Mind's Eye by Håkan Nesser Page A

things like that.”
    There followed a short pause. Van Veeteren carefully brushed a few crumbs onto the floor. He had only two questions left, the ones he had actually come here to ask.
    “Do you know if Eva met a new man? Before Janek Mitter, I mean?”
    Mrs. Ringmar shook her head.
    “I don’t know. I don’t think so. She didn’t mention anything of the sort, but then she never did. She lived in Gimsen for a few years, she had a post at a Catholic school for girls. I used to phone her once a week, but we never met.”
    “Why did she move to Maardam?”
    “I don’t know. The job, perhaps. I don’t think she liked teaching only girls. The atmosphere became a bit like a nunnery, I should imagine.”
    “I can understand that. And Janek Mitter—what do you think about him?”
    “Nothing. I’ve never met him. My daughter sent me a postcard from Greece saying that she’d remarried.”
    “Were you surprised?”
    “Yes, I think I was. I was pleased as well. But then things went the way they did…”
    She shrugged again.
    As if life were nothing to do with her, Van Veeteren thought. Maybe that wasn’t such a silly approach.
    “So you don’t know anything about their relationship? Eva didn’t tell you anything?”
    “No. I think I only spoke to her twice on the telephone since she came back from Greece. Oh, Mitter answered the phone one of those times. I thought he sounded nice.”
             
    When he emerged into the square it had started raining again. A few of the stall-holders were busy pulling plastic covers over their wares: vegetables, an array of fish, some glass jars with what looked like homemade confectionery. They nodded as he passed by, but that was the limit of their contact.
    He pulled up his collar and sank his hands into his pockets. Stood beside his car for a while, wondering what to do next. The rain was merely drizzle, not really falling, just floating around in the wind like a damp veil. Like a caring and sensitive hand stroking the low roofs, the modest, whitewashed town hall, caressing the lonely church spire—the only thing that dared to stand up and challenge the all-powerful sky.
    The meeting with Mrs. Ringmar had not really gone according to expectations. It was not easy to say exactly what he’d expected, but he had certainly had expectations….
    He left his car keys in his pocket. Glanced at the clock and set off toward the sea. Walked out to the end of one of the jetties, stood at the extreme edge, and watched the choppy waves thudding apathetically against the concrete foundations. The air was a trinity of dampness, salt, and seagull cries. He suddenly noticed that he was freezing cold.
    There’s something, he thought. Something compelling me to stay here.
    Then he dug his hands even deeper into his pockets, and started walking back toward land.

15
    He’d asked for some paper and been given a whole ream.
    Right at the top, her name; and then a single line. Nothing else. One line. He stared at it.
    How do I not miss her?
    It was a peculiar formulation. He underscored “how.”
How
do I not miss her?
    Underscored “not” as well.
    How
do I
not
miss her?
    Even more peculiar. The longer he stared at the question, the more telling the implications became; not the opposite, which would have been more reasonable. He smiled, concentrated, and did not let go for even a second, neither with his eyes nor his thoughts. Way back in his unconscious, the answers had already begun to form.
    In the same way as I don’t miss the past.
    In the same way as I don’t want things that happened in the past to happen now.
    When I am found not guilty, or let out on parole, he thought, I shall go to her grave and sit there. Sit there with cigarettes and wine.
    Guilt, punishment, mercy. Guilt, punishment, mercy. What did it matter if you were punished for something else?
    Sentence me! Sentence me harshly, but be quick about it!

    He threw the pen away. Curled up on the bed again, with his