“Martin was there sometimes; he was in charge of getting the buffet set up or something.”
“When did he tell you that?” asked Winter.
“When do you think? After nine-eleven, of course. There was no reason to before.”
Winter nodded.
“But he wasn’t there that day.” Ringmar walked away from the window and sat on the chair on the other side of the desk. Winter took a drag. It sounded like the volume had been turned up, but the music had just changed tempo, become even more nervous. Desperate. Tales from New York. “Good God. He was supposed to have been there
“How did Martin react?”
“He’s thanking God, I think.”
“Mmhmm.”
“He’s started to visit the church next door,” said Ringmar, and Winter thought that his face brightened. “He says that he sits there without praying or anything. But that he feels peace there. And thankfulness, he says.”
“Go over,” said Winter.
“I’ve been about to,” said Ringmar. “But now he’s coming home.”
“Is he?”
“Just a break. For a few weeks.”
Winter left early and walked by way of Saluhallen, the indoor market. He bought a pound of farmer cheese from Brittany and two Estonian flatbreads; that was all.
A bar on Sodra Larmgatan glowed invitingly. It was new and he didn’t see a name. He went in and ordered a beer from the tap and sat at a window table. A man was sitting alone at the bar. The bartender was preparing glasses and olives and plates and bottles and doing all the other pleasant things bartenders occupy themselves with during the hour of blue twilight before guests arrive. Winter lit a Corps. This was the best time in a bar, as good as empty, a sense of anticipation before the evening, an unidentifiable serene sound. He looked around. The twenty- first century had introduced new trends in bar design. It was no longer mini-mini-minimalistic, the kind of design that gave the impression that you were sitting in a deserted hangar.
There was leather and wood and a warm light here. No bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling.
He could have his new office here. Here, by the window. During interrogations you could hold the candle a little closer to the person being interrogated in order to see the play of his eyes. The video camera could stand on the windowsill.
His colleagues from the jail could wait at the bar.
He took his phone out of his inner jacket pocket and called home.
“I’m on my way,” he said.
The bartender dropped a glass on the floor. The floor was made of stone. The man at the bar yelled, “Cheers!” and raised his glass.
“The streetcar is lively, I hear,” said Angela.
“Ha ha.”
“Be good and come home now,” said Angela.
Winter looked around.
“What do you say about a little drink before dinner?” he said.
“It depends on the place,” she said.
“It’s new and I’m the only one here,” he said, watching as the man at the bar climbed off his stool and made some sort of bow toward the bartender and left the bar with the exaggeratedly decisive movements of someone who is half drunk.
“I have to ask Elsa,” said Angela.
“Do you have to ask her permission for everything?”
“Ha ha ha.”
“I promise not to smoke,” said Winter.
“She says it’s okay if I come, but she wants to invite herself along to keep an eye on us.”
“Sodra Larmgatan, right across from Saluhallen.”
He hung up and drank his beer. People outside were on their way somewhere. The sun was on its way to the Southern Hemisphere. The sky was colored orange, which meant that the sun would come back tomorrow. The light outside was blue because the hour was blue. A long evening awaited. He thought he would let it take its course; he wouldn’t interfere.
The phone rang again. He didn’t recognize the number on the screen. He debated letting it ring, but if he did it would be the first time.
There’s a first time for everything.
He didn’t answer.
He felt a sensation in his body when the ringing stopped.
Something has happened.
He lifted his hand toward the bartender.
This calls for a celebration.
10
Angela came with Elsa, who immediately ordered a drink with bubbles. Angela ordered a dry martini. Winter ordered a Longmorn. Angela had a dark circle under one eye, which was a sign that she was tired. Never more than one circle, and it was never there for more than a few short hours, before a new day. Soon it would be a new day.
“Cheers, and hi,” said Elsa.
Winter raised his glass. He looked into Angela’s eyes. What kind of habits are we teaching our daughter? How will it be when we’re not there keeping an eye on her? What will happen with the bubbles?
“Is it good, Elsa?” asked Angela.
“It tickles my nooose,” said Elsa.
Just then, Winter felt a sting in his nose and in the next second he sneezed.
“Bless you!” shrieked Elsa.
“Thanks, sweetie.”
“Does your nose tickle too, Papa?”
“Yes. Just like yours.”
“But I didn’t sneeze!”
“I did it for both of us.”
“Ha ha!”
“If you two keep this up, I’ll sneeze too,” said Angela.
“How can this be explained from a purely medical perspective?” said Winter.
“What?”
“Well, you’re a doctor. How do you explain why you have a sneezing reflex when other people talk about sneezing?”
“I don’t think the research has come very far in that area,” said Angela. “And I really don’t know which branch it would be done in.”
“Medicine,” said Winter. “Ear nose throat.”
“No.”
“Physiology.”
“No.”
“Sneeziology.”
“No.”
“Nosiness,” said Elsa.
