‘They move on. They find other places to hide. A good friend of mine is a doctor. She comes to help out when we need her. A few parishioners help with food and clothing. Do you know that there are close to ten thousand people hiding illegally in Sweden today? They are here with no legal rights. It is a blot on our conscience.’
They walked out to the street together.
‘Don’t tell her I was here. I’ll see her later anyway,’ Humlin said.
Erika went back into her church. Humlin found a taxi and was taken back to his own world. When he came home he went to his desk and sat down. The picture of Tanya as a little girl was lying in front of him. Suddenly a new thought came to him. He found a magnifying glass and looked at the back of the photograph again. He thought he could see a faint imprint on the photographic paper of the year 1994. He turned the picture face up again. The little girl stared up at him with serious eyes.
It’s not a picture of Tanya, he thought.
It is her daughter.
After his appointment at the tanning salon, Humlin went to see his publisher. He didn’t really want to see Olof Lundin, but couldn’t bring himself to stay away. The thought of the profit-hungry oil executives wouldn’t leave him. For once Lundin’s office was at a normal temperature. But it was thick with cigarette smoke.
‘The air-conditioning unit is broken,’ Lundin said bitterly. ‘The repairmen are on their way.’
‘I suppose you can imagine you’re caught in a fog bank on the Baltic.’
‘That’s just what I’m doing. I should have caught sight of the lighthouse on Russar Island, at the entrance to the Finnish Bay, but right now I’m left unsure of my exact coordinates.’
Humlin decided to go on the attack immediately rather than risk being pulled into a conversation led by Lundin.
‘I hope you have finally accepted the fact that I am not going to write a crime novel.’
‘On the contrary. The PR department has come up with a brilliant marketing plan for your book. They are talking about pictures of you holding a gun.’
Humlin shivered at the thought. Lundin lit another cigarette from the stub of the one he had been smoking.
‘I am, however, seriously concerned about your lack of focus,’ Lundin continued. ‘Do you want to know how many copies of your poetry book have sold in the last two weeks?’
‘No thank you.’
‘I’m going to tell you anyway. You need to take this seriously.’
‘How many?’
‘Three.’
‘Three?’
‘One in Falköping and — strangely enough — two in Haparanda.’
Humlin was reminded of his Chinese letter-writing fan who lived in Haparanda and who would probably be sending him another lengthy missive soon.
‘It is a very serious situation. I understand that you are experiencing some form of writer’s block right now and that it suits you to hide out among these immigrant girls in Gothenburg, but you have to leave it at that. I am convinced that you can write a first-class thriller.’
‘I’m not hiding out. I wish I could get you to understand what it is they have been telling me. These are stories that haven’t yet been told in Swedish. Did you know that there are ten thousand illegal immigrants in Sweden?’
Lundin’s face brightened considerably.
‘That’s a wonderful idea for your second thriller. The investigative poet who roots out illegal immigrants.’
Humlin realised that the conversation was already out of his control. He was not going to be able to make Lundin understand. He changed the subject.
‘I hope you have also realised by now that my mother will never write a book.’
‘I’ve seen stranger things happen, but of course I’m going to wait and see if she delivers a manuscript.’
‘She claims she’s going to write seven hundred pages.’
Lundin shook his head.
‘We’ve just decided not to publish books over four hundred pages,’ he said. ‘People want shorter books.’
‘I thought it was the other way around.’
‘I think it’s best you leave the publishing business to me. There’s a great deal of talk about the creative genius and all that. Who talks about the genius in publishing? But I assure you it exists nonetheless.’
Humlin drew a deep breath.
‘I was going to suggest an alternative,’ he said. ‘No book of poetry, no thriller: an exciting book about the underworld. About these girls in Gothenburg. I’m going to weave their stories together, with me as the main protagonist.’
‘Who would read it?’
‘Many people.’
‘What makes it exciting?’
‘The fact that no one has heard stories like these before. It is a book about what is happening in this country. Real voices.’
Lundin waved away the smoke in front of his face. Humlin suddenly felt as if he were on a battlefield where an invisible cavalry, tucked away somewhere behind some trees, had just received the signal to attack.
‘Here’s my counter-offer,’ Lundin said. ‘First you write the thriller, then we can talk about this immigrant book.’
Humlin was enraged by Lundin’s complete lack of vision.
‘No,’ he said. ‘First the immigrant book. Then we’ll talk about the thriller.’
‘The oil executives are not going to be pleased to hear that.’
