‘You have gained at least four kilos since you were here last. When was that? Two months ago? You were afraid you were going to catch some intestinal bug in the South Pacific and shit your pants, if I recall correctly.’
As usual her way of expressing herself irritated him.
‘I think it’s only normal to consult one’s doctor before setting out on a long international journey. And I have not gained four kilos.’
Dr Beckman checked his chart and then pointed at the scales.
‘Take your clothes off and get on.’
Humlin did as he was told. He weighed 79 kilos.
‘Last time you were here you weighed 75. Isn’t that four kilos?’
‘Then prescribe something for me.’
‘What kind of thing?’
‘Something to help me lose weight.’
‘You’ll have to deal with it yourself. I haven’t got time for this.’
‘Why do you always have to get so pissed off when I come to see you? There are other doctors I could go to, you know.’
‘I’m the only one who can stand you and you know it.’
She reached for her prescription pad.
‘Is there anything you need?’
‘Some more calming pills for my nerves would be nice.’
She looked in his chart.
‘You know I keep an eye on these things. I don’t want this to become a habit.’
‘It’s not a habit.’
She threw the prescription at him and got up. Humlin stayed in his chair.
‘Is there anything else?’ she asked.
‘Yes, actually. You’re not by any chance writing a book, are you?’
‘Why would I be doing that?’
‘No crime novel in the works?’
‘Can’t stand them. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, nothing. I was just wondering.’
Humlin left Dr Beckman’s office and was at first unsure of where he should go. In his pocket he felt Tea-Bag’s used ticket stub. He was about to throw it in a rubbish bin when he saw that there was an address written on it, some place way out in one of Stockholm’s less attractive suburbs. After a moment’s hesitation he started walking to the nearest station. He was forced to ask at the ticket booth which station he should get off at. The clerk inside was African but spoke excellent Swedish. To his surprise Humlin saw that the man had been reading a poetry collection by Gunnar Ekelöf.
‘He’s one of our greats,’ Humlin said.
‘He is good,’ the clerk agreed while stamping Humlin’s ticket. ‘But I’m not sure he really understood much of what the Byzantine empire was all about.’
Humlin was immediately insulted on Ekelöf’s behalf.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘It might take too long for us to straighten this out now,’ the clerk said. Then he pushed a card over to Humlin.
‘You can call me if you want to discuss his poetry some time. Before I came to Sweden, I was an associate professor of literature at a university. Here I stamp tickets.’
The clerk gave him a searching look.
‘Is it possible that I have seen you before?’
‘It’s not impossible,’ Humlin said, somewhat encouraged. ‘I am Jesper Humlin. A poet.’
The clerk shook his head.
‘You write poetry?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Humlin took the escalator down into the underworld. When he arrived at the station where he was supposed to get off he again had the feeling that he was crossing over an invisible threshold into another country, not into a suburb of Stockholm. He walked across a main square that resembled the one in Stensgården. To his surprise he discovered that the address on Tea-Bag’s ticket was for a church. He walked in.
The pews were empty. He went up and sat down on a brown wooden chair and stared up at the stained-glass window behind the altar. It was a picture of a man rowing a boat. There was a strong, blue-coloured light on the horizon. Humlin thought about the boats he had heard of in Tea-Bag’s and Tanya’s stories. One had drifted down a river in the middle of Europe, the other had rowed from Estonia to Gotland. Suddenly, as if in a vision, he imagined thousands of small boats across the world filled with refugees on their way to Sweden.
Maybe this is the way it is, he thought. We are living in the time of the rowing boat.
He was about to get up when a woman came around the corner from the altar. She was wearing a minister’s collar, but the rest of her clothing did not make her look like a member of the clergy. She was wearing a short skirt and high heels. She smiled at Humlin, who smiled back.
‘The church doors were open. I came in.’
‘That’s how it’s supposed to be. A church should always be open.’
‘At first I thought this was a residential building.’
‘What made you think that?’
‘Someone gave me the address.’
She looked searchingly at him. He sensed that something was not quite right.
‘Who was that?’
‘A black girl.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Florence. But she calls herself Tea-Bag.’
The minister shook her head.
‘She has the biggest, most beautiful smile I have ever seen,’ Humlin said.
‘I don’t know her. It doesn’t sound like anyone who comes here regularly.’
Humlin realised at once that she was not telling the truth. Ministers don’t know how to lie convincingly, he thought. Perhaps when they are talking about the gods above and our inner spirits, but not when it comes to earthly matters.
