The Return of the Dancing Master

Chapter One

He woke in the night, besieged by shadows. It had started when he was twenty-two. Fifty-four years of sleepless nights, constantly besieged by shadows. He’d only managed to sleep after taking heavy doses of sleeping pills. He knew the shadows had been there when he woke up, even if he’d been unaware of them.

This night, now drawing to its close, was no exception. Nor did he have to wait for the shadows—or the visitors, as he sometimes called them—to put in an appearance. They generally showed up a few hours after darkness fell. Were there without warning, by his side, with silent white faces. He’d gotten used to their presence after all the years, but he knew he couldn’t trust them. One of these days they were bound to break loose. He didn’t know what would happen then. Would they attack him, or would they betray him? There had been times when he’d shouted at them, hit out in all directions to drive them off. He had kept them at bay for a while. Then they would return and stay until dawn. He’d fall asleep in the end, but usually for only a few hours because he needed to get up and go to work.

He had been tired all of his adult life. He had no idea how he’d gotten by. Looking back, he could recognize only an endless string of days that he’d somehow muddled through. He had hardly any memories unconnected with his tiredness. In photographs taken of him he always looked haggard. The shadows had also taken their revenge on him during his two marriages: his wives had been frustrated by his constant state of unease, and the fact that when he wasn’t working, he was always half-asleep. They had lost patience with finding him up for most of the night, and he was never able to explain why he couldn’t sleep like a normal person. In the end they had left him, and he was alone again.

He looked at his watch. 4:15 A.M. He went to the kitchen and poured himself coffee from the thermos he’d filled before going to bed. The thermometer outside the window showed—2° C. If he didn’t remember to change the screws holding it in place, before long it would fall. He moved the curtain, and the dog started barking out there in the darkness. Shaka was the only security he had. He had found the name he’d given his Norwegian elkhound in a book—he couldn’t remember the title. It had something to do with a powerful Zulu chieftain, and he had thought it a suitable name for a guard dog. Short and easy to shout. He took his coffee into the living room. The thick curtains were securely drawn. He knew that already, but felt compelled to keep checking. He checked the windows.

Then he sat at the table again and contemplated the jigsaw pieces spread out before him. It was a good puzzle. It had lots of pieces and demanded imagination and perseverance to solve it. Whenever he finished a puzzle, he would burn it and immediately start on a new one. He made sure he always had a store of puzzles. It was a bit like a smoker and his cigarettes. For years he’d been a member of a worldwide club devoted to the culture of jigsaw puzzles. It was based in Rome, and every month he would get a newsletter with information about puzzlemakers who had ceased trading and others who had entered the field. As early as the mid-1970s it had struck him how hard it was to find really good puzzles—that is, hand-sawn ones. He didn’t think much of the mechanically-produced ones. There was no logic in the way the pieces were cut, and they didn’t fit in with the patterns. That might make them hard to solve, but the difficulties were mechanically contrived. Just now he was working on a puzzle based on Rembrandt’s The Conspiracy of the Bathavians under Claudius Civilis. It had 3,000 pieces and had been made by a specialist in Rouen. Once he had driven down to visit the man. They had talked about how the best puzzles were the ones with the most subtle nuances of light. And how Rembrandt’s color schemes made the greatest demands.

He sat holding a piece that obviously belonged in the background of the painting. It took him nearly ten minutes to find where. He checked his watch again: 4:30. Hours to go before dawn, before the shadows would withdraw and he could get some sleep.

It seemed to him that on the whole everything had become much simpler since he’d turned sixty-five and retired. He didn’t need to be anxious about feeling tired all day. Didn’t need to be scared of nodding off at work. But the shadows should have left him in peace long ago. He had served his time. They had no need now to keep their eye on him. His life had been ruined.





He went to the bookcase where he kept his CD player. He’d bought it a few months ago, on one of his rare visits to Ostersund. He put the disc back in the machine—he’d been surprised to find it among the pop music in the shop where he’d bought the player. It was a tango, a genuine Argentinean tango. He turned up the sound. The elkhound out there in the dark had good ears and responded to the music with a bark, then was quiet again. He went back to the table and walked around it, studying the puzzle as he listened to the music. There was plenty yet to do. It would keep him going for at least three more nights before he burned it. He had several more, still in their boxes. Then he would drive to the post office in Sveg and collect another batch sent by the old master in Rouen.