Hermann Eber’s fate on his drive back home after the failed visit, when they had sat and looked at each other without being able to think of anything to say.
The door of the red-brick house had been opened slightly. Wallander got out of his car.
‘It’s only me,’ he shouted. ‘Your old friend from Ystad.’
Hermann Eber appeared in the doorway. He was wearing an ancient tracksuit that Wallander suspected was one of the few garments he’d had with him when he fled from East Germany. The garden was full of rubbish. He wondered fleetingly if Eber had set up cunning mantraps around his house.
‘You,’ he said. ‘How long is it since you last came to visit me?’
‘Many years. But when have you been to visit me? Do you even know that I’ve moved to the country?’
Eber shook his head. He was almost completely bald. His wandering eyes convinced Wallander that he was still afraid of a possible revenge attack.
Eber pointed at a decrepit-looking garden table and some rickety chairs. Wallander realised that Eber didn’t want to let him into the house. His place had always been a mess, but in the past he had invited Wallander inside anyway. Perhaps it’s in an even worse state now, Wallander thought. He sat down carefully on the chair that seemed least likely to collapse. Eber remained standing, leaning against the house. Wallander wondered if he still retained the acuity that had been his most characteristic trait. Eber was an intelligent man, even if he led a life that seemed at odds with his intellectual capacity. Several times he had surprised Wallander by turning up to meetings unwashed and smelly. He dressed oddly, and in the middle of winter often wore summer clothes. But Wallander had realised at an early stage that beneath this confusing and often repulsive surface was a clear head. The way he analysed what was no longer an East German miracle had given Wallander insight into a social system and a view of politics that had previously been beyond his comprehension.
Hermann Eber had often reacted with reluctance and irritation when Wallander asked him questions about the work he did for the Stasi. It was still difficult, hurtful, a pain he was unable to shake off. But at times when Wallander had been sufficiently patient, Eber had eventually begun to talk about it. One day he had admitted, matter-of-factly, that for a while he had worked in one of the secret departments concerned exclusively with killing people. That was why Wallander had thought of him when Ytterberg called and told him about Louise von Enke’s pathology report.
When Eber appeared in the doorway he was carrying a bundle of papers, and behind both ears were pencils. All the years he had lived in Sweden, Eber had earned a living by writing crossword puzzles for various German newspapers. He specialised in very difficult puzzles, aimed at the most advanced solvers. Creating crosswords was an art - it wasn’t just a matter of fitting words into a grid with as few black squares as possible; there was always another dimension: a theme hard to detect, possibly associations with various historic figures. That is how he had described his work to Wallander.
He nodded at the papers Eber had in his hand.
‘Some more brain-teasers?’
‘The most difficult I’ve done. A crossword puzzle in which the most elegant clues are linked with classical philosophy.’
‘But surely you must want people to solve your puzzles?’
Eber didn’t reply. It occurred to Wallander that the man sitting opposite him in the shabby old tracksuit dreamed of creating a crossword puzzle that nobody would ever manage to solve. Wallander wondered for a moment if Eber’s fear had driven him crazy, despite everything. Or perhaps it was living here in this hollow where the hills on all sides could be perceived as walls closing in on him.
He didn’t know. Hermann Eber was still at his core a complete stranger as far as Wallander was concerned.
‘I need your help,’ he said, putting the pathology report on the table and proceeding to explain calmly and thoroughly everything that had happened.
Eber put on a pair of dirty glasses. He studied the papers for a few minutes, then suddenly stood up and disappeared into the house. Wallander waited. Eber still hadn’t returned after fifteen minutes. Wallander wondered if he had gone to bed, or perhaps started to prepare a meal and forgotten about the guest waiting for him on the rickety garden chair. But he continued to wait, his impatience growing. He decided to give Eber five more minutes.
At that moment Eber re-emerged. He had some yellowed documents in his hand and a thick book under his arm.
‘This stuff belongs to a different world,’ Eber said. ‘I had to search for it.’
‘But you appear to have found something.’
‘It was clever of you to come to me. I’m probably the only person who can give you the help you need. At the same time, I must tell you that this aroused many nasty memories. I started crying as I was searching. Did you hear that?’
Wallander shook his head. He thought Eber was exaggerating. There were no signs of tears on his face.
‘I recognise the substances,’ Eber resumed. ‘They have woken me up out of a Sleeping Beauty slumber that I would have preferred to remain in undisturbed for the rest of my life.’
‘So you know what it is?’
‘I think so. The ingredients, the synthetically produced chemical substances mentioned in the report, are exactly what I used to work with.’
He paused. Wallander waited. Eber didn’t like being interrupted. He had once told Wallander, when under the influence of several glasses of whisky, that it had to do with all the power he once had as a high-ranking officer in the Stasi. Nobody in those days dared to contradict him.
Eber cradled the thick book in his hands, as if it were a holy writ. He seemed hesitant. Wallander would have to be careful. A blackbird perched on the rim of a plastic kiddie pool nearby. Eber immediately slammed the heavy book down onto the table. The blackbird flew off. Wallander remembered that Eber suffered from a mysterious fear of birds.
‘Let’s hear it, then,’ said Wallander. ‘What are these substances?’
‘I dealt with them a thousand years ago. I thought they were out of my life for good. Now you turn up one lovely summer’s day and remind me of something I don’t want to remember.’
‘What is it you want to forget?’
Eber sighed and scratched at where his hair used to be. Wallander knew it was important to keep a grip on him, otherwise he might disappear to spend endless hours composing his crossword puzzles.
‘What is it you want to forget?’ Wallander repeated.
Eber began rocking back and forth on his chair, but he said nothing. Wallander’s patience was stretched thin.
‘I want to know if you can identify these substances,’ he said sharply.
‘I’ve dealt with them in the past.’
‘That’s not a good enough answer. “Dealt with”? You have to be clearer than that! Don’t forget you once promised me you’d do me a favour when I asked for one.’
‘I haven’t forgotten.’
Eber shook his head, and Wallander could see that he was tortured by the situation.
‘Take your time,’ he said. ‘I need your answer, your views and your thoughts. But there’s no hurry. I can come back later if you prefer.’
‘No, no, stay! I just need time to find my way back into the past. It’s as if I’m being forced to dig out a tunnel that I’ve already refilled carefully.’
Wallander stood up.
‘I’ll go for a walk,’ he said. ‘I’ll take a closer look at the Icelandic horses.’
‘Half an hour, that’s all I need.’
Hermann Eber wiped the sweat from his brow. Wallander walked out of the hollow and back to the nearest paddock.
After half an hour, it had started to get windy, and a bank of clouds was building up from the south. Hermann Eber was sitting motionless in the garden chair when Wallander opened the rusty gate. Now there was another book lying on the table, an old diary with brown covers. Eber started talking the moment Wallander sat down. When he was agitated, as he was now, his voice became shrill, almost strident. Wallander had several times wondered
