The Shadow Woman

cup.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Then she’d been left on her own again. She thought about this now, as her hand grew increasingly wet. The rain felt good. Old people have a hard time in the heat, she thought. Even old people from other countries stay indoors when it’s hot outside.

She pulled in her hand but left the window open. There were streaks running down the pane. It smelled like when she was a child. Through the rain-washed window she could see the children outside.

Suddenly it was as if something struck her hard in the chest. She thought she saw a head of red hair through the window. She leaned forward, then pushed open the window to get a better view. But she didn’t see anyone with red hair or anyone else for that matter-there was nothing outside her window right now. Look how I’m behaving, she thought. I’m seeing ghosts.

Aneta Djanali returned home with the fall. It smelled stagnant in her apartment. She opened a window, and despite the total absence of wind she saw a little fluff of dust whirl in the center of the room. The first thing she did was put on some music, and it wasn’t jazz.

It was early afternoon, but it felt like evening, when the light is gone and doesn’t pierce through everything anymore. This light lingered around things. It was discreet, relaxing for the mind, she thought, pouring herself a glass of whiskey from the bottle on the kitchen counter. The last time she’d poured from it was the evening she was beaten up. It was a strange feeling. She’d sat here with Lis, sipped at a whiskey, and then gone out. Now she was back and sipping another as if it had just been a little parenthesis in time. She drank a little more and grimaced as much as she dared with her patched-up mandible. The alcohol flared up at once and became a little flame that flickered around inside her body, swept down her nerve endings, and flushed out into her bloodstream. Better than painkillers, she thought, and took a little whiskey in her mouth and let it slowly trickle down into her throat. I feel pretty good, she said silently to herself.

27

ESTER BERGMAN TOOK A SIP OF HER COFFEE, BUT SHE WAS thinking about something else. The young man on the radio had just said that it was eight o’clock. She was all dressed and ready to go. The woman from the home-help service wasn’t coming today, and that was a relief.

She lingered outside the office and read the sign, just to be sure. She was a little nervous once she was standing there. Speaking to a stranger about that girl and her mother-it felt silly now. What business was it of hers? It was better to go back and che-

“Mrs. Bergman, you shouldn’t be standing out here in the rain,” the girl who had come out from the office said. “Can I help you with something? Do you need help with anything from the store, Mrs. Bergman?”

“No. No, thank you,” she said, recognizing the girl from her courtyard. They had said hello a few times. “You know my name?”

“Well, you’ve lived here for such a long time, Mrs. Bergman,” the girl said. “We’ve spoken to each other. My name is Karin Sohlberg.”

“Lived here for a long time? Since it was built.” That was true. They’d moved here in 1958, when everything was new and filled with light. Elmer had never explained how they had been able to afford it, and she hadn’t asked. She hadn’t asked about anything at all, and that had been foolish.

“You’re getting wet, Mrs. Bergman.”

“Could I come in for a moment? There was something I wanted to ask you about.”

“Sure. We shouldn’t stand out here any longer. I’ll take your arm, and we’ll walk up the steps.”

Inside the desk lamp was on, illuminating a surface covered with papers. She was offered a comfortable chair to sit in.

The telephone rang, but by the time the girl picked up the phone there was nobody there. She put down the receiver and turned to her visitor. This could take a while, and that didn’t matter.

“The weather really turned around.”

Ester Bergman didn’t answer. She was thinking about what to say.

“It really feels nice,” the girl said.

“I wanted to ask about those two who were living in one of the units farther up from me. A mother and her daughter.”

The girl looked at her as if she hadn’t heard, as if she wanted to keep talking about the weather. It used to be old people that talked about the weather-now it’s apparently young people, thought Ester Bergman. “A little girl with red hair,” she said.

“I’m not sure I understand, Mrs. Bergman.”

“There’s a little girl with red hair I haven’t seen for a long time. And her mother. I haven’t seen them and that’s why I’m asking about them.”

“Are they friends of yours, Mrs. Bergman?”

“No. Do they have to be?”

“No no. But you want to know something about them, Mrs. Bergman?”

“I haven’t seen them for some time. Do you know who I mean?”

The girl stood and walked over to a filing cabinet, returning with a thin pile of papers, which she laid on the table in front of her. Then she looked at Ester Bergman again. “This is the list of all the apartments on your courtyard, from number 326 to 486.”

“I see.”

“You said a little girl with red hair? And her mother? What did she look like?”

“I don’t know that she actually was her mother. She had fair hair, but I don’t know any more than that. I never spoke to her. Not once.”

“I think I remember,” the girl said. “There aren’t that many girls with red hair, after all.”

“Not in my courtyard anyway.”

“A single mother with one child,” the girl said, and flipped through her records.

“I saw the notice from the police,” Ester Bergman said suddenly.

The girl looked up. “What did you say, Mrs. Bergman?”

“There’s a notice from the police out here on the bulletin board. They’re looking for a young person.” She hadn’t thought about that before. “They’re looking for a woman with light hair.”

“They are?”

“Haven’t they handed them out to this office? The police? They should have, surely.”

“I’ve been on vacation. The office was closed for a while for renovation. You might still be able to smell the paint, Mrs. Bergman.”

“No.”

The girl looked in her files again.

“We have a number of single mothers with small children. You only saw the mother with the one child, Mrs. Bergman?”

“The mother had fair hair and the girl had red-”

“I mean, did she have any more children. Or a husband.”

“Not that I saw.”

“And you don’t know which entrance was theirs?”

“No. But it was down a bit from mine.”

The girl looked in her files again, flipped through them a ways. “Judging from the apartment numb-” The girl looked up. “I’m looking for possible apartment and personal identity numbers from the list here,” she said.

It wasn’t the first time somebody had asked about someone who hadn’t been seen for a while. Last spring a neighbor had started to wonder why he never saw the gentleman who lived in the apartment just below him, even though the light was on. After a week, the neighbor had come to see the unit super. Karin Sohlberg went over and