Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,51

Cup was held in Sweden.”

“But you were never interested in football, were you?”

“I’ve always liked football.”

Wallander stared at him in surprise.

“I didn’t know that.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know. In 1958 Sweden had a defender named Sven Axbom. He was having big problems with one of Brazil’s wingers, as I recall. Have you forgotten about that?”

“How old was I in 1958? I was a baby.”

“You never were much for playing football. Maybe that’s why you became a policeman.”

“I bet that Russia would win,” said Wallander.

“That’s not hard to believe,” said his father. “I bet 2–0 myself. Gertrud, on the other hand, was cautious. She thought it would be 1–1.”

“Would you like some coffee?” asked Wallander.

“Yes, please.”

In the hall Wallander ran into Hansson.

“Will you see to it that I’m not disturbed for the next half hour?” he said.

Hansson gave him a worried look.

“I absolutely must speak with you.”

Hansson’s formal manner irritated Wallander.

“In half an hour,” he repeated. “Then we’ll talk as much as you like.”

He went back to his room and closed the door. His father took the plastic cup in both hands. Wallander sat down behind the desk.

“I never thought I’d see you in the station,” he said.

“I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t have to,” his father replied.

Wallander set his plastic cup on the desk. He should have known straight away that it must be something very important for his father to visit him here.

“What’s happened?” Wallander asked.

“Nothing, except that I’m sick,” replied his father simply.

Wallander felt a knot in his stomach.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“I’m starting to lose my mind,” his father went on calmly. “It’s a disease with a name I can’t remember. It’s like getting senile. But it can make you angry at everything. And it can progress very fast.”

Wallander knew what his father meant. Svedberg’s mother was stricken with it. But he couldn’t remember the name either.

“How do you know?” he asked. “Have you been to the doctor? Why didn’t you say something before now?”

“I’ve even been to a specialist, in Lund,” said his father. “Gertrud drove me there.”

Wallander didn’t know what to say.

“Actually, I came here to ask you something,” his father said, looking at him.

The telephone rang. Wallander put the receiver on the desk.

“I’ve got time to wait,” said his father.

“I told them I didn’t want to be disturbed. So tell me what it is you want.”

“I’ve always dreamed of going to Italy,” his father said. “Before it’s too late, I’d like to take a trip there. And I thought you might come with me. Gertrud doesn’t have any interest in Italy. I don’t think she wants to go. I’ll pay for the whole thing. I’ve got the money.”

Wallander looked at his father. He seemed small and shrunken sitting there in the chair. At that moment he suddenly looked his age. Almost 80.

“Of course, let’s go to Italy,” said Wallander. “When did you have in mind?”

“It’s probably best that we don’t wait too long. Apparently it’s not too hot in September. But will you have time then?”

“I can take a week off any time. Or did you want longer than that?”

“A week would be fine.”

His father leaned forward, put down the coffee cup, and stood up.

“Well, I won’t bother you any longer,” he said. “I’ll wait for Gertrud outside.”

“You can wait here,” said Wallander.

His father waved his cane at him.

“You’ve got a lot to do,” he said. “I’ll wait outside.”

Wallander accompanied him out to reception, where his father sat down on a sofa.

“I don’t want you to wait with me,” said his father. “Gertrud will be here soon.”

Wallander nodded.

“We’ll go to Italy together,” he said. “And I’ll come out and see you as soon as I can.”

“The trip might be fun,” said his father. “You never know.”

Wallander left him and went over to the girl at the front desk.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was quite right of you to let my father wait in my office.”

He went back to his room, tears welling in his eyes. Even though his relationship with his father was strained, coloured by guilt, he felt a great sorrow. He stood by the window and looked out at the beautiful summer weather.

There was a time when we were so close that nothing could come between us, he thought. That was back when the silk knights, as we called them, used to come in their shiny American cars that we called land yachts and buy your paintings. Even then you talked about going to Italy. Another time,