When she got closer, she could see that it had been cut. Someone had used pliers to cut off the lock. She looked around for Eduardo but didn’t see him. She called his name but, apparently, he didn’t hear her. Curiosity got the better of her, and with some excitement she opened the door to the shed.
It was dark inside, and the air was musty and damp. She looked about. Shelves loaded with tools and all sorts of fishing gear covered one entire wall. Hanging on another wall was a clumsily painted portrait of a smiling, bearded fisherman with a pipe in his mouth. She saw a rickety table with a paraffin lamp, a box of matches and a mug with dried coffee dregs in the bottom. On the floor stood a battered chest. She lifted the lid and found inside weekly tabloids and magazines that seemed to be forty or fifty years old. Many of them had cover photos of smiling women, some bare-breasted, some wearing bikinis. Somehow, they looked so innocent. She read the word
Se
, which was printed in white inside a red circle, and guessed that it must be the name of the publication. The date was 1964, which proved that she’d guessed right about the age of the magazines. She smiled at the sense of nostalgia that the covers conjured up in her. Those were the days.
She and Eduardo had met in the Basque country in the small town of San Sebastián. The fight for independence in that region of Spain had been heating up, and they were both only twenty years old. She had been so naive back then. Such an idealist. And what was she doing now? Documenting old fishing villages. Why, and for whom? she thought as she let go of the lid of the chest so that it closed with a dull thud. But the sound was loud enough to startle a mouse out of the shadows and send it racing across the floor. Dolores Morales was certainly not the type of woman who would be upset by something like that; she couldn’t care less about the mouse. But what did it have in its mouth? Something long and yellow. The light was dim inside the shed, and the mouse had quickly disappeared into a corner. But it had definitely been carrying something. She found a torch on a shelf, then glanced out of the window, but Eduardo was nowhere in sight. By now, he must be wondering what had happened to her. She switched on the torch and began searching for the mouse. She didn’t see it, but she did hear tiny claws scratching at the wooden floor. She aimed the beam of the torch at the floor and then at the walls lined with shelves. Ashes in the wood stove, a rusty drill, a saw, a glass jar containing freeze-dried coffee, a tin that she was curious enough to open. She smelled something sweet, although the tin was empty except for a few crumbs in the bottom. She recognized the fragrance of cinnamon and ginger. Then she realized what it was. Those typical, crisp biscuits that the Swedes served at Christmastime.
Pepparkakor
. As she looked around the space a little more, she finally realized what the mouse had been carrying. Next to the biscuit tin was a fruit platter with several old banana skins. Looking more closely, she saw that they weren’t that old – maybe from a few days ago, at most. Someone had been here recently.
She turned around and discovered an old America-trunk that was slightly open. The lid was crooked and hadn’t been closed properly. Hesitantly, she went over to lift it. A suffocating smell rose up, forcing her to take a few steps back. Inside was a bundle of clothes, and Dolores couldn’t believe her eyes when she picked up one garment after another: a pair of bloodstained jeans, a blood-soaked T-shirt, a sweatshirt, a down jacket, a pair of gloves and a knitted cap. The jacket, T-shirt and pullover were not only covered with blood, they also seemed to be soiled with what looked like vomit. Her suspicions were confirmed when she lifted the jacket closer to her nose. Her stomach turned over.
That was as far as she got when she heard a thud and something scraping at the window.
It was dark inside, and the air was musty and damp. She looked about. Shelves loaded with tools and all sorts of fishing gear covered one entire wall. Hanging on another wall was a clumsily painted portrait of a smiling, bearded fisherman with a pipe in his mouth. She saw a rickety table with a paraffin lamp, a box of matches and a mug with dried coffee dregs in the bottom. On the floor stood a battered chest. She lifted the lid and found inside weekly tabloids and magazines that seemed to be forty or fifty years old. Many of them had cover photos of smiling women, some bare-breasted, some wearing bikinis. Somehow, they looked so innocent. She read the word
Se
, which was printed in white inside a red circle, and guessed that it must be the name of the publication. The date was 1964, which proved that she’d guessed right about the age of the magazines. She smiled at the sense of nostalgia that the covers conjured up in her. Those were the days.
She and Eduardo had met in the Basque country in the small town of San Sebastián. The fight for independence in that region of Spain had been heating up, and they were both only twenty years old. She had been so naive back then. Such an idealist. And what was she doing now? Documenting old fishing villages. Why, and for whom? she thought as she let go of the lid of the chest so that it closed with a dull thud. But the sound was loud enough to startle a mouse out of the shadows and send it racing across the floor. Dolores Morales was certainly not the type of woman who would be upset by something like that; she couldn’t care less about the mouse. But what did it have in its mouth? Something long and yellow. The light was dim inside the shed, and the mouse had quickly disappeared into a corner. But it had definitely been carrying something. She found a torch on a shelf, then glanced out of the window, but Eduardo was nowhere in sight. By now, he must be wondering what had happened to her. She switched on the torch and began searching for the mouse. She didn’t see it, but she did hear tiny claws scratching at the wooden floor. She aimed the beam of the torch at the floor and then at the walls lined with shelves. Ashes in the wood stove, a rusty drill, a saw, a glass jar containing freeze-dried coffee, a tin that she was curious enough to open. She smelled something sweet, although the tin was empty except for a few crumbs in the bottom. She recognized the fragrance of cinnamon and ginger. Then she realized what it was. Those typical, crisp biscuits that the Swedes served at Christmastime.
Pepparkakor
. As she looked around the space a little more, she finally realized what the mouse had been carrying. Next to the biscuit tin was a fruit platter with several old banana skins. Looking more closely, she saw that they weren’t that old – maybe from a few days ago, at most. Someone had been here recently.
She turned around and discovered an old America-trunk that was slightly open. The lid was crooked and hadn’t been closed properly. Hesitantly, she went over to lift it. A suffocating smell rose up, forcing her to take a few steps back. Inside was a bundle of clothes, and Dolores couldn’t believe her eyes when she picked up one garment after another: a pair of bloodstained jeans, a blood-soaked T-shirt, a sweatshirt, a down jacket, a pair of gloves and a knitted cap. The jacket, T-shirt and pullover were not only covered with blood, they also seemed to be soiled with what looked like vomit. Her suspicions were confirmed when she lifted the jacket closer to her nose. Her stomach turned over.
That was as far as she got when she heard a thud and something scraping at the window.
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