62

IAGO

Jupiter Day, the nineteenth day of the month of Duir

Thursday, June 28, 2012

I apologize for ringing you at his hour. I’m Rebekka Petersen’s mother. My daughter died during the night. We found her in her room this morning. It seems her heart gave out.”

I squeezed my eyelids and inhaled. “I’m really sorry for your lo—”

“It’s awful! Awful!” she interrupted between sobs. “We’d barely moved in, poor dear. First my ex-husband and now my daughter.”

I waited patiently until she’d stopped crying, trying to digest the news. I’d received a call the day before from the moving company, who wanted to fix the delivery date for the contents of the laboratory. It seemed Rebekka had tied up all the loose ends before she died.

“I’m calling because Rebekka spoke to me about you, and she gave me the impression you were good friends.”

She was sounding me out, as if she was searching for the appropriate words.

“Indeed, madam. I held her and her father in great esteem.”

What exactly was she after? There was something in her tone that was beginning to bother me.

“You see, after what’s happened, I’ve decided to live here with my current husband and my young son. This tranquil spot will be good for all of us. I’d like to do some renovations, such as altering the cold storage room my daughter used. It’s full of sculptures, and I’m not sure what to do with them. Do you know what Rebekka had planned for them?”

“Take them out into the garden,” I said curtly. The woman had exhausted my patience in under two minutes. A record!

“Pardon?”

“Take them out into the garden. Rebekka liked to watch them melting into the lawn.”

“What an eccentric young girl,” I think she whispered. Then she realized that I was still on the line and cleared her throat. “Well, Isaac, thank you for your advice. It’s been very useful.”

I sensed that she hadn’t the slightest intention of carrying out Rebekka’s wishes.

“They’re toxic,” I hastened to say before she hung up. “The sculptures contain a chemical compound, a derivative of ammonia. The way Rebekka explained it to me, it’s used to achieve greater transparency,” I improvised, lying on the fly. “I’d take them out to the garden today, if I were you. Let them melt. They lose their toxicity in a liquid state.”

I heard her swallowing at the other end of Europe.

“Oh well . . . In that case I’ll take them outside right away. I wouldn’t want them contaminating the house.”

“Yes, do it today,” I urged her. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you, and may I reiterate my deepest condolences.”

And without any more flourishes, I hung up. I’d recognized her instantly: she was one of us—those of us who belonged to the ranks of bad parents. And yet despite that, nothing obliged me to put up with her a second longer than was absolutely necessary.

While she was talking, I had, in any case, begun to sketch out a plan. A plan that linked what had just happened in Denmark with the discovery of Sofía Almenara’s notebook. A plan that, with any luck, might finally put an end to all the problems TAF posed for me.