Chapter 28

Simon had made one of his rare journeys to the mainland that morning, mostly to take care of some work-related shopping. Since the off-season had begun, most of the stores in the village were closed. He spoke with Edwin Björk on the trip over.

‘Jeez, I think the visitors to the island must have doubled since you started working at the pension,’ Björk said. ‘They come year-round now. Last winter I had to run an extra ferry over the Christmas holidays. How’s Sofia?’

‘I don’t know,’ Simon replied. ‘She moved abroad, although she only left a few days ago. Haven’t heard from her yet.’

‘So it all got to be too much for her, the pressure from those pigs in the cult?’

‘Yes, she’d had enough. It’s so revolting, what they’ve done to her. They put a spy camera in her apartment and cut her dog’s ear off.’

This made Björk, a dog-owner himself, particularly furious, and he spent the whole trip getting himself worked up and cursing the name of ViaTerra. He threatened awful things, including burning down the manor. Simon placed a hand on his shoulder and remarked that justice would probably be served in the end. In fact, he thought this was a ridiculous thing to say, but it seemed to appease Björk.

Simon still had an hour before the ferry back by the time he was done with his shopping, so he stopped by a bookstore. Right away he spotted something on the shelf of new books, in the very centre of the store.

How I Walk the Way of the Earth, by Franz Oswald von Bärensten.

The image on the cover looked recent. Oswald was wearing a pale grey suit, his hair was down, and that blinding smile was pasted on his face. It must have been taken in prison, since Oswald wasn’t his usual shade of tan. He even looked a bit pasty. Simon was pleased to know that at least Oswald didn’t have access to a tanning booth there. He didn’t want to buy the book – the thought of paying a single krona for it made him feel ill – but he couldn’t stop himself.

On the ferry back, he avoided Björk and sat on a bench at the stern, reading. A strong breeze had blown up. When they docked on the island, a gust caught the book and it almost slipped from Simon’s grasp.

He aimed for the pension and walked slowly as he absorbed the fresh air. On his way, he gazed up at the pines on the hills. Wisps of clouds dashed above the treetops as if they were in a hurry to get somewhere. Each time he returned to the island it was like a fissure opened up in his life and he found himself in a strange world – even though he had lived there for four years. He didn’t feel at home until he saw the pointed roofs of the greenhouses against the sky.

Once home, he sat down in his easy chair to keep reading, stopping only to eat dinner. By nine o’clock he had finished the book. It was an autobiography, but it was also sprinkled with plucky tips for living a better life. The most troublesome parts were the lies – among other things, the book claimed that Elvira had seduced Oswald and lied about her age. And that he lived in a state of constant grief for his family.

But the very worst part was what he wrote about Sofia. It was only a few lines, but it was enough.

Sofia Bauman was my secretary for two years. She was efficient, competent, and clear-sighted. Anyhow, Sofia often made sexual advances when we worked together. I never responded to these, for reasons of professional decorum. Perhaps that’s why she turned on me in the end. I have no feelings of ill will towards Sofia, and I’m sure we will see each other again someday, under different, better circumstances.

Simon’s immediate thought was that, whatever it took, he must make sure Sofia never saw the book. She would hit the roof. Then he thought about the injustice of the whole situation. Oswald, sitting in prison and penning lies. He logged onto his computer and googled the book, which had already been covered by every media outlet imaginable. The promotional material blared phrases like page-turner of the year and explosive glimpses into Franz Oswald’s private life.

Simon stared at the picture of Oswald, unable to curb his irritation at the way this man sucked people in. Even from his prison cell. He decided to call Magnus Strid. He’d never done so before, but now had an idea.

The journalist sounded as affable as ever.

‘Simon! It’s been ages, what’s on your mind?’

‘Well, I’m wondering if you’ve read Oswald’s book.’

‘Yes, it’s the worst drivel I’ve read in my life.’

‘I think so too. It makes me so furious that so many people will read his lies. But then I heard you’re writing a book about ViaTerra too. When is that coming out?’

‘Sometime in the spring.’

Simon considered this. The spring would work well. That way he could serve as Sofia’s spy for a few months before the book came out.

‘In that case, I’d like to be interviewed for it.’

‘Wonderful! That will be a big help. Not everyone is so forthright, you know.’

Simon felt better after their conversation and was able to tackle his evening chores.

Just as he was about to go to bed, he caught sight of the morning paper on the coffee table – he hadn’t had time to read it yet. This ran so contrary to his principles that he sat down on the sofa and opened it. The article showed up in the arts and culture section: Oswald’s book was expected to break all Swedish sales records for an autobiography. There was also a review. It wasn’t exactly glowing, but what did that matter?

He couldn’t imagine a greater injustice. A killer and rapist, leading a cult from prison as he wrote books and got his picture taken in a suit.

The call from Sofia came at six in the morning, just as he was dragging himself out of bed. It was from an unfamiliar number, but he suspected she was on the other end.

Not a word about how things were going, how the flight had been, work, or anything like that. She just got straight to the point, as always.

‘I need your help with something, Simon, please!’

‘You haven’t told me what you need help with, or how you’re feeling.’

‘I’m fine, as I’m sure you can hear, but Oswald is already reaching out his tentacles for me and it’s starting to creep me out.’

‘He wrote a book.’

‘What the hell?’

‘It’s true. It’s terrible. I don’t want you to read it. It will make you so angry, I don’t even want to think about it. Suddenly I’m glad you’re on the other side of the Atlantic. It’s full of praise from celebrities, too, even though that pig is in prison.’

‘Send it to me!’

‘Not on your life!’

‘Come on, I want it.’

‘Fine, if you really do I’ll dig it out of the trash and mail it over. But it’s going to smell like garbage.’

She laughed.

‘Simon, some jerk called Wilma and offered her money in exchange for my contact info.’

‘Jesus. But it doesn’t surprise me. You’ve got to be careful, Sofia. Something isn’t right. My gut is telling me that things are only going to get worse.’

‘What do you think they want? Why won’t they leave me alone?’

‘I’m not sure, but it’s a good thing you’re in the US. I miss you, but you’ll be better off there.’

‘What do you think I should do?’

‘Lay low, like you’re doing now. They can’t get you there,’ Simon said, as he wondered whether, in fact, they could. He told her about Magnus Strid’s book and how he was going to be interviewed for it. He felt proud when she expressed genuine happiness.

‘Anyway, why were you calling?’ he asked.

‘I want you to talk to Benny again.’

‘Why? I called him the other day to say I decided not to have any contact with you.’

‘You’ll have to tell him you changed your mind, that you’re hurting for cash.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then he’ll ask you where I am.’

‘What will I say?’

‘Tell him I wrote you from Italy. That’s all, to start. You don’t know more than that. Call me after you talk to him.’

‘Fine, I’ll do it, but I’m not taking any of their money.’

‘Burn the money!’

‘Not even that. I guess I’ll have to say I’m tired of your whining and I can’t stand you anymore.’

They talked for a long time. She suggested he come visit, and he laughed and said the farthest he’d ever travelled was to Stockholm, where the sight of all the tall buildings made him dizzy. Yet to his surprise, he felt a flash of curiosity when he thought about travelling to the other end of the earth. After their conversation, he sank down in his chair but was soon interrupted by a gentle knock at the door. It was Inga Hermansson, who said he would have to dress up the next day – the Ekogrupp jury would be coming by to look at his crops. Simon was already aware of their planned visit, but he had only set out his usual work clothes that evening. Surely the jury members would prefer everything to seem natural – gardening gloves covered in dirt, muddy boots. Still, he nodded in response to Inga Hermansson’s request, because he was still distracted by a lingering thought: how much horsepower was there in the engines of a plane that flew all the way across the Atlantic?