Just to sit there in silence and experience things. To let everything be exactly what it was. Anyway, something along those lines is what she became aware of. Discovered during her first meeting with her dad. Her bird dad.
During half a minute. Or maybe ten.
Then he stood up, walked over to the bureau next to his bed and opened the bottom drawer.
‘I’ve written to you,’ he said. ‘It’s good that you’ve come to collect it.’
He produced a bundle of letters. It was at least six inches thick, and tied up by a length of black tape the shape of a cross on the top surface.
‘It’ll be best if you throw them away. But as you’re here, you might as well have them.’
He put the bundle down on the table between them, and sat down again.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘But you shouldn’t have come. I think it would be best if you left now.’
He blinked a few times, and jerked his head from side to side. He was no longer looking at her, and she assumed he felt uncomfortable. That he thought it was awkward to be sitting here with his daughter who had just materialized out of nowhere.
‘I want to get to know you and talk to you,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know who you were until yesterday. I want to know why that has been the case.’
‘It’s all my fault,’ he said. ‘I did something terrible, and it’s right that things have turned out as they have. There’s nothing to be done about it. It’s not possible.’
He jerked his head from side to side again.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Mikaela. ‘I need to know in order to understand.’
‘It’s not possible,’ he repeated.
Then he sat there in silence, staring down at the table. Leaned forward, clutching the arms of his chair. More time passed.
‘You have another dad now. It’s best the way things are. Go now.’
She could feel the sobs welling up in her throat.
Look at me, she thought. Touch me! Say that you are my dad, and that you’re pleased that I’ve come to see you at last!
But he just sat there. The remarkable silence had gone — or was changed — and now, all of a sudden, there was merely repugnance and hopelessness. Just think that moments could disintegrate so quickly, she thought, feeling increasingly desperate. Disintegrate so totally.
‘I don’t even know what happened,’ she whispered, trying somehow to force back the tears thumping away behind her eyes. ‘My mum doesn’t say anything, and you don’t say anything. Can’t you understand that you have to tell me? You bastards. . You fucking bastards!’
She heaved herself up out of the armchair and stood in front of the open window instead. Turned her back on him. Leaned out and squeezed the sharp tinplate on the window ledge until her fingers caused her agony, succeeding in forcing back her despair with the aid of the pain and her fury. You bastards, she kept repeating in her thoughts. Bloody fucking bastards — yes, that’s exactly what they were!
‘You think you know what’s best for me, but you don’t at all!’
He didn’t move a muscle, but she could hear him breathing in his armchair. Deeply, and with his mouth open as if he had adenoid problems. She decided to ignore him for a while. Deflate the tension, or try to at least. She looked out of the window. Summer and sunshine were making their presence felt in the grounds. The dog had stopped barking. It was lying down in the shade instead with its tongue rolled out onto the ground in front of it — you could see that from above, where she was. She had a good view over the surrounding countryside as well: she could see the road she had walked along on the way here, and the village where she’d got off the bus, St Inns. And beyond there was the sea — more of a hint than a reality, and she wondered how life here might feel so terribly enclosed by all those extensive views. All that summer, all that sunshine, all that endless sky. .
‘How old are you, Mikaela?’ he asked out of the blue.
‘Eighteen,’ she said, without turning to look at him. ‘It was my birthday yesterday.’
Then she remembered that she’d brought something for him. She went over to her rucksack and dug out the parcel. Hesitated for a moment, then put it down on the table, next to the letters.
‘It’s nothing special,’ she said. ‘But it’s for you. I did it at school when I was ten years old. I want you to have it.’
He felt hesitantly at the thin packet, but made no effort to open it.
‘You shouldn’t-’ he began.
‘If I give you something will you be kind enough to accept it,’ she interrupted angrily. ‘I’ll accept your letters, so you’ll accept my story — okay?’
It was indeed a story. An illustrated story about an unfortunate bird she’d spent almost a whole term writing when she was in class four. Writing and drawing and painting. She’d thought of giving it to her mum or to Helmut as a Christmas present, but for whatever reason she hadn’t done so.
She couldn’t remember now if it was because they’d fallen out, or if there was some other reason. But when she’d remembered the story last night, it had felt like a symbolic gesture.
Giving her dad a story that she’d written. A sad story with a happy ending.
And about a bird as well, it now occurred to her — that fitted in with her first impression of him.
She stood by the window again and waited. Made up her mind not to say a word nor to leave the room until he had made some kind of a move. Just stand there and refuse to budge — just like her mum had done, and just as he was doing. Refuse to budge. For as long as it took. So there.
After a few minutes he cleared his throat and stood up. Paced hesitantly back and forth for a while, then stood by the door.
‘I want to go out,’ he said. ‘I usually go out for a walk in the grounds at about this time.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Mikaela. ‘And I want you to tell me what happened. I’ve no intention of leaving here until you’ve done that. Is that clear?’
Her dad went out of the door without responding.
8
‘So, you have to go back and continue the interrogation on Monday?’ said Mikael Bau. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’
Moreno nodded, and took another sip of wine. She felt that she was starting to feel a bit drunk — but what the hell? she thought. It was the first evening of her four-week-long holiday after all, and she couldn’t remember when she’d last allowed herself to drink away her inhibitions. It must have been years ago. What inhibitions, incidentally?
She could sleep in tomorrow. Take a towel, saunter down to the beach. Lie down and lap up the sun all day. Have a good rest and let Mikael look after her, just as he’d said he would do.
And an hour or two’s work the day after tomorrow wasn’t all that much of a problem, surely? In the afternoon — so it wouldn’t affect her lie-in.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Just a couple of hours. He wasn’t as cooperative as he said he was going to be, that scumbag Lampe-Leermann.’
‘Scumbag?’ said Mikael with a frown. ‘I take it the inspector is talking off the record.’
Off the record? she thought as she shuffled around and tried to make herself comfortable on the sagging plush sofa. I suppose so — but for God’s sake, I’m on holiday after all! Mikael was lolling back at the other end of the outsize piece of furniture, and they had just about as much bodily contact as was compatible with a comfortable digestion process. He’d found a suitable fish, needless to say, just as he’d promised to do. Not just any old fish either: a sole that he’d cooked a la meuniere with a divine white wine sauce and crayfish tails. It was such a luxurious delight that she’d found it quite difficult to really enjoy it. The problem was striking a balance between gorging herself and doing justice to his culinary skills. Something to do with her ability to really let herself go, presumably. . But why should that be a problem?
