“Is it going to snow?” he said.
Lindman liked the dialect. There was something friendly about it, almost innocent. “Could be,” he said. “But isn’t it a little early? It’s only November.”
The man shook his head. “It can snow here in September, June even.” The man was quite old. His face was wrinkled and he could use a shave. “Are you looking for somebody?” he said, making no attempt to conceal his curiosity.
“I’m just visiting. And thought I’d take a walk.”
Lindman made up his mind on the spot. He’d told Larsson he wouldn’t talk to Berggren, but he hadn’t promised not to talk about her. “A nice house,” he said, pointing to the house he’d just passed.
The man nodded. “Elsa takes good care of her house. The garden too. Do you know her?”
“No.”
The man looked at him, as if he were waiting for the next step. “The name’s Björn Wigren,” he said, eventually. “The longest trip I’ve ever made was to Hede, once upon a time. Everybody travels the world nowadays. Not me. I lived on the other side of the river when I was a boy. I suppose I’ll have to go back over the river one of these days. To the cemetery.”
“My name’s Stefan. Stefan Lindman.”
“Just visiting, you say?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have relatives here?”
“No. I’m just passing through.”
“And you’ve come out for a walk?”
“That’s right.”
The conversation petered out. Wigren’s curiosity was natural, not aggressive at all. Lindman tried think of a way of leading the conversation towards Elsa Berggren.
“I’ve lived here in my house since 1959,” the man said. “But I’ve never known a stranger to take a walk here. Not at this time of the year, anyway.”
“There’s always a first time.”
“I could offer you a cup of coffee,” said Wigren. “If you’d like one? My wife’s dead. The kids have left the nest.”
“Coffee would be nice.”
They went in through the gate. Had Wigren been standing in the street specifically to catch somebody who could share his loneliness?
His house was a bungalow. On a wall in the entrance hall was The Gypsy Woman, her breast bared. There were also several trophies, including a pair of elk antlers. Lindman counted fourteen points, and wondered whether that was a lot or something less impressive. On the kitchen table was a thermos flask, and a plate covered by a napkin. Wigren produced a second cup, and invited Lindman to sit.
“We don’t need to talk,” he said, surprisingly. “You can drink coffee with a stranger and not say a word.”
They drank a cup of coffee and each of them ate a cinnamon bun. A clock on the kitchen wall sounded at the quarter hour. Lindman asked himself how people had managed to communicate with each other before coffee had penetrated as far as Sweden.
“I gather you’re retired,” Lindman said—and realized at once what a stupid thing that was to say.
“I worked in the forest for thirty years,” Wigren said. “Sometimes I think about how hard we worked—not that anybody has the slightest idea about that nowadays. We loggers were slaves under the thumb of the big forestry companies. I don’t think people realize what a blessing it was when the power saw was invented. But then I had back trouble and threw in the towel. I spent my last few years making roads. I don’t know if I was any use to them. I spent most of my time minding a machine and sharpening skates for schoolchildren. I did do one useful thing while I was allegedly helping to build roads. I learned English. Sat there night after night, wrestling with books and tapes. I was on the point of giving up several times, but I stuck it out. Then I retired, and two days after my last day at work, my wife died on me. I woke up in the morning, but she was already cold. That was seventeen years ago. I turned eighty-two last August.”
Lindman raised an eyebrow. He found it hard to believe.
“I’m not kidding,” Wigren said, seeing Lindman’s surprise. “I am eighty-two years old, and I’m in such good health that I’m counting on scoring ninety at least, and maybe more. Whatever difference that will make.”
“I’ve got cancer,” Lindman said. “I don’t know if I’ll even make it to forty.” The words came out of the blue.
Wigren raised an eyebrow. “It’s a bit unusual to tell somebody that you’ve got cancer, when you don’t know each other.”
“I have no idea why I said that.”
Wigren produced the plate with buns. “You said it because you needed to say it. If you want to say more, I’m all ears.”