LITMIR.BIZ

       36

       friday, december 11: evening

      It is dark and misty when he parks the car outside Disa’s cream-coloured building on Lützengatan. He feels frozen as he makes his way to the front door, glancing at the frosty grass, the black branches of the trees.

      He tries to recall Josef, lying there in his bed, but all he can remember is the chest drain, bubbling and rattling away. Yet he has the feeling he saw something important without comprehending it. The sense that something isn’t right continues to nag at him as he takes the lift up to Disa’s apartment and rings the bell. While he waits, Joona can hear someone on the landing up above, sighing spasmodically or weeping quietly.

      Disa opens the door looking stressed, wearing only her bra and panty-hose.

      “I assumed you’d be late,” she explains.

      “Well, I’m slightly early instead,” says Joona, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

      “Perhaps you could come inside and shut the door before all the neighbours see my ass.”

      The welcoming hall smells of food. The fringe of a pink lampshade tickles the top of Joona’s head.

      “I’m doing sole with almonds and new potatoes,” says Disa.

      “With melted butter?”

      “And mushrooms, and parsley.”

      “Delicious.”

      The one-bedroom apartment is rather shabby, but with an inherent elegance; high ceilings with varnished wood panelling, a beautifully varnished parquet floor, and graceful windows framed in teak.

      Joona follows Disa into her bedroom, still trying to remember what it was that he saw in Josef’s room. Disa’s laptop is in the middle of her unmade bed, with books and sheets of paper strewn around.

      He settles into an armchair and waits for her to finish dressing. Without a word she turns her back to him so he can zip up a close-fitting, simply cut dress.

      Joona glances at one of Disa’s open books and spies a large, black-and-white photo of a graveyard. A group of men, archaeologists, dressed in clothing from the 1940s, are walking along towards the back of the picture, peering at the photographer. It looks as if the site has just begun to be excavated; the surface of the ground is marked with dozens of small flags.

      “Those are graves,” she says quietly. “The flags show the location of the graves. The man who conducted the dig on this site was called Hannes Müller; he died a while ago, but he was at least a hundred years old. Stayed on at the institute until the end. He looked like a sweet old tortoise.”

      She stands in front of the long mirror, weaves her straight hair into two thin braids, and turns to face him.

      “How do I look?”

      “Lovely,” says Joona.

      “Yes,” she replies sadly. “How’s your mum?”

      Joona catches hold of her hand. “She’s fine,” he whispers. “She sends you her love.”

      “That’s nice. What else did she say?”

      “She said you shouldn’t have anything to do with me.”

      “No,” says Disa gloomily. “She’s right, of course.”

      Slowly she runs her fingers through his thick, tousled hair. She smiles at him suddenly, then goes over to the laptop, switches it off, and puts it on the chest of drawers.

      “Did you know that, according to pre-Christian law, newborn babies were not regarded as fully valid individuals until they had been put to the breast? It was permissible to place a newborn child out in the forest during the period between birth and the first feed.”

      “So you became a person through the choice of others,” says Joona slowly.

      Disa opens her wardrobe, lifts out a shoebox, and takes out a pair of dark brown sandals with soft straps and beautiful heels, made up of strips of different kinds of wood.

      “New?” asks Joona.

      “Sergio Rossi. They were a present to myself, because I have such an unglamorous job,” she says. “I spend entire days crawling around in a muddy field.”

      “Are you still out in Sigtuna?”

      “Yes.”

      “What have you actually found?”

      “I’ll tell you while we’re eating.”

      He points to her shoes. “Very nice,” he says, getting up from the armchair.

      Disa turns away with a wry smile. “I’m sorry, Joona,” she says over her shoulder, “but I don’t think they make them in your size.”

      He suddenly stops dead. “Hang on,” he says, reaching out to the wall to support himself.

      Disa is looking at him inquiringly. “It was just a joke,” she explains.

      “No, no, it’s his feet!”

      Joona pushes past her into the hallway, pulls his phone out of his overcoat pocket, calls Central Control, and calmly informs them that Sunesson needs immediate backup at the hospital.

      “What’s happening?” asks Disa.

      “His feet were really dirty,” Joona tells her. “They told me he can’t move, but he’s been out of bed. He’s been out of bed, walking around.”

      Joona calls Sunesson, and when no one answers he pulls on his jacket, whispers an apology, and races down the stairs.