wondered if I could send him a couple of books.
“Please do. They might reach me. The post isn’t always reliable.”
Then it was time for me to go. It was terribly late. My suitcase was waiting by the door. A taxi, of course. But I couldn’t see a telephone. He watched me looking round the room and said, “No, I have no phone. But I can go out and try and find you a taxi. It’s not so difficult, but it may take some time.” He got up. When he reached the door I called out, “One moment… I’m extremely sorry, this is really embarrassing.” In my shame I tried to be funny. “A propos the changes caused by ageing… I, if anyone, should be able to explain how a person can forget the name of the hotel where he’s booked a room.”
My host did not seem amused, nor did he attempt to make light of it. He stood and thought for a while, then explained that, since it was impossible to find hotel rooms in the city, it would be best if I spent the night with him. Somehow it seemed unnecessary to raise polite objections. He explained that sometimes as many as half a dozen people spent the night in his apartment. He pulled out a sleeping bag and promised to wake me in good time for my flight. I was to have his bed; I accepted.
There was a knock on the door. Luckily I had not yet started undressing. It was a young woman with dark hair. She glanced at me almost without interest, walked past him to the window, carefully drew aside the curtain and looked out. They began talking together, very rapidly. Even though I couldn’t understand, I grasped that something serious had happened. He started walking back and forth across the room, opening drawers, taking out papers, glancing through them quickly before shoving them into a paper bag. He was clearly in a hurry, but his movements remained as calm as ever. Finally he turned to me and said, “I’m afraid I have to go. But please stay and sleep in peace; my friend will come and wake you in good time for your flight. Don’t forget to send me the books; I’d be very happy to get them.”
I just nodded. I didn’t want to delay him. When they had gone I listened carefully and heard them go down the stairs, heard the front door close. I continued listening. By now they must have crossed the square and made it into the streets beyond. I lay down on the bed but couldn’t fall asleep.
About half an hour later, there was a pounding on the door. Someone shouted God knows what, and I got up and let them in. By now I was so tired I noticed only a number of uniforms filling the room. I had to show my passport and my tickets. They stripped everything they could out of the drawers and cupboards, while a single thought repeated itself in my head: he got away, my friend got away.
In the morning the young woman came and woke me in good time. She had found a taxi and came with me to the airport. She got very angry with the driver – I think because he was demanding dollars. I hadn’t even learned to say thank you, but I believe she understood.
As I say, I often repeat myself, but this story has never been told before. At least, I don’t think so.
The Woman Who Borrowed Memories
T HE STAIRWELL WITH ITS STAINED-GLASS windows was as dark and cold as it had been fifteen years earlier. Some of the plaster ornamentation had fallen off the ceiling. And like fifteen years ago, Mrs Lundblad was busy scrubbing the stairs. She looked up at the sound of the door and exclaimed in delight, “Well, I’ll be! If it isn’t Miss Stella! Abroad for so long! And just like the old days – trench coat and no hat!”
Stella ran up the stairs and stopped almost shyly in front of Mrs Lundblad; they had known each other well, but had never been in the habit of hugging or shaking hands.
“Nothing’s changed here!” said Stella. “Dear Mrs Lundblad, how’s your family? Charlotta? Edvin?”
Mrs Lundblad pushed aside her bucket and said that Charlotta was still enjoying Stella’s bicycle,
“Please do. They might reach me. The post isn’t always reliable.”
Then it was time for me to go. It was terribly late. My suitcase was waiting by the door. A taxi, of course. But I couldn’t see a telephone. He watched me looking round the room and said, “No, I have no phone. But I can go out and try and find you a taxi. It’s not so difficult, but it may take some time.” He got up. When he reached the door I called out, “One moment… I’m extremely sorry, this is really embarrassing.” In my shame I tried to be funny. “A propos the changes caused by ageing… I, if anyone, should be able to explain how a person can forget the name of the hotel where he’s booked a room.”
My host did not seem amused, nor did he attempt to make light of it. He stood and thought for a while, then explained that, since it was impossible to find hotel rooms in the city, it would be best if I spent the night with him. Somehow it seemed unnecessary to raise polite objections. He explained that sometimes as many as half a dozen people spent the night in his apartment. He pulled out a sleeping bag and promised to wake me in good time for my flight. I was to have his bed; I accepted.
There was a knock on the door. Luckily I had not yet started undressing. It was a young woman with dark hair. She glanced at me almost without interest, walked past him to the window, carefully drew aside the curtain and looked out. They began talking together, very rapidly. Even though I couldn’t understand, I grasped that something serious had happened. He started walking back and forth across the room, opening drawers, taking out papers, glancing through them quickly before shoving them into a paper bag. He was clearly in a hurry, but his movements remained as calm as ever. Finally he turned to me and said, “I’m afraid I have to go. But please stay and sleep in peace; my friend will come and wake you in good time for your flight. Don’t forget to send me the books; I’d be very happy to get them.”
I just nodded. I didn’t want to delay him. When they had gone I listened carefully and heard them go down the stairs, heard the front door close. I continued listening. By now they must have crossed the square and made it into the streets beyond. I lay down on the bed but couldn’t fall asleep.
About half an hour later, there was a pounding on the door. Someone shouted God knows what, and I got up and let them in. By now I was so tired I noticed only a number of uniforms filling the room. I had to show my passport and my tickets. They stripped everything they could out of the drawers and cupboards, while a single thought repeated itself in my head: he got away, my friend got away.
In the morning the young woman came and woke me in good time. She had found a taxi and came with me to the airport. She got very angry with the driver – I think because he was demanding dollars. I hadn’t even learned to say thank you, but I believe she understood.
As I say, I often repeat myself, but this story has never been told before. At least, I don’t think so.
The Woman Who Borrowed Memories
T HE STAIRWELL WITH ITS STAINED-GLASS windows was as dark and cold as it had been fifteen years earlier. Some of the plaster ornamentation had fallen off the ceiling. And like fifteen years ago, Mrs Lundblad was busy scrubbing the stairs. She looked up at the sound of the door and exclaimed in delight, “Well, I’ll be! If it isn’t Miss Stella! Abroad for so long! And just like the old days – trench coat and no hat!”
Stella ran up the stairs and stopped almost shyly in front of Mrs Lundblad; they had known each other well, but had never been in the habit of hugging or shaking hands.
“Nothing’s changed here!” said Stella. “Dear Mrs Lundblad, how’s your family? Charlotta? Edvin?”
Mrs Lundblad pushed aside her bucket and said that Charlotta was still enjoying Stella’s bicycle,
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