and travelled south. I changed trains and eventually got off at the Bastille. Slowly I walked towards the Hôtel de Ville. I ought to book my ticket home. Something was irrevocably over. Meeting Louise’s family had made it clear to me that we lived in different worlds, yet I still hoped it would be possible to change things, that our worlds could come together in the future.
Once again I started to observe the people passing by on the street. When I occasionally saw an older person, it served merely as a confirmation that we were the exceptions.
I made a phone call; after a long wait I was eventually able to book a seat on a flight leaving at 11.30 the following day.
I continued my long walk to Montparnasse. A female busker made me stop. She was singing old jazz songs in a powerful vibrato. The hat in front of her was well filled; I added a euro, and she smiled her thanks. Many of her teeth were missing.
My legs were aching by the time I arrived at the hotel. Monsieur Pierre was on reception, counting the contents of a cash box.
‘I’m going home tomorrow,’ I said.
‘Monsieur has finished with Paris for now?’
‘Possibly for ever. You can never tell, at my age.’
‘Quite right. Growing older is like walking on thinner and thinner ice.’
The bar was open but empty. I ordered coffee.
As I was passing reception on the way up to my room, I heard Monsieur Pierre in an inner room, which was hidden by a dark red curtain. He was humming along to some music I recognised. I listened for a moment and realised it was Offenbach.
There was a message on my bed to say that Rachel had been my cleaner today. I lay down and dozed off immediately. When I woke up after what I thought had been a long sleep, I saw that only twenty minutes had passed. I tucked the duvet around my legs and leaned back against the bedhead. In my mind I returned to the apartment and the moment when Ahmed had suddenly appeared in the kitchen. I saw his disabled brother; I thought about the gentle way Louise had stroked Ahmed’s head, her tenderness towards his brother. She had allowed me access to her life, but to me it had felt like walking into a room where nothing was familiar.