“Can you tell me what happened?” he said. “I know my father got mixed up in a fight at the liquor store, but that’s about all I know.”
“Well, it was like this,” Lundström said with a friendly smile. “Your father drove up to the liquor store in a taxi at about four in the afternoon, went inside, took the ticket with his number from the machine, and sat down to wait. It seems he didn’t notice when his number came up. After a while he went up to the counter and demanded to be served even though he had missed his turn. The clerk handled the whole thing really badly, apparently insisting that your father get a new number and start at the end of the line. Your father refused, another customer whose number had come up pushed his way past and told your father to get lost. To everybody’s surprise your father was so angry he turned and thumped this man. The clerk intervened, so your father started fighting with him as well. You can imagine what happened next. But at least nobody got hurt. Your father might have some pain in his right hand, though. He seems to be pretty strong, despite his age.”
“Where is he?”
Lundström pointed to a door in the background.
“What’ll happen now?” Wallander asked.
“You can take him home. I’m afraid he’ll be charged with assault. Unless you can work it out with the man he punched and the clerk. I’ll have a word with the prosecutor and do what I can.”
He handed Wallander a piece of paper with two names and addresses on it.
“I don’t think the fellow from the store will give you any difficulty,” he said. “I know him. The other man, Sten Wickberg, could be a bit of a problem. He owns a firm of haulage contractors. Lives in Kivik. He seems to have made up his mind to come down hard on your poor father. You could try calling him. The number’s there. And Simrishamn Taxis are owed 230 kronor. In all the confusion, he never got around to paying. The driver’s name is Waldemar Kåge. I’ve talked to him. He knows he’ll get his money.”
Wallander took the sheet of paper and put it in his pocket. Then he motioned toward the door behind him.
“How is he?”
“I think he’s simmered down. But he still insists he had every right to defend himself.”
“Defend himself?” Wallander said. “But he was the one who started it all.”
“Well, he feels he had a right to defend his place in line,” Lundström said.
“For Christ’s sake!”
Lundström stood up. “You can take him home now,” he said. “By the way, what’s this I hear about your car going up in flames?”
“There could have been something wrong with the wiring,” Wallander said. “Anyway, it was an old piece of junk.”
“I’ll disappear for a few minutes,” Lundström said. “The door locks itself when you close it.”
“Thanks for your help,” Wallander said.
“What help?” Lundström said, putting on his cap and going out.
Wallander knocked and opened the door. His father was sitting on a bench in the bare room, cleaning his fingernails with a nail. When he saw who it was, he rose to his feet and was clearly annoyed.
“You took your time,” he said. “How long did you intend to make me wait here?”
“I came as quickly as I could,” Wallander said. “Let’s go home now.”
“Not until I’ve paid for the taxi,” his father said. “I want to do the right thing.”
“We’ll take care of that later.”
They left the police station and drove home in silence. Wallander could see that his father had already forgotten what had happened. It wasn’t until they reached the turnoff to Glimmingehus that Wallander turned to him.
“What happened to Anton and the Pole?” he asked.
“Do you remember them?” his father asked in surprise.
“There was a fight on that occasion as well,” Wallander said with a sigh.
“I thought you would have forgotten about that,” his father said. “I don’t know what became of the Pole. It’s almost twenty years since I last heard of him. He had gone over to something he thought would be more profitable. Pornographic magazines. I don’t know how he did. But Anton’s dead. Drank himself to death. That must be nearly twenty-five years ago.”
“What were you doing at the liquor store?” Wallander asked.
“What you normally do there,” his father said. “I wanted to buy some brandy.”
“I thought you didn’t like brandy.”
“My wife enjoys a glass in the evening.”
“Gertrud drinks brandy?”
“Why shouldn’t she? Don’t start thinking you can tell her what to do and what not to do, like you’ve been trying to do to me.”
Wallander could not believe his ears. “I’ve never tried to tell you what to do,” he said angrily. “If anybody’s been trying to tell somebody else what to do, it’s been you telling me.”
“If you’d listened to me you’d never have joined the police force,” his father said. “And looking at what’s happened these last few years, that would have been to your advantage, of course.”
Wallander realized the best he could do was to change the subject. “It was a good thing you weren’t injured,” he said.
“You have to preserve your dignity,” his father said. “And your place in line. Otherwise they walk all over you.”
“I am afraid you might be charged.”
“I shall deny it.”
“Deny what? Everybody knows it was you who started the fight. There’s no way you can deny it.”
“All I did was preserve my dignity,” his father said. “Do they put you in prison for that nowadays?”
“You won’t go to prison,” Wallander said. “You might have to pay damages, though.”
“I shall refuse,” his father said.
“I’ll pay them,” Wallander said. “You punched another customer on the nose. That sort of thing gets punished.”
“You have to preserve your dignity.”
Wallander gave up. Shortly afterward they turned into his father’s drive.
“Don’t mention this to Gertrud,” his father said as he got out of the car. Wallander was surprised by his insistent tone.
“I won’t say a word.”
Gertrud and his father had married the year before. She had started to work for him when he had begun to show signs of senility. She introduced a new dimension into his solitary life—she had visited him three days a week—and there had been a big change in his father, who no longer seemed to be senile. She was thirty years his junior, but that apparently did not matter to either of them. Wallander was aghast at the thought of their marrying, but he had discovered that she was good-hearted and determined to go through with it. He did not know much about her, beyond the fact that she was local, had two grown-up children, and had been divorced for years. They seemed to have found happiness together, and Wallander often felt a degree of jealousy. His own life seemed to be so miserable and was getting worse all the time so that what he needed was a home help for himself.
Gertrud was preparing the evening meal when they went in. As always, she was delighted to welcome him. He apologized for not being able to join them for supper, blaming work. Instead, he went with his father to the studio, where they drank a cup of coffee that they made on the filthy hot plate.
“I saw one of your pictures on a wall in Helsingborg the other night,” Wallander said.
“There have been quite a few over the years,” his father said.
“How many have you made?”
“I could add it up if I wanted to,” his father said. “But I don’t.”
“It must be thousands.”
“I’d rather not think about it. It would be inviting the Reaper into the parlor.”
The comment surprised Wallander. He had never heard him refer to his age, never mind his death. It struck him that he had no idea how frightened his father might be of dying. After all these years, I know nothing at all about my father, he thought. And he probably knows equally little about me.