The Shadow Girls by Henning Mankell

lay down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Even though he was not entirely confident it still seemed that the idea he had had in Gothenburg was the strongest impulse he had to go on right now.
    He lay on his bed turning his thoughts this way and that untilhe got up and called Pelle Törnblom. Törnblom sounded short of breath when he finally answered.
    ‘What are you up to?’ Humlin asked.
    ‘I’m sparring with a guy from Pakistan. How did Andrea react?’
    ‘Exactly as I had predicted. But I survived.’
    ‘You have to agree it was a great party. The kids at the club feel very proud.’
    ‘Has an Iranian girl named Leyla given you her phone number by any chance?’
    ‘Her brother boxes at the club,’ Törnblom said. ‘He’s told me what this is all about. I think it’s a great idea.’
    Humlin quickly rifled through the pages of his weekly planner.
    ‘Tell her I’ll come see her next Wednesday. Can we meet at your place?’
    ‘It’ll be better for you to meet here at the club. I have a large room on the ground floor that you could use.’
    ‘I hope we’ll be undisturbed there,’ Humlin said.
    ‘Of course, you realise her brother will have to be present.’
    ‘No – why is that?’
    ‘To make sure everything is above board, that no impropriety is committed.’
    ‘What could possibly happen?’
    ‘It’s not proper for her to meet alone with an unknown man. We’re talking serious cultural differences here, ones that need to be respected. You never know what could happen when a man and a woman are left alone together.’
    ‘Good God, Törnblom! You’ve seen her!’
    ‘She may not be the most beautiful woman on earth but that means nothing in this case. Her brother needs to be there to make sure all goes well.’
    ‘What do you think me capable of, anyway?’
    ‘I think it’s a wonderful idea for you to stop writing poetry and write something worthwhile. That’s what I think. You could really make something of yourself, you know.’
    Humlin was starting to get angry. He felt insulted, but said nothing. He realised he would have to accept the fact that Leyla’s brother would be chaperoning her.
    He hung up and the phone rang almost at once. Humlin let the answering machine pick up. It was a reporter from one of the biggest papers in the country. Humlin answered the phone and tried to sound as if he had just been interrupted in the middle of something very important.
    ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you,’ the reporter said.
    Humlin always hoped against hope that the journalists who called would be women with soft, pleasing voices. But this was a man with a rough regional dialect.
    ‘I’m working, but I’m happy to take a moment to speak to you.’
    ‘I would like to ask you a couple of questions about your new book.’
    Humlin assumed the reporter meant the book of poetry that had come out a few months earlier.
    ‘A few questions would be fine,’ Humlin said.
    ‘Do you mind if I turn on my tape recorder?’
    ‘Not at all.’
    Humlin waited until the reporter, whose name he didn’t recognise, had turned on the tape recorder.
    ‘First I just want to know how you feel about it,’ the reporter said.
    Images of the night at the Mölndal library flickered through Humlin’s mind.
    ‘I feel good about it,’ he said. ‘Very good.’
    ‘Is there anything in particular that you can point to as a reason for writing this book?’
    Humlin looked forward to answering this question. It was one that reporters always asked. A few days ago he had thought of a new answer as he was lying in the bathtub.
    ‘I am always looking for ways to stray from my familiar literary surroundings and find my way along hitherto undiscovered paths. If I hadn’t become a poet I would probably have gone into topology. Mapping unknown terrain.’
    ‘I see. Could you translate that for me?’
    ‘I have a hard time thinking of a more important task than to show people new paths.’
    ‘Which people are