“Don’t know how we got onto that subject. I seem to recall that he asked me if there were any honorable cops here.” Wendell smiled weakly and raised his beer glass before he took a gulp.
“So what did you say?”
“I seem to recall that I said something to the effect that I knew one at any rate,” said Wendell. “I no doubt mentioned your name too-in fact, I’m sure I did. It was right at the time when you were making headlines in the media as the foremost champion of justice.”
“Why did he want to get hold of someone like me?” said Johansson. “Was there some information that he wanted to get?”
Wendell shook his head doubtfully.
“Don’t think so. Just between us he’s a mysterious type. It was never really clear to me what he was doing, other than that it was a great revelation, of course.” He shook his head in sympathy, then asked, “Has he been in contact with you? If I were you I’d be a bit careful with the good Krassner.”
“He sent me a mysterious letter,” said Johansson. “I actually didn’t understand a thing, but because he sent it to my home address I thought I should ask.”
Wendell shook his head dismissively. “Forget it,” he said. “I would never dream of giving out your home address. All he got was the address to your office. To the bureau, the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation. I think I said it was in the phone book.”
Hmm, thought Johansson.
Then they talked about other things besides Krassner, had pasta with veal, and tiramisu for dessert.
In addition they drank both beer and wine, and at coffee Wendell excused himself as usual.
“Small bladder,” said Wendell, smiling wryly. “Shall we have one more small grappa?”
As usual too he’d hung his sport coat on the back of the chair, and as soon as he left to go to the restroom Johansson stuck his hand in and fished his address book out of the inside left pocket. Well organized and neat handwriting, and he himself was under “J” with his home address, the address of his office, and all three of his telephone numbers.
The details are starting to fall into place, thought Johansson. He put the address book back and tried to make eye contact with a waiter.
“Can we each get a grappa?” said Johansson just as Wendell came back, and then they continued talking about everything else but Krassner.
It had been really nice. Johansson insisted on paying, and afterward he indicated that it was on his own account by leaving the check behind on the table. Then he’d excused himself to go to the restroom before they left, and Wendell had of course palmed it the way he always did. The newspaper could easily take this, and to his credit it should be said that he never wrote the names of his various informants on the back. Wendell was just looking out for number one; besides, it was almost Christmas and in this case it didn’t hurt any poor people.
When they separated, Wendell returned to the newspaper office while Johansson took a taxi and went home. Regardless of the fact that it was almost Christmas he had no intention of returning to his workplace to exhale strong beer, wine, and grappa on his coworkers. Others besides him could do that, in other places with other rules than the ones that applied to him.
Finally he unpacked his suitcases. He sorted the dirty laundry, dividing it between the two laundry baskets in the bathroom, hung up what didn’t need to be washed in the closet, and set the Christmas presents he’d bought on the desk in his study. Remaining were Krassner’s papers; the unease he’d felt earlier had not lessened after the meeting with Wendell. When he’d packed his suitcase at the hotel in New York he had put them into the plastic bag that he’d gotten when he bought his new shoes, and they were still there.
What do I do now? thought Johansson, weighing the bag in his hand, a few pounds at the most. He still had the same unpleasant premonition of what he would find when he finally made up his mind to read through them. He didn’t want to take them to work, for they had no business being there, and besides, they were his. He’d gotten them from the person who had inherited all of Krassner’s earthly belongings, and that if anything made them a legal acquisition.
Problems, thought Johansson, and since they didn’t concern him they might just as well wait. I’ll take them with me up to my big brother’s, he decided. Then I can read them in peace and quiet. If he was going to do it anyway it was just as well to do it thoroughly. That’s how it will be, he decided. Folded up the bag and laid it on the bookshelf in his study alongside the books that he’d also thought about taking with him to read during the Christmas holiday. He’d found what he was looking for, he’d had the good fortune to do so, and now it wasn’t going to run away from him, so the work that remained could just as well wait until he felt ready for it.
Having the luck to find what you’re looking for: among archival researchers-a profession that is best practiced as a calling-this is something so great and unusual that there is a special word for it: Finderglück. A German expression that can’t readily be translated but whose original meaning is that you have the luck that is also required for your efforts to be crowned with success. On the other hand it doesn’t mean that you’re going to be happy once you do, for that’s far from always the case.
For a professional archival researcher, Johansson’s reaction was not especially noteworthy. Researchers are well aware of the feelings that usually surface when this uncommon grace befalls you: the ambivalence, the doubt, the spiritual hangover or, in severe cases, even anxiety and remorse that can appear when you’re sitting there with the find in your meager hands. And obviously the possibility that what you’ve found will unfortunately show that you’ve had it all wrong with your theories or hypotheses.
Johansson was no archival researcher, but during his years as a detective he had devoted hundreds of hours to what in police talk is called internal surveillance: seeking the truth or traces of the truth in various police and other registers, and he was well acquainted with the feelings that went along with both the uncommon successes and the constant failures. One time he had even found a murderer that way, and because the victim was an especially big son of a bitch while the perpetrator was an ordinary and pleasant person, afterward-and to himself-he’d cursed the union of intuition and judicious precision that had led him correctly where all his other colleagues had gone astray. Without even needing to leave his office and while his colleagues were as usual running around out in the field.
Those papers aren’t running away from you, Johansson repeated to himself, nodding in confirmation in his solitude. Besides, he needed to take a little nap, after the time change and the heavy Italian lunch, which he’d paid for with his own money to boot. He’d already done the necessary shopping for his survival on his way home to Wollmar Yxkullsgatan.
When he woke up it was only seven o’clock in the evening but he was both alert and clear in the head and didn’t give a thought to Krassner and his papers. Then Jarnebring called as he stood in the shower, and because it was almost Christmas he continued the entertainment program already under way and invited him to dinner at his very good neighborhood restaurant. Jarnebring didn’t have any particular objections but rather contented himself with suggesting the same menu as the last time so as not to take any unnecessary risks, and a good hour later they were sitting across from each other, raising Aunt Jenny’s crystal glasses over a very good baked toast with anchovies, tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella.
“Brilliant,” said Jarnebring, aahing audibly after the shot. “These spaghetti guys aren’t your usual gooks.”
No, thought Johansson. They’d probably never dream of serving boiled sausage with white bread and shrimp salad.