Tanya called a taxi. They sat in silence during the trip. Leyla’s sister lived in a building that was squeezed between a steep hillside and the ruins of an old brick factory. They got out. Humlin noticed he was shivering with cold.
‘How do we get back?’
Tanya showed him some mobile phones that had not been in the bag confiscated by the police.
‘But I don’t know why you have to ask about that when we only just got here.’
Humlin looked up at the dark building. He started having misgivings about this visit.
‘I don’t want to meet her,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to see a young woman whose face has been burned away with acid. I don’t understand why I’m here.’
‘She has a silk scarf over her face,’ Tanya said soothingly. ‘It’s dark inside anyway. Of course you want to meet her — you’re curious.’
‘It’s the middle of the night. She must be sleeping.’
‘She sleeps during the day. She’s awake at night.’
‘She won’t open her door.’
‘Fatti will think it’s Leyla.’
The front door of the building was unlocked. Someone had spilled jam in the lift. Fatti lived on the top floor. Tanya took out her collection of skeleton keys. Tea-Bag gave her a sharp look.
‘Shouldn’t we knock? Or ring the doorbell?’
‘In the middle of the night?’
Tanya started working on the lock. Humlin wondered drily if Leyla also picked the lock when she came over to visit.
The lock gave way. Tanya pushed the door open and put her equipment back in her backpack. Tea-Bag pushed him into the hall. The apartment had a stale smell, like bitter berries. But there was also something sweet in the air. Humlin was reminded of the smell of the exotic meals his mother made in the middle of the night.
‘Who is there?’
The voice called out from a room at the end of the hall. Some light from the streetlamp fell in through a crack in the curtains.
‘See, she’s waiting for you,’ Tanya hissed.
Humlin resisted.
‘I don’t know who she is. I don’t want to see her: I don’t even know what we’re doing here.’
‘She has a veil over her head. You’re the one she’s waiting for.’
‘She can’t be waiting for me; she doesn’t even know who I am.’
‘She knows you. We’ll be waiting downstairs.’
Before Humlin had time to react, Tea-Bag and Tanya had left the apartment. He was about to go after them when he saw a figure in the doorway at the end of the hall.
‘Who is it?’
She had a strong accent, but she still reminded him of Leyla.
‘My name is Jesper Humlin. I’m so sorry to disturb you.’
‘There is no need to apologise.’
‘But it’s two o’clock in the morning.’
‘I sleep during the day. I’ve been expecting to hear from you.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said, I’ve been expecting you.’
Fatti turned on a lamp in a corner of the room. A white cloth had been thrown over the lampshade, and the light that came on was very soft. She gestured for him to approach her. Had he misunderstood? Had she really been expecting him? There was a thick rug in the living room. There was nothing on the walls, a few simple chairs, a table without a tablecloth, some gaping shelves with only a few books and newspapers; no trinkets or ornaments of any kind. Fatti sat down across from him. She was wearing a long black dress and a light-blue silk scarf over her head. Humlin thought he could see the outline of her nose and chin through the thin cloth. The thought of her deformed features made him feel sick.
‘Don’t be afraid. I won’t show you what he did to me.’
‘I’m not afraid. Why do you say you’ve been expecting me?’
‘I knew Leyla would tell you about me sooner or later. And I imagine an author likes to see for himself what he cannot quite believe, or what he has never come across before.’
Humlin was starting to feel more and more uncomfortable. He tried to think of something other than the disfigured face beneath the veil.
‘I’m right, aren’t I? Isn’t that what you are trying to teach Leyla: to be curious? If you think she has what it takes to become a writer, that is. Do you think she does?’
‘I’m not sure I can answer that question.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s too early to tell.’
Fatti leaned forward. Humlin flinched.
‘Who is going to speak for me? Who is going to tell my story?’
Don’t ask me to do it, he thought. I can’t bear it.
‘Why don’t you do it?’ he suggested carefully.
‘I am no writer. You are.’
It was as if she could see perfectly in spite of the veil.
‘Are you afraid I might ask you to do it?’ she asked.
He didn’t give her an answer, and she didn’t press him for one. She leaned back in her chair without saying anything. Humlin had the feeling she was crying behind the scarf. He held his breath and thought that this moment was something unique, something he would never get to experience again.
Suddenly she stretched out her hand and pressed the play button on a cassette player next to her. The sound that came from the cassette player was not music, just static. Then he realised it was the sound of the ocean, of waves breaking on the shore, or rather, on a distant reef.
‘This is my only solace,’ Fatti said. ‘The sound of the sea.’
‘I once wrote a poem about a drift net,’ Humlin said hesitantly.
